by Jeff Rovin
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Leeward Point Field, Guantánamo Bay, Cuba
July 23, 12:00 p.m.
There were endless quotes about mice and men, about human beings planning and God or nature or fate thwarting them. Nonetheless, as recently as yesterday morning, if Chase Williams had been given an unlimited number of guesses, he would never have imagined that he would be in the same country where Roger McCord had helped to prevent Captain Salehi from getting his nukes, thus teeing off this crisis.
The sad irony was that until the previous morning, that was exactly the job a highly experienced portion of his team did every day. Brainstorming the “what ifs.” And they still missed Salehi and his scheme. That was troubling enough, but so was his other sharp concern: if Op-Center had missed Salehi—and their focus was greater than at the other agencies—it frightened him to imagine what State, CIA, the FBI, the NRO, and other institutions were missing.
Which, the more he thought about it, is what truly impressed him about what General Lovett had conceived. A mobile force too small to be noticed, able to vanish back into their respective services when the job was done. No doubt the general had cover stories to explain what happened if any of them perished: lost on a survival mission, killed in a crash, quarantined with some communicable disease.
Berry had sent Williams intelligence reports on Yemen, and the former Op-Center director had forwarded those to the team—minus the point of origin. Any question about why a DCS was running a military operation, and how he was funding it, could put Berry in prison. In principle, Williams did not approve of billions of dollars of black fund money provided by taxpayers. That had been his first reaction when he went to the Defense Logistics Agency, and it hadn’t changed.
But Berry is a fundamentally honorable man, Williams believed. And his efforts got us this far while everyone else was still in buffering mode.
Williams watched his C-40C aircraft being fueled and loaded with the gear they would need. The jet was a Boeing 737-700 with added winglets and a variety of highly sophisticated avionics and various structural and instrument upgrades. To the lay rider, the interior was indistinguishable from one, big first class cabin. The military kept one at the ready at Guantánamo to collect and return visiting members of Congress and the cabinet. As Williams stood there in air-conditioning that was too old and too little for the heat, he pondered the dangers of a squad like Black Wasp. If they could be sent to a danger zone like Yemen and survive—still an “if”—what could stop Lovett or a successor from sending Black Wasp after a president or senator?
Then there were diplomatic considerations. Whoever was in the safe house with Salehi had obviously escorted him to the airfield. When they returned, the men would find two injured comrades in the parking area and two dead men in the stairwell. There were also the men killed on the Navet. The parachutes did not appear to have any markings to identify their country of origin, but there were those eyewitnesses they had permitted to escape. The U.S. Embassy to Trinidad and Tobago would have to take the Fifth on all of it.
Which, as it happens, would not be a lie, Williams thought.
He wondered what General Lovett would think about not having killed the smugglers. Williams did not think the general would share his thoughts with the team but it would certainly factor heavily into their mission analytics. He wondered if they would get additional instructions before they reached Yemen.
I wonder if there will be an opportunity to show mercy in Yemen, he thought.
Williams had made a point of not discussing their debrief with the Black Wasps. They had been taken to the secure room in turn—Breen, Grace, then Rivette. There was no outside discussion among them that Williams was aware of. The only conversation Williams had was with Breen, requesting that he be permitted to send the JAM laptop and smartphones to Washington. The major had no problem with that, and they were passed along to the lieutenant commander to be sent to the deputy chief of staff at the White House. Each of the Black Wasps then ate in the mess in silence, after which Williams had folded his arms, put his chin on his chest, and managed to nap. The next thing he knew it was time for the ship’s MH-60 Seahawk to ferry them to Guantánamo Bay.
Whatever the team had not talked about on the LCS, there was a decided chill here. Grace and Rivette had chatted a little—about weapons, it seemed from the way they were sharing and handling them—but they had not spoken with either of the other men. Nor had Breen and Williams spoken. He could only imagine that the major—with his law-and-order background—was harboring some of the same thoughts and concerns as Williams.
The squadron commander who had brought them here came to get them a half hour later. He was a brawny young man who had a distant look; moving terrorists in and out had to wear on the soul. Not their captivity; Williams had yet to meet a single member of the military, other than one chaplain, who felt sorry for the enemy combatants held here. It had to be the hate that got them—hate coming from the prisoners, hating them back because of what they stood for.
But the squadron leader was still a professional airman, like their driver at Fort Belvoir, and the team was brought on board with care and efficiency.
After takeoff, a crewmember opened the three footlockers that had been brought aboard. These contained clothes, dictionaries and phrasebooks, and identity papers printed from emailed files—it turned out that Berry maintained a considerable documents operation at the Defense Logistics Agency. There were only rudimentary cell phones. To be seen using smartphones or tablets would invite theft.
