This chapter is about The Persian Gulf War.
1990
E PLURIB BUS UNUM
"This Is To Be The Conflict That Ushers In The New World Order. "
(George H. W. Bush)
Imagine this. Not twenty years since the last conflict, Americans found themselves confronting yet another enemy, and by chance many of the players from that drug war had repeat performances in this oil war. King George sent the usual suspects from The Pentagon, and from the heartland patriotic parents sent a ripened harvest of expendable nieces and nephews to join the madness in the Middle East. If they survived the tour their rich Uncle Sam had promised to pay their way through college. In the streets, that and the prospect of training with the worlds most advanced killers had changed the minds of OG's by now they had files on us anyway and for some time oracular Generals had been sending their best and brightest to learn the art of war directly from the enemy.
SAUDI ARABIA
Near Dhahran
Thanksgiving Day
It had been four years since Staff Sergeant Laurence made the switch from Compton knucklehead to Camp Pendleton jarhead and since day one he knew he was a lifer. He slowed the humvee and allowed the M2 Bradley to catch up with him as he led the vehicle along an enormous line that had been drawn in the sand to a newly constructed and extra sterile area where the Marines of 1st Regiment Kilo Company were locked, loaded and waiting in a heightened state of readiness.
Sargent Laurence loved his job, even missions like this one. Escorting a British television net work camera crew to the front for a public relations piece.
Was just another chance to lead by example, and prove to the brass of men under his command already knew,he was deserving of the title, youngest in charge
Not a day went by by that Laurence didn’t pledge allegiance to the five and his family; and thank the God for the gift of the Corps.
The BTN crew wasted no time getting set up. After a few minutes the cameraman signaled for the condescending young female reporter to go to work in,
"Three, two, one, rolling.
"Hello. To the North of us is the Saudi Arabian border. On the other side of the berm Les kinait, a barren parel of land roughly the size of Hawaii. Is a place mos Westerners may have gone their entire lives unaware of yet for the past 1 10 days nearly 200,000 NATO coalition troops have been busy battling flies, boredom and triple digit beat, but none have yet to face an enemy. In America, frugal taxpayers have begun to question the true nature of this mission and its motives. Were here on this American holiday to boost the morale of this elite US Marine Corps division and perhaps see if they have the answer to what it is exactly they're risking their lives for.
Even though all his Marines had been briefed on what they could and could not say. The reporter's questions worried Set. Laurence a little bit. Through his loes he assessed each member of the unit standing tall, looking good and sticking to the script; all but the last five. Recently an incident in the desert had the Sgt. watching them very carefully.
Private First Class Remus Mirra was bad-ass, a stick of dynamite ready to pop, afix footrone, 20 year old amped-up Anglophile from Yuma Arizona. He lord skate boarding to Metallica, busting guns and banging women, in that order.
"What made you join the Corps?"
that here,
*I wanted to be the leanest meanest fighting machine in the world. I can be and the uniforms are bitchin' "
"What do you hope this war will accomplish?"
"What I dont know what war accomplishes but every generation has 'em my father served in Nam, his father in W.W.I and his in .
What cent stand lad when I get co fre my weapon. Is ail What wading around
that I can't stand. I want to get some, Ooh-rahh"
"What was that war?"
Whatever. I'll be glad when I get to fire my weapon. It’s all this waiting around that I can’t stand. I want to get some, Ooh-rahh!
That reminds me. Would you like to say hello to someone back home?" Yeah, my brother and my girlfriend. I love you babe. Keep my oyster tight, alright?
She knows what I mean.
Six foot three; Lance Corporal Mario Santana was a twenty-four year old Poninican Refugee from Gainesville Florida, a strong, tough, family man and rad team player whod taken it upon himself to learn some Arabic since hed rived. He was exactly what the military was looking for.
"How do you feel being a foreign born Marine?"
Jam a Marine first, an American second and a Dominican third.
'Coming from a third world country do you feel connected to the plight of the Ravaiti people?"
