The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 11: Rebranding

Being the captain for the operation wasn’t so bad. The Al Qaeda people did their level best to create a premature paradise for Abdullereda on Earth. They stuck him in a proverbial garden flowing with wine and virgins, some of each gender; they appealed to Abdullereda’s mortal desires — vice.

He had as many women as he wished: Western women kidnapped in Europe and the United States, some as young as twelve; Muslim women who volunteered themselves for the jihad; Muslim women of the wrong sects or proclivity whose families were slaughtered but they were allowed to live because of their youth and good looks; African women and girls captured in schools or villages, or simply swept off the street because they had no chaperones.

Women, girls — he was offered boys, but declined — alcohol, whatever he wanted Abdullereda got. After a few weeks it became somewhat routine. He wondered why they were doing this, not that he was complaining, but he did wonder. At the conclusion of one of his five daily prayer sessions, a cleric informed him why in no uncertain terms.

“If you do not successfully complete your mission you will assuredly go to Hell,” he told a stunned Abdullereda.

“But I thought this was to prepare me for Heaven,” the dumbfounded pilot replied.

“Some of it is certainly,” the cleric agreed. “The virgins will be there, but the Dhimmi certainly will not be. They will be in Hell with you however if you fail.”

That caused Abdullereda some concern. The difference between the beautiful but sullen, drugged, half-alive Western girls — none of whom performed except out of fear — was in marked contrast to the Muslim volunteers. Those girls felt like they were doing their part in the jihad, which Abdullereda appreciated; they were very thorough and very motivated to please.

The cleric cautioned him, “The Westerners are largely too fearful in this world, but beware! When they are in Hell with you they will seek their revenge.” He looked down at the pilot’s crotch.

Abdullereda was especially fond of blow jobs, and the cleric knew that. What he insinuated was terrifying as it would be repeated throughout all eternity. He nodded to the pilot, and said fervently, “The price of failure is severe and not limited to the fires of Hell. Your family will suffer through more than dishonor; they will be complicit. You have children do you not?”

“Yes,” he said carefully.

“Do not let your sins fall upon your children,” the cleric told him. “The one way, the only way you can fully expiate your sins now is to follow through with the operation and conclude it successfully. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Captain Hussein answered. He gathered his things and made to leave the bordello, telling his spiritual leader, “I must go to the simulator and practice the mission.”

“Excellent,” the cleric told him.

Abdullereda headed back to his quarters where he had a very advanced version of ‘Flight Simulator’ hooked up to an Airbus A380 control mock-up. The jihadists were very thorough in their preparation. As he sat down at the controls the Malaysian felt the need to purify himself, but not through prayer.

He called his son.

“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line, seemingly far away by the connection.

“Abdulla, it is Abdullereda, your father,” he said. “How are you son?”

“Do not call me that!” Abdulla exclaimed, confused. “I thought you were dead. I rejoiced! How is it that you’re not dead? I heard it all in the news. Mother called me, trying to tell me to be sad, to grieve. I could not. After all the times you abandoned us I was ready for an end to it — now this!”

“Abdulla, I understand how you feel; I understand you are not proud of your father. I am trying to change that,” he replied.

“How are you going to do that?” Abdulla asked, sounding angry and yet like all children desperate for their parents to be someone they could look up to, to respect.

“I know I can never make it up to your mother by being a good husband, so I will free her of myself and make sure that she is taken care of for the rest of her life,” he said.

“By faking your death; that is a coward’s way out is it not?” the son said, rejecting the explanation outright.

“No, I will not be faking my death,” Abdullereda said resolutely. “I have learned something from my son. The son has taught the father an important lesson.”

“How so?” Abdulla demanded.

“When your mother told me that you had emigrated to Paris to join the jihad and topple the West from within I was shocked. I had always sympathized with our jihad; but here was my seventeen year old son doing something about it! You took action while I, your father, who should have served as the example for his son, was polluting my soul in search of money and flesh; just like a Western whore! You shamed me Abdulla; you shamed me as your mother’s tears never could. So I have finally found my courage and done something about it.”

“What have you done?”

The son’s voice held just enough hope in it for Abdullereda to continue, to reach for reconciliation. “You know your mother is taken care of financially now; the airline will pay her more than she needs. So I hope to gain forgiveness from you. I have not taken this airplane for me or for your mother but for our holy jihad. I cannot give you the details, but you will see it in the news soon enough.

“There will be great destruction Abdulla. The Zionists will suffer a great defeat, a defeat that will bring about their total annihilation. You can say with pride that it was your father that committed the great sacrifice that began their downfall!”

“You will martyr yourself?” the boy asked breathlessly, hoping against all his experience that his father was being truthful now. “I can’t believe it. After all your lies how can this be true?”

“The testament to my martyrdom is already in the news,” Abdullereda told him. “They know I was the captain. It’s in all the papers, but you know I am not dead as they think. I did not crash the airplane. I slew the dog Christian that was my first officer and took the airplane,” he did not mind stretching the truth for his son a little bit. Abdullereda had a lot to make up for in his son’s eyes.

“What then father, what then?” the boy pleaded.

“Allah be praised it is paradise itself to hear you call me father!” Abdullereda said with tears in his eyes. “I have commandeered the aircraft for the jihad; but my mission is not complete until I take down Zion itself!”

“My father the lion of Islam will strike at the heart of Zion itself!” Abdulla rejoiced.

“My son, I will,” Abdullereda said with heartfelt emotion. “All I ask is that you forgive me. Let me hear it with my mortal ears before I enter into martyrdom.”

“Father with all my heart I forgive you! I celebrate you! Your name will be on my lips with pride!”

Tearfully father and son parted. Abdullereda threw himself into his work. He had sinned enough. His son ensured that his heart yearned for martyrdom. To redeem himself in his son’s eyes was a greater gift to Abdullereda than any harem or hoard of gold.