Terrorist University - Part 3 (Serialized for Steemit!)

in #steemit8 years ago (edited)

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Terrorist University


My True Story

By Nicholas Black ("Terrorist University" is a true story. Author's note: I have chosen to slightly alter some names, but for the most part, the people you read about really exist. Alive or dead, they’re real people. Real soldiers and terrorists and arms dealers and mercenaries. )

Table of Contents

HUCK'S WAR
PREFACE
ONE: Especially Bad

TWO: Empire Building
THREE: Welcome to Ibiza

Also, Even though nobody called me Huck until I entered the legion, you’ll sometimes see it appear earlier to keep things easier to understand. All this name swapping has me confused sometimes, so I can only imagine a reader trying to figure it out.

THREE: Welcome to Ibiza

The guys and I arrived on a Thursday afternoon, after having spent 10 or 12 hours on a large ferry ship that had left the night before from Barcelona, Spain. I spent most of the trip sitting near the back of the ship just watching the white foam evaporate into the blackness of the Mediterranean. I was ready for a little recuperation time for my knee, and the time away from loud, violent Legion instructors would be a relaxing change. But as soon as I got off of the ferry and looked around at all of the excitement, I knew that I was not going to get anything even approaching quiet on that island. The thump of hard house music was almost constantly heard from any place on the island. Every restaurant, shopping center, club, bar, or gas station was jumping to the beat.

The next thing that you will instantly notice is the amount of ethnic diversity on the island: Spanish, Russians, English, Americans, Moroccans, French, Portuguese, Irish, Senegalese, and more. There is every color of skin, style of hair, and type of accent you could possibly imagine, and everyone gets along quite well. There are so many beautiful girls that it was difficult to focus on much else.

First things first: We contacted a real estate guy, Anthony 'el Santo', or 'the Saint,' as we called him later. He found us an apartment in Sant Antoni, Ibiza, located on the southern tip of the island that would cost us about 1,200 euros a month. From the apartment we could see the water, the gym, and the clubs. We were near enough to a shopping center that we didn't need a vehicle. We would just use buses, taxis, and our feet to get wherever we needed to go. And really, you don't need that much to survive on a small party island like Ibiza.

Within the week, the Saint had introduced us to several club owners, and we found work as door-guys. It was decent cash, about 400 quid (pound sterling) a week. It was more than enough to pay the bills and concentrate on training. In our spare time we set up a security consulting company that would do almost anything that you wanted us to do. Hey . . . we're mercenaries, right?

And that, my friends, is how 5 Commando was born. Our company, 5 Comm, would handle any security concern you could possibly dream up. Why '5'? Well, there were five of us, we were commandos, and it was paying a bit of tribute to Mr. Denard—a French soldier-for-hire who was the subject of much mercenary lore.

So we did some bodyguard gigs here and there. We did a couple of feasibility studies, which is basically just breaking into a facility and then reporting to the owners how they might fix their security to deal with undesirables like ourselves. We did a few jobs, made some cash, and started to put together a good little crew. And everything was going about just fine . . . that is, until the sword fight.

At one of the clubs where we were working, these two Arab men started fighting. Now, normally, two people fighting in the street is no big deal; it happens all the bloody time. But in this case, one of the guys was carrying a small sword. I'm not embellishing. No, it wasn't a large knife. Rambo had a knife. It was most certainly a sword. It made that wheew sound when he swung it at the other guy's face. I should have just sat back and enjoyed the show, but the cops were coming from up the street, and I didn't want these guys getting arrested. I'd rather kill a guy than give him to the cops.

My buddy Cael and I cautiously approached the men, and in our most polite and respectful way, tried to tell them that the 'policia' were headed this way! They both split up and the cops chased them. It was all very fun. I saw the sword get thrown in a small landscaped area around the side. Cael and I both decided not to tell the cops where the sword was. Both of those Arab men were detained but later released.

A couple of nights later, the Arab man who had been wielding the sword came and thanked me for not grassing (ratting, snitching, etc.) him up to the policia. They had been local cops - Guardia Civil - and had decided to release them without charges being filed. He was very polite and explained to me that anything he could do for me would be his pleasure. Well, being on the run as I was, I decided to ask him about a passport. He said that it would take a couple of weeks, but that he'd get back to me. We traded cell phone numbers, and that was that.
Two days later I got a call to meet him down at a Moroccan bar. Outside, in his Mercedes, he showed me about 10 or 15 passports from France, Spain, England, and I think there may have even been a Canadian or two. He then told me that they were easy to get because the policia were selling them to him and the other 'Brothers' for next to nothing. They were then getting pictures of the people who wanted passports and sending them all off to France where some artist would insert the new photos into the passports.

