This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Ronald John Godlewski
Cover graphics © 2008 R.J. Godlewski
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews
This novel is written exclusively for Right Truth Blog (www.righttruth.typepad.com) and its readers.
In loving memory of my precious Sara (7/25/1951 to 12/13/2003) who always encouraged me to write from the heart and was at once both my greatest critic and my most loyal fan.
In love with you always!
And…
To the greatest dad anyone like me could ever have hoped for: Joseph Stanley Godlewski
(11/29/1918 to 04/14/2008).
You gave me life. Thank you!
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
610 A.D. Near Mount Hira, Mecca, Arabia
Muhammad stood in silence near the mountain, its peak nestled within the brilliance of the afternoon sunshine. He brushed back his ebony mane, allowing the hair to lift slightly off of his shoulder as his equally black eyes continued to strain against the magnificence of the sun’s rays. Occasionally he twisted his beard, itself lying neatly against his chest, as if a slight distraction of his hands would free his mind for more contemplative study.
He was neither a tall man nor very short; Creation had blessed him with normalcy as far as his body was concerned. His alabaster skin was tinted a rosy pink from the glaring sun’s light and he considered this to be rather tame compared with what had been offered to most of his clan. Perhaps had the sun been less accommodating then his expression would not have had the characteristic softness about it that made him easily known amongst his friends and family. Gentleness cooperated with his otherwise stern eyes.
It was not his appearance that concerned Muhammad for the moment, however. His heart ached and his mind remained confused. All about him he witnessed his fellow Arabs descend into chaos befitting the tribes from which they evolved into the world. Religion had begun to absorb his thoughts and he marveled over the antiquity of Judaism and the monotheistic beliefs of those Jews that he came across during his journeys to
Medina. From what little Christians that he met in his forty years of life he learned to admire their superior morality and from both religions he understood the importance of divine
Scripture – the written text that could not be challenged by mere orators.
Sadly, his fellow Arabs dwelled within a culture of polytheistic idolatry, tribal warfare, petty political disputes, and loose morals. Such embarrassing and primitive traits within his people instilled within him a sense of desperation; a strong desire to seek out a new faith that would consolidate his people under the singular banner of Arabia – an Arabia cloaked not in vengeance and retribution but in divine love and grace.
“You seem troubled today, my husband.” Khadija offered her spouse a slight nudge, hoping to dislodge his concentration from the distant mountain. “Are you ill?”
“Troubled?” Muhammad turned towards his wife, marveling over her dignified beauty even after fifteen years of marriage. “Concerned would be a better word, my love.”
“My husband has the courage of a thousand Bedouin.” she replied, casting a suspicious glance towards the mountain. “What, then, could possibly trouble you?”
“Our people seek a Messiah as do the Jews. I know that Christians have found theirs, but I’m afraid that Arabs will need someone who will meet their own expectations and not that of the gods.”
Khadija motioned towards the towering peak in the distance. “Is this why the mountain demands more of your attention then I do?”
Muhammad smiled. “The mountain beckons, yes, but you have already won my heart.”
“Perhaps.” Khadija tried again to steer her husband’sattention back towards the road leading to Mecca. “As for what is troubling your mind…”
“I do not know. I only sense a strong desire to remain near the mountain. At least for the next several weeks.” Khadija’s smile broadened sarcastically. “The Hebrews tell of Moses finding his God atop a mountain. Am I to be your Zipporah; to lose you when you find your own way?”
“I am an Arab; I am loyal to my wife.”
“Oh? And what of my cousin, Waraqah?”
“We are just good friends.”
“Ah ha.” Khadija gently pushed her husband away. “You have forgotten, my love, that I am older and wiser than you are. I have had wealth and family whereas you had none. Your father left you only five camels, a few goats, a house, and a slave. My husband left me with his business.”
“Oh ho ho.” Muhammad feigned capitulation. “So is it I that owe much to you now? That I hold no value to your life?”
“You know what I mean.” she jabbed him firmly in the arm. “I merely know that something preoccupies your mind. So what troubles you?”
Muhammad nodded softly, a look of concern etched deeply into his rosy face. “Our people. Our primitive ways will never amount to much if we don’t unify through some method – perhaps some religious faith that will empower us beyond our petty squabbling and idolatry. "We must belong to something that is more Arab than Bedouin; more unique than that offered by people outside our own land.”
“All men seek a higher purpose.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid that Arabs will only seek to destroy each other. That they will eventually take any good from themselves and cast it into the campfire destroying what might be their salvation in life.”
“And?”
“The Jews and the Christians both have their own beliefs. One consists of a strong code of conduct and the other demands sacrifice for a glorious life after death. We have nothing with
which to compare.”
“Yes, I too have many friends who subscribe to the Jewish and Christian beliefs. They are good people.”
“Are not Arabs any good?”
“If they are Arabs.”
“If they are Arabs…” Muhammad’s voice faded off into the wind as he shielded his eyes once more for a glance into the distant peak. “Yes, you are most wise, my love. Just as the Twelve Tribes of Israel have coalesced into a singular belief so, too, must our thousands of tribes. Unity must be our future. Without it, we shall perish.”
