Notice:  Includes adult themes and violence not suitable for young readers.

Chapter 4 (Excerpt)

January 14, 2001 -- Mindanao, Philippines

Sitting in the battered Jeep Cherokee, Mustafa took a long, deep drag on his cigarette.  It would be two hours before his next break.  By Islamic law, smoking was al Khabaa’ith, evil and unlawful, but since he had to adopt many ways of the infidels, why not smoke?  It was very satisfying, although he didn’t care much for the menthol brand that he’d purchased by mistake.  The cool aftertaste was displeasing.  He preferred English Ovals or a Turkish Fatima.  He hadn’t smoked during his travel to America four years earlier.

Through the Jeep’s mud-streaked window he watched the rain as it drummed over the enormous, rubbery fronds of the surrounding foliage and plopped to the jungle floor.  He stepped from the vehicle and threw the butt in a puddle.  Then, hunched over trying to stay dry, he dashed into the nearby building.

            The dirt road that led up to the building and dead-ended there morphed into a muddy trail. No one dared walk or drive along the lonely stretch from the nearest village five miles away without explicit permission.  This area of the Philippines was controlled by Abu Sayyaf, the “Bearer of the Sword,” a group of Islamic fundamentalists who wanted to create a separate, independent Philippine State.  They had ties and received money from al-Qaida for their struggle.

Two Abu Sayyaf men guarded the building.  Each had a World War II-era U.S. Army-issue carbine slung over the shoulder of their short-sleeved jungle camouflage fatigues.  Colt-Browning .45’s rested on their hips. They stood off to the side under the shelter of the roof smoking and talking.  Their occasional glances toward the door suggested that they were discussing the foreigners in their midst.  They spoke in Chabaca  -- a mixture of Spanish and a native dialect common in Mindanao.

From the entrance it looked like any small town industrial building, but very much out of place here, about seventy-five miles north of Zamboanga City.  Its construction was of bare cinderblock but care had been taken to ensure that it could not be seen from the air.  The corrugated tin roof was painted in blended shades of green and the windows were spray-painted black from the inside.  A sign over the door explained its function:  Esquala de Kabasalan -- A school.

The interior contained only one large room.  A portable blackboard with letters of the Spanish alphabet printed neatly across the top stood near the front beside a small table and folding chair.  This morning, nine eager students were seated at standard classroom desks found in most high schools.  They listened carefully as the middle-aged, stocky instructor spoke each word clearly, as he wrote across the board:

            "Este … una … mapa … de … Mexico.   Repeat, please."

The nine English speaking, combat-trained, Saudi al-Qaida fighters repeated his words in unison.

"Very good.” He turned toward the students and looked at those in the first row.  “Translation anyone?"

Mustafa was the first to raise his hand. He was muscular and trim; his light-gray eyes set off his olive skin and dark brown, wavy hair.  But for his mustache he could have passed for a teenager.  At twenty-four, he wasn’t the oldest, but was most assuredly the leader of the group.

“Put your hand down Mustafa, that’s too easy for you,” said the instructor.

Before Mustafa got his hand down, the satellite phone in his pocket vibrated.  He excused himself and walked outside to take the call.  If the other students were watching they might have noticed the instructor's eyes widen ever so slightly.

A moment later Mustafa returned to the classroom.  He held an Army .45 in his right hand.  All eyes in the room were riveted on the weapon as he walked to within an arm’s length of the teacher, who backed away, toppling the blackboard with a thunderous crash. 

The teacher tripped, stumbled across the room and slammed against the far wall.  He tried to speak, but couldn’t catch his breath, let alone make a sound.  His back to the wall, he slid down until his ass hit the floor.  He flung both hands over his face. 

Mustafa paused just long enough for the instructor to fully grasp his pending death.  He fired the first round into the heaving chest.  After a beat, three unnecessary, but extremely satisfying shots followed.

The blasts reverberated painfully around the room. The odor of gunpowder filled the nostrils of the paralyzed onlookers.  Then it mixed with the stink of defecation as the instructor’s bowels emptied.  Bewildered students jumped up, some holding their hands over their ears, others their noses. 

Some were seeing death for the first time.  Desks flew over.  Zubayr and Karim ran to the rear of the room and stumbled outside.

The rest looked on in horror at the huge holes in the instructor’s chest that oozed blood across his slumped body.  Blood and body fluids formed a crimson pool that spread in a widening arc across the wooden floor. 

Questions and profanities bombarded Mustafa in Arabic as the room erupted in unintelligible racket.

Abdul screamed above the din.  “Mustafa, have you gone mad?”

            Mustafa raised his left hand.  The clamor stopped.  "Clean up this mess,” he ordered softly.  “I’ll explain later." 

(Paragraphs omitted)

"Amaryllis"   16" x 30" oil on canvas

Note:  All art in this website by my wife Judith Redner,
please visit www.jdiart.com for more of her work.

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Copyright ©2009 Charles J. Redner
Manuscript excerpts provided for review purposes only and may not be reproduced without  written permission from the author.