Nick Hahn's Blog, page 9

“DRONE” by Nick Hahn (a work in progress)

“A drone is often preferred for missions that are too “dull, dirty, or dangerous” for manned aircraft.”

There are more slaves in the world today than at any other point in human history, an estimated 27 million in bondage across the globe. Men, women, and children being exploited for manual and sexual labor against their will.

PROLOGUE

Her name is Rosita. She has a high school degree but was educated on the streets of El Chorillo, a dangerous barrio on the outskirts of Panama City. She’s eighteen, looks fourteen, thinks like twenty. Rosita is one of nine children from this poverty-stricken neighborhood, her brother, Javier, had been snatched from the streets six months earlier, he was eight years old and beautiful.

Sweet and unsuspecting, Javier was called “spirit child” by his mother, he never saw the pain and poverty, for him it was normal. He was fifth in the brood and the most affectionate with cocoa skin, dark eyes, and long black curly hair. Javier stood out in the family and in the neighborhood. His siblings were told to watch out for him as the streets of El Chorillo were dangerous, kidnappings were endemic along this corridor outside Panama City.

It was Rosita’s turn to walk Javier to school when she bought that banana from a street vendor. He couldn’t have been out of her sight more than a minute. She turned, counting her change with a banana stuck in her mouth, the Toyota pickup was across the street. Javier was struggling in the arms of a short stocky man with the tattoos covering his arms and shoulders clearly visible under the black wife-beater, a map of Panama outlined in white printed on the front. He wore wrap sunglasses and a sweat-stained cowboy hat, the straw brim folded tightly against the crown. There was no noise, no commotion as if pedestrians saw this as an everyday occurrence. The rag against his mouth and nose was dark green like those used in a garage, his body went limp.

He looked like all machos in the barrio, with one exception. This man had a dark red scar from his ear to the bottom of his throat that couldn’t be hidden by his unshaven face. A face burned into Rosita’s consciousness forever, like a branding iron. She screamed and ran towards the Toyota as Javier’s limp body was thrown into the bed, scarface jumped into the accelerating pickup, gravel flew from all four wheels of the AWD vehicle. She would find Javier and his abductor, when she did, there would be another scar, this one stretching from ear to ear.

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FOREIGN EXCHANGE by Nick Hahn (due 2015)

PREFACE

Muslim ghettoes are incubators of extremist ideology, dissimulated theocracies based upon convenient interpretations of the Quran. It’s not about religion, it’s about power. The four horsemen of the apocalypse, conquest, war, famine and death are means to an end, weapons in a terrorist arsenal. Young men and women from developed countries, often educated, are attracted to this sophistic alchemy; shocking family and friends, fueling global headlines, and inspiring peers with a persuasive “I dare you”.

Complacency in the developed world plays into the hands of patient extremists. Further attacks against US interests are inevitable; they’ll be massive and destructive, exposing open arteries in our defenses created by politicized policies and procedures at Homeland Security. Western powers, including the United States, increased global surveillance at the cost of their international standing. Phone tapping and online snooping became technological art forms. “Secure communications” no longer exist. The most sophisticated systems in the world, those of friends and foes alike, are compromised in an ever-widening arc of eavesdropping by the US National Security Agency. The US oath of office creates a moral conundrum for foreign service officers, “does the end justify the means?”

“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter so help me God. [1]”

FOREIGN EXCHANGE by Nick Hahn (due 2015)

PROLOGUE

Three Ford Expeditions, black with tinted glass, were crossing the bridge. US Ambassador Owen Wintour sat in the middle vehicle next to Jim Carlisle, a government lifer and Charge’ de Affaires. Carlisle is the consummate diplomat, trained, articulate, charming, savvy. He knew his job and his place in the embassy pecking order. He would serve as acting Ambassador in Owen’s absence. A routine trip, going over notes on their way to an airport, SOP for a busy Embassy. Alex and I sat together in the back near the double cargo doors guarding luggage. The Pakistani driver and guard riding shotgun kept their eyes on the masses littering the street like human detritus. The other two trucks held more security, an unnecessary expense according to Owen, one truck two guards more than sufficient, a routine trip. Mustafa approved our detail, selecting each guard personally. Satisfied, he stayed behind catching up on training neglected since we arrived.



