Monday Night Jihad

Jason Elam, Steve Yohn Monday Night Jihad

Copyright © 2007 by Jason Elam and Steve Yohn. All rights reserved.

Jason Elam

It is to the real Jesus that I dedicate this book.

Steve Yohn

First and foremost for God-this is definitely a You thing. Also, for Nancy -a true Proverbs 31 woman. I am honored to be spending my life with you.

Acknowledgments

Lord, we start with You. This has been, and will always be, Your project.

Jason thanks Tamy, the kids, and his mother, Evelyn, for their love and encouragement.

Steve thanks Nancy and his daughter for sacrificing so many evenings to this project.

Both Jason and Steve owe a debt of gratitude to Pastor Rick Yohn for his constant support and for being the biggest fan of this book from day one. Thanks go to Linda Yohn, also, for her excellent tough-love proofing skills.

Matt Yates, this bird never would have flown without you. Thanks to you for your practical wisdom and guidance (and, most importantly, for the “research” trip to Del Frisco’s), and also to Jeana and the rest of the Yates & Yates gang.

We had so many go-to experts assisting us in making this a realistic book with a plausible scenario. Special appreciation goes to LTC Mark Elam for teaching us how to hurt people in really nasty ways. Also, huge thanks are owed to Troy Bisgard of the Denver Police Homicide Division, Kurt Peterson of the Denver Police Bomb Squad, and our friends at the Air Force Special Operations Command and the U.S. Secret Service.

Thanks go to Karen Watson and the rest of our new family at Tyndale House Publishers. We owe a huge debt to Jeremy Taylor for dealing with an editor’s worst nightmare-two first-time authors. Also, we greatly appreciate Beverly Rykerd of Beverly Rykerd Public Relations for getting the word out so effectively.

Finally, how can we thank our small group enough for all of your inspiration and prayer through this process? You are the wind beneath… well, you know the rest. Our gratitude goes out to the folks at Lemstone Christian Store in Parker for the couch and the coffee and to Fellowship Community Church.

Lastly, we have been blessed by so many others who have encouraged us and prayed for us along the way. Thank you, one and all.

Prologue

1991

Adhamiya

Baghdad, Iraq

Hakeem Qasim picked up the small, sharp rock from the dirt. Tossing it up and down a couple of times, he felt its weight as he gauged his target. He glanced at Ziad, his cousin and closest friend. They both knew the significance of what he was about to do. Wiping the sweat off his forehead and then onto his frayed cotton pants, he cocked his arm back, took aim, and let fly. The rock sailed from his hand, across fifteen meters of open space, in through the driver’s-side window of the burned-out Toyota, and out the other side-no metal, no glass, nothing but air.

“Yes!” the two ten-year-old boys shouted in unison as they clumsily danced together in triumph.

They had spent the better part of six days clearing this dirt patch, as attested by their cracked, blistered fingers and by the jagged gray piles in and around the old Corona. Hakeem took pride in the knowledge that his rocks were mostly of the “in” category, while Ziad’s were mostly of the “around.” But to have the final rock of the hundreds, if not thousands, that they had cleared from their newly created soccer field pass all the way through the car could mean only one thing-good luck.

Hakeem was the older of the two by seventeen days. Although he was small for his age, his wiry frame attested to his strength and speed. His uncle Shakir had told him, “You are like the cheetah, the pursuer.” He wasn’t exactly sure what his uncle meant by that, but he loved the picture it put in his mind. Often, when he closed his eyes at night, he dreamed of stalking prey out on the open plains. Hakeem the Cheetah-watch out, or I’ll run you down. His complexion was dark, and his black hair was thick and wild. His eyes were a deep brown and had a feline intensity to them that he knew could be unsettling, even to his mother. “Hakeem, you have the eyes of the Prophet,” she would say, sometimes with a shudder.

Ziad was the opposite of his cousin in build. Tall, square shoulders, large head-his father used to call him Asad Babil, the “Lion of Babylon,” named after the Iraqi version of the Soviet T-72 tank. Ziad wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, but he was a guy you wanted on your side in a fight.

As the boys scanned the dusty lot, Hakeem felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment, remembering what the field had looked like just a week ago. He glanced to his left, where he had tripped over a rock and badly cut his elbow-the impetus for their renovation. He unconsciously picked the edges of the scab; that rock had been the first to go.

A waft of lamb with garlic and cumin caught Hakeem’s attention, awakening another of his senses. Well, his hunger would be taken care of soon enough. It was Friday, and every Friday (except for the day after the bombs had begun to fall last week) Uncle Ali came over for dinner. It was always a special event, because Ali Qasim was an important man. All the neighbors would bow their heads in respect as he drove by. Father would bow too, in spite of the fact that Ali was the youngest of the three brothers and Hakeem’s father was the eldest.

Even now, Hakeem could see Uncle Ali’s black Land Rover parked next to his house across the field. Beside it was the matching Land Rover that carried the men Ali called his “friends,” although he never talked to them and all they ever seemed to do was stand outside the house looking around. There was a lot of mystery surrounding Uncle Ali.

Last month, in a day that Hakeem would not soon forget, Uncle Ali had invited the boy to take a ride with him. “Let’s see how good my friends are,” Ali cried as he hit the gas, burying the other Land Rover in a cloud of dust. They bounced down the dirt roads, laughing and yelling for people to get out of the way.

When they made it out to the main road, Ali had suddenly gotten serious. He reached into his dishdasha and handed Hakeem a small handkerchief that had been folded into a square. The boy’s excitement grew as he opened one corner after another, discovering inside a bullet with a hole drilled just under the case’s base. A thin chain had been threaded through the hole.

“Hakeem, this is a 7.62 mm round that I pulled out of an unexpended AK-47 clip that Saddam Hussein himself was firing outside of his palace.”

Hakeem was still too afraid to ask what-or whom-President Hussein had been firing at.

“Feel the weight of it, Nephew. Imagine what this could do to a person’s body. For centuries, the West and the Jews have tried to keep our people from worshiping Allah, the true God. You’ve learned about the Crusades in school, haven’t you?”

Hakeem quickly nodded as he slipped the chain over his head. The cartridge was still warm from being kept against his uncle’s chest.

“You know I’m not a very religious man, Hakeem, but I can read the times. Soon, because of their hatred of Allah, the Great Satan will come to try to destroy our country. But we don’t fear, because Saddam will defend us. The mighty Republican Guard will defend us. Allah will defend us. And someday, our great leader may call on you to pick up a gun for him and fight against the West and defend his honor. Could you do it? Will you be ready, little Hakeem?”

Even now, as he fingered the long, narrow brass bullet hanging around his neck, thinking about how Uncle Ali’s prophecy about the Great Satan coming to their land had been fulfilled only two weeks later, his own answer repeated itself in his mind. I will be ready, Uncle Ali. I will fight for our leader. I will fight for our honor. I will fight the Great Satan! Allahu akbar!