Assault on Saint Agnes

By Joseph Courtemanche

When terrorists assault Saint Agnes Church in Saint Paul, Minnesota, they expect to find a congregation of lambs: they get Bobby Kurtz instead. An unrepentant Cold Warrior, Kurtz destroys the terror cell with violent finality. Against his will, Kurtz is pulled back into the life he left behind decades before. He reluctantly picks up the burden of hunting the terrorists in our midst. He risks his life, and his marriage, in a single-minded pursuit of victory over evil. Working with a shadowy government agency, Kurtz uses all of his skills and experience to foil a plan that would plunge the Twin Cities back into the Stone Age. The final battle rages across the plains during a Christmas Eve blizzard in a story that will leave the reader pleading for more of Kurtz and his team of experts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: apgroup
• Release date: Mar 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310446566

Joseph Courtemanche

Joseph Courtemanche is a former Police Officer and Middle East/North Africa analyst. He is a distinguished veteran of the Naval Security Group of the United States Navy, and an Arabic linguist with training at the University of Minnesota and the Defense Language Institute (Honors Graduate).Joseph holds several military awards, including two flag letters of commendation for his work in providing real-time intelligence support to commanders in the field. His experience provides the background that's crucial to his writing in the thriller genre. He is a graduate of the University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, and holds degrees from two other colleges as well.As a performer, he's appeared on television in a variety of commercials, and does voice over work for both radio and television. He delights in doing his own audio books.His greatest joy is working as a professional Santa for the last fifteen years, appearing in a number of television spots as the Jolly Old Elf.He lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota with his wife and dog. Both of whom tolerate him fairly well.

Book preview

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

This is a work of fiction. Isn’t it? Most of the things that take place in this book could happen in the near future in the United States. Every single one of them has already taken place in some part of the world.

I have purposely made mistakes in some technical issues in this work to avoid providing comfort or advice to terrorists and other morons. Replicate what is described at your own risk. Be aware that it may prove fatal if you choose to try anything in this book (except prayer).

While this work is based on real life experience, none of the details violate my nondisclosure agreements, nor is any of the material classified. Close enough to be interesting, but all drawn from non-military experience in the technical details and thus no threat to national security.

Religious and theological items, including specific doctrines of the faiths involved, are not meant to be deep. To steal a famous bit and twist it, …Jim, I’m a writer, not a theologian. It’s fiction, folks, not the seminary. Please enjoy it for what it is and refer to the Bible for additional study.

I am not now, nor have I ever claimed to be, a member of any Special Forces unit. The illustrious members of the Naval Security Group, and the Direct Support teams, were an iconic bunch of spooks that did some crazy stuff, but we were not Special Forces. I was privileged to hang around, train, and deploy with those characters on occasion, and consider them some of the greatest patriots you could ever meet. I stole all sorts of things from them to write this book. Nevertheless, let’s get real: I’m more of a headphones kind of guy than a run-fifteen-miles kind of guy.

Oh, one other thing: there is a Christian worldview in this book. I don’t apologize for that, or mixing it with real-world warriors and their attitudes. You have been forewarned that I’m a fan of Jesus. And, so it goes…

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This would be as long as the book if I thanked everyone who deserves it. Unavoidably, some will be left out. I apologize for that.

I’d like to thank God. Because if He hadn’t planted that seed in my DNA at the beginning of time, my writing skills would not be a huge part of who I am.

Next, my wife Kip deserves credit for not beating me to death with the keyboard when I asked, I know you’re busy, but can you tell me…? I love you, Kip. I couldn’t have done this without you.

My Mom, Ellen. She hauled me to the bookmobile as a kid, carrying books for me since I couldn’t carry them all myself. In Minnesota. In February. Her love of reading and writing were a big piece of the puzzle.

My Dad, Oliver. He instilled the never-quit attitude that has gotten me through countless major challenges. I only wish he were here to read this book.

My family, including my in-laws, for listening to me babble about writing for years with no fruit in sight. Here it is!

My beta readers. Mary, Carol, Chad, Brenda, Bruce, Jim, Brian, Rick, Gann, Gunny M, Kathy, George, Nancy Buehler (who wrote my first fan letter), Heidi Dru Kortman, Mom, Bob, Doug, David, Billy, Anthony, Richard, Robert, and Bryan. I profoundly apologize if I’ve missed any of you.

