“They might be gone for now,” Shahin whispered. But they will come back to take these people captive. Either way, we must run while we can.”
    He ducked back when Safia looked their way. Then he heard her soft voice say, “Please, help me. They’ve killed my father, and they will kill me and all of us.”
    Shahin motioned to Habigh and they moved through the door toward the downed man, ignoring the girl’s pleas. With one swift motion, Shahin reached the prone body and grabbed a small gun and a knife that showed from beneath the man’s tunic. He handed the gun to Habigh.
    They had the good fortune of a clear path through the compound until they arrived at a door to a rear inner wall and came face to face with a man, who, taken by surprise lifted his rifle to shoot. Shahin put to use the lessons he had learned in the training camp in Iraq. In a flash he blocked aside the rifle barrel with his left forearm, and lunged forward with his right hand, plunging the knife to the hilt into the guard’s left eye and into his brain. He did not like killing one of Bin Laden’s own men, but it had to be done. The fool was about to give them away.
    Shahin withdrew the knife, wiped it on the man’s shirt, and he and Habigh slid out the back side of the compound undetected. There was still a great deal of commotion in the central and far side of the compound; but if there were any guards, either local or enemy, stationed in their vicinity, they were no longer visible.
    A battered rope had tangled in the barbed wire atop the walls, and after jumping several times, Shahin grabbed it and pulled it toward them. He and Habigh wasted no time securing their belongings to their backs. Then they hoisted themselves up and over to safety.
    Together they slunk along in the shadows until Shahin saw a slight movement ahead of them. He flattened himself to the ground, as did Habigh. To their horror, a large dog appeared at the far corner of the compound. He wore what appeared to be a military pack across his back, and he was sniffing along the outer perimeter, intent on his job of finding hidden humans.
    Shahin could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle at the thought of being attacked by this large, undoubtedly well-trained military animal.
    They stayed frozen in place hoping the breeze was in their favor. Then a voice further away called, “Come on, Cairo! Come on, boy, let’s get out of here.”
    The two men crawled about twenty feet, then Shahin lifted a large square board revealing a deep jagged hole in the ground.
    “Come, only a few know of this tunnel. It will lead us to a safe place not far from here.”