There was a generous supply of Arab clothing at Guantánamo. It was used to replace the worn attire of longtime inmates. Though most of the inmates were men, women were occasionally brought to the facility, which enabled Grace to select a niqab from what she found, since there was little to be done to make her features look Yemeni. She wasn’t bothered by a partial loss of peripheral vision; she had trained extensively wearing a blindfold to give herself an advantage in nighttime hand-to-hand combat. The heat and breathing, however, would be a challenge. She started practicing at once—and suggested everyone do likewise.
“When I work out, I perspire,” she said, her voice muffled by the fabric. “Nothing gets out that smell. Our clothes should be the same.”
The others agreed and were soon settled in for what would be a sixteen-hour flight to Riyadh, and then a chartered flight to Jizan. They were supposed to be accompanied on the Saudi Arabian leg of their journey by Salman Al-Saud—fitting, the chief risk officer of the powerful Al Rajhi Bank. When Berry had texted the information back in the ready room, he answered Williams’s unasked question: “We were roommates and played on the men’s squash team at Princeton.”
Williams wondered if, even then, his friend was preparing for the financial life he now led. He also wondered how, in all their dealings, he had never picked up on any of this.
Berry maintained that there would be no problem getting into the country. Williams was frankly surprised that Berry had not suggested skipping all the niceties and executing a high-altitude jump into Yemen. Or it could be that Berry had nothing to do with that decision.
Maybe Grace scared General Lovett off any kind of jumps for now, he thought.
Either Berry is that good or there was a hole in your personal intelligence radar, he decided. The last resonated unpleasantly. Christ, I should never have made the move from CENTCOM.
This was not the time for that … and, he reminded himself, as even a halfhearted Catholic, he believed there was always room for redemption. That was what he had to focus on.
Williams reminded everyone that it would be about 4:30 in the morning when they landed, and he said he intended to get as much sleep as possible. Just thirty minutes out of Guantánamo, Breen was already out. The others agreed to do the same.
There was not one of them who did not need it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sana’a, Yemen
July 24, 9:10 a.m.
The smartph
one call from Vincent Rowley-James delivered the good news first.
A black screen looked back at the young Trinidadian as he said that Captain Salehi had been safely seen to the jet and the jet had departed without incident.
“But we lost two men killed, two men injured,” he said. “Three of us returned from the airport in different taxicabs, arrived at different times, were unmolested. The attackers have fled, sir.”
A young woman, who also held the tablet, translated what the caller was saying, but Sadi liked to see the faces of the people who were reporting to him. How strong were they? How afraid? How truthful. This man was too simple to be deceptive.
“How did the Americans enter the building?” Sadi asked through the translator.
“In an ambulance,” Vincent said. “Stolen from our doctor. There may be clues … the police are looking.”
“There will be no clues,” Sadi said ruefully. “How will fibers and hair samples help now?”
Vincent had no answer. He appeared, in that instant, not only mute but dumb.
“Where are you?” Sadi asked.
“We are at the apartment. The police are here—I know them, sir. I explained that we were attacked. There was also a gunfight in the swamp … they understand that the Americans are to blame.”
“You did not call on your laptop.”
“No, sir. I am on the roof with my phone. That … that laptop is missing. Along with phones I had collected from the others to maintain security.”
Sadi was not unduly concerned about the laptop. His communications were always routed through an alternate sequence of Sadi Shipping vessels and buoys, making it virtually impossible to trace the calls to him. A trace would show that this call went only as far as a tanker in Venezuela. What concerned Sadi more was the carelessness of the operation. JAM was just one of the many foreign terror groups he financed, but it had proven itself the least reliable. So many young men had left the island to join ISIS, and so few had returned, that rebuilding would take years.
“I want to know the identity of the Americans,” Sadi said. “You had security cameras?”
“In the garage and in the hall—all destroyed, sir,” Vincent said, his forehead now glistening with sweat.
“I want the last images they recorded,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want one thing more,” Sadi said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You very nearly lost an important asset,” the terror chief said, the silky tone of his voice never changing. “And our safe house is no longer … safe.”
“No, sir.”
“To save your life, you will select a finger and bite it off.”
Vincent stared at the black screen as if he were seeing the black heart behind it. He seemed to want to speak; his lips moved but he said nothing. Raising his left hand, he inserted the ring finger deep in his mouth. He did not hesitate to bite down—not from courage but just the opposite. He was afraid he would entirely lose his nerve. He bit down hard, then harder, simultaneously grinding his teeth back and forth. He applied more pressure, then more. He was wincing and a guttural sound gurgled from his throat—a cry of anguish modulated with blood. The soft tissue did not resist as much as he had expected, and soon there was just a bit of skin and sinew holding the finger to his hand. A forceful bite finished the job and he simultaneously dropped his hand and spit out the finger. The phone image wobbled about as he put the phone on the ground in order to pull out a handkerchief and stuff it in the wound. That done, he recovered the phone.
