Holy Warrior Trojan Horses. Sheldon Cohen

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      HOLY WARRIOR TROJAN HORSES

      A STORY OF HOME GROWN TERRORISM

      SHELDON COHEN

      Copyright 2012 Sheldon Cohen,

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0731-9

      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 author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      CHAPTER 1

      Madison, Wisconsin, Ben Marzan

      Ben Marzan, while walking down his high school corridor with head down and deep in thought, bumped into a fellow student. His large brown eyes stared for one second, and without a word, change of expression, or thought as to whose fault it might have been, he lashed out, striking the student’s right cheek with a powerful closed hand. Ben had much more strength than his lean, five-foot-nine inches would lead one to expect, for he worked out with weights at the gym three times per week; a faithful ritual that his compulsive life style demanded. His much taller and heavier opponent reeled back for a second, regained his composure, and with eyes burning fire grabbed Ben’s ponytail, threw him to the floor and landed on top of him with one hand holding him down and the other brought into position ready to strike. However, before Ben’s opponent could unleash the angry blow, the hateful expression on his face morphed into one of shock and surprise, when Ben wrapped both of his legs around his opponent’s waist and thrust him to the side with a rapidity and leg strength that brought a look of amazement to the crowd of students in the hallway. Ben then grabbed his opponent’s right arm and twisted it until he cried for mercy. It took three other male students pulling them apart to save the hapless victim from, at least, a dislocated shoulder. Two teachers, attracted by the noise, grabbed Ben by both arms, and accompanied him to the principal’s office. He went without resistance, staring into space.

      When the principal saw him, he sighed, shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s you, Ben? What a surprise. Have a seat.” Both teachers explained what they had witnessed. Ben sat with head down staring at his palms.

      The principal watched Ben for a moment, then turned to his surly visitor and said, “Do you want to tell me what happened, Ben?”

      Ben’s bulging eyes stared at the principal for five seconds before he answered in a slow and deliberate monotone, “He bumped into me. I responded. Simple as that.”

      The principal responded, “He bumped into you or you bumped into him? Could you tell? Could it have been an accident on his part if he did the bumping?” If you did the bumping, why would you lash out at him? This type of behavior has to stop before you do something that will ruin your life. You’ve got to learn to take a second to think before you act.”

      No answer. The principal spoke to the two guarding teachers. “It’s okay for you to go, gentlemen, I want to speak with our friend alone.”

      “There’s nothing to talk about,” said Ben without making eye contact.

      “There is if I say there is. We’ve got a lot to talk about. Do you hear me? Look at me…now.”

      Ben turned his gaze toward the principal. His face was a stony mask.

      “I know all about you, Ben. You’re a fine student according to your record. You get nothing but A’s on your tests, but how do you expect that to reflect on your grades when you never hand in homework or do assignments. We have strict rules here at Madison West. Homework assignments go toward your final grade just like quizzes and tests. You’re lucky your teachers are lenient with you. They’d have every justification to flunk you. Your attendance is about as bad as any student we’ve ever had. Why is that?”

      Without a change of expression and with a low monotone, Ben said, “It’s a waste of time.”

      The principal shook his head and said, “Why did I figure you’d say something like that? Even though you’re bored, at least make a pretence of listening. You’ll always find yourself in difficulty at work or at school if you show your boredom like that. That kind of attitude sends a message of disrespect, and that will hinder your progress. Don’t squander what could be great potential. I have seen three students in the last twenty-five years get a perfect SAT score and you’re one of them. You’ve got to learn to control your emotions before it’s too late.”

      “I have to go now,” said Ben opening and closing both hands and moving his upper body in a coordinated rhythmic manner. The sudden disruption in his daily after-school ritual put him in an agitated state that the principal recognized in spite of his mask-like facial expression.

      “Calm down. It’s over. Why are you so agitated?”

      “I’m late. I got someplace to go.”

      “Where are you going in such a hurry, may I ask?”

      “To the gym.”

      Recognizing the calm before a potential storm, the principal said, “Okay, you’re free to go, but we’re not finished with this yet. I’ll be calling your parents. If there is any repetition of this kind of behavior, you’re in serious trouble. Do you understand?”

      There was no response from Ben as he turned around and walked out of the office leaving the principal staring at his back.

      Relegating this interlude with the student and principal to the ash-heap of experience, Ben Marzan walked to his high school locker to pick up his gym bag. He would spend an hour after school working with weights at the nearby health club, something he had been doing ever since his freshman year almost four years ago. It had become a ritual, and missing this hour would only happen, as he liked to say, ‘in a dire emergency.’

      The health club was a ten-minute walk from Madison West High School in Madison, Wisconsin, and he viewed the walk as a warm-up enabling him to get right to the heavy weights. When he arrived, he went into his weight-lifting regimen that would last about forty-five minutes. The last ten minutes of his gym time was spent winding down with a ten minute run, close to a mile and a half, he figured.

      Even when he was lifting weights, math far beyond the high school level was on his mind, and there was no one in school that he could confer with so he conferred with himself. The majority of time his thoughts were on the latest math problem that he was attempting to solve. His brain was equipped with chalk that wrote the complex mathematical symbols on a blackboard in easy view of his mind, checking, erasing and changing as necessary.

      During math tests, Ben did so little written work on the test paper that his teachers would accuse him of cheating. They didn’t believe that he could do all the mathematical steps in his mind and come up with the correct answer until he demonstrated his ability by having them give him a problem that he would work in the teacher’s presence. He would stare at the problem for a moment, chalk in a few barely discernable notes, stare some more, write an equal sign and then the answer. All his mathematics teachers throughout his four years came to grips with this exceptional talent and let him do his own thing. They even accepted the fact that he rarely handed in homework. He had proven that whatever he was doing to learn math, it was more than enough. His teachers knew that mathematics like any other of life’s endeavors took practice. It was one thing to learn a technique, but another to understand and be able to work the problems each of which had different twists—and that is why it was necessary to practice in order to learn the various paths to a solution. One of his teachers likened him to Ramanujan, the great, young Indian genius of the first part of the twentieth century, and was too intimidated to accept him as a pupil, suggesting that Ben teach himself rather than, “Waste my time. He should be the one teaching me, except that I couldn’t keep up with his lightening mental speed and I would harm his brain only capable of working in overdrive.”