Voila, now Joe Terrorista becomes Johnny English with entry into almost every country in the free world . . . including the United States.

He also explained to me that he would be able to get travelers checks that were stolen, and then doctor them up so that they could be used again. He was giving 30 cents on the euro for those or selling them for half price. He could also get drivers' licenses and other supporting documents. That was how he did for all of the Brothers that were coming up from Morocco, Lebanon, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and the list goes on.

To tell you honestly, I still don't know why he decided to confide in me all of this. It seemed like a huge security risk. I mean, we were barely a year after 9/11. Anyway, I handed him some photos of me and decided to see what he could produce. He said he'd call me, and we split.

Something about all of this didn't sit well with me. I'm a bad guy and all, but I don't kill innocent people. Terrorists seem not to have a problem with non-combatant casualties, and if you're making moves for a bunch of would be terrorists, then . . . you're a terrorist too.

I decided to make a call to an old friend. He knew some people at the CIA, and they were more than a bit interested. Unfortunately, they wanted me to fly out to Barcelona and meet the Station Chief at the embassy. Now, you see, I'm still on the run. Well, I'm not a genius, but I think they'd have just loved to take me into custody right then and there. So I politely declined his offer and told him to call me when they decided what course of action they were going to take.

I didn't hear anything for a couple of days. I was working at the club, and something strange happens. I am approached by two Americans, who present black 'Diplomatic' passports to me to get into the club. At first I'm thinking that they are trying to see if they can get a rise out of me. I deliberately said something to the other door guy in Spanish and handed him the passports. He then nodded and let them into the club.

They were probably inside for twenty minutes or so before they came back out and hung out at the door. I guess that some company (CIA) guys are good operators, but most of the ones that I've met were clueless morons. You can't take a kid out of Harvard or Yale, and then make him a spook in six months. As far as I know, the only good spies left are English, Russian, French, or Israeli. American spies throw cash around for a week, and then take down a target. Lots of press; lots of nonsense.

I was waiting for the moment where they might say that they were here to take me into custody or something, but then . . . who the hell am I? It's not like I'm public enemy number one. I went to a freakin' gun show and caught an indictment. After a couple of minutes, one of them told me that they work for the state department, and that they would be interested if I knew anything about Middle Eastern men on the island doing anything strange or out of place. The thing about Ibiza is that nothing is taboo or out of place. But that being said, I figured that they had been sent by the embassy in Barcelona, and that they probably were trying to do some good. I still had a patriotic flame burning a bit inside me. Not a fire, mind you, but I still believed in what America stood for. I guess I figured that if I helped, it would make my most heinous 'crimes' seem a little less awful when compared to the bigger picture. I would help them.

I told them that I had seen some things that could be related to the security of our borders. They then conveyed to me that they were very interested in what I had to say. They told me that they'd be in touch, whatever that's supposed to mean.

They never explained how they were going to contact me, exactly. We didn't exchange numbers or anything clever like that. But then, this is the CIA . . . so I'm sure they have all sorts of incredibly brilliant methods those commoners like myself can't possibly imagine. So I nodded. They nodded. And that was that.

I went back down to the club where I had originally met the passport-sword-guy. I figured I'd do a little pre-op recon. I decided to take a couple of notes: make some rough maps on the location, and some other tactical notes (entry into the building, access, egress, perimeter, etc.), the kind of stuff that spooks would eventually have to do if they were going to hit the place. After doing this I memorized what I could, coded the rest, and then destroyed the original notes.

I then made a list of the items that I would need to be provided by the spooks to properly do my job: digital camera, satellite secure phone or burst transmitter, small caliber pistol that can be silenced, portable recording device, chewing gum that turns into high-explosive. Well, that last one didn't make the final list.

You may wonder why I thought they might want to use me to do their dirty work. I would love to tell you that it was because I'm trained commando with experience in the intelligence field, or that I spoke four of five languages, or because I was a world champion mixed-martial-arts fighter, or even that I was just a cleverly placed insider that had already established rapport with the bad guys. But no, none of that was the reason. It was more like plausible deniability. If I get caught, I'm just some rogue convict on the run from the U.S. Government. They'd probably even spin it that I was working for the bad guys in some capacity. But it wouldn't come out that it was a sanctioned Op on foreign soil being run without the express permission of the Spanish Government . . . not that the US is known for asking permission.

Regardless, I was in the right place and to position another agent or asset could take months, if not longer, or it might not have even been possible. When you're dealing with the immigration of terrorists every day, your loss is another potential 9/11.

But then they did something very surprising; a move that was so genius that I couldn't have possibly predicted it.

by @nicholasblack60. Please let me know if you like this story enough for me to continue... I don't want to bore people with my sordid past:)

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