Sword of Jihad: A John Pilgrim Thriller

happened.

Chapter 1

The wind was blowing eastward out to sea at 12 to 15 knots with occasional gusts up to 20. It had been a perfect day for sailing along the Georgia coastline, and the classic Pearson 365 sloop was slicing through the light chop at a top speed of seven nautical miles per hour. John Pilgrim checked his instruments at the helm and began to come about to port at the mouth of the Wilmington River. He was windward now with a steady breeze thrusting directly at the sails.

There simply was not enough room to tack back and forth across the river, so it was time to crank up the 30 horsepower diesel engine for the remaining 12 miles of his voyage. He used the mechanical furler to roll up the forward sail, known to sailors as the jib. Then, he slowly dropped the mainsail, allowing the abundant Dacron cloth to fold onto itself into the lazy jacks holder.

There were several commercial boats on the Wilmington this afternoon, and John gave them a wide margin to minimize the uncomfortable rock and roll caused by the wake of the larger vessels. About an hour later, he called the dock master at Seaview Marina on marine channel 11 to report his arrival.

"Hello, this is the sailboat Progress, and I am about 30 minutes on approach on the Wilmington River, John said. Where do you have me parked, and can I have one of your people meet me at the slip? Over."

Welcome back, Mr. Pilgrim, a female voice crackled. We have you on dock six in slip ten. I will have Billy Midson keep an eye out to give you assistance. Are you going to need transportation or other services this evening? Over.

No, thanks. I have someone picking me up, but I will be living aboard for the next few days. Over.

That’s fine. Let us know if we can be helpful. Over and out.

John replaced the radio in its holder and concentrated on the helm. A commercial shrimper was coming up fast behind his sloop, and he gave way to the boat. The skipper tossed him a perfunctory wave as he passed by. In the wake of the fishing vessel, several dozen screeching, flapping gulls trailed as a rapacious entourage.

Just past mile marker 35, he could see the entrance to the marina, so he throttled back the engine to a crawl. He negotiated the no wake zone of the marina channel and began to slide by the various megayachts sitting like floating castles at the docks. Seaview Marina can accommodate yachts up to 200 feet in length, and on any given day, an easy half-billion dollars in boat value is berthed there. These were the tools and toys of giant corporations, billionaire heiresses, and oil sheiks.

John figured his sturdy 1980 vintage sailboat might fetch $75,000 on the open market, but he was certain he treasured his floating home far more than did the owners of the luxury boats. He moved easily into the passageway for dock six, which was dedicated to the smaller, transient slips for visiting vessels. He rotated the sailboat and backed her into the slip at the stern. A young man in his early twenties was watching him from the dock. John killed the motor and tossed him a line. The helper tied it off quickly, then went forward on the finger dock that lay parallel to the boat to pull the bow toward him. He grasped the line coiled on the deck and secured it to a cleat with the same efficiency.

You must be Billy, John said. I appreciate you being here to meet me.

Yes, sir, I’m Bill Midson, and it is no problem. She’s a beauty, your boat. May I come aboard?

John had caught the emphasis on Bill, rather than Billy. His dock helper was clean cut with the lean athletic look of a runner, and he obviously knew his way around boats.

Sure, Bill, welcome aboard, John said.

The dock man stepped over the safety cable that encircled the sloop. He retrieved two of the four white inflated fenders from their holders near the bow and positioned one forward and one aft. Hanging over the side, the fenders would act as bumpers to protect the sailboat from scrapping against the concrete floating dock. While this activity was taking place, John moved to the rear and pulled a royal-blue sail cover from the stern seat.  He handed it to Bill, who had just joined him in the limited space of the cockpit.

Nice to meet you, John said as they shook hands. Tell me, has anyone asked for me at the marina office?

Yes, sir, Mr. Pilgrim. There is a Mr. Griffith who said he will be waiting for you in the restaurant. And if you don’t mind a suggestion, we are expecting some weather tonight. I can tie off a spring line for extra security.

That will be great, and call me John, please. How about you give the boat a fresh water spray down, cover the mainsail, and hook her up to power and water for me. If it is okay, I will settle up with you before I leave in a couple of days.