To all the contest judges: you made me a better writer.

A huge bag of Kudos to Dylan, Deb, and Anthony at Athanatos Ministries and their Christian Novel Contest.

Both Alton Gansky and Julie Gwinn helped me in the editing process.

Arteen Khachekian, who took my pictures and produced a world-class cover.

My friends Larry W. Timm and Renee Farmer have been invaluable.

Michael DiMercurio: wisdom, encouragement, humor. Thanks, Michael.

Ronie Kendig for a well-timed email of support.

My local writing group (aptly named Minnesota N.I.C.E.) gets kudos as a family of fellow lunatics with voices in their heads.

Anne Baxter Campbell. Long ago, Anne asked what I wrote. I replied, Evidently unpalatable trash. I explained it and went back to my salad. Two minutes later she told me how to fix it. God sent someone to keep me on track and not throw in the towel in premature defeat. Thank you, Anne.

Mr. Raymond Slater, my sixth grade teacher, took a hyperactive little pain-in-the-rear and said, Why don’t you write a story? I blame him. I also am very grateful for his push.

Peter Craig was my sea daddy. He had faith in me; he was my friend, and my mentor. He was the best of a very select group and he made me what I was as a linguist in the fleet. (Mikey Burress will likely dispute that notion. Mikey, you laid the foundation and Pete just iced the cake. Thank you both.)

I lost Peter to suicide a decade ago. It was probably the saddest day of my life. I remember him now, and ask you to love and care for your veterans. We all have dark days, but if you can shine some love and light in, it will help.

If I’ve forgotten any of you in giving thanks, let me know and you’re in the next book for sure. If I remember. I’m getting old.

Joseph Courtemanche

Foreword

It never happened.

I wasn’t there.

Cold War U.S. Submarine Force saying when asked about classified operations

Spooks. Freaking spooks, I remember thinking. My first encounter with this breed of military espionage specialist happened two days before my nuclear fast attack submarine, the USS Hammerhead, was to shove off for the North Atlantic and a classified destination. I was the communicator—the radio division officer—and I came down the weapons loading hatch and ladder to the upper level of the operations compartment early that November, 1983 morning as always and punched in the combination lock to the radio room, my division’s domain. The combination didn’t work.

I tried it a second time. Still didn’t work. I looked down the passageway at one of my radiomen, who had a dark look on his face. Don’t even bother, Mr. D, he said. The spooks done come aboard at midnight and took over radio. Tossed out all our equipment. Installed all their own.

It was only then dawning on me that the passageway was impeded by large stowage cases, stacked on the bulkheads, being readied to be moved to be stored somewhere. Angry at the occupation of my spaces by an arrogant and unknown force, I darkened the door of the captain’s stateroom. Bear in mind, this was at a point in my life when the most frightening words in the English language were, The Captain wants to see you in his stateroom.

The skipper looked up from his writing desk. Captain, I said, how the hell am I supposed to do my job if I’m locked out of my own divisional spaces?

The commanding officer smiled. You’ll figure it out. The spooks need the space for their equipment. And you don’t have the security clearance to see that stuff.

Cap’n, I’ve got a top secret special-compartmented-information clearance. You’re telling me it’s classified higher than that?

He smirked. Mr. DiMercurio, that clearance isn’t even high enough to know that their stuff is in there. Now get out of here.

Freaking spooks.

On that operation, the submarine lurked off a coastline at a classified distance from a classified target and listened to things that the government denies knowing. Suffice it to say, if the submarine had been caught and captured, many of us would never have been heard from again, and the other side would deny any involvement in our disappearance. The mission revolved around what the spooks were capable of doing from an invisible position beneath the surface of the waves.

So it was that three decades later, when my friend and former spook, Joseph Courtemanche, told me he had written a novel about a retired spook who becomes involved in a counterterrorist mission, I was intrigued. For after all, what could be more effective than a spook who knows how to use a weapon and has God on his side? And even worse, an old and wise spook?