The spoken with some Iraqis," he said with an accent. "I respect them but they have to realize they have been lied to. I know what it is like to live under the rule of a corrupt government. America is the country that gave me and my family the opportunity to make something of ourselves. In a democracy like America there is no censorship, you are free to choose your leaders. Only by forcing these rouge states around the world understand that, can we have peace on earth. Until then it is our job to impose Gods will. Democracy.
For each of his eighteen years Private Bobby Davenport had lived in a double-wide trailer in Odessa Texas. He was a slender, joke cracking white-boy of five-ten but he didn't know it. Every since he could remember all he ever wanted to be was agangsta'.
"How does it feel to be a Marine?"
He answered with a vapid, "Oo-rah."
"Why did you join the Corps?"
"Sports was the only thing keeping me out of jail, and that life ended the light I broke my leg. Friday October 13, 1989, I was lying on the 50 yard line boking up at the lights and I remembered them hoes at juve' hall saying it was this or jail. I'd already been to jail so I signed up for the Delayed Entry Program On November Sth. The recruiter kept yappin' about Gl bills, signing bonuses and how Id be getting pussy all over the world. I wasn't thinking about no college but I figured that signing bonus could pay for a whole lot of pussy. The recruiter said,
'Tor the next three years the government is going to pay for everything you need and they're going to show you how to put your foot in a motherfucker's ass. I said
Whar the fuck' I had to get outta Odesa, dont nothing live with my mama but a bunch of methheads and that trailer was gettin' hella small."
"What do you hope to accomplish here?"
"I'm here to get my weight up."
What are you going to do when you get back home?"
When I get that D-D-two fourteen and my freedom, I'ma shoot through Houston and put some green in the air with my niggas in the Sth Ward. I'm gon' get draped up and dripped out, sip on some syurp and just trip out.
"I’ve been to Houston and Odessa, there's not much difference."
Davenport laughed.
"See there, us Southern boys can make ya mind play tricks.
My guys is real gangsta ass niggas like the Pres. They make six-hundred bucks a fuckin' hour, and they 'ont care 'bout nothin' but the money and the power."
Private Malcolm Cottle was a spoiled stout, husky nineteen year old narcissist from New Jersey. He considered himself a buppie until four years ago when he and his mother moved to the South side of Chicago.
"Why did you join the Corps?"
"I aint even supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be in College but my punk-ass parents got a divorce and blew all the money. Now I gotta do this shit. This aint me. Aint no justice, man, life aint fair."
"What do you think is America's reason for being here?"
"I don't know and I don't care. I'm just worried about getting outta here. Ive got a life to live." Suddenly Cottle's face lit up and he began wiping away sweat.
"Who all is going to see this? Maybe this can help get me out of here."
"No sir, I don't think that it can."
Cottle screamed at the camera. "Why the fuck am I talking to you then? Fuck this!" Then he broke down and water came streaming from his eyes. Somebody get me out of here. I want to go home.'
Average. That was Corporal Jahn Dough's description. A bi-racial kid from one of the flyover states, he'd never been anywhere nor done anything and the odds of anyone ever knowing his name or face were slim. All his life it seemed that a stint in the Corps would be his ticket to a world he could only dream about. He knew now that too had been conspired.
"Well. That was quite bonkers wasn't it?
"Yes ma'am."
"But weve been watching you Corporal. You seem to be coping quite well. How?"
"By watching you. And you and you and you." He pointed to the other members of the crew. "I want to thank you all for being so fucking funny.
"I'm pleased we could entertain you, " she said laughing,
"but can you tell me what
makes us so funny?"
"Sure, but first you tell me why you're putting on this production, asking ques-tons that you already know the answers to.
"Like what?"
"The most important one for starters, why are we here?"»
"Please, enlighten us Corporal? Tell us what you think is Americas reason for being here?"
"Alright. For the longest I thought it was just about the Kings, you know, George and Abdullah, protecting their interests in oil, but something happened to me in the desert and now I see the real picture.
LIBERTY CITY.
Just South of Kuwait City.
7 Days Earlier.
He remembered being on patrol. Mirra, Santana, Davenport, Cottle, and him.