CHAPTER ONE

Gold Hill, Colorado

    Late Christmas Eve, and alone with his cat, Drexel Rose made a mental note, never dump a girlfriend two weeks before the holidays.
    He poured himself a cup of espresso-strength java from a thermos he kept on his desk, sank into his chair in front of the computer and logged into the Internet Chess Club, ignoring a late breaking newsflash about some bombing in New York City.
    Damned terrorists don’t let up, he thought. They’ve been pounding at us ever since we took out Bin Laden.
    His thoughts were interrupted by a challenge from an advanced player who led Drex into the opening moves of the Najdorf variation of the Sicilian Defense. Two moves later the chessboard image on his screen melted into the snowy hair and pale face of Oliver Hawke, his friend and boss.
    “Merry Christmas, Drex.”
    “What the hell! Ollie, do you know how many points you just cost me?”
    “It’s two in the morning and you’re playing chess?” Oliver chided.
    “Eleven-fifty Mountain Time to me, friend. Santa’s come and gone on the East Coast, I take it?” Drex inquired.
    “You could say that. He did a few flybys and delivered some bombs. You’ll be interested in them, that’s why I’m speaking to you first.” Hawke paused for a moment. “This is serious, Drex.”
    “Tell it to someone who cares,” he replied, as he tapped several keys in an effort to pull his chess game back up on the screen.
    “You’ll care, trust me; but not here. Log into ESD’s system, your password is still good.”
    Drex sighed and realized his chess playing was over for the night; but he still wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved with whatever was yanking Hawke’s chain. He said he didn’t care anymore, and he meant it. Those assholes could go screw themselves.
    But still—I’ve been an agent for so many years.
    He placed his hands on the keyboard, pulled them off, fiddled with his coffee cup, leaned back in his chair, tapped a pencil, and finally came to a decision.
    Well, it’s not like Santa’s gonna be dropping down my chimney anytime soon, he thought. He typed in a string of codes. The system rebooted and crawled behind the nuclear strength firewall of a computer in Langley, Virginia, built by a group of brainiacs deep within the confines of the CIA’s Enemy Surveillance Department (ESD). Ollie benevolently smiled down at him from a holograph at the top of the screen. Visually, he could pass for a saint, but Drex knew better. They went back many years.
    “Okay, Christmas-angel-of-no-mercy, let’s have it.”
    Ollie’s face became grim, as he referred to his notes.
    “At o-one hours, Eastern Time, the Christmas tree in the center of the Quincy Market in Boston exploded, launching an onslaught of small missiles toward Faneuil Hall. A vagrant rocket altered course and unceremoniously plunked into the ocean about fifty feet off the bow of Old Ironsides.”
    “Terrific. You called me because someone’s having one hell of a Tea Party—one that I’m not a part of, I might add. No…instead, I am sitting here wondering why I am wasting perfectly good electrons chatting with you, Ollie.”
    “I’m not done. An hour after the events in Massachusetts, a bomb blew the tip off the Empire State Building. Then a missile, believed to be a SMAW MK153 or equivalent, dove into the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, on target, I might add. Not long after that the Statue of Liberty went PMS, when a passing boat launched a missile sending it up her billowing skirts and out her rear end. It wasn’t pretty.”
    Drex frowned. MK153 shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapons were no toys. How do these people come up with this shit? He lifted the coffee cup to his lips. It had settled into a tepid pool of muck. It’s none of my business. It’s none of my damned business!
    He reached behind a book and grabbed a pint bottle. Thinning the coffee with whiskey, he raised the cup and took a sip. He allowed curiosity to get the better of him.
    “All right,” he finally said. “Those places are huge. They are historic icons, for Christ’s sake. So why are they being blown away?”
    Ollie paused deep in thought, while Drex ran his fingers through his crop of hair—a habit he’d acquired since allowing it to grow longer than what he had labeled as his bald-to-the-wall style of last year.
    Six months ago he was still on the ESD payroll until a mission-gone-wrong put him on…how did they put it…on an extended leave-of-absence. It also landed him in the hospital where he’d undergone surgery, which caused him to be stuck at his place in Colorado.
    The silence dragged on. The two agents stared at each other through the secured waves of cyber space. Drex wondered what Miller would have to say. ESD had become the secret weapon of U.S. President Harold Miller, beginning with his first term in office. The POTUS wanted a surveillance department that went beyond the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.
    Miller and one TS (Top Secret) agent from each of the major government agencies; the FBI, CIA and Homeland Security, built within the CIA’s JOC (Joint Operations Center) a sub-JOC. They gave it the title Enemy Surveillance Division. This had covertly survived the various reorganizations that had seen many of the CIA’s counter-terrorism, counter-narcotics and nuclear proliferation tasks relegated to other agencies.