Midway over the bridge it happened. A blinding flash signaled a deafening explosion followed by the unmistakable odor of high explosive cordite. The Ford Expedition in front of us erupted in a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire, leaping off the road, settling back in a black pile of melting plastic, glass and metal. A shoulder fired rocket found its mark with deadly accuracy.

The driver slammed on the brakes, jamming the gear into reverse, twisting his body around for a better view out the rear door windows. Too late, the car behind met the same fate. Boxed in by smoking heaps of scrap metal an assault squad of five masked terrorists appeared from nowhere and surrounded the truck. A professional hit , they were calm and efficient directed by a leader with calculated precision. With black ski masks, bullet proof vests and earphone sets they resembled a swat team, only the captain spoke, the others took orders.

The short one wore a small knapsack, turned his back to another who unzipped the bag removing explosive Semtex, a grey putty like substance. He slapped the mass hard against the rear gate, ducked behind a fender and held his ears. The doors locked together rather than to the structural integrity of the truck. They exploded out and back in a spray of broken glass, dangling on their hinges. The short one jumped in first, throwing out luggage as he scrambled towards Alex. The guard riding shotgun leveled his Glock-45 at the terrorist closest to my daughter, he hesitated before pulling the trigger, a mistake. The infrared dot centered on his forehead, the backup shooter behind the truck squeezed off a single high caliber round from his Beretta, the barrel flinched, the hollow point found its mark. His head jerked back, blood, bone and brain fragment exploded from the gaping exit wound splattering against the windshield in a rorschach pattern. Our driver, went for his concealed weapon but stopped as the bombers surrounded the truck. The leader banged the bullet proof glass with the butt of his automatic, he wanted the door locks opened now, the driver was already hitting the release button.

Two of them grabbed Jim Carlisle from the jump seat and threw him to the ground. Owen’s move to protect us met with a crushing blow to the temple from the barrel of a terrorist’s handgun, Owen crumpled to his knees. Alex ‘s screams now muffled by the rag over her face. The medicinal odor of chloroform filled the SUV, she struggled and chocked before going limp in the bomber’s arms. Not a random kidnapping, this was a professional hit performed flawlessly by a well trained team. They had snatched the daughter of a US Ambassador on a busy bridge in the capital of Pakistan in broad daylight. They ignored the rest of us, they wanted Alex and they got her.

Ambulances and fire trucks arrived first, ahead of police. Pandemonium erupted, people shouting, pointing and crying. Owen, now back on his feet, waved off the EMT, he directed them to the security guard laying face down on the pavement, he didn’t need medical attention, he needed a coroner.

Dazed, Carlisle held his head, percussion from the explosion ruptured both ear drums. We survived with a superficial gash to Owen’s head. This was about Alex, where did they take her and why? Calling the Embassy Owen requested immediate access to the Secretary of State, I sobbed uncontrollably.

FOREIGN EXCHANGE by Nick Hahn, due 2015

Muslim ghettoes are incubators of extremist ideology, dissimulated theocracies based upon convenient interpretations of the Quran. It’s not about religion, it’s about power. The four horsemen of the apocalypse, conquest, war, famine and death are means to an end, weapons in a terrorist arsenal. Young men and women from developed countries, often educated, are attracted to this sophistic alchemy; shocking family and friends, fueling global headlines, and inspiring peers with a persuasive “I dare you”.

Foreign Exchange by Nick Hahn (excerpt)

In rural Pakistan people do not use paper in their bathrooms or roadside toilets. The custom here is to wash your hands under a communal water spigot outside of the leu after doing your business, no matter how messy it becomes, a disgusting habit.

It seemed the further we went the more lax they became, restraints looser, no more hood and able to sit on the back seat. We were driving through high desert country, brown, dusty and barren. The mountains on the horizon were saw-toothed and snowcapped like Northern Idaho on family vacations. I had no idea where we were except in Pakistan their mountains are on the North Western border with Afghanistan.

