Black Ops # 1: American Jihad

Book 1: Black Ops

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Spy Thrillers; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

Art Jensen is a born warrior. A direct descendant of the legendary mountain man Smoke Jensen, he is destined to continue his ancestor's legacy of heroism. For the courage, strength, and honor of a man never dies... Into The Dark Lieutenant Colonel Art Jensen finds himself a soldier without an army after he is caught on tape killing an Iraqi terrorist in a Baghdad firefight--only to have the media make him out to be a murderer. A career spent serving his beloved country now seems to be over... Until Jensen receives a new set of orders--secret orders. He is promoted to brigadier general, and placed in charge of the Special Function Unit--a new, covert "black ops" team. A team of one. The terrorists are already here. Financed and trained by a billionaire Saudi prince determined to bring the infidel America to its knees, a number of sleeper cells within the U.S are being activated. Officially, the politically protected prince is untouchable, and his campaign of terror stands ready to begin. But Art Jensen is no longer a soldier bound by orders--he's a weapon, bound by duty and honor, and he has one mission: to destroy the enemy within.

Release date: November 19, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Baltimore, Maryland, the present

His name was Arthur Kirby Jensen and he was a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army. He was a direct descendant, the great-great-grandson of the old, legendary gunfighter, Kirby “Smoke” Jensen, and he was not only aware of that relationship . . . he had a distinct reason to feel a very personal connection to that particular ancestor.

Slender, and deceptively muscular, Art was just a quarter of an inch under six feet tall, with sandy hair and steel-gray eyes.

Art was having lunch with his father, and the two men were seated at a table on the patio of the Crown and Horn Restaurant. From here they could see ships, trawlers, and yachts plying the sparkling blue waters of Chesapeake Bay.

Art’s father, Cal Jensen, was a retired FBI agent who still did enough consultation work with the agency to make Art wonder if he had ever actually retired at all.

“What do you hear from Grandpa?” Art asked.

Cal chuckled. “He’s as happy as a pig in the sunshine. The Confederate Air Force let him fly their B-17 again. In fact, they painted his name right under the pilot’s window. Captain Pearlie Jensen.”

“Well, why not?” Art asked. “What’s more authentic than to have their plane flown by someone who did fifty missions in a B-17 over Germany during the war? Oh, and by the way, Dad, I think it’s called the Commemorative Air Force now.”

“Well, whatever. The point is, your grandpa got to fly it. And speaking of flying, what time tomorrow are you leaving?”

“My flight leaves at 0900,” Art answered.

“I believe you said you’re going to Fort Ord?”

“Yes, to join the Seventh Infantry Division. We’ll be deploying to Iraq in another month.”

A waiter approached the two men.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “May I recommend fried oysters? The oysters you enjoy today spent last night in Chesapeake Bay.”

“Fried oysters sound good,” Cal said.

“I’ll have a hamburger,” Art said.

The waiter looked chagrined. “A . . . ham . . . burger . . . sir?” he asked in a pained voice. “You want a hamburger?”

“Yes.”

“But, sir, this is the Crown and Horn. Nobody orders a hamburger at the Crown and Horn.”

“You do have hamburger, don’t you?”

“We do not, sir. We are the Crown and Horn,” the waiter repeated haughtily.

“So you said.”

Cal looked at the menu, then pointed to one of the entrées. “What is this?” he asked.

“Why, that’s a filet mignon,” the waiter said.

“He’ll have that.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Grind it up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Grind it up into hamburger,” Cal said. “My son is going to Iraq. If he wants a hamburger, then by damn I’m going to see to it that he gets a hamburger.”

“But, sir, that is twenty-two dollars,” the waiter replied.

“I don’t care what it costs, just do it.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said.

“Damn, the FBI must pay well,” Art said as the waiter walked away.

“Well, they do pay better now that I’m a consultant,” Cal replied. “Are you taking your journal?”

“I never go anywhere without my journal,” Art said. “You know that.”

“I know. But things will be different in Iraq. There’s a possibility you could lose it over there. You might want to make a copy and take that instead.”

