Original Historical Fiction - Common Interests: A 9/11 Novel - Chapter 3
A historical fiction narrative surrounding the crimes of 9/11. Published exclusively on Steemit at the moment! A paperback will be available in May.
If you missed chapters 1 and 2, you can find them @
This is a fictional narrative wrapped around the real crimes of the September 11, 2001 attacks and the 2008 financial crisis. A smattering of other real events, institutions, entities, and people have also been included.
Chapter 3
Mujahideen Training Camp
Peshawar, Pakistan
July 1982
The sun was scorching triple digits down on the motley crew of spectators. Vickers squinted as he tried to watch the landing of the newest arrivals. The Butcher was squatting down and rhythmically stabbing his bowie knife into the ground. General Rahman stood with hands on hips and was flanked by two body guards. There was tension in the air. There had been an unspoken feud between Vickers and The Butcher. For all they had in common, they both shared animosity for various reasons. Vickers was jealous of The Butcher because Hekmatyar took a bigger slice of the loot than Vickers thought to be fair. He also thought that Hekmatyar was too indiscriminate in his targets. He seemed to murder more women and children than he did soldiers.
The Butcher held animosity towards Vickers. Vickers never went out on raids. Never risked his life. He stayed comfortably in the background, training, coordinating, and drinking. It was a posh gig compared to the long, hot, scorching missions that The Butcher went on. They had managed to keep things civil, based on mutual interests, like killing commies and stuffing their pockets with booty. But it was only a matter of time until the tension exploded.
Washington had grown increasingly impatient with the war effort. General Rahman had defended his position, saying there wasn’t enough money or weapons. People in DC had put the blame on the Saudis and assured Rahman that reinforcements were coming, and in the meantime, to shut the fuck up and make due. Rahman said making due would not defeat international communism.
Dust swirled as the transport plane came to a less than graceful landing. Vickers laughed and shook his head. Rahman grimaced. Three tall, slender, long-bearded figures emerged and slowly stepped off the creaky transport plane. “All that money,” Vickers thought, “and this is the best they can do for transport.”
General Rahman was the first to greet the newcomers. “Professor Azzam, we have anxiously been awaiting your arrival. Osama, it is also a great honor to have you here.” Azzam smiled broadly and his dark eyes twinkled as he said, “It is our honor to fight the godless Russians. You do great work here, general.”
The Butcher greeted them next, more cordial than you might expect for someone that brutal. Vickers came last. He smiled, stuck out a hand, and with a hint of his southern drawl said, “It’s about damn time you guys showed up!”
Awkward looks bounced between all. With a surprised and inquisitive face, Azzam asked, “And who might you be?”
“Michael Vickers, lead coordinator for our efforts here. As much as I’d like to chit chat, I believe there is some other cargo that came along for the ride with you gents. Might I have a look?” The Butcher’s face twisted. He couldn’t believe how disrespectful this cocky young American was.
Osama gave a wide grin, gestured towards the craft, and responded, “By all means, it’s your company’s plane, go and have a look.” Vickers swaggered over to the dated craft and stepped inside. What he saw took his breath away. Pallets full of cash stacked to the roof. Boxes full of guns, ammo, explosives, and other war toys of interest. Last, but not least, pallets full of whiskey. The others stood behind Vickers and were equally in awe of the sight.
The consummate soldier turned around and gave a vicious grin like a kid in a candy store on ritalin. “You boys must’ve been real cozy on your ride over here,” he smacked with a touch of irony.
Zawahiri joined in, “Would you like to hear the good news?” Vickers smirked and replied, “I thought I was just inspecting the good news. There’s more?” The normally stoic Zawahiri laughed as he found the American to be amusing. “Thousands of recruits will be arriving over the next few days. Allah has blessed our efforts.”
Vickers cackled, “Ha, yeah, well, to hell with Allah. This is man’s great work right here.”
The Butcher began to charge towards Vickers. Azzam held out a lanky arm to cut him off. The Butcher stopped out of respect for the Islamic preacher. He growled and stared down Vickers. Vickers cocked his head back and grinned. He knew he couldn’t be touched. He was too important. Vickers showed teeth and asked, “So where are these recruits coming from?”
“Everywhere,” Osama said with a twinge of British accent. “Egypt, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan. From all over the Middle East.” Vickers nodded approval, “That’s good, now we can maybe make some headway. You new guys had a long trip, go ahead and kick back and relax. I’m sure our fearless leaders here can help you get comfortable.” He gestured towards General Rahman and The Butcher. “I’ll go ahead and start unloading the merchandise here. Can’t waste any time. We gotta get our product moving the other way.”
The crew walked off towards the inviting indoor accommodations which awaited them off in the distance. Vickers watched impatiently. When he thought things were clear he took the opportunity to stuff his pockets with stacks of bills. He was glad he was wearing cargo pants. He turned around into a knife at his throat.
“What you do?” Hekmatyar asked in broken English as he held the knife to the special forces soldier’s jugular.
“Taking my cut.”
“You get cut from Company. Not here. I take cut from here.”
Vickers growled, “You take too much.”
The Butcher threatened, “You no fight. You sit in office. Get more than you deserve. Next time, you get unplanned surgery.” The Butcher walked off. Vickers exhaled.
The pallets were put away in underground warehouses. Opium was loaded on the cargo plane and took off for Turkey to be processed. The core of the Mujahideen freedom fighters broke bread and shot whiskey. The clock was racing against the Soviet empire.
Stay tuned for more
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