Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Read online

  5 Stars for Reprisal! The Gauntlet, the follow up thriller to Reprisal! The Eagle Rises

  I liked Cliff Roberts’ book—The Gauntlet—on three different levels. That’s why I gave it 5 stars.

  First, as a military thriller, his descriptions of weapons and tactics shown in the book are complete and accurate. He’s done his homework. The battle scenes are gripping and realistic. This is not easy to do. As a thriller writer, the author must project the action in the reader’s mind.

  The second level of the book presents the reader with a very plausible and frightening scenario of what a second Obama term will look like with the support of a Democratic-controlled Congress. If you want to see how a president unleashed from any restraint will act, then study this book closely.

  Finally, the wish of every patriotic American is to find a counter-balance to the political corruption described in this book. We hope it will be of a political nature, but if all else fails....

  Read the book. See for yourself. It's only the beginning.

  Frank F. Fiore, author of “Murran”

  REPRISAL!

  The Gauntlet

  If you’re looking for a real page turner you can’t put down, Cliff Roberts has one right here. Solid 5 Stars—NYT bestselling author Tony Eldridge ~The Samson Effect, Creator of Marketing tips for Authors-the hottest marketing site for authors on the web

  A Novel by

  CLIFF ROBERTS

  Published 2011-First Edition

  By Cliff Roberts

  Reprisal! The Eagles Gauntlet!

  Copyright © 2013 by Cliff Roberts

  All rights reserved –Cliff Roberts, Author

  This book or parts thereof, may not be used or reproduced in any form without permission. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, from the publisher.

  ISBN: 1456488368

  EAN: 978-14556488369

  Library of Congress Cataloging Data- in Publication Data

  This is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special thanks to Donna, my loving wife

  And to all the Readers—without you, writing is just an exercise in self-abuse!

  REPRISAL!

  THE

  GAUNTLET

  PROLOGUE

  Despite being protected by the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, sequestered in safe and comfortable quarters, David Ashrawl was sweating it out. He’d been in the West Bank for three days awaiting transportation to a safer haven—somewhere like Iran or Oman.

  Ashrawl was a Lebanese-born international banker with offices in New York and Paris. He was the sole sponsor of the terrorists masquerading as students for entry into the U.S. who had carried out the attacks on Houston and San Antonio. He was also a money launderer and courier for the terrorist group Hezbollah as well as a hawala dealer in his own right. It was Hezbollah who had supplied the money needed to prepare and sustain the cell so they might execute the attacks.

  Ashrawl had thought he’d made a smart move by leaving the States two weeks prior to the attacks. He’d hoped by doing so he might avoid the attention of the American authorities. That turned out not to be the case. It had taken the FBI less than a day to discover his involvement and to begin a worldwide manhunt for him.

  Before becoming involved with the visas and the money laundering, Ashrawl had been assured by Hezbollah that they would provide a safe haven for him in Lebanon should the need arise. But when the need did actually arise, he was turned away. No reason was given—just that he was no longer welcome. He then turned to his friends in Egypt, but it was not safe for him there. So, he moved on to the Sudan, Somalia and Yemen. All of them sent him away after a short stay.

  Finally, he had been forced to use his very last option, and now his life was in the hands of Ali Hamid Marwan, the number three man in the al-Aqsa Brigade.

  Ashrawl and Marwan had been friends for almost thirty years, yet Ashrawl didn’t trust the man any further than he could throw him. Adding to Ashrawl’s mistrust was the fact that Marwan had kept him waiting for three days. He was beginning to believe he was a now a prisoner or worse, a bargaining chip, rather than an old friend in desperate need of a favor.

  “David Ashrawl!” Ali Hamid Marwan bellowed as he stepped unannounced into the building. “It is good to see you,” Marwan stated as he strode across the safe house’s entry hall to where Ashrawl lay on a couch, dozing. Marwan’s two bodyguards stopped just inside the door, taking up positions, one on each side of the door. Ashrawl sighed with relief now that Marwan had finally decided to grace him with his presence.

  “Stand up and let me look at you, a hero of the Jihad. You’ve made great strides in your service to Allah and the Palestinian people, my friend. Great strides,” Marwan complimented Ashrawl.

  Marwan was a Palestinian, born and raised in the West Bank. He had served the Brigade since his early teenage years when he began battling the Israelis by throwing rocks as part of Yasser Arafat’s Children’s Brigade.

  Ashrawl stood and was brusquely hugged by Marwan, who then hastily kissed him on both cheeks as was the custom. “I hope your stay has been a pleasant one?” Marwan inquired.

  “Am I under house arrest?” Ashrawl snapped as he began pacing about the room. He had been napping while pretending to be watching Al Jazeera. It had been an excruciatingly boring three days of waiting for this man to appear. Ashrawl’s patience had been worn to a frazzle after nine months of steady travel.

  “David, David. It is merely a precaution in these dangerous times,” Marwan stated off-handedly, flashing his nicotine stained teeth; Ashrawl likened it to a Nile crocodile’s grin.

  “Precautions? Precautions for what? This is the West Bank. We run this territory,” Ashrawl fumed, cautiously eyeing the men at the door.