No problem, sir…John. Bill grinned. "Just leave everything to me. Uh, can I ask you something? The name on the hull is Progress. Did you name her that as a reference to John Bunyan’s Christian allegory, Pilgrim’s Progress?"

Actually, the sloop already had the name when I purchased her, but I must admit that the correlation to Bunyan’s literary work was a happy coincidence.

John stepped off the boat and strolled down the dock to the main boardwalk and then headed for the restaurant. He felt sticky from his salty journey, and he was eager to exchange his ball cap, T-shirt, and jeans for a shower and fresh clothing. First things first, he thought. It was best to find out what his old friend and colleague, Adrian Griffith, believed was so important that he would drive all the way from Atlanta just to have dinner.

The sudden change to air conditioning inside the dining room was refreshing. John scanned the room and immediately noticed his friend waving to him from a table across the restaurant. He had been placed near the windows with a panoramic view of the marina. Griffith rose to meet John and shook his extended hand vigorously.

Damn, John, Griffith said. It is good to see you. It has been way too long.

Too long indeed! John agreed. He slid into the seat on the opposite side of the table.

It had only been two years since he had last seen Adrian Griffith, but he looked as though he had aged a decade. That’s what the job will do to you. He was glad he was out of it.

How are Marta and the kids? Have they settled into life in Atlanta? He hesitated for a heartbeat. And you, how are things going for you at the office?

Yeah, the office…where is that this month? Langley? Paris? Algiers? Some god forsaken hole in Afghanistan? What is it you need from me, Adrian, old buddy?

Oh, they are great! Griffith gushed. Marta is as beautiful as ever, and she is brokering real estate now. Can you believe that? She is selling houses like crazy in a down market. The kids love their school. Lisa is in honors English, and Alex has grown six inches since you saw him last. You would not recognize him. But he still talks about the day he caught that big grouper off the back of your boat.

That was a remarkably fine day, John said. One of the best. We need to do it again very soon.

We surely do. Let’s plan on it, Griffith agreed, but there was a tinge of sadness in his voice. So, how about you, John? Are you still content with the life of the vagabond sailor?

It did not go unnoticed that Griffith avoided speaking about work. This was not a good sign. It meant that he was reluctant to discuss the real reason for this meeting. It also meant that, friend or no friend, Griffith was under orders to drag his ex-partner back into the CIA’s secretive Counter-Terrorism Center.

Chapter 2

The small talk continued for a while. Over margaritas, they played catch up and talked about anything and everything except the one thing that had prompted this reunion. It was almost embarrassing, like trying to not mention that the other guy’s fly was open. Griffith offered to drive them into Savannah to sample one of the fine dining establishments along River Street. John begged off. He was tired and grimy, and so they settled on the chef’s daily special—fresh redfish from the gulf, grilled and served with a mango salsa.

Say, are you still teaching jujitsu at that dojo in Key West? Griffith asked between bites. You should be up around the eighth or ninth level of black belt by now.

In traditional jujitsu, the degrees are called ‘dans,’ Adrian, and I can’t advance above the sixth dan unless I permanently move to Japan to study under one of the old masters. I still show up on Thursday nights at the dojo to work with the advanced students.

So, tell me the truth, Griffith demanded. Haven’t you had your fill of island hopping and sleeping alone on a sailboat? I mean, for god’s sake, John, you are one of the most focused, target-oriented guys I have ever met. You were only forty-three when you left the Company at the top of your game. How do you stand it living day after day without a goal or a mission to accomplish?

I have a mission, John responded. It is to enjoy peace and tranquility for the rest of my life.

And how is that working for you? Griffith asked.

Better than you would think. But since we are on the subject of personal serenity, tell me what is really happening between you and Marta.

His old friend leaned back in his chair, withdrawing slightly to stare at his half-empty drink.

It is about the same. I am still crazy in love with her, but I lost my wife somewhere along the way. Lisa graduates from high school next year and Alex starts tenth grade. You know, that boy is already talking about going to the Naval Academy at Annapolis. He has the grades for it, too. Marta has agreed to stick it out until he finishes public school.

It is not too late to get her back, John said. Quit the lousy job, Adrian! Give her a chance to fall in love with you again.

Leave the Company? How? And do what? Griffith snorted. Maybe, if I could have done it five years ago, but we have moved past the point of no return.

Why? Is there someone else in the picture…for either of you? John asked quietly.