    With the skill and assistance of several top ranking intelligence-oriented congressmen, ESD had grown stronger. It had set out to establish an elite cadre of people highly skilled in human intelligence and tactical surveillance. They could seamlessly infiltrate everything from cloaked satellites to cyber firewalls. It was joked that if ESD chose, no one in the world could take a piss without their knowing about it.
    Oliver Hawke, a Special Assistant U.S. Attorney with TS clearance, was assigned to the ESD team early on. He held the power to obtain, without hesitation, needed search warrants and the judicial authority to use the emerging technologies available in any given event. Without Hawke’s authority, the ESD team would be violating federal law if they investigated insurgents within the United States.
    ESD’s activities often cruised beyond the law, under the radar, and without official sanctions.
    The CIA is charged with conducting ‘surveillance’ and information gathering OCONUS (Outside the Continental United States). A year into his second term, Miller and Abe Ruthers, the U.S. Director of the CIA, met in Berlin with German Chancellor Schumacher, and Brazil’s President, Paolo Cruceiro dos Santos, to establish foreign ESD cells. Only the highest ranking echelons within these governments were privy to their existence.
    This was the world that Drexel Rose had been a part of, and now, out of the blue came this call from Oliver, the one man at ESD he most respected and trusted.
    Drex rubbed the back of his neck, “All right, how are the first-responders handling it? Has anyone claimed responsibility for being Ebenezer Scrooge? And what the hell is Homeland doing—if anything?” he asked.
    “No claimants yet, and you know Homeland Security; they say they don’t want to send out false alarms. Never mind that New York had one death—some poor homeless bastard on the bridge—along with thirty-one injuries reported thus far. Both the Boston PD and the NYPD, along with other emergency first responders, got right on it. On other fronts, Federal employees are in their homes enjoying their holiday, the nation is being hammered by severe winter storms, and DHS, the CIA and the FBI, are doing their usual Who’s Supposed To Do What dance. It’s Christmas, and they have their fingers stuck in Figgy Pudding, for God’s sake.”
    Drex stretched and sipped from his mug of fortified coffee. Deep in thought, he gazed out the window at a glittering landscape of ice and snow and watched a distant light thread its way down Boulder Canyon Road.
    “Well, gee Ollie, all this is very interesting, but I gotta’ get back to my game here. Keep in touch.” He reached for the end key, but Ollie held up his hand.
    “Santa delivered one more gift.”
    “I am not interested in your brand of holiday cheer. Go away.”
    Ollie leaned into the cam and gave Drex a sardonic look. “In Boston, about the same time Faneuil Hall got lit up, some of Santa’s elves flattened a certain stadium several miles to the South.”
    A trickle of brown coffee ran from the corner of Drex’s parted lips, down his chin and dripped on the desktop nearly landing on the cat. Diggory opened one eye, his lip curled with feline disgust.
    “Ollie, please say you’re shitting me. I mean, you’re getting desperate, man.”
    “It’s true.”
    “Fuck. Someone messed with the Razor? They hit Gillette Stadium?”
    “Santa knows no bounds in his generosity,” Ollie said.
    Drex grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and wiped the spill. Digg abandoned his warm spot in obvious annoyance.
    “What the hell, Ollie, this is Christmas Eve. Have the terrorists gone mad? Were any of the players hurt? Brady? Anyone?”
    “Drex, it might come as a surprise to you, but terrorists generally are mad, in one way or another, if not plain looney-tunes. A night security guard lost a leg, but of course the team members are in their beds with sugar plums dancing in their heads.”
    “Gillette Stadium is totaled?”
    Ollie solemnly nodded. “Just about. The Foxboro Police, State Police, FBI and the National Guard are arriving, as we speak. They located Bob Kraft at a resort in Vermont, and he’s fueling his private jet. Now, are you ready to come to Washington?”
    Drex sighed. “The damn news media will have a feeding frenzy.”
    “Yup, and just between you and me, this might be homegrown terrorism.”
    Drex was curious. He peered into his friend’s face and could see lines of stress.
    “Belden and his techno geeks assess these as domestic hits, which could translate into anything from weird lost-cause sympathizers, to religious fanatics, to simple garden variety haters of some other stripe.”
    “Like some Jihadist wannabes, or one of our own internal nests of fanatics,” Drex speculated.
    “It’s anyone’s guess at this point, but we really could use you here.”
    Drexel Rose nodded his head in resignation. “Okay, Ollie, I could hardly call myself a patriot if I don’t come in. Send me what you got…damn it.”
    He read the incoming file and absently rubbed his 2001 New England Patriots Super Bowl ring against his grimy sweatpants.
    “Silent night, holy shit,” he muttered.