One of the reasons I loved this novel is that the main character isn’t some all-powerful, handsome, washboard-abs movie star. He’s the guy next door, the guy one pew over, the guy with the gray beard and the generous Santa Claus physique. But he’s the guy who gets the job done in a way the kids would never have imagined.

If there is one thing the terrorist incidents of the last two decades have taught us, however, is that sinister evil is remarkably innovative and effective, and it often succeeds no matter the tools of the good guys.

So the good guys went to work to even the score, and the result was Bobby Kurtz.

Michael DiMercurio

Author of Emergency Deep

CHAPTER ONE

Saint Paul, Minnesota

05 February—1021

Burnt gunpowder and incense whirled through the remains of the stained glass windows, seeking escape from the violent tableau inside. Saint Agnes Church was still standing but badly damaged, wounded in her soul. Bobby Kurtz lay flat against the cold floor—unwilling to budge from his spot as he scanned the church for any sign of movement. His head snug against the tile, Bobby listened for the inevitable thud of the Saint Paul Police Department SWAT team spilling into the blood-stained sanctuary. He passed the time plucking shards of stained glass from his face and hands as the seconds ticked by in the frigid air. He took in the broken church and marveled that it wasn’t filled with more corpses after the last few minutes.

To his left lay one of the priests—bloodied, a bit disoriented, but alive. What kind of sadist sends a team of terrorists, including a suicide bomber, to a congregation of innocent people during Mass? Bobby shook off the nausea and adrenaline that came with every gun battle. He’d won. Only one dead parishioner traded for six dead terrorists. Good numbers but only by God’s grace. It was time to prepare for the cops. Father, stay put. A maelstrom is going to break loose when SWAT comes in here; they’ll play rough if you even twitch.

The stillness of the room was violated in a chaotic crescendo of noise as the doors to Saint Agnes flew open. Nothing prepares a man for the impact of a flash-bang grenade—nor is there a how-to guide on what to do with yourself after a terrorist attack knocks you for a loop. Bobby couldn’t hear a word the rifle-toting cop shouted, and he didn’t move his head an inch.

I’m unarmed and will do what you want but I’m deaf from the flash-bangs. The grenade noise had temporarily destroyed his hearing, but his vision was largely unaffected. After the morning he’d had, hearing much of anything was going to be tough for a while.

His arms were yanked back and cuffed in one rapid motion by an unseen assailant. The officer in black coveralls was not taking chances while his partner put the cuffs on: the rifle never wavered from a spot between Bobby’s eyes. The muscles in his shoulders burned with pain. Pressed down on the floor with someone’s knee in his back, shackles encircled his ankles, and a hobble cinch was looped into the handcuffs. Before he realized what was happening, a musty smelling black bag enveloped his head, and he was plunged into darkness, his final vision that of the M-4 carbine’s muzzle. His shoulders screamed in agony when unseen hands picked him up and hauled him away.

CHAPTER TWO

Saint Paul, Minnesota

05 February—1033

Half dragged, half carried down a long set of outside stairs in the brittle cold, Bobby landed with a bang on a hard surface and bounced just once before someone sat on his back and smashed him to the floor. His tormenter jerked as the vehicle screeched away in violent acceleration, and almost fell off Bobby’s back when the van swerved to avoid a news crew that rushed the police barriers to get their footage.

Hey, make sure they pick up my guns from the pew. I want those back.

That drew a kidney punch.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a groan. He simply said, Knock off the rough stuff.

No further blows rained on him, but nobody responded either.

Ten minutes later, they came to a stop. A horn sounded and the vehicle moved again. His hearing was coming back slowly. That was the first good thing to happen since he’d parked his car outside the church.

The man sitting on top of him got off and dragged him from the van. Dumped into some kind of wheeled chair, they rolled him through a series of mantraps. He could hear the grating buzz of an electric lock when the chair stopped and then a brittle clack of a chunk of metal slamming into the frame behind him as they moved forward. He was going deep into a protected facility of some kind.

Bobby gave up trying to keep track of the turns. He had no idea where he was, where he was going, who surrounded him, and nobody was giving any verbal clues as to what was happening.

He almost fell out of the chair when it jerked to a stop. Someone unwound the hobble strap from around his ankle shackles. His knees popped and creaked as the pressure was relieved.