No, certainly not for me, and she is too honorable to let something happen right now. So, we remain polite and keep up appearances, but we are just going through the motions.

John folded his hands on the table. I’m sorry, Adrian, you deserve better. You both do. I will pray for the best. Now, isn’t it time you tell me the real reason why you have come to visit me?

Not here, Griffith said. "I have not seen your lady, Progress, since we were anchored off the Dry Tortugas. I would like to make certain you are still taking good care of her."

Griffith paid the bill, and John asked their server for a bucket of ice to take with them to the boat. Leaving the dining room, John sensed a perceptible change in the weather. The temperature had dropped ten degrees. The breeze had changed direction. Rain was coming.

At the boat, John slid open the companionway hatch and flipped on the lights. He cranked up the air conditioning. The air blew musty for a couple of minutes but directly began to cool down the cabin. He set the ice bucket on the table in the salon and retrieved a couple of glasses and a bottle of scotch from the galley. He motioned for Griffith to take a seat on the horseshoe shaped couch and poured them both a drink. The sloop rocked slowly from side to side in the freshening wind.

How can you sleep with the boat moving like this? Griffith asked.

What movement? John quipped.

The two men chuckled, and it helped temporarily to ease the growing tension. They sat and sipped their drinks without further small talk. Unfortunately, it did not take long before that pesky question was back in the room. John restrained himself from speaking about the CIA and its murky intentions. In the end, Griffith blinked first.

Look, John, here it is—Kinsdale needs you back in the agency. We have some serious problems in Alliance Base, and you are the only man who can handle them. You can come in at full rank and pay, and the past three years will be treated as a leave of absence. You won’t even lose a single day of seniority.

What the devil are you talking about, Adrian! John exclaimed. I left the CIA because of what happened to me in Alliance Base, or have you forgotten that? I had to pull in every favor owed to me to withdraw from the agency with my hide intact. I am out of it, and Mike Kinsdale can go whistle up a rope!

Whoa, take it easy there, big fellow, Griffith said. Obviously, I stepped in it with both feet. I guess I started this conversation from my point of view, not yours. I apologize, but give me a chance to brief you on what’s going on. Okay?

What makes you think I care? John asked.

Because despite what happened three years ago, you still love this country. I would bet my life that you still want to protect her from homicidal fanatics.

You would do well to hedge that bet, buddy. Waving the flag won’t work on me. The agency has gotten along very well without me, and I am doing just great without it.

Things have changed, John. The net is alive with chatter about a coming holocaust that will bring the United States to its knees. We have intercepted jihadist traffic from all over the globe. They are so excited they can barely contain themselves. We have decoded messages claiming that Allah’s divine wrath will soon cut off the head of the Great Satan.

What has that to do with me? John asked. We have heard this kind of jihad-speak for years. It is the job of the CIA and the FBI to use their collective assets to nullify those threats. Fortunately, I am no longer one of those assets. Hell, I have been out of the game so long I don’t even have any contacts. I have no value to the agency.

You have at least one contact, Griffith said. We have found Mohammad Ali bin Omar al-Ahmad.

John stared at him in shocked disbelief. He twisted his glass in a circle before slugging down the last of the scotch.

No, you didn’t. Ali is dead. I saw him blown to pieces in front of the Danish embassy in Islamabad.

You are wrong. He survived the blast, and he is still in Pakistan working inside the same terrorist group. I have watched a video clip of him. It appears that he doesn’t have full use of his left arm, but otherwise, he seems to be okay.

A sudden rattling noise on the topside of the boat announced that the rain had started. Griffith looked at his watch—it would take four hours to drive back to Atlanta. John poured them both another splash of amber liquid.

I am glad that he is alive. But, I still don’t see what this has to do with me.

It has everything to do with you, Griffith said. We believe Ali has crucial information about what the salafi jihadists are planning. The problem is he will not reveal what he knows to anyone but you. You, John—he says you are the only person he will deal with.

He most likely wants to put about six tight shots in the middle of my chest!

Maybe, but I suspect you are still the only infidel on the planet that he trusts, Griffith mused.

Both men jerked when Griffith’s cell phone suddenly began to play the first bars of Paint Your Wagon. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket.