Routine patrol in grid 4-8-6-7-5-5. The same grid they'd patrolled at least 150 times in the last month. He remembered there was an explosion. A big one, that blew them out of the Humvee they were in.
They never saw it coming. It must have been an I-E-D.
But the worst part was that they weren't dead yet.
He remembered waking up in the sand and being blinded by the sun. His hearing was coming back and it brought with it voices. Angry Arab voices. Then his head was covered with a burlap. Everything went black. And he didnit remember much after that.
ah ... ough... pral... ough. Corporal Dough. Wake Up!
His body ached, and his mind was misty. But this time, the voices he heard were friendly. The Corporai opened his eyes and found himself in a small round windowless room, like the inside of a well. Other than one heavy door secured by bars, the only other opening had to be twenty five feet above his head. And it too was covered by bars.
Mirra gave him a canteen.
Drink something bro, you've gotta be dehydrated.
He gulped almost all of it before asking
How long have I been our?
You've got traumatic brain injury
Answered Mirra
You've been drifting in and out for almost three days.
For him it felt more like forty. He noticed Davenport on the ground with be ear to a pipe coming from the wall.
Where are we?
Asked Dough?
Where's Santana and Cottle?
Davenport motioned to him.
Hold that down. Were in some sort of training camp. They've got Santana and Cottle in another room. We've been talking to them through this pipe, bus their in prayer now.
Dough whispered.
Prayer?
Yeah
said Mirra
The fucking ragheads aint gonna do shit to them. Theyie got them going to madrassass. They said they were talib, or brothers who had yet to learn the truth, but you, me and Davy were Knights on a modern day Crusade. They said our fate was in Allah's hands.
us?
Fuck
Dough sighed
Who are they? Republican Guard? How did they get us?
Negative
Mirra replied
They aint down with Saddam. They offered to help the Saudis get him out of Kuwait. But the Saudis went with the U.S. instead. These dudes are Al-Qaeda.
Al-Qaeda?
Yeah
Whispered Davenport
They're part of a Jihadist network called, Holy War Ink. Nizari Ishmai ls from North Africa. Hamas and the PLO from Palestine.
The Taliban from Afghanistan. Hezbollah from Lebanon. H-U-M from Pakistan. These motherfuckers got cells all over. They told Santana they’d been planning this for weeks. We're being held for ransom.
A thought crossed Dough's mind that the others had already come to grips with.
The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.
His hope was fading as he managed another question.
What do they want?
Mirra shrugged and whispered.
All we know is some rich raghead named Osama bin Laden has declared war on America. Tell him what he said Davy.
Private Davenport began repeating parts of the Fahtwa that Santana had been reciting to him over the past few days.
--------------------------------------------------
Bin Laden said that, for years, American bankers, and oil barons, with the aide of their secret police and the World Trade Association, have moved in the shadows, destabilizing Islamic nations, robbing their people of food and work, stealing their resources, and placing sanctions on their economy.
He says, like a virus, we poison their lands, murder innocent men, infect their women, and besmirch the minds of their children with our filthy American values, all while we plunder oil from The Persian Gulf, and conflict diamonds from Africa.
And according to him, one pebble of sand at a time, wicked Zionists in the pirate state of Israel, steal the Holy Land from under their feet. He's called upon all Muslims to restore Khalifa and launch a raid on the infidels.
In Bin Laden's words, according to the hadiths of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.
Jihad is not only the duty of all Arab people, but the way of brothers, from every race and religion worldwide, who wish to remain free from the mark of the beast, and away from the talons of his New World Order.
Bin Laden has sent shad-dahs around the globe to recruit members, and build training camps, like this one in every city, and he vows that one day soon they will rise up, and 'you will hear about them in the media. In shah Allah.
1990
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was hard for Dough to understand what he was hearing. But even harder to comprehend was the smile creeping across Davenports face.
"You know something I don't Private? What's to smile about?"
Mirra yelled, "This pricks got Stockholm syndrome, he likes the camel
jockeys."
"Fuck you Mirra. I said they remind me of the homies back in the hood.
Besides the praying, they don't do shit but train, listen to music and get high all day, but I never said I liked 'em."