“I’ve got copies made,” Art said. “But reading the copy isn’t like reading the actual journal. I mean, the entries are in Smoke’s own handwriting. There is something almost surreal about reading the words in his hand. It’s like he is talking directly to me.”

“I know,” Cal said. “I just thought I’d mention it. By the way, how is your mother?”

“She’s fine,” Art said. “I had dinner with her and Lester last Sunday.”

Cal sighed. “Lester is a good man,” he said. “I’m glad Edna found him. Lord knows, I was no good for her.”

“It wasn’t you, Dad, it was your job,” Art said. “That’s the reason I’ve never married.”

“Oh, Son,” Cal said, “I hope you aren’t staying away from marriage just because I failed with your mother.”

“It’s not that. I’ve seen too many of my friends fail at marriage just because of the stress of the military. As you know I’ve only been back from Afghanistan for six months and I’m getting ready to go to Iraq. Right now we’re getting back-to-back assignments in Afghanistan and Iraq, and we are monitoring other hot spots around the world. It is difficult to maintain a marriage and manage a military career. If I tried to do both, I’m not sure I could do either.”

“You sell yourself short,” Cal said. “I’ve never known anyone more capable than you.”

The waiter returned then, carrying a tray. He put the oysters in front of Cal, then, with a great show, removed the silver cover to display Art’s meal.

“Your . . . ham . . . burger . . . sir,” the waiter said. The hamburger was artfully plated with thinly sliced strips of grilled zucchini, the dark grill lines perfect diagonals against the pale green. In addition to the grilled zucchini, there were four grilled cherry tomatoes, still on the vine. A small painter’s palate of mustard and ketchup completed the display.

After lunch, Art drove his father home.

“Can you come in for a few minutes?” Cal invited as they sat in front of his apartment.

“I’d better not, Dad. I’ve got a lot of things to do before tomorrow.”

Cal nodded, then reached across the car to shake Art’s hand.

“You take care over there, Son,” he said. “And drop me a line now and then.”

“I’ll send e-mail.”

Cal shook his head. “No, not e-mail. I mean, yes, send me e-mail, but I want some real mail too. This e-mail stuff isn’t like real mail . . . it isn’t something you can hold.”

“Why, Dad, I never knew you were so old-fashioned,” Art said. “All right. I’ll send you snail mail and e-mail.”

Fort Ord, California, one month later

Several preset charges were detonated, the explosions loud and concussive. Bullets popped and whined as they passed just inches over the heads of a group of soldiers who were crawling on their bellies through the infiltration course.

Art, who was one of the soldiers on the course, rolled over on his back to pass under the lowest strand of barbed wire at one of the hasty fortifications. As he did so, he could see the tracer rounds whizzing by just above him. A nearby explosion went off, and his face was stung with dirt and packing wad from the charge.

After negotiating the wire, Art turned back over to his stomach, then resumed his transit through the course. Although there were several men and women on the course with him, Art was more than twenty yards ahead of the next person. Passing under one more barbed-wire barrier, he wriggled on out of the course until he was well beyond the framed machine guns, which were firing a steady stream of tracer rounds over the other participants who were still engaged.

“Up here, Colonel!” the sergeant who was conducting the course shouted. He was holding a stopwatch, and he smiled broadly as he showed it to Art. “Do you realize you just set a course record?”

“Did I?” Art replied. “Well, there’s nothing like machine gun fire and explosive charges to hurry a person up,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“What I want to know is, why did you do it in the first place? You certainly didn’t have to.”

“I’ll tell you why he did it, Sergeant,” General McCabe said.

“General!” the sergeant said, coming to attention and saluting. “I’m sorry I didn’t send someone to welcome you. I didn’t know you were here.”

“That’s quite all right, I didn’t announce my intention to come,” General McCabe replied. He smiled as he returned both Art’s and the sergeant’s salute.

“Colonel Jensen went through the course to provide an inspiration for his men. And it is no surprise that he did as well as he did. Yesterday, he fired expert on the combat firing range, and two days ago he maxed the PT test.”