Several hands yanked him out of the chair and mashed his bagged head on a flat surface. Hold still or you’ll regret it. We’re going to remove your cuffs. Do not struggle or you will get Tased. The voice was coldly matter of fact: no malice, but a clear threat of violence behind the silky veneer of an authority figure who was used to tightening screws on prisoners.

As the cuff came off his right wrist both hands jerked around in front of him and he was ensnared once again, arms out in front this time. Another set of hands removed the shackles around his ankles simultaneously.

Sit.

A chair hit the back of his knees so fast that he had no choice but to fall backward and land hard on the unyielding surface. The black bag was ripped off his head, and he blinked at the bright light. The door closed with a thud. Someone behind him coughed and he turned his head to look. The skin on his scalp stung from the slap that followed. No words, no admonishment, just the flat of someone’s hand smacking him above the ear. The message was clear: keep your eyes forward.

Bobby was chained to a ringbolt in the center of a table. In front of him was a two-way mirror. He looked like a homeless guy who’d bathed in blood. Cuts adorned his bald head and blood clotted his shaggy beard. His clothes were a complete write-off. The mirror gave him a glimpse of the man who’d hit him. Three feet behind him stood a black-clad man in full body armor. Face covered by a balaclava, he was white around the eyeholes, had an M4 for his long arm, and some kind of pistol in a quick-draw rig on his leg. Best of all, he was still wearing his name patch on his armor next to the Saint Paul Police Department emblem. He displayed three stripes on his shoulder in bright yellow. Time to play with his mind a bit.

Excuse me, Sergeant Broecker, I’d like to use the restroom and get a drink of water. I’ve got to recycle some of this morning’s coffee.

That brought a startled jerk from the man in the mirror. How do you know my name? He answered his own question a moment later and tore the Velcro nametag and rank insignia off his coveralls.

Too late, Twinkles. Now, how about a head call for your favorite prisoner?

Broecker nodded to an unseen voice in his ear and left the room. They were taking pages right out of Field Interrogation 101. Broecker, and whoever Broecker’s boss was, had fouled up when he was allowed to wear identification into the interrogation room. They were going to make up for that by isolating Bobby to teach him a lesson.

That wouldn’t work. Bobby had spent countless hours alone in different situations. He was fine with his own company. With a rich imagination and time on his hands, he managed to keep himself amused.

The learning curve for his keepers would be steep. He’d play nice for a while, but then his patience would run out. This wasn’t the Third World and Bobby wasn’t some mujahadeen from the provinces. He was an ex-cop and a former Navy spook. He knew the rules even if he hadn’t always played by them.

CHAPTER THREE

Saint Paul, Minnesota

05 February—1352

Bobby jerked awake. His mouth tasted like something found in a discarded tire, and his muscles ached from the morning’s trauma. After a few seconds, his bladder reminded him he had urgent business. Hey, you on the other side of the glass. I still need to go to the bathroom.

A movie version of the morning’s events ran through his head while he waited. It was as unpleasant in memory as it had been in reality. The terrorist attack had come from nowhere and nearly cost him his life. His wife would be horrified when she got home from work and he told her the story of the abattoir he’d created in the church. After five minutes, he repeated his request. This time he waited just two minutes. All right. I’ll take care of it myself.

This was a method reserved for hostile prisoners, kidnap victims, and those you were going to torture: force them to soil themselves. It humiliated and degraded the prisoner, softening them up for interrogation. It wasn’t how a prisoner in local police custody was treated. Somebody was playing by a different set of rules and Bobby didn’t like it.

The room was utilitarian with only a table, two chairs, plastic wastepaper basket in the corner, ball-style cameras right out of the Vegas discount casino catalogue, sound-dampening panels on the walls, and the kind of crummy carpeting sleazy hotels in third tier suburbs would be embarrassed to install. The table was anchored to the floor like someone was expecting it to take heavy rolls on a ship at sea.

He hoped his captors were watching from the other side of the glass. His handcuffs were attached to a foot of slack chain, so he had some room to move around. He stood and slipped a hip up on the table’s edge and rolled into position, sitting with his legs straddling the chain. As quickly as he could, he started bouncing up and down on the table, slamming his booted heels into the surface. It took less than fifteen seconds to kick a hole in the surface. The ringbolt holding his handcuffs broke free of the table as it cracked down the middle.