"You fucking wigger."
"Fuck you skinhead."
They squared off.
"Break it up," said Dough. "That's an order."
He wondered how they'd survived this long. Then he tuned them out, stood up and tried to get his bearings. He paced the room looking for a way to escape, trying to piece together a plan, patting himself down, looking for anything he could use as a weapon; anything his captors may have missed. There was nothing left except a tape in his inside pocket. He took it out and studied it, that's when he remembered what Sgt. Laurence said when he'd given it to him.
It’s only music but music can bring hope when all other hope has failed."
Dough figured that time was now. He imagined he wassit there; he imselthe Do back in the rear istening to the tape while he ran laps In his daze he pouche cassette to his ear. Mirra nudged Davenport and whispered;
"Dudes lost it."
"Bro you look crazy," said Davenport,
«like that skinny motherfucker in
Escape from New York." You remember that shit?" He did his imitation. You touch me, you die."
Then Mirra did his.
"You're the Duke, you're A number 1. Arhhhh!"
They all started laughing. It felt good to laugh, but the feeling went out the door when it burst open and six masked and heavily armed mujahadeen ran into the room. Dressed in a white robe the leader was waving his jambiya. When he realized Corporal Dough was awake he rushed over, knocked him to the ground, put the dagger to his neck and yelled in Arabic:
"Your Government has abandoned you! They have refused our demands and now the hours of your life are numbered. The next sunrise will be the last one you see!"
The tape had flown out of his hand. One of the guards picked it up and put it in his pocket. All were yelling Allah Akbar as they left the room. When the coast was clear Davenport called to Santana.
"What's going on man?"
"Bad news; that was the leader of this operation, Abusab al Zarqawi, he
says
Santana stopped speaking. After a few minutes Mirra went to the pipe and asked him again. It was hard for Santana to say the words.
"He says they re going to behead you tomorrow."
The room went quiet. Hours passed in silence but no one slept. They figured they could do that tomorrow when they were dead.
Dough wished for a moment that he had never woken up. He believed for a while that he was still dreaming and none of it was real. I mean really, whos to say what's really real without something real to compare it to and reality as hèd known it had just been shattered.
He had an ineffable feeling that the rest of the world knew a secret that he and his fellow Americans didnt. The secret that the world was at war and it had been since time immemorial.
It was late the next day when the door burst open. Zargawi gave them the sacks again and led them above ground. The Marines heard babel while walking across the compound, banter all around them that they couldn't understand. Finally one of the guards said, "Kiff;" and there was a knock at a door. When it opened they were treated to a familiar sound, tracks from a demo tape that they all knew well Music from a then unknown artist introduced to them by Sergeant Laurence.
They got us out here listening to music from Apocalypse Now when we should be
listening to this, "he'd said!
Santana and Cottle rushed them and removed the sacks.
"You lucky fucks. You're not dying today."
Dough asked them why.
"It was the tape, , said Cottle. "They've been playing it all night. They love it They say that he is a poet, a prophet, a revolutionary and a warrior all in one.
Last night they asked us all these questions about it and asked why you had it. I told them it was our favorite; it was all we listened too. Then today they said that mavbe vou having this was a sign and that you'd be granted nanawati,
-asylum."
A man approached them and spoke, Santana translate.
"He said relax and eat, you're in Beit al-Salaam, soon we go to prayer and then to the mafri."
By now copies of the tape had been circulated around the compound and it was playing in the mafrij. Located on the second level, the mafrij was more airy and comfortable than the other rooms they'd been in, but besides that it looked like an ordinary room with baggies of moist reddish green leaves, ice cold bottles of water, and a worn Quran, but as they were to soon find out it was a magical place where minds were opened and jahiliyyah was broken.
The Marines entered and took their places in the room of shura, carefully observing men with complexions and beards of all sizes talking with large wads of leaves stuck in their jaws. Davenport was the first to ask, "Hey can we get some of that?"
A man they referred to only as "the tall one," answered in English.
"Yes you may."
He passed Davenport a bag and he immediately stuck a lump in his mouth.
"What is it," asked Mirra?