In the last year or so I became aware of tension between Sally and Owen, both preferred I address them by name, not Mommy or Daddy as I had as a child. I remembered the verse form Corinthians, learned during Sunday bible class:

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man , I put the ways of childhood behind me.”

I don’t think my parents are prepared to accept it but at sixteen with three foreign postings under my belt and Billy in my pants more times than I can remember I’m no longer thinking, talking or reasoning like a child. I pray to God I’ll get out of this alive, I know US policy on dealing with terrorists and kidnappers but I also know my Father, he’ll find a way I know he will.

We came to an abrupt stop at a cross roads, the signs were in Pashto, we were heading towards the border. The driver got out of the car to access his cell phone, the conversation was brief. He snapped it shut, jumped back in and turned right, we were running parallel, to the mountains.

The one in the front passenger seat turned and faced me, his face was sullen, dark with deep wrinkle lines running vertically like dried river beds out of a salt lake. There was hair growing out of his ears and his teeth were stained mahogany from years of sipping tea morning, noon and night. He was smoking, French Gauloises, their distinctive odor was permeating the car. The muslims don’t drink, at least the devote ones, but they make up for it with heavy smoking and tea drinking. They have other addictions like the manly sports of falconry and goat polo not to mention internet porn, this dirty little secret occupies over 28% of the Muslim population worldwide, according to Muslim news organizations in Abu Dhabi. They may respect the women in their families and communities but when alone with a computer and an internet connection their sexual fantasies become reality, not unlike Billy and most of the boys I knew in high school, girls too. My mouth dropped in amazement when Billy showed me his “porn stash” (as he liked to call it) on his iPhone, OMG, I had no idea!

FOREIGN EXCHANGE by Nick Hahn, Sally Wintour, the Ambassador’s Wife.

Like all US Ambassadors we had household staff and security personnel recruited for their loyalty and discretion. As the gates swung open and we entered the courtyard there were five people standing in front of the main house, three women in traditional Hijab headdress, two men dressed in black pants and white shirts. Three out-buildings were grouped around the courtyard; a guard house adjacent to the gate, a large garage or perhaps storage facility and separate living quarters for the staff. The guard house was large with a small brazier for heating tea and sleeping cots for the 24 hour rotating security.

A third man stood to the side not wanting to be included as household staff. He was tall and muscular with a large black mustache and chiseled features. He wore designer jeans, a turban and a baseball jacket in spite of the heat. The jacket was emblazoned with the iconic NY Yankees logo and barely covered the bulge in the center of his back near the waist. This had to be Mustafa, the name meant Warrior of Islam, a fitting description for the man responsible for Alex’s security. He was born and raised on the streets of Karachi but moved with his parents to New York when he was 17. Now a naturalized citizen of the US with dual passport he’s a trained Navy Seal assigned to the State Department for special operations, guarding our daughter was a special operation. The State Department dossier covered his background in detail but the passport photos they included hardly did him justice, he was beautiful.

FOREIGN EXCHANGE, a bi-cultural political thriller by Nick Hahn, due 2015

(Alex)

“Since leaving Pakistan I’m consumed by the dichotomy between life in a Muslim country and my life in the US. Omar was born into poverty, a third world society, educated by radical Imams to think a certain way, I was born into upper middle class society also educated to think a certain way. Political and economic paradigms are means to an end, systems designed by men to enhance their lives. Democracy supports freedom of speech, assembly and religion driving political and economic parity for most but not all Americans. Minorities suffer under the system, people fall into disaffected sub-cultures often following leaders telling them what they want to hear, leaders motivated by power fueled by sophistry, immoral means justifying unattainable ends. This small fraction of the US population is shrinking, being absorbed into a growing middle class that appears utopian to the third world. That world is dominated by poverty, people willing to follow any philosophy or leader promising a better life. This is not about intelligence or morality it’s about survival and basic human entitlement. Omar was not immoral he was sick, suffering from a philosophical virus spawned in the Muslim barrios of Pakistan. He would have detonated that bomb, killing thousands of Americans and himself in a cloud of smoke and a full throated Allahu Akbar. The cure for islamic extremism is not found in Guantanamo, it’s an incubator for advanced terrorism where incarceration and torture feed embryos of destruction. Omar is better off with Allah, the world is better off with him dead and America will be better off when we close the dungeons of Guantanamo.”