“Sumbitch,” the sergeant said. “I can’t wait till we get you over to Iraq, Colonel. You’re goin’ to kick some Habib ass.”

Art laughed. “I’ll kick one in the tail, just for you, Sarge.” Then, to General McCabe, he said, “General, did you have anything? I’m going to head back to the BOQ and take a shower.”

“No, nothing in particular,” General McCabe said, taking in the infiltration course with a wave of his hand. “I just thought I’d come out and watch for a few minutes. Oh, and Ann wants me to remind you not to forget that you are having dinner with us tonight. We thought we might try out that new restaurant over in Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

“Sounds good, General. I won’t forget,” Art said.

“Oh, and, Art, you do know about Ann’s penchant for matchmaking, don’t you?”

Art smiled. “Yes, sir. She has made for some . . . memorable evenings.”

General McCabe laughed. “You are a good sport to put up with it,” he said. “Meet us at Andre’s at 1900.”

“Nineteen hundred,” Art repeated. “Will do.”

Andre’s Restaurant sat high on a bluff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The parking lot was far enough below the restaurant that it required a set of steps to get to the restaurant level. Normally, the restaurant provided valet parking, but they were doing work to the drive so a sign stated that valet parking would not be available tonight.

That didn’t bother Art, since he would not have used valet parking anyway. He found a spot at the farthest end of the parking lot. He didn’t mind the extra hike up the hill, and he figured there would be other customers tonight who would need to park closer.

Art was in uniform when he was met by the maitre d’ as he stepped into the restaurant.

“Would you be Colonel Jensen?” the maitre d’ asked.

“Yes.”

“General McCabe told me you would be arriving,” the maitre d’ said. “He and his party are here.” He snapped his fingers, and a young woman came to him.

“This is Colonel Jensen,” the maitre d’ said. “Please take him to General McCabe’s table.”

“Right this way, Colonel,” the hostess said with a pretty smile.

“Art,” Ann McCabe said, coming forward to meet him as he approached the table. “So nice to see you again. This is Lisa Dunn. She is the aerobics instructor at the gym that I use.”

Art smiled as he extended his hand to Lisa. Ann McCabe had a problem with unmarried officers. She didn’t believe in them, and apparently had set out on a mission to single-handedly change that condition throughout the entire U.S. Army.

Sometimes, it seemed that the only criterion she looked for was that both parties be single. He had to give her credit this time, though. Lisa was a knockout. But then, she was an aerobics instructor. How could she be anything else?

“I know the colonel,” Lisa said.

“You know me?” Art asked, surprised by the comment.

“Well, let’s say I know of you. You broke my heart once.” Lisa ameliorated her comment with a broad smile.

“Why, Colonel Jensen, I would never have suspected such a thing from you,” Ann said.

“Miss Dunn, Mrs. McCabe, I don’t—” Art started, but Lisa cut him off with a lilting laugh.

“It’s nothing like that,” she said, waving her hand. “You played football for West Point. I graduated from Wake Forrest, class of 1990, and Army beat us my senior year, fourteen to ten. I really thought we had a chance to win that game. The field announcer was calling your name all afternoon.”

“I remember that game. It was a good one,” Art said. “But I’m sure he called Mike Mayweather’s name a lot more than he called mine.”

“Did you know that Art Jensen and Mike Mayweather were the last two players at West Point to make the All American football team?” General McCabe asked.

“I’d hardly put myself in the same category as Mayweather,” Art said. “He made first team All American, and finished tenth in the Heismann. I made honorable mention.”

“Well, honorable mention is . . . honorable,” Lisa said, and they all laughed.

“Let’s enjoy our dinner, shall we?” Ann said. “Colonel, you sit there, next to Lisa.”

During the dinner the conversation covered many subjects, including the fact that both Art and General McCabe would soon be leaving for Iraq. But, as often as possible, Ann brought the discussion back to Art and Lisa, trying hard to get something started between the two of them.