Khadija walked a few short paces towards their home. “So where will my husband find this unity out here in the desert?”
Muhammad’s face grimaced slightly, contorting his proud features into a semblance of a working man’s; he massaged his temples to ease their throbbing. After a brief interlude he pointed haphazardly towards Mount Hira. “There. The mountain.”
Ignoring the object of his scrutiny, Khadija walked over to where her husband stood. “It is the headaches again, yes?”
“They will pass as always.” he replied, still massaging his face. “Always the same. First the discomfort, then the blackness and the ringing like that of a bell. Finally, it fades away and I return to normal.”
Khadija gripped him tightly by the arm, providing her husband with an assurance of her presence and stability. “Still, my husband desires to camp within the cave; alone, no less.”
“I must.” Muhammad extracted himself from his wife’s embrace. “I must find a future for my people; a way in which to unite all that divides us. Perhaps if I stay alone my mind can find what my heart seeks. I know that I shall.”
“And what happens when you do find what your heart seeks?”
“That depends much upon our people. No treasure is worthwhile if it’s not shared with others. Otherwise,
opportunists and profiteers will dismantle it and what was once good will turn into dire evil for all…”
* * * * *
Chapter One
May, 20xx
Crimean Psychological Evaluation Center, “Viper’s Lair”
Kerch, Ukraine
The difference between man and beast is subject to much interpretation. Consider the lovable sheepdog; equally qualified as either family pet or protector of a foreign species. Such dedication within humans, however, rests largely within the self-interest of the beholder. Those reared within disadvantaged regions have, perhaps, every conceivable right to feel neglected and overburdened; to use whatever means at their disposal to signify the need for a grievance to be addressed to their satisfaction. Yet, like the amiable working dog, the citizens of Kerch, Ukraine would rather die than allow their dignity to resemble the shambles of their native city.
Post-Soviet independence had not been kind to Ukraine, itself nestled between oil rich Russia and the petroleum-bloated region surrounding the Middle East. Their former comrades directly to the north historically treated them along with the Poles, Czechs, and Lithuanians as an inferior species. Turkey, directly across the Black Sea towards the south, represented the border with Islam and thus treated the inhabitants of Crimea and their Christian neighbors as infidels. The Ukrainians, therefore, had every reason to remain displeased with their situation but more often than not, it did not show through in bitterness.
Still, the nation’s men did turn frequently to the abundance of Vodka whenever employment opportunities dried up or the Bear growling to the north decided to restrict gas and fuel oil in order to handicap their own winter hibernation but Ukrainian women themselves rarely entered public view without proudly looking their best – even if it meant leaving the local factory a bit late so they might retain the privilege of adjusting their mascara or slipping into their favorite heels. Whatever the structures of the city may have hinted at, the people of Crimea would never allow their economic condition to betray their strong character permanently.
Of the many dilapidated structures that dotted the Kerch Peninsula, itself comprising nearly half of Crimea, was one intentionally kept in ill-repair. A former Soviet military hospital rectangular in shape with three floors and a basement better suited for a live game of Dungeons and Dragons than that supporting a medical facility. Hideously colored in blotches of pink, coral and salmon; the facility would’ve served nicely as the poster child for urban abandonment in nearly every other civilized nation on the planet. Instead, kept secret from the locals parading by on the street, the building housed some of humanity’s worst known creatures.
Officially known as the Crimean Psychological Evaluation Center, the locals – at least those with a sufficient imagination – simply referred to the place as the Viper’s Lair. Whatever the term hospital meant for the rest of the world, the Soviets ensured that this particular specimen earned whatever dastardly reputation the locals bestowed upon it and without a doubt its infamy was kept alive for just such psychological reasons. What better way to keep trespassers at bay than to scare the living hell out of them?
Of all the inhuman beasts that occasionally domiciled at the Viper’s Lair, none were more notorious than Muhammad ibn al-Ilah Talib; known throughout the military world as simply the Sorcerer for his ‘magic’ was of the utmost brutality. Muhammad had maintained a very nasty habit for personally brutalizing women and children. Men he feigned some respect for and usually permitted one of his lieutenants to dispatch with by either garrote or broadsword. Of such ferocity was his reputation that the United States Government itself shelled out several million in reward for his capture – all done on the sly for the opportunity to pick Muhammad’s brain clean could not be entrusted to a global society bred on political correctness.
Of course, Muhammad the Sorcerer was never identified by his real name or even his impromptu nom de guerre. On official documents he was simply Specimen #L975211A; for those who aided those who studied him, he was simply Patient Evil – the vilest human being they had ever encountered. So despicable was this particular individual that he could not be held within any normal facility – such might give him publicity or, far worse, access to civilized laws intended to keep those well-practiced for his type from the common criminal.
Regardless of all safety precautions; Muhammad, the Sorcerer, Psychological Specimen #L975211A, or Patient Evil – whichever one befitted whomever was speaking of him at any particular moment in time – sat within a facility precariously close to those who served him with a passion of their own. He was, after all, a mere body of water away from freedom – hardly more than six hundred kilometers at best; so much better than being incarcerated at Guantanamo Bay, the United States, or some other pathetic European nation.
