Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

Moving into the bedroom, he noticed the full-length mirror. He dropped the towels and stood before it for a long time, examining his entire body, turning slowly, looking for rashes and lesions. Then he climbed beneath the covers, only to be seized again by unreasoning panic and break into a sweat. He rushed to the bathroom for another shower, his thoughts anchored on the memory reef of the prisoners dying, trapped in the small cages as the gas ate at them. Every itch he felt was magnified a thousand times, the lingering fear intensified by the knowledge that he had helped make the monster that was trying to devour him. Juba was new to fear, for he had never been frightened by any enemy. This invisible slayer was different, hungry and uncaring about who was right or who was wrong, nor obedient to its creator.

After a few hours and another shower, he calmed enough to have the concierge send someone to purchase new clothes from the nearby mall, and later had a nice dinner at a table overlooking the expanse of the Arabian Gulf. When he returned to his room, he called for a massage, then lay still in bed between clean sheets while the masseur pounded the twisted muscles, loosening the knots with pressure and pain. Afterward, Juba turned out the light, and to avoid thinking about the invisible gas and the wet drops that brought certain death, he concentrated on the long and tangled journey that had brought him to this place on this day.

As a boy, back when he was Jeremy Mark Osmand, he was teased at school in England for having a foreign father and for being a Muslim, although that stopped as he grew taller and stronger and fought anyone who belittled his family. Despite his superior abilities in rugby and soccer, he still heard the ridicule that swam just below the surface of many of his classmates’ polite geniality.

In the summer of 1988, his parents took him to Peshawar, in the North-West Frontier Province of Pakistan, where his father joined the surgical staff at a Red Crescent hospital while his mother helped at the refugee center. They lived in a house among the eucalyptus trees of University Town, and from there, Jeremy set out each day to explore the boomtown spawned by the Russian invasion of neighboring Afghanistan. Spies and journalists, Russian planes overhead, distant explosions, the hubbub of the Smugglers’ Market and a crush of people, animals, and vehicles of all sorts and every color. Weapons and ammunition were strapped to the backs of trains of mules headed for the border.

The war was an awakening of an Islamic spirit within the boy, and in mosques and youth meetings, Jeremy discovered that London was not the center of the universe after all!

He learned much more about the Prophet and the holy places and was astonished to discover that the mighty Ottoman Empire was not an ancient myth. Although it had begun back in 1300, it lasted until 1924. Its creation was led by the venerable Osman I! His family’s original last name was the same as that great caliph, and Jeremy questioned his father’s decision to bastardize and anglicize it. “Come with me to the hospital today and I will give you the answer,” his father said one morning as they sipped strong black coffee. “One of my fellow physicians wants to meet you.”

Within the hour, Jeremy was at a small table in the rear of a coffee house near the hospital, deep in conversation, in English, with Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri, the Muslim firebrand who had been jailed and tortured following the assassination of Egyptian president Anwar Sadat. He had come to Peshawar to help the mujahideen freedom fighters, and Jeremy was spellbound by the intense man with the large eyeglasses, who made sense with his stern and unforgiving religious and political views.

Then someone else joined their group, a tall and slender man who wore common robes although he possessed great wealth. Osama bin Laden was from Saudi Arabia and was famed for lectures that painted a dark vision of Islam and reasoned that it was not only permissible to kill infidels: Under the Koran, it was a Muslim duty. Bin Laden extended a hand and uttered a soft greeting, then encouraged the boy to speak, and Jeremy’s new dreams of revenge and hatred spilled forth. Jeremy promised that he was a true Muslim and ready to die, today if necessary, for Islam.

The tall Saudi touched the boy’s forearm. “No, not today. Not for a long time.” He glanced at Dr. Osmand. “Were you aware that your father has long been one of us?”

Jeremy blinked as his father bowed at the compliment.

“It was at our request that he has endured such shame among the infidels, and the Prophet will reward him.”

“Father? I don’t understand. What is he talking about?”

“Our name, Jeremy,” the father replied. “You believe I changed our name for mere advancement in English society. That is not what happened.”

Al-Zawahiri interrupted. “Many years ago, I formed the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt and brought it forward into the Islamic Jihad, and now into al Qaeda. Part of our early work was to create what intelligence services call ‘moles’ who would infiltrate foreign countries and be ready to strike when needed. Your father volunteered to help in this cause and was asked to eradicate the automatic Muslim link of his name so that you, Jeremy Osmand, would have a true British name, speak like a native of England, and act British. Your father has been a loyal soldier.” The dark eyes burned into Jeremy. “Now it is your turn.”

“So, young man, you will not become a martyr today,” added Osama bin Laden. “Praise be unto Allah, we have plenty of recruits ready to do that vital work. Yours is a special task that will require years to accomplish.”

Jeremy stared at the two leaders of the most violent sector of militant Islam. They wanted him!

Al-Zawahiri’s tone changed. No more polite chitchat or explanations, just a stream of orders. Jeremy was to become as English as he could be, join the British Army and become skilled in its ways, let the army give him as much specialized training as possible.

Osama bin Laden said, “You must shed any trace of Islam. Your present knowledge of the Koran must sustain you, for you must not read it again for many years, nor even have a copy. You will eat the flesh of the filthy animal, drink alcohol, walk without a beard, be profane, and fornicate with their women. At times, you may even have to fight against Muslims, and you will do so with your utmost ability, for there must be no question as to your loyalty. When the time is right, we will call you.”

“Turn away from Islam? I don’t know if I can do that, sir.”

“That is the answer we expected from you, Jeremy. To satisfy that disturbing thought, a council of holy men has granted a special absolution to excuse the many sins you must commit in the future.” Bin Laden leaned close. “Follow us, young man. We have heavy hearts in requiring someone to abandon the Prophet here on earth in order to sit with him in paradise. Sadly, you will pretend-and live-as if we are your enemies. The forces of the Prophet are already defeating the atheist Russians in Afghanistan, but we must plan ahead. Great wars will come against the Jews and Crusaders before our final victory. Will you help us protect Islam?”

“Yes. Of course I will,” Jeremy replied, and his father squeezed the shoulder of his sixteen-year-old son.

“Then we will give you a new name. To everyone else, you will continue to be Jeremy. But when we summon you, you will become Juba, named for a village created by fierce warriors many years ago along the White Nile in Africa. You will be our own fierce warrior.”

Jeremy graduated from school the very next year and joined the British Royal Marines. When the shooting instructors saw his skill with a rifle, he was sent to sniper school and then moved to advanced training for special operations, including workouts and instruction at the U.S. Marines Scout Sniper School at Camp Pendleton over in America. Every fitness report glowed with praise, and senior sergeants said they had never worked with anyone so dedicated. He rose in rank to color sergeant ahead of his peers and earned the badge of a master sniper, along with other gongs and citations.