In The Battle for your Mind, Dick Sutphen writes:
    Never underestimate the potential danger of these people (converts). They can easily be molded into fanatics, who will gladly work and die for their holy cause.

                                             

Pakistan
    A three-story compound stood secluded at the end of a dusty dirt road in Abbottabad, Pakistan, about 2.5 miles northeast of the town center and 100 miles from the Afghanistan border to the East. Shahin Ysar sat inside a small room on the third floor and peered into the blackest of nights. It was 12:55 a.m., and still too hot to sleep. He had spent a useless day arguing with Osama bin Laden about the merits of his plan—a plan that he believed would deal a crippling blow to American confidence, and cause its citizens the embarrassment before the world that they so richly deserved. Osama had listened, but did little to hide a smirk, as he ran his fingers through his beard. Without asking so much as a question, or giving a nod of approval, the Al-Qaeda leader had chuckled at the proposal, and waved his hand to dismiss Shahin and his companion, Habigh Salahuddin.
    “This is of no interest to us,” Bin Laden’s son interjected. He too stood to leave. “We do not waste our time bombing American toys, Shahin. Your plan causes them no substantial harm. It accomplishes little more than a bit of humiliation. I am sorry, my friend, but this is not a good idea.”
    “He's right,” Osama had agreed, placing his hand on Shahin’s arm in a placating way. “Using American citizens to bomb their own beloved playgrounds and places of honor makes no sense. Why would they do it? We wage Jihad for Allah. If we die, we die in His name, in glory, but them…achh. Unlike us, they have no burning reason to kill their fellow Americans. Please understand, I admire your enthusiasm, Shahin, and even your creativity; but go now with your plan and listen to those who know what they are doing.”
    Bin Laden then turned to one of his wives, Amal Ahmed Abdul Fatah, and pulled her to him. He nuzzled her neck, while she feigned annoyance.
    Shahin decided to allow the Leader time to consider his proposal. He had nodded to the group and said, “As-salaam 'alaykum, Master. I will take my leave—peace be upon you.
    “May God's blessings be upon you,” Osama answered, with an amused smile.
    Shahin reluctantly turned away from the man whose help he sought. Walking along the short corridor that led to their room, he  murmured to Habigh, “He doesn’t understand, even as great a man as he is, he doesn’t know the Americans; at least not like I do. I lived in Connecticut most of my life—I lived inside the beast. I went to their schools and university. Then I trained with the CIA. I know their thinking. Everything is symbolism to them. Strike at those symbols and you strike at their heart and soul. My very name, Shahin, meaning hawk, says why I am able to spot their weaknesses.”
    Later they had dined on a light dinner as the night deepened with little relief from the heat.
    Shahin and Habigh seated themselves on two dilapidated chairs outside of their room on an abbreviated balcony, trying to find a breath of cool air. Habigh fanned himself with an English edition of Newstime. He couldn’t read it; in fact, if it had been written in Arabic he wouldn’t have been able to read it either. But by reputation, he knew it was favorable to their cause, and that, plus the colorful pictures, made it his favorite magazine.
    The two young men sat enjoying the peculiar peace that seemed to radiate off the desert once the heat of the day had passed. In the distance, heat waves that wavered from the darkened hills, streets and houses in the distance became suddenly transformed.
    Shahin tried to focus his eyes. He wondered why the trees and fields on the horizon were changing form and density. Then he saw a minuscule light reflect from a moving object in the sky. His mind scurried to interpret what his eyes were seeing. In horror, he began to retreat toward the balcony doors.
    The sound was faint and muffled, the distinct whup—whup— whup of helicopter blades. The sound of aircraft wasn’t unusual here. The compound was located not far from a Pakistani Air Force base. However, choppers flying at night was highly unusual, Shahin knew, because it was too risky. Their pilots were not that good.
    The two turned their heads in the direction of the sound, glimpsing the silhouette of an aircraft outlined against the brilliant canopy of stars. Out of the darkness came a black helicopter shooting over the wall. It flared out so abruptly that Shahin thought it would slide back and drive its tail into the ground. “We must go, Habigh, we are under attack. They are coming with silenced helicopters, maybe Blackhawks, several of them approaching from the direction of Jalalabad.”
    “No one can attack this place. There are armed guards stationed about. They would maybe drop bombs, but how would anyone come inside?” Habigh tried to reason and make sense of what was happening.
    Before Shahin could answer, there was a horrific crunching sound and the compound shook in the wake of it. Lights suddenly came on from the sky above, and he watched in horror as many copters converged outside the walls. He could hear men shouting to one another, and see lights attached to soldiers who were being lowered to the ground, starting to crawl over the supposedly impenetrable walls.
    “They are here; probably the world forces, and the Americans. I hear English words being shouted,” Shahin exclaimed, trying to get Habigh to heed his warnings to flee.
    There were Black Hawks, stealth versions, that were no doubt weighted and equipped to fly quietly while skimming below the radar. The crafts leveled off, ropes were tossed over the sides, and men rappelled down the ropes with unbelievable speed. Two… four… eight… twelve… they kept coming. The instant each man touched the ground he sprinted to what was obviously a predetermined position. They seemed to know the compound even better than he did.