Still, for others the six hundred kilometers of Black Sea waves might’ve posed an impassible boundary but Muhammad had backing in the form of the Islamic Republic of Iran which, conveniently, bordered Turkey. Not that the mullahs ruling Tehran would ever openly admit to such support – they never accepted responsibility for anything – but the desire to beset another Western-style democracy was there just the same. Muhammad knew this. His supporters knew this. So, too, did the organization that ran Viper’s Lair – the nondescript sounding Center for Indigenous Clinical Studies – though few casting a casual glance upon the large, faded red words Центр Местных Клинических Исследований cared to consider who did what and to whom. It was none of their business and quite literally.
The CICS was owned and operated by General Yevgeny Mirzayanov, a Ukrainian of Russian descent and one of the former Soviet Union’s most notorious “Nuclear Generals”. When Premier Josef Stalin yawned over President Truman’s admission of an atomic bomb, he could do so because General Mirzayanov’s intelligence operatives had penetrated America’s Manhattan Project and siphoned away years’ worth of knowledge. Since the collapse of his former employer, the studious General bolted from communism and embraced Western capitalism wholesale – that is, his intelligence network kept track of rogue scientists and material leaking from the once proud Red Empire towards hands less accommodating to the New World Order than his own.
Growing old, however, limited his ability to remain firm and in the game and actual management of the ‘guests’ at Viper’s Lair was left to Dr. Leonid Shilakova, a physician and psychologist whose own reputation for inhuman behavior would’ve far exceeded that of the Sorcerer’s had the outside world been allowed to notice. Only General Mirzayanov’s conversion to capitalism and democracy – principally after the events of 9/11, owing to his family’s proud but secretive Christian heritage – reined in the activities of the compatibly reared man of medicine.
At the time, Mirzayanov’s and Shilakova’s primary prisoner – other than a few hardly ever worth mentioning – was the notorious mastermind Muhammad ibn al-Ilah Talib whose capture involved legendary planning and risk taking. Held out in a cave along the infamous Afghanistan/Pakistan border doing his best to disrupt American combat operations, Muhammad was an infectious thorn in the side of the U.S. administration. What the public was not aware of was his deep hatred of young humans – infants, children, and teenagers.
Distracted by a decent war gone sour, the U.S. President decided that “one more reason for war only to be turned into an excuse by the media” wasn’t worth the effort for publicity and so the hunt for the Sorcerer turned into one of the most secretive operations of the whole battle against radical Islam. All stops were pulled out in the planning and the operation launched into a brutal effort to capture a heinous enemy who liked to satisfy himself at the expense of innocent ten-year-old girls and boys.
The American government knew roughly where the despicable Muhammad was holding out but they also knew that no ground forces would be able to penetrate the area on a reconnaissance mission. To isolate his location with greater precision, a non-U.S. interagency strike force was called in to deliver a chemical attack on the caverns simultaneously with a massive U.S. B-52 carpet bombing campaign. The latter served both to cover U.S. interests and to ensure that enemy combatants serving in the region would flee to their hideout.
The chemical nerve agent used was not particularly lethal, merely a much diluted variant designed to incapacitate until an antidote was administered to the affected. There was a chance, amidst all the commotion, that the targeted individual might’ve been killed and so the plan was to publicly announce such an event as a major accomplishment of U.S.-led forces. Yet, although dead terrorists made everyone sleep better at night, Muhammad’s capture was of the utmost importance for bringing down his entire organization and so secrecy ruled the day.
Terrorist field operatives do not think or behave as do Western frontline soldiers – they are quite willing to die for their beliefs and their leaders exploit this phenomenon. Therefore, it was widely known that of the hundreds of enemy combatants that could’ve been exposed to the nerve agent, there were only a few whose prominence literally demanded the antidote – those possessing the caliber of one Muhammad ibn al-Ilah Talib. All U.S. intelligence personnel had to do was to track the antidote; to follow the movement of a highly effective and rare Russian-developed cure provided courtesy of the scientists operating out of Crimea until it reached its ultimate beneficiary.
There was, of course, a slight chance that the Sorcerer was not the gold chest at the end of the intelligence rainbow, but the effort was justifiable solely upon the way that it exposed Muhammad’s deep logistics network. Fortunately, the gods were friendly on that day and the infamous Sorcerer was taken after a two-day firefight with terrorist reinforcements. The extraction operation, however, nearly doubled the size of the effort but once confirmation of his identity had been realized no one cared about the cost either in terms of capital or manpower.
Muhammad’s life had indeed been turned upside-down but his arrogance refused to believe that it was a permanent crisis; his own rescue mission had undoubtedly begun as soon as the CH-47 whisked him away for a date with the Viper’s Lair. His somewhat uncharacteristic fetish – when compared with other Islamists – for things Western needed to be served and what was offered by the CICS left much to be desired. He knew that he would eventually escape and once he did, the West and its U.S. overlords would pay. He only had to bide his time – and the physical and mental ‘inconveniences’ that were designed to ensure that he would never, ever forget who he was.