It’s Marta. She probably wants to know if I am on my way home, Griffith apologized. He pressed the receiver button. Hi, I am still with John on his boat. There was a pause as he listened. No, we don’t have a television on right now. Why? Another pause. My god, we will turn one on right now! I will call your later.

What’s going on? John asked.

Something’s happened! Do you have TV reception yet?

I do if the dock man hooked me up to cable. I have satellite, but it won’t pick up a signal in this cloud cover.

John moved quickly across the salon to grab the remote for the television. He clicked on the set, and it flickered into life. The cable was obviously attached. A reporter was speaking with a galaxy of lights from police and emergency vehicles flashing in the background.

We are bringing this broadcast to you live from outside the Pentagon. At 9:00 p.m. eastern time, a commercial cab apparently exploded near the security gate here. Two marine guards on duty are confirmed dead, along with one or more unknown persons in the vehicle.

The video expanded to capture the chaotic scene behind the reporter, then contracted back to a head shot. At virtually the same moment, car bombs also detonated in front of our embassy offices in Paris and Mexico City. Although we have not received an official statement from the White House, it seems clear that these were coordinated terrorist attacks. No organization has taken responsibility for these atrocities so far.

A talking head at the network broke in to report that an estimated seven persons were dead in Paris with a dozen more injured. In Mexico City, at least 15 persons were confirmed dead with 30 wounded. Videos of the carnage were streaming in.

This is unbelievable! John exclaimed. It does not make any sense. It was three a.m. in Paris—night time in all three places. Why wouldn’t the bombers wait until daylight when each place was fully staffed? This is horrific, but the death count would have increased tenfold in the middle of the day.

I don’t know. Maybe, they figured security would be more relaxed after dark, Griffith said, rising to pull on his suit jacket. I have to go, John. I need to get to a hard line and call in. Lord, what a mess! It’s raining buckets out there—do you have an umbrella I can use.

Of course, just be careful driving in this weather.

John retrieved a battered golf umbrella from the hanging locker near the forward V-berth and handed it to Griffith. His friend took it and then clasped his hand.

Surely, you can see how vital it is that you talk with Kinsdale. He will be in Atlanta tomorrow. He’s coming primarily to meet with you, John. So, call the office and tell me what time to expect you. You can make a decision about your level of involvement after you are briefed.

I will let you know in the morning, John said. Have a safe trip home.

Griffith stepped up to the sliding door at the top of the companionway; then he turned back with his hand on the handle.

You watch your back, John, He said grimly. We are all targets now, and I may have painted a bull’s eye on you just by coming here. I’m sorry, but it could not be helped.

He shoved open the hatch. Water and wind rushed in. Griffith popped the umbrella and scurried out, jamming the door shut behind him. Just like that, John was alone. Despite the rattle of the rain and the urgent news chatter on the television, John realized a kind of hollow silence on his boat.

He also felt a sense of nagging dread that old demons he had struggled to exorcise were about to be resurrected.

Chapter 3

John woke with a start and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Good grief, I must have nodded off! Even with the air conditioning going, it was stuffy inside the parked car. He had not slept more than two hours in the last couple of days, but he needed to stay alert. It was crucial that he remain vigilant!

He was positioned under a tree on Street 21 in the diplomatic enclave with a clear view of the tall metal gate of the embassy compound. Looking up the hill, he could see that there was nothing more than ordinary foot traffic taking place around the two-story office building. John started to stretch, but his muscles froze at a faint, almost indistinguishable sound. Did someone call my name? He rolled down the window to listen. There it is again…someone calling my name! Who is it? She sounds so familiar.

He opened the door and got out quickly. Now, he recognized the voice. It was the love of his life, Melina, calling for him with that adorable French accent. And, there she was just outside the embassy gate. She was in the street, her arms outstretched and running toward him. He laughed and began to trot toward her, but as he drew closer he could see the look of absolute terror in her eyes. At that moment, he realized that a faded orange Toyota Corolla was pulling up behind her.

His heart seized with fear and suddenly his legs and feet refused to work. He could not move forward. He screamed, Melina! Melina, get down on the ground! Her perfect lips formed his name and then the world exploded. In that white-hot light, Melina disintegrated like a moth in the flame of a blowtorch.