    Floodlights flashed on and small arms fire began to erupt from the rooftops. The defenders would either fire one round at a time, or start spraying bullets in random directions. Shahin couldn’t decide which technique was less effective. The attackers, on the other hand, were firing “triple taps,” three round bursts, with deadly accuracy. At that moment Shahin knew that these were highly trained, disciplined professionals. He suspected that they were equipped with Heckler & Koch 416 carbine military assault rifles with suppressors and he could see they wore night-vision goggles.
    Shahin ran to a closet and grabbed two AK-47s, guns he had secreted there for this kind of emergency, and handed one to Habigh along with ammo clips. The two returned to the balcony and joined the defenders, returning fire as best they could. Shahin tried to mimic the American’s ammunition conserving triple taps, or even a double tap, but he didn’t have the experience to get it right. He flipped the AK on full automatic, but had no idea how long the trigger had to be depressed to fire three rounds, and only three rounds. The Americans were masters at it.
    Everywhere was confusion, absolute chaos. Where were the primary threats? Where should he be shooting? Was there someone out there at this very moment taking aim at him? He kept firing, not knowing or even caring if he was hitting anyone. His head was reeling from the smell of cordite emanating from the weapons. His eyes watered from dust and gunfire. His brain was not properly processing what he was seeing. He looked to his right to see how Habigh was doing, and beyond him he spotted a man firing from the next balcony. The man’s lower jaw suddenly exploded into a mist of blood and bone fragments, as he was hit by an enemy round.
    “We’ve got to get out of here, Habigh. If we can make it to the place I know of, we can escape.”
    They hurried to the door of the room and checked the hallway. “Quick, no one’s out here; we must hurry.”
    Habigh was close on his heels, as they shuffled along with their backs flattened against the hallway wall, silent and hopeful of escape.
    Osama Bin Laden’s door was open and, as they passed, they were relieved to see he was alive. He was still in his night wear, having on a tan shalwar kameez and a prayer cap, with a loose-fitting tunic and pants called kurta paijama, which Shahin thought to be a rather ironic name. Having grown up in the United States, if he felt any kinship with Americans at all, it was on this inconsequential point—they wore pajamas, just like he did.
    Several children could be heard in the hallways below, screaming and calling to one another to run and hide. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was everywhere, both outside, and now inside the building. For an instant Shahin’s eyes met Osama Bin Laden’s, and the graying leader nodded to him. His eyes seemed to say, you do whatever you want against that loathsome enemy, son. You now have my blessing. Then, Shahin and Habigh ducked along the hallway, leaving the door ajar.
    Shahin could hear the cries of Bin Laden’s wife, Amal, and from a young girl, from within the room. Then the sound of footsteps, men running up the stairs to the floor where he and Habigh still huddled against the wall.
    “Let’s go back into our room and hide. It is too late to run now.”
    The two men quietly closed the door to their room, stuffed their travel bags into a closet and squeezed inside. Shahin huddled into a corner and arranged boxes of paper supplies around them. Stacked high, these were enough to hide them from a cursory inspection of the closet, but not if dogs were brought in to sniff out humans. They waited as the pop of gunfire continued. At one point they thought they heard the voice of Amal cursing at someone, followed by the dreaded triple tap. Then came the sound of Amal shrieking…followed by eerie silence.
    “For God and country…Geronimo. Geronimo. Geronimo. We got the bastard!” came a cry in English that Shahin recognized. It sounded like a victory call. Then they heard the sound of boots descending the stairs away from the hallway.
    They remained silent, holding their breath and praying, and wondering what would happen next. Time ticked by and they could hear more orders being shouted in the distance. Women were wailing, and children were crying or screaming. Many more minutes passed; helicopters hovered outside; lights probed into the windows; and, except for an occasional flare-up, the sound of small arms fire ceased; muffled sounds began to dim.
    “If we are to live, we must find a way to get out of here,” Shahin whispered in the dark.
    “You are correct; but how?” Habigh asked.
    “We’re going to have to go back into the hall and look around. It’s risky, but I see no other way.”
    Shahin pushed aside the heavy boxes that had protected them, grabbed the bag into which he had stashed his few belongings, and they crawled to the door, cracked it open a few inches and peered out. The hallway was still dark, and no one was in sight. The two men flattened themselves to the floor; using knees and elbows, they belly-crawled to the room where they had last seen Bin Laden.
    The door was open, and a dim light came from within. Shahin peeked around the door frame. What he saw caused him to gasp. Bin Laden’s other wife was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, her hands tied with thin plastic strap. Her head was lowered against her chest and she was sobbing. Lying on the floor was Bin Laden’s twelve-year-old daughter, Safia. Her hands were also tied with zip ties, and she was bleeding from her ankle. A man lay close to the door, unmoving. A handgun and rifle were abandoned nearby. There was a large pool of blood in the middle of the room, and it was obvious that a body had been dragged across and out the door. Whether the body had been dead or alive at the time, they didn’t know, but it was easy to guess whose it was.