“You may collect the finger and seek a surgeon, I shall not be needing you again today,” Sadi said. “Fail again and I will have you and your parents burned alive. Do you understand?”
Fighting tears of pain, the man nodded vigorously.
Sadi cocked his head slightly toward the translator and the call was terminated.
Sadi rose from the wooden chair and relocated to a circle of floor pillows surrounded by large Tibetan singing bowls. He selected a cushion, picked up a stubby oak stick with one end wrapped in leather, and struck the bowl in front of him with the hammer. The gong resonated through his thin body. For five minutes, each time the tone died, he struck it again. Whatever negativity had collected during the call vanished. His spirit was cleansed and his mind was clear. He looked at the translator who had remained kneeling beside the chair, her head bowed, the ends of her black hijab knotted loosely beneath her throat and hanging straight down, as he preferred.
“Come,” he said softly. “Bring the device.”
The girl picked up the tablet, rose without lifting her head, and crossed the room. Loubna was the most fortunate slave he had ever purchased, educated in Cairo and yet foolish enough to return to Sana’a to visit her ailing mother. Though schooling for women was not forbidden, parents feared for the chastity of their daughters and refused to send them to coeducational schools. That included the presence of male teachers. An uneducated population of women made for a dearth of female tutors. Loubna had the double misfortune of having been trained in languages—a highly valuable skill in Yemen. Perhaps she was consoled, somewhat, that her situation helped to get her medical care for her mother; it was her father who sold her.
The young woman knelt before him, in the same position as before. Sadi extended the last three fingers of his right hand and ran them down the soft, smooth chiffon. Through it, he felt male and female unite in a bond that was as powerful as it was ancient. It completed the process of calming him.
The Trinidadian was correct. The main part of the mission had been a success, however hastily executed.
“I will see the path of the aircraft,” Sadi told her.
The woman brought up a global map that showed the jet well over the south Atlantic. Sadi smiled. It had crossed the region of the sea where the American navy’s 4th Fleet prowled like a school of dolphins—intelligent but helpless. If word had reached Washington of the identity of the passenger, they had chosen to do nothing.
For now, he thought.
He did not wish to underestimate the enemy. They were clever enough to have found Ahmed Salehi and would not give up the pursuit. They, too, could follow his path. Not just to Sana’a but to Sadi.
He would have to do something to take their mind off those prizes.
The first move had been Salehi’s. The next move, in Montreal, had been Sadi’s.
Forgive me for going out of turn, Captain, he thought playfully.
“Loubna,” he said softly. “I wish to communicate with Ibrahim Abdullah.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Aden, Yemen
July 24, 9:26 a.m.
For Ali Abdullah, the tactic was born from the videos watched by his followers. The men, fighters all, were fascinated by the martial arts movies that were sold on the black market. The Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Jet Li films—and also the Japanese movies about samurai and ninjas.
When he had a moment to watch the fuzzy videotapes and bootleg DVDs over their shoulders—films to which he had not been exposed when he attended Oxford University—the ninjas were what appealed to him. Though important, it was not the skill with sword or dagger or pike that was the key to success. It was stealth. The key was not just to move silently but also to torture and kill silently.
That was four or five years ago, early in the Houthi ascension. Now, with both the old and new recruits, it was policy.
In the waning hours of the night, Abdullah and three men had waited in the dark—dressed in black robes and black facial coverings, not minding that they had the aspect of women in mourning. They were concealed apart but within eyesight of one another on the dark dock, behind crates that were waiting for light to be loaded. And they did not use the weapons of the Japanese warriors but their own tools: wire, gun, and thimbles with the ends removed and the edges razor-sharp for putting out eyes. Several nights of reconnoitering had told them that this was the route their target took. A young man on a bicycle traveling the same place, the same wa
y, the same time every night, had to be a courier carrying messages. And no one would need to behave in a clandestine way unless he was bearing reports from a spy to a Saudi agent.
The courier himself was of no importance. He probably worked for the money; otherwise, he would be out fighting for one side or the other. But the men on either end of his journey were of great interest to Abdullah. The job of his team was to undermine enemy forces. That meant everyone who was not a Yemeni and a Houthi.
The men arrived a half hour before the boy on the bike. They took their positions, and waited. When they heard the squeak of his unoiled wheels, the team knew where he was and which of them would have to make the first move. It happened to fall upon Shaher, the biggest and broadest of the group. Abdullah had reminded them all