A Patriotic Nightmare. Don E. Post

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      A PATRIOTIC

      NIGHTMARE

      The events, people, and incidents in this story are the sole productof the author’s imagination. The story is fictional and any resemblanceto individuals living or dead is purely coincidental.

      © 2005 by Don E. Post.

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

      Sunstone books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, Sunstone Press, P.O. Box 2321, Santa Fe, New Mexico 87504-2321.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

      Post, Don E.

       A patriotic nightmare : a tale of domestic terrorism / by Don E. Post.

       p. cm.

       ISBN 0-86534-464-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)

       1. Terrorism—Fiction. I. Title.

      PS3616.O838P38 2005

      813’.6—dc22

      2005007669

      WWW.SUNSTONEPRESS.COM SUNSTONE PRESS / POST OFFICE BOX 2321 / SANTA FE, NM 87504-2321 /USA [phone] / ORDERS ONLY [phone] / FAX [phone]

      A PATRIOTIC

      NIGHTMARE

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       1

      PORT EL KANTAOUI, TUNISIA

      Monday, February 3

      Sunday night Yuri Tavanovich received an urgent call from a man in Rome urging him to meet a client in Tunisia to discuss a new construction project—the code for an arms purchase. He grabbed the earliest flight he could using a forged French passport to move rapidly through passport control. He then rented a car and enjoyed the three-hour drive from Nabeul to Port El Kantaoui along the eastern Mediterranean coast of Tunisia.

      The day was beginning to fade as the former Russian KGB agent settled into his room at the El Hana Palace Hotel and anxiously awaited his meeting. His room provided an unfettered view over the yacht basin. He walked onto his balcony and gazed out across the blue Mediterranean to the east and watched, transfixed, as a deep, rich, burnt orange sky seemed to explode across the heavens as the sun sank in the west. The azure sea responded surrealistically to the sun’s display, and he felt his tensions melt away.

      As he watched boats enter the harbor after a day of sailing or fishing, his gaze fell on a group of children sitting on the wall that edged the cliff north of the hotel. They all wore short, faded pants, tee shirts with holes, and no shoes and were pointing to various boats in the harbor, imagining owning a boat when they grew up. Their giggles and excited talk echoed across the basin and mixed with distant calls of fishermen and boaters in the marina below.

      Yuri turned to observe sea gulls gliding blissfully across the orange Mediterranean sky. As he absorbed the scene, he kept looking for the arrival of his Arab buyers who were supposed to arrive aboard a two hundred-forty-five-foot motor yacht named The Medallion flying a Turkish flag. Giving up, he went inside.

      The sharp ring of the phone startled Yuri. He had fallen asleep. Picking up the phone, he heard a deep baritone voice softly ask, “Yurgi Tavanbich?”

      “Nyet, no, no. Name is Yuri Tavanovich,” he said, slowly emphasizing the correct pronunciation.

      “Okay, okay. Yurgi Tabanobisch,” the speaker replied, still mispronouncing his name.

      Stupid camel herder, Yuri thought. No wonder they can’t do anything but kill each other off. As soon as all that oil’s gone, they’ll be back herding camels and goats.

      The speaker on the line continued in a monotone, staccato voice. “I glad you speak English. We don’t speak French or Russian. We arrive and moor at northern edge of marina, near end of jetty. Why don’t you come dinner with us nine o’clock? We have powerboat pick up you. Pilot of boat is young man, Ali Ashwari.”

      “First, I must tell you that I will not come if any member of the Al-Qaida is present. We just can’t take the chance.”

      “There is no Al-Qaida present. We understand that issue.”

      “Okay. Spahsseebah. Thank you, that will be fine.” For a split second Yuri’s native language showed itself. The Soviet government had all KGB agents learn English and he had found it a valuable tool on many occasions. French, however, gave him a tough time. All the French people he knew laughed at his pronunciation, which didn’t encourage him to learn the language. He cursed them in Russian to their faces while smiling apologetically. “The French are stupid idiots,” he muttered aloud.

      He glanced at his wristwatch. An hour and a half to wait. He walked over to his valise on the bed and took out his binoculars. Then he turned off the lamp for total darkness and went out on the balcony to see if he could spot the yacht. He scanned the darkening marina. The ship was easily identified. It dwarfed the other boats. The yacht’s lights lit up the area for a hundred yards. What a beauty, he thought. But it was so large it drew attention to itself, which seemed to Yuri like a stupid