Introducing Without Sanctions and America's next great thriller hero, Drexel Rose

Without Sanctions is available from www.Amazon.com, international booksellers and ebooks. http://www.amazon.com/Without-Sanctions-Jan-Holmes-Frost/dp/161179143X/ref=sr_1_sc_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1348238894&sr=8-2-spell&keywords=jan+holmes+frosst

Visit Jan at www.janholmesfrost.com

WITHOUT SANCTIONS, published by Fireship Press.

Drexel Rose, an avid chess player, former Patriot’s linebacker and U.S. Enemy Surveillance Department expert must stop a lethal group of terrorists. Borrowing untested HCI (human computer interface intelligence) from the Oracles who have developed it, they attempt to halt this disastrous Christmas Day attack racing across the U.S.




OPENING NOTE:  

 The FBI was originally created out of a unique team of Special Agents from within the US Secret Service. Today, federal task forces of all types exist where multiple agencies conduct group investigations which at first just crossed state lines, but now are international in scope.
    With an ‘exponential growth’ in information technology, we will hopefully see the future of federal criminal law and law enforcement evolve before our eyes as it attempts to keep pace.
    Unfortunately, the funds needed within the Federal government’s budget are not today at levels needed to provide this advantage. We can only move ahead with ‘under the radar’ concept programs like the fictional ESD of this story, which pushes the limits of surveillance techniques. It aggressively removes old investigative boundaries, and it begins to reveal the future of international crime and terrorism as it races ahead at breakneck speed.
Tony Chapa
Assistant Director (retired) U.S. Secret Service



More to come...   Jan