FOREIGN EXCHANGE by Nick Hahn (part-2) due 2015

 

Extremism is an addiction, something powerful and overwhelming, addicts can’t control their thoughts or actions. These people are cultural pedophiles, this isn’t a physical disease as some would postulate about alcohol, this is a psychological sickness. Traceable to birth, to sucking the mother’s milk of an abused woman whose life was compressed by a literal , sophistic interpretation of the Koran and unquestioned obedience to Allah and his self ordained disciples. Omar was one of them, an addict in more ways than one.

His private journal revealed a physical interest in men, homosexuality in the Muslim world was punishable by death, usually stoning or having their throat cut. The leaders preferred cutting to beheading, the former being more painful. Being gay was not pardonable under any circumstances. Omar’s journal had links to gay porn and dating sites, he would  satisfy a predilection for gay sex in liberal NY undetected. We wanted to know more about this, where did he go, which clubs, bars and bath houses. Did he have a steady lover, where and when  did they meet, were others in their circle, did he do group sex,  with whom? Omar used an alias on password encrypted dating sites, his handle was Deep Throat, his profile page had dozens of photos, nude and semi-nude in various states of arousal. He checked the “partnered” box on his favorite dating sites. There were closed messenger systems, chat-rooms and review options;  the sites were a social media microcosm, a brokerage for anonymous assignations with a nefarious purpose. Omar was active, he built a contact list with ratings for each man he’d been with, the four and five star performers were visited often at their apartments or shared motel rooms on Staten Island. Omar’s death had not been reported to the media, Starbucks was told he was ill and would not be returning for work. Deep Throat was now a CIA agent, we would arrange meetings, we would isolate and interrogate his lovers, one by one by one.

Were there operatives working outside of Omar’s cell in NY, did he communicate with them, were they attracted to him sexually, did they meet; where, when,  how?  This was an opening to a side of Islam we had not expected. Gay sex was taboo, forbidden, punishable by a long, painful death.  Addiction thrives on the adrenalin rush of danger, fear of discovery and consequences of exposure. Abusers of alcohol, drugs, gambling and sex are endemic to our society, we knew that suicide bombers like those plotting 9/11 would frequent strip clubs and bars before their mission. They had a predilection for booze, drugs and porn but we didn’t suspect male sex, we were wrong.

Regardless of race, religion or status, someone living under crushing tension and stress without access to drugs and alcohol will often turn to sex. Drugs and alcohol provide temporary relief but have unacceptable consequences subject to mindless thought and activity, they left a mark that could compromise a mission. Sex is free, anonymous and non-toxic, not detectable by a blood test. It leaves no physical footprint and provide relief for a terrorist planning suicidal murder in the name of Allah. Without a hangover sex gives you a free pass to nirvana, a taste of what’s in store when meeting the quaranic virgins, all 72 of them, ostensibly but inaccurately promised by Allah. Omar’s private journal was a treasure trove, an encrypted database of names, places, dates and reviews of gay sex practiced by a man suffering from a deep, dark psychosis.

Understanding what made Omar tick,  how he became who he was and why he persevered in spite of his American experience would give us clues to the extremist state of  mind. These men were not foot soldiers following orders, they were anarchists, troops in the service of Allah imbued with a literal and inaccurate interpretation of the Koran.

Some believe we should not use labels when defining extremists. They would argue there are no Muslim terrorists, Jewish terrorists or Catholic terrorists; there are simply terrorists. Murderers, rapists and kidnappers, who act on their own initiative without the aid or inspiration of a deity. The billion plus peace loving Muslims in the world are living testimony to this thesis.

Omar’s personal diary would lead us into an agnostic world of secrecy, fear, violence and sex. An incubator for terrorists, a place where thought becomes reality powered by addiction, the alchemy of terrorism.