The door flew open and balaclava clad cops rushed into the room. Three had Tasers at the ready. Unless you want to zap me, it would be more reasonable to uncuff me and take me to the men’s room.

Two officers held his arms tightly, and another officer undid the cuffs. Two more cops kept their distance and covered him with Tasers. They allowed Bobby to hop down from the table under his own steam, and marched him to a bathroom a few doors down the hall. Judging from the institutional décor, Bobby was in a run-of-the-mill jail facility, belonging to either Ramsey County or the City of Saint Paul, Minnesota. Industrial carpet, a few photographs of assorted elected officials on the walls, and signs marking the doors as Interrogation 1, Janitor Closet, etc., were giveaways that nothing too secret was going on here. This wasn’t a special facility that belonged to the Feds. A cop opened the door to the men’s room and checked the stalls. The two who were guiding Bobby stood directly behind him while he did his business.

The cops on the detail let him put himself together, wash his hands, and get some of the blood out of his beard before restoring the cuffs. The guards didn’t give him long to admire himself before they yanked him out of the bathroom.

He walked down the hall and waited with a smile while they unlocked the door to the interrogation room. None of his handlers spoke or wore anything identifiable on their uniforms this time. Somebody had schooled them fast about prisoner treatment. Perhaps they were handpicked by one of the alphabet agencies. A lot of federal wealth and training had made its way into local law enforcement after 9/11. Maybe some of them had been to the same schools he had gone to in his years of military service. He’d keep that in mind.

Two silent sentinels stood at the back of the room to prevent any further nonsense from Bobby. He sat with his head down, silently praying for ten minutes. After he had a nice chat with God, Bobby turned his head toward the cops he could see in the mirror.

I’d like my attorney, and some water or a cup of coffee. I’ve done nothing wrong, and this is silly. I know the bosses are behind the mirror and you’re just the hired help, so be nice and help an old sailor out, would ya?

No response. Looking up at the corner to his right, Bobby smiled at the camera. I know you’re recording all of this, and it’s going to be real hard to explain why you’re violating my civil rights. Now, get your act together, get me a lawyer, and get me a cup of coffee.

Bobby closed his eyes and settled in to wait. His thoughts shifted to the events at the church just hours ago. It was obvious that the men who attacked the church did not intend to let anyone out alive. Fortunately, they were amateurs. This had been a suicide run, evidenced by the man with the bomb vest standing in the middle of the attack. The gunmen on the perimeter were insurance nobody got away before he could detonate and bring the roof down. Good thing Bobby had shot him first. They were not planning on asking for any kind of ransom, helicopter, or airplane. They were after maximum shock effect and the publicity benefits that would come from the attack.

He was sure that if there were one cell of terrorists in action there were a dozen others scurrying around like cockroaches. Well-armed cockroaches, but cockroaches nonetheless. Bobby planned to be their personal exterminator when he was released.

CHAPTER FOUR

Minneapolis, Minnesota

05 February—1420

Hassan Al Deen logged in to the website to get an update on his cell’s financial status, but stayed for a few hours listening to music from his homeland. If anyone checked his internet browser, they’d think a homesick man was spending time looking back on his childhood. The music and images he’d downloaded looked like albums he might listen to later. Only a Steganography expert would suspect files containing intelligence messages.

Hassan barely heard the disposable cell phone ringing in his kitchen. He hopped out of the chair and raced to answer the call. Too late. No point in checking for a left message or number on the caller identification—both would break protocol. They’d call back.

Twenty seconds later the phone rang again. Yes?

Can you talk?

Idiot. Of course he could talk. He wouldn’t have answered the phone if he couldn’t. Yes, what do you want?

There was an attack on a Catholic church this morning. Federal agents are everywhere. Seven bodies so far, no identities on any of the brothers; there was also an old man who was a member of the church. I don’t recognize any of them and the police are confused as well.

The man on the other end of the call worked for the Ramsey County Coroner and had provided valuable service in the past. He could be trusted.

How did they die?

"Every one of them was shot in the head except the old man. He was shot in the stomach. A single shot except for one brother, he has wounds all over his body. One of the brothers exploded, not