Art found Lisa very attractive, but was somewhat uncomfortable by Ann’s persistence. After dinner, as he walked Lisa to her car, he discovered that she was just as uncomfortable. They laughed about it, and made a vague agreement to get together at least one more time before Art deployed.

Art opened the door for her, and not until she was safely behind the wheel did he start toward his own. But, less than thirty seconds later, he heard Lisa scream. Turning, he hurried back through the darkness toward her car. That’s when he saw two men with her. One had his arm around her neck, the other was standing in front of her. Both of them were holding knives.

“Let her go!” Art shouted as he ran toward her.

“Say what?” one of the two men said.

“I said let her go,” he repeated.

The man laughed. “And if we don’t?”

“I’ll hurt you,” Art said easily.

“You got a gun?”

“No.”

“You got a knife?”

“No.”

The man laughed. “Well, soldier boy. There’s two of us and only one of you. And we both got knives . . . ain’t we, Leroy?”

“Yeah,” the one holding Lisa said. He held his up, and the blade glinted in the gleam of a nearby parking lot lamp. “And we got this here woman.”

“So, soldier boy, maybe you just better get on with your business and not try to be a hero.”

Art continued to come toward them and Leroy raised his knife to Lisa’s neck. “Are you blind, soldier boy? I told you, we got this woman. Now you come any closer, I’m going to cut her.”

“Why are you bothering with her?” Art asked. She’s not your problem, Leroy, I am.”

“What you mean, she’s not my problem?”

“She can’t hurt you. I can.”

“Man, are you crazy? You better get the hell out of here!” LeRoy said.

“No, I don’t think I will.” Art took another step closer and was now just a few feet from them.

“Cut him, Jason,” Leroy said to his partner. “Cut this mother real good.”

Jason stepped toward Art and made a low, vicious swing with his blade. Art danced to one side, avoiding the slice, then brought the knife-edge of his hand hard against Jason’s Adam’s apple, crushing it. Choking, Jason raised his hands to his neck and when he did so, Art grabbed the knife, then, using the butt of the handle, hit Jason hard between the eyes.

Jason went down.

“I’m warnin’ you!” Leroy said, his voice now on the edge of panic. “You come any closer, I’m going to cut her.”

“I told you, Leroy, she’s not your problem. Hell, she’s not even my problem. Right now there’s just you and me, and both of us have knives.”

“Yeah, but I’m holding my knife against her throat,” Leroy said.

“Well, see, that’s your problem. If you are holding it against her throat, that means you aren’t holding it against mine. You are a slow learner, aren’t you, Leroy?”

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“You haven’t figured out yet that, while you are cutting her, I’ll be killing you. He took another step toward them. “So, what do you say? Shall we get started?”

Leroy hesitated for another second, then, pushing Lisa away, he turned and ran through the parking lot, disappearing into the darkness.

“Are you all right?” Art asked.

“Uh, yes,” Lisa said, still shaken by the event.

“What were you doing out in the parking lot? When I left, you were safely in your car.”

“I left my cell phone in the restaurant and I was going back for it,” Lisa said. “Would you . . .” She started, hesitated for a moment, then restarted her question. “Would you really have let him cut me?”

“I had to let him believe I would,” Art said.

“Colonel, you are a very frightening man. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea for us to see each other. I believe you really would have let him cut me.”

“All right,” Art said.

“What, no argument? No attempt to persuade me that I’m wrong?”

“You have to go with your gut feelings,” Art said. “If you really are going back for your cell phone, let me walk with you. That is, if you aren’t afraid of me.”

“Well, right now, I’m more frightened to go back without you.”

Art walked Lisa to the restaurant, then waited as she retrieved her cell phone from the maitre d’ . He then walked her back to her car. Art noticed that Jason was gone.

Not one word had passed between them from the time he offered to walk her back to the restaurant until now. Then, just before she got into her car, Lisa stopped and looked up at him. The pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips were slightly parted, and there was a strange, almost desperate expression on her face. Art had seen it before, so he wasn’t surprised when she put her arms around him, pulled him to her, and put her lips against his. She opened her mouth for a tongue-tangling kiss.

Art went with the. . .