The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) Read Online Free
Author: Joseph Nagle
touch soon with the details.”
A dial tone filled the senator’s ear.
CHAPTER TWO
TYRANNY IS TYRANNY
PARIS, FRANCE
T he old man gently set down the phone into its cradle and stared at the book that was laid next to it. He traced his bony and aged finger down its spine and over the title—Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States .
History was his love.
To him, there was nothing greater than holding the knowledge of mankind in one’s hands, to be enlightened by the truth. He was a vociferous reader—from the classics to the obscure. The more he read, the more he realized how little he knew.
He loved the way the insignificance made him feel; he knew that it was by far mightier to be an insignificant genius—to be a philosopher among boys—than to be one of the masses that wallow in ignorant, listless credulity.
He knew the truth. It was his sworn duty to uphold it—it was the duty of the Order.
He was their leader.
The heavy book on America’s history was no longer his focus. His studies would have to wait.
With Faust now in their grip, the White House could be theirs.
Reaching again to the cradled phone, he picked it up and dialed.
When the call was connected to the man on the other end, he began to speak. There was no need for him to introduce himself; the man who had answered already knew who the caller was and listened.
“Seated on the cloud was one like the son of man with a crown of gold on his head and a sharp sickle in his hand.”
The old man’s words resonated loudly through the mind of the listener on the other end of the line. He had thought certainly this day would never come, but here it was.
He answered the old man. “The time to reap has come, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”
And as abruptly as the conversation had begun, it ended.
Again, the old man gently returned the phone to its cradle. Picking up Zinn’s book, he started with chapter four: Tyranny is Tyranny.
He smiled at the irony and continued from where he last read.
CHAPTER THREE—THREE WEEKS LATER
OPERATION MONGOOSE
SOUTHWEST
OF JALALABAD,
AFGHANISTAN
S taff Sergeant (SSG) York paused at the base of the White Mountains and drew in a deep breath. The terrain was harsh; the day was as drought ridden as the previous thirteen that he had been in country. SSG York and the rest of his Alpha team, 7th Special Forces Group, were southwest of Jalalabad and west of the border that demarcated Afghanistan from Pakistan in a region known locally as Kofe Sofaid.
Operation Mongoose had just begun, and the team had its orders. York’s senses were on fire as he inched his way through the dirt.
Earlier that morning, at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Salerno, SSG York had risen from his cot at 0300 hours in preparation for the airborne insertion that would commence the day’s operation. From his metal canteen, he had sipped on his version of coffee—a thick sludge of Army-issued instant coffee grounds mixed with a splash of water—while studying a map of the mountain that jutted ominously before him now. Over his morning coffee, he had memorized every contour, crag, and line of the mountain.
There was no doubt in his mind: this was the place.
Before the team donned its pitch-black RAM air parachutes and boarded into the guts of a Chinook, the Special Forces team went through a standard pre-mission brief. It was fast, and their objective was made clear: find the cave complex that housed Abu Mohammed Ibrahim—the leader of the terrorist organization al-Qaeda—isolate and secure anything of intelligence value, and destroy the complex.
If possible, apprehend Ibrahim.
When their pre-jump checks were completed, one hour before the sun would peek over the horizon, the highly trained men of the twelve-man Special Forces Alpha team—Green Berets—loaded onto a MH-47G Special Operations Aviation (SOA) Chinook. The twin-engine, tandem-rotor helicopter rose quickly, reaching nearly eighteen thousand
A dial tone filled the senator’s ear.
CHAPTER TWO
TYRANNY IS TYRANNY
PARIS, FRANCE
T he old man gently set down the phone into its cradle and stared at the book that was laid next to it. He traced his bony and aged finger down its spine and over the title—Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States .
History was his love.
To him, there was nothing greater than holding the knowledge of mankind in one’s hands, to be enlightened by the truth. He was a vociferous reader—from the classics to the obscure. The more he read, the more he realized how little he knew.
He loved the way the insignificance made him feel; he knew that it was by far mightier to be an insignificant genius—to be a philosopher among boys—than to be one of the masses that wallow in ignorant, listless credulity.
He knew the truth. It was his sworn duty to uphold it—it was the duty of the Order.
He was their leader.
The heavy book on America’s history was no longer his focus. His studies would have to wait.
With Faust now in their grip, the White House could be theirs.
Reaching again to the cradled phone, he picked it up and dialed.
When the call was connected to the man on the other end, he began to speak. There was no need for him to introduce himself; the man who had answered already knew who the caller was and listened.
“Seated on the cloud was one like the son of man with a crown of gold on his head and a sharp sickle in his hand.”
The old man’s words resonated loudly through the mind of the listener on the other end of the line. He had thought certainly this day would never come, but here it was.
He answered the old man. “The time to reap has come, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”
And as abruptly as the conversation had begun, it ended.
Again, the old man gently returned the phone to its cradle. Picking up Zinn’s book, he started with chapter four: Tyranny is Tyranny.
He smiled at the irony and continued from where he last read.
CHAPTER THREE—THREE WEEKS LATER
OPERATION MONGOOSE
SOUTHWEST
OF JALALABAD,
AFGHANISTAN
S taff Sergeant (SSG) York paused at the base of the White Mountains and drew in a deep breath. The terrain was harsh; the day was as drought ridden as the previous thirteen that he had been in country. SSG York and the rest of his Alpha team, 7th Special Forces Group, were southwest of Jalalabad and west of the border that demarcated Afghanistan from Pakistan in a region known locally as Kofe Sofaid.
Operation Mongoose had just begun, and the team had its orders. York’s senses were on fire as he inched his way through the dirt.
Earlier that morning, at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Salerno, SSG York had risen from his cot at 0300 hours in preparation for the airborne insertion that would commence the day’s operation. From his metal canteen, he had sipped on his version of coffee—a thick sludge of Army-issued instant coffee grounds mixed with a splash of water—while studying a map of the mountain that jutted ominously before him now. Over his morning coffee, he had memorized every contour, crag, and line of the mountain.
There was no doubt in his mind: this was the place.
Before the team donned its pitch-black RAM air parachutes and boarded into the guts of a Chinook, the Special Forces team went through a standard pre-mission brief. It was fast, and their objective was made clear: find the cave complex that housed Abu Mohammed Ibrahim—the leader of the terrorist organization al-Qaeda—isolate and secure anything of intelligence value, and destroy the complex.
If possible, apprehend Ibrahim.
When their pre-jump checks were completed, one hour before the sun would peek over the horizon, the highly trained men of the twelve-man Special Forces Alpha team—Green Berets—loaded onto a MH-47G Special Operations Aviation (SOA) Chinook. The twin-engine, tandem-rotor helicopter rose quickly, reaching nearly eighteen thousand
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