"Kaht," answered the man. The Marines looked at him. "It is like tobacco, but dare are dilesvered the man. ah produce a different effect. That one there gives You energy."
Mira snatched up a handful and the others followed. Soon everyone was talking, diferent dialects of Arabic, Farsi, Dari, Punjabi and English.
Corporal Dough couldn't tell if it was the kaht or the concussion, but after a while it scemed that they could all understand the discussion. He listened as camp splitual advisor and Emir, Taqi touched the flag on his uniform.
"Tell me how you can pledge allegiance to a flag that does not respect you? We see that in your country as it is in ours your rights as humans are being stripped away. in your cites people are being jailed without due process and murdered at alarming rates, but for some reason your people refuse to fight back against the Gestapo tactics. Tell me, are they frightened of their Government? If so they hare it backwards. They are only men with titles. Our people do not bow to men or their titles. You must realize that our war is not with Americans but with your leaders, murderers, warmongers, and members of a centuries old secret society called The Brotherhood of Death. Today they are known worldwide as Skulland Bones."
The symbol was well known where Santana was from.
"You mean like the skull and crossbones on a pirate flag?
he asked?
"Exactly," said Emir Taqi with an infinitesimal hint of a British accent, "but it represents much more. The symbol has been used by The Knights Templar as well as well as the Roman Legions, in fact, the area where Jesus was crucified was called "he place of the sculls, and to the Master Mason the skull and crossbones are symbolic of mortality, teaching them that death in this realm means the end of his afflictions and the entrance to a new and better life. In private, members of The Craft are often seen going about their business with one trouser leg raised, signaling that they possess a "leg up" on non-members, and a tradition of Bonesmen is to set their timepieces five minutes ahead to demonstrate their superiority in society."
"Big deal, snapped Mirra, "how are our leaders involved?"
History proves that the Ivy League and Yale in particular, are production faci-ities for the CIA and The Establishment. Alfphonso Taft, The father of William Howard Taft, your 27th President and the creator of what eventually became The United Nations was one of the founding members of The Order. After spending the summer of 1832 in Germany, the other member, General William Huntington Russell returned to Yale University with the authority to form Chapter 322. In
1856 Skull and Bones was incorporated as Russell Trust and since then has been the premiere secret society of all the Ivy League schools. Each year only fifteen juniors are "tapped" to "accept or reject" the group. Usually none reject and as any time there are between five and six hundred active members. Under rendition the walls of the structure called, "the tomb."
we've learned from some of them that a number of disturbing rituals go on inside
"Like what," Cottle asked bugeyed and chewing slowly?
'Part of the initiation process," explained the Emis, "a ceremony called
"Connubial Bliss" takes place inside a coffin where the celebrant lies naked reciting
his past sexual encounters.
There's another part that involves occultist chants and bloodletting, there's also the consumption of blood from a scull shaped 'Yorick, and there are believed to be at least three sets of skulls and bones on display inside its walls. One set belonging to Indian leader Geronimo no less. Students on the campus often report hearing sounds of agony coming from the tomb."
Cottle stopped him.
"That sounds like some devil-worshipping shit."
"Absolutely. Part of their oath says; 'The Hangman equals death, The Devil equals death, Death equals death.'
"Speaking of death," said Mirra sarcastically, "is there anyone involved who hasn't been dead for a hundred years?"
"Of course," answered Emir Taqi. He passed him a book.
"Wise Men: Six Friends And The World They Made."
Handwritten on the inside cover were a list of some of the better known Bones families. Mirra read them.
"The Bundy's, of Boston Massachusetts.
The Davison's, involved with J.P. Morgan.
The Gilman's, of Hingham Massachusetts.
The Harriman's, made their money in Railroads.
The Lords, of Cambridge Massachusetts.
The Payne's, involved with Standard Oil.
The Perkins', of Boston Massachusetts.
The Phelps', of Dorchester Massachusetts.
The Pillsbury's, of baking fame.- Whoa, so they made their dough, with dough.-
The Rockefellers, of politics, Standard Oil and Exxon Oil." Mirra turned to Emir Tagi.