John sat up in bed and gasped for breath. Sweat was pouring off of him and a sobbing moan escaped from deep within his chest. He buried his face in his hands. It was the old nightmare visiting again. He had not had this dream for six months, but now it was back. He could thank Adrian Griffith and cable news for this.

He flipped on an overhead light in the v-berth and stumbled to the head. He splashed some water in his face and toweled off. Outside the wind was making a racket, and the rain was coming down harder than ever. The weather was contributing greatly to the aching loneliness he was feeling. In his bare feet and pajama bottoms, John drifted into the salon.

He eyed the half-empty bottle of scotch but opted for a glass of water instead. The boat lurched, and he steadied himself with one hand on the galley counter. The sloop was rolling from side to side in the choppy water. Strangely, he felt something different. A liveaboard sailor knows his vessel—someone had just stepped onto the deck!

Directly across from the galley was the navigation center. John lifted the chart table and reached into the storage area beneath it. He withdrew his hand gun and a flashlight and then moved quickly to the hanging locker. He pulled the top half of his rain suit out of the closet and tugged it on. Again, he felt the shifting weight of someone moving topside. An uninvited person was stepping from the bow toward the cockpit on the port side of the boat.

He hesitated at the companionway feeling a rush of adrenalin. Sliding open the hatch, John leaped into the cockpit and crouched in the partial cover of the helm beyond the backlighting of the cabin. The driving rain splashed over him, stinging his face and eyes with icy pellets, but he maintained his perspective of where the intruder was standing. He clicked on the flashlight and used it as a guide for his gun, pointing them both toward the middle of the sailboat. The beam illuminated a figure in hooded rain gear.

Stand where you are! John commanded. I have a gun pointed at your chest. Who are you and what are you doing on my boat?

It’s me, Mr. Pilgrim! a voice yelled above the wind. It is Bill Midson. I was just tying another spring line to reduce the pitch!

Bill? Come back here to the cockpit so I can see you!

The figure scuttled along the narrow walkway and stepped down into the cockpit. Bill Midson pulled his rain hood away from his face and said, Gosh, I’m sorry I disturbed you, sir. I was just checking the slips, and it looked like your lines needed adjustment.

Blast it, Bill, I could have shot you, John barked. He turned off the torch and lowered his weapon. Come inside. My salon is getting flooded.

He motioned for Bill to precede him into the cabin. He closed the hatch and shoved the pistol and flashlight into the side pockets of his jacket. His upper body was mostly dry except for his dripping head, but his thin pajamas bottoms were soaked through and his bare feet were freezing.

Stay here for a moment while I change clothes, he said.

John sloshed to the head, stripped off his wet things and dropped them in the shower stall.  He pulled on the jeans and T-shirt he had worn earlier and covered his feet with thick crew socks. He left his hand gun and flashlight to drip dry in the wash basin.

So what the blazes are you doing out here in the middle of the night? he asked as he rejoined his drenched visitor. Surely, the management does not have you on 24-hour duty.

In a way, they do, Bill said. I live here full time.  My boat is just six slips away from yours. The marina waives my slip fees, and in exchange, I provide night time security and on call maintenance. Since this storm was worse than we expected, I just figured I would check the lines on all the smaller boats. The big ones have their own people to do that.

I appreciate the thought, but you should have called me first, John said. I don’t react well to folks getting on my boat unexpectedly.

I’m sure sorry. The office does not have your cell phone on file, Bill explained. It will not happen again.

John found pen and paper and scribbled his phone number. He handed the sheet to Bill.

If you need me, use it, he said. I hope I did not shake you up too badly.

It was the first time anyone has pulled a gun on me, Bill said. I don’t think I want to repeat the experience. Well, Mr. Pilgrim, if it is all right, I still have a dozen slips to check and an early start in the morning.

You better get going then, John said. I will talk with you later, and it is John, remember?

The younger man hesitated and then asked sheepishly, Are you going to need to report this incident to the harbor master? If management gets the idea that I am causing problems with the guests…

Don’t worry about it, John assured him. After all, I’m the one who overreacted. We will just keep this between us.

Thank you, John. Bill said gratefully. He slid open the door and disappeared into the rainy night.

Alone again, John knew there was little chance that he could fall back to sleep. The clock on the galley bulkhead showed 4:15 a.m. He made himself a pot