Free Shepherd One by Rick Jones Page A

findings. Through the porthole
window over his left shoulder Washington faded in the distance, the needle of
the Washington Monument contracting to the size of a pin before disappearing
all together.
    Since the inception of the incident along the Arizona-Mexico
border, information had come in at a breakneck pace, especially from Homeland
Security who proffered dossiers on the cell group, and its extended members
attained from the FBI Watch List and their own significant data base. The Arizona group was simply a small attachment of a much larger brigade.
    CIA Analyst Doug Craner lifted the flap of a manila folder
and rummaged through it, looking for the glossy photos of those killed at the
site. “As you already know, Mr. President, al-Khalid Hassan was a leading
member of that Arizona group before being killed by the Border Patrol. The
other two, however,” Craner forwarded two black-and-white photos of the
terrorists killed at the site to the president, “possess very little
background. All we know about them at this time is that they were recently
trained in al-Qaeda camps along the Afghan-Pakistani border. As far as we know,
this was their first jihad mission.”
    “They look like kids,” he commented.
    “They pretty much are.” Craner opened the folder again and
grabbed another photo of a young man whose face was grizzled with the minute
curls of a beard and eyes that were dark and cold, which offset the gentle and
angelic repose of his face, hinting that there was a subterfuge of something
very dangerous hidden underneath.
    “This is al-Khatib Hakam,” he added, “twenty-eight years of
age, extremely learned and intelligent with an IQ touching the stratosphere.” 
    “Am I to assume he’s the team lead?”
    “Yes, sir. And get a load of this. He was born in Dearborn, Michigan; an American who found his god while attending Columbia University in New York, at the age of seventeen.”
    The president examined the photo and simply thought, An
American?
    “The man is a prodigy who graduated with Honors at nineteen,
and then disappeared, only to show up on the FBI’s Watch List because of his
known ties with insurgent groups and organizations.” 
    “Do we know where he is now?”
    “No, sir. It’s said that Hakam reveals himself only if it
serves a purpose. But we have received unconfirmed reports that Hakam was in Russia not too long ago. Six months ago, to be exact.”
    “To purchase the bombs,” he whispered.
    Craner did not comment.
    Hakam obviously had the world in one hand and a Columbia scroll of graduation in the other, but decided to give it away for twisted
idealism. It was truly sad for the president to see someone so naturally gifted
to simply throw it all away. “So, what you’re telling me is that Al-Khatib
Hakam is spearheading this crusade?”
    “Al-Khatib Hakam is the alleged leader of the Muslim
Revolutionary Front, which is not only a group of terrorists, but also a ring
of highly trained assassins which is a cut above the normal radical who does not obligate themselves to surrender their life by committing suicide in the name
of Allah. This group actually engages in combat techniques akin to our own
Special Forces units, and lives on to battle another day if they survive the
initial skirmish.”
    Craner proffered several more photos of the known members of
the Muslim Revolutionary Front. At first glance the president considered them
hardened men who carried the same stoic toughness as the men from American
Special Forces. But there was something different, something missing. Or
perhaps they possessed too much, he considered. Perhaps their faith had
corrupted them with such zealous grandeur that they held nothing more than
thoughtless determination.
    As Burroughs picked up the last photo Marine One dipped a
little in open space, the helicopter soon recapturing its even course as the
president took careful study of Hakam. “How many men are left in this cell?” he
asked.
    “We