  “Well, Fatah runs it, but the Israelis are always watching, always listening. You are, as the Americans say, a hot commodity,” Marwan corrected him in a calm voice as he stepped past Ashrawl, taking a seat in an overstuffed chair across from the television.

  “What have you heard?” Ashrawl asked as he paced back and forth up against the wall, making sure he avoided stopping directly in front of the windows.

  “The Americans have posted your picture all over the media outlets. Haven’t you seen the story on Al Jazeera?” Marwan asked. “The picture they show is a very good likeness.”

  “Ah…no, I just awoke from a nap,” Ashrawl said sheepishly. Marwan didn’t comment. He simply sat watching the TV for several moments before commenting.

  “I am wondering,” Marwan stated as he looked over at Ashrawl, “why did you come here with such a high price upon your head? What happened to going to Lebanon?” he inquired as he fixed Ashrawl with a piercing gaze. Then before Ashrawl could respond, he added, “Only a moghaffal would place his friends in such a dangerous position.”

  “I had no alternative. Hezbollah closed the door on me just before I arrived,” Ashrawl stated defensively. “I tried Egypt but it wasn’t safe. The Sudan was even worse and Yemen was too dangerous with America making daily drone attacks.”

  Lighting an American cigarette, Marwan sat quietly for several moments watching the smoke drift towards the ceiling. “So, what is it you would like us to do?” he finally asked.

  “I�
�d like to be smuggled to Syria, Iran or Oman. I need new papers and a new identity,” Ashrawl quickly stated. “I’d even go to Switzerland with the right ID.”

  “Perhaps we could arrange a nice villa in the south of France, no?” Marwan replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “I have served our cause well for many years, and you’re turning your back on me?” Ashrawl said, instantly taking offense.

  “I didn’t say no, my old friend,” Marwan said, showing that hideous crocodile smile again. “It’s just that it will take some time to arrange transport. Iran will be the best place to go, but they insist on handling the details themselves. So, you will need to be patient a while longer.” Marwan glanced about the room and then stated, “I hope you are comfortable.”

  “Yes, you are a most gracious host. I will try to be more patient,” Ashrawl politely replied, knowing he did not want to anger his old friend whose help he desperately needed.

  “Excellent! If you need anything, just ask Ahmed.” he pointed at the large man with a thick black beard sitting in the front corner of the room. He was dressed in a clean green golf shirt, black cotton pants and combat boots, with a pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants. He had been Ashrawl’s bodyguard since he had arrived at the safe house. “He will get what you need or bring it to my attention,” Marwan stated as he rose from the chair, snuffing out his smoke in an ashtray. He then turned and walked towards the door. Ashrawl followed him with his eyes, unsure if he could believe Marwan, but then he didn’t have a choice.

  “Oh, yes,” Marwan called over his shoulder with what appeared to be an afterthought. “David, don’t go outside, not even at night. I suspect that the Israelis will be looking for you if they aren’t already. It could be very unpleasant if they should find you,” Marwan cautioned as he stepped through the door following his bodyguards. Ahmed quickly stepped over to the door and closed it behind them. He then returned to his chair and the book he had been reading. Ashrawl retreated to the chair in front of the television where he began watching for news about himself and silently praying that Marwan was not planning on sacrificing him for some greater good.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Kilauea Security Force was the brainchild of Steven Howard, the multi-multi-billionaire sole proprietor of the world’s largest computer systems company. He, together with his friend, retired Marine Corps Commandant and former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Charles (Chip) Clarett, had created the Kilauea Security Force. It existed for one purpose—to bring terror to the terrorists, waging a war of reprisal against them and anyone who helped them.

  Steven Howard had been planning and building the support systems for his security force for the past decade. He started in earnest after his family was attacked while living in California several years ago.

  The attack had been triggered by his refusal to sell his encryption system to Hamas, and they had retaliated by attacking his home outside Los Angeles. It was only by the grace of God and the courage of the L.A.P.D. SWAT officers that he and his family survived.

  Shortly after the attack, he moved his family east to Virginia with the help of General Clarett who had been a consultant for the L.A.P.D. during his family’s California ordeal. General Clarett had a friend in real estate find a suitable estate in the countryside of Virginia. Then the general set about designing the security systems for the estate and Steven’s company, all in an effort to avoid a repeat of the California incident. It was at that time the Kilauea Security Force had been created. Prior to the attack on Steven’s family, his security had been provided by an outside security company which entailed a token team of bodyguards for him when he ventured away from the family estate. Additionally, he had a monitoring service for a passive alarm system at both his home and high-rise offices.

  The friendship between Steven Howard and General Chip Clarett grew over the years until they were close friends, with Steven continually trying to draw the general into the private sector to work for him full time.

  The general had steadfastly but politely refused until America suffered the two largest and deadliest terror attacks in history: one on Thanksgiving Day in Houston, where several oil refineries were blown up and the resulting firestorm nearly burned down the city itself; the other was an attack that occurred the next day, on Black Friday. The terrorists attacked a shopping mall in San Antonio, blowing up gasoline tankers at the mall’s entrances and burning the mall to the ground. They had purposely left two small entrances undamaged so that they might shoot the mall’s patrons as they fled the fire. It was during that attack that the general’s daughter in-law and his grandchildren had been killed.

