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A PATRIOTIC
NIGHTMARE
The events, people, and incidents in this story are the sole productof the author’s imagination. The story is fictional and any resemblanceto individuals living or dead is purely coincidental.
© 2005 by Don E. Post.
All rights reserved.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Post, Don E.
A patriotic nightmare : a tale of domestic terrorism / by Don E. Post.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-86534-464-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Terrorism—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.O838P38 2005
813’.6—dc22
2005007669
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A PATRIOTIC
NIGHTMARE
1
PORT EL KANTAOUI, TUNISIA
Monday, February 3
Sunday night Yuri Tavanovich received an urgent call from a man in Rome urging him to meet a client in Tunisia to discuss a new construction project—the code for an arms purchase. He grabbed the earliest flight he could using a forged French passport to move rapidly through passport control. He then rented a car and enjoyed the three-hour drive from Nabeul to Port El Kantaoui along the eastern Mediterranean coast of Tunisia.
The day was beginning to fade as the former Russian KGB agent settled into his room at the El Hana Palace Hotel and anxiously awaited his meeting. His room provided an unfettered view over the yacht basin. He walked onto his balcony and gazed out across the blue Mediterranean to the east and watched, transfixed, as a deep, rich, burnt orange sky seemed to explode across the heavens as the sun sank in the west. The azure sea responded surrealistically to the sun’s display, and he felt his tensions melt away.
As he watched boats enter the harbor after a day of sailing or fishing, his gaze fell on a group of children sitting on the wall that edged the cliff north of the hotel. They all wore short, faded pants, tee shirts with holes, and no shoes and were pointing to various boats in the harbor, imagining owning a boat when they grew up. Their giggles and excited talk echoed across the basin and mixed with distant calls of fishermen and boaters in the marina below.
Yuri turned to observe sea gulls gliding blissfully across the orange Mediterranean sky. As he absorbed the scene, he kept looking for the arrival of his Arab buyers who were supposed to arrive aboard a two hundred-forty-five-foot motor yacht named The Medallion flying a Turkish flag. Giving up, he went inside.
The sharp ring of the phone startled Yuri. He had fallen asleep. Picking up the phone, he heard a deep baritone voice softly ask, “Yurgi Tavanbich?”
“Nyet, no, no. Name is Yuri Tavanovich,” he said, slowly emphasizing the correct pronunciation.
“Okay, okay. Yurgi Tabanobisch,” the speaker replied, still mispronouncing his name.
Stupid camel herder, Yuri thought. No wonder they can’t do anything but kill each other off. As soon as all that oil’s gone, they’ll be back herding camels and goats.
The speaker on the line continued in a monotone, staccato voice. “I glad you speak English. We don’t speak French or Russian. We arrive and moor at northern edge of marina, near end of jetty. Why don’t you come dinner with us nine o’clock? We have powerboat pick up you. Pilot of boat is young man, Ali Ashwari.”
“First, I must tell you that I