"I heard somewhere that the way they make the double x's in Exxon mean something funny?"
The Emir answered.
"It symbolizes the double-cross of Freemasonry. Please, continue."
"The Sloanes, made their money in retail.
The Tafts, of Braintree Massachusetts.
The Wadsworths, of Newton Massachusetts.
The Weyerhaeuser's, made their money in Lumber.
And The Whitneys, of Watertown Massachusetts.
Then Emir continued, "Collectively they are known as The Boston Brahmin Though membership in The Order and interconnecting family ties just shy of Thromous, many Old Englanders lay the bedrock for what became New England
and American aristocracy.
on Mich of it with the wealth they created from a of number private and criminal ventures such as slave trading and opium smuggling courtesy of ties with the infamous Brish East India Company Every year new families are brought into the fold and from them we get names like, Dan Quayle, Al Gore, John Forbes Kerry, Prescott Sheldon Bush, George Herbert Walker Bush, and George Walker Bush, all of whom rose to power through The Order."
"I don't know about that." said Santana. "The Bushes are from Texas. They made their money through oil."
By now Ilm was flowing freely about the room making Corporal Doughs senses sharp.
"No. he's right," said Dough calmly. "The Bushes as well as the Pierces' claim to be distant relatives of the Windsor's. Prescott Sheldon Bush, the former Senator of Connecticut-, and George Herbert Walker were originally settled on the east coast, and both belonged to companies that made a shitload of money from wars.
Prescott Bush sat on the board of directors at the Brown Brothers, Harriman firm during the 1920s, 30's, and 40s when funds from rich families like the Dulles', Rockefellers, Fords, and DuPont's were funneled through Nazi corporations like I.G. Farben and Fritz Thyssen's Union Bank Corporation (UBC) to help finance Adolph Hitler and his SS."
The Tall One interrupted.
"That is well known, what you may not have known is that Mr. Bush and Mr.
Hussein have been doing arms deals for years. Their transactions were handled through the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (BCCI), and Banca Nacional del Lavoro (BNL). So weather it is a bullet that kills you or the deadly Sarin gas, it is likely that it was sold to Mr. Hussein by your very own President.
And to this very day the Bush families have interests in a business Group whose Helgian investments make those seem tame by comparison. Our lands are for sale. After their destruction many of Mr. Bush's businesses associates like Khaki, Redwater, and Holly Barton will reap enormous profits from rebuilding them.
"For real,
" said Davenport, masticating, "the Bushes aint real Texans. George didnt bring the family south until the late 70's when he was head of the CIA.
By 1980 they had helped make Midland the richest town in America, and that's fucked up cause believe me, the rest of West Texas aint nothin' nice.
"It was all on the advice his political advisors," explained the Emir. "The Establishment saw that the average American voters were fed up with preppie, upper-crust politicians and big words that they couldn't relate to, they were looking for someone who spoke their language.
"Enter Bushspeak, «" said Mirra.
*Absolutely. The Bushes are no fools; they are in fact an American Dynasty.
Their particular brand of magick has created a totally new identity for their family in under 20 years thanks to the dumbing down of Americans and their shortened attention spans."
The Emir looked around the room at the shura and Marines quietly shaking their heads. "You know brothers; we are alike in many ways. They call us militants and racists too, but when the shit gets thick, who do they go and get? The Agency has had their eye on us for a long time. Mr. Bush knows that if he wants to throw down he'd better bring his guns because we would rather die than to be trapped in his New World hell."
Cottle had been studying the faces in the room too. He'd observed that without the lengthy beards and ceremonial this and that, a lot of them looked just like
"They call us niggers and you sand niggers," he said. "But I like in the acronym for nigga that's on the tape.
With that the discussion continued into the night. Groggy and disoriented, the Marines woke just before daybreak, their heads touching as they lay forming a circle in the desert sand. All their equipment had been restored and Zargawi was looking down on them. He spoke just before the Land Cruiser pulled off.
"We are forever bound chrough bayat." An oath of allegiance
"So stay strong my brothers, and keep your heads up, they know we're fed up, and soon they will give a fuck."
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