  Despite the preponderance of the evidence pointing to Islamic terrorists having staged the attacks, President Starks had firmly refused to seek out the parties responsible. The general, after having suffered so personal a loss, could no longer stand idly by while his country did nothing. He took his retirement and joined Steven, thus beginning their private war of reprisal.

  The first action taken by the KSF team was tracking down and eliminating all but one of the surviving terrorists in Cuba. Team Alpha, led by Chip Clarett’s son, David, a former major in the Marine Corps, experienced a bizarre twist of fate once they had found the terrorists. It seemed that the terrorists and the Cubans had a falling out over Cuba’s demand for an additional payment for the shipment of fuel air bombs the terrorists were there to pick up. In the ensuing gun battle between the terrorists and the Cubans, the shipment of fuel air bombs was ignited, destroying the harbor and killing the terrorists. Thus, the team succeeded in their goal without firing a shot.

  The five members of KSF, known as Team Beta, arrived in Tel Aviv, Israel almost simultaneously as Team Alpha did its work in Cuba. They were met at the gangway by Kilauea Corporation’s Middle Eastern Liaison, a man by the name of Ron Houch. He was not what they were expecting.

  The team’s first contact with a Kilauea Security operative took them by surprise. The person holding the sign that read “Kilauea Corp” looked more like an aged sixties hippy than corporate muscle. The team, dressed in casual business attire, expected their contact would be similarly attired, but that wasn’t Ron Houch’s style—not even close. He was dressed in a loose-fitting, bright red Hawaiian shirt, blue jean shorts and flip flops. He also had on a Detroit Tigers baseball cap and the darkest pair of sunglasses any of the team members had ever seen. In addition, he had a full beard and moustache, with a ponytail that hung down past his shoulders. On second thought, he looked more like a biker than a hippie.

  “Hey, you must be the FNGs from the home office,” Ron Houch stated loudly as soon as he saw the recognition on the faces of the team for the sign he was holding. “I’m Ron Houch.”

  “Good to meet you,” Tom mumbled as he stepped up to Ron. “I’m Tom. This is Pam, Steve, Mike and Alex.” Tom did a quick introduction and everyone shook hands.

  Tom Willard, the team leader, was the all-American type. He was six feet one inch tall, weighed a hundred and ninety pounds, with blue eyes and blond hair cut short but not quite military regulation—the exact opposite of Ron Houch.

  “Okay, let’s go collect your luggage, and then I’ll walk you through customs,” Ron stated.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Tom replied.

  While collecting their luggage (just one bag each) and then while making their way to customs, Ron asked all of the typical get-to-know-you questions and offered tidbits about his own career. He seemed like a nice guy, pleasant enough, until they reached the customs checkpoint. Then Ron morphed into an insane asylum escapee.

  “Relax, gang, I’ve got it covered. I just need your passports and Kilauea IDs,” Ron took them and in turn, handed them across to the customs official.

  After a minute, the official looked up and stared at Ron for a moment. Ron, sensing there was an issue, spoke up.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I have only five IDs,” the official stated.

  “What? You
have only five IDs? Look around you. There are only five IDs because there are only five of them,” Ron replied sarcastically.

  “Yes, I agree there are five of them, but I am short an ID.”

  “What?” Ron bellowed. “I gave you five IDs and there are five of them. That’s one, two, three, four and five. I gave you five, and you have five,” Ron patronizingly pointed at each passport as he counted them.

  “I need one more.”

  “You don’t need one more. There are five of them, and I’m already in Israel so you don’t need mine.”

  “No, sir. You are in no-man’s land, and if you do not have the proper ID, that is where you will stay.”

  “Are you an idiot? I’m with Kilauea Corp. We have diplomatic immunity. All I have to do is flash my corporate ID, and I can go in and out of Israel as I please. Now stamp their passports. We’ve things to do.”

  The customs official looked off to the side and nodded his head. Two more customs officials stepped up to the gate. For a moment, no one spoke; and then Ron exploded on the guy.

  “What? You think a show of force is going to scare me into silence or something? I am the Kilauea liaison to your military, and I am considered an extremely valuable asset. One phone call and you’ll be building a fricking kibbutz in the Golan Heights,” Ron bellowed.

  “Sir, if you do not watch your language and quiet down, I will be forced to have you detained,” the official stated loudly.

  “Is there a problem?” Tom asked as four armed Israeli soldiers stepped up behind him and began staring at Ron, weapons at the ready.

  “Look, I said I’d handle this. I’ve dealt with these pricks a thousand times. Every now and then you get one who refuses to follow the rules but only for a while. I’ll make a call in a minute, and this clown will be toast. His bosses won’t like having their asses chewed by the Prime Minister’s office. Then maybe he’ll get a clue as to who is in charge in this country, and it isn’t him!” Ron shouted so loud the customs area went silent, and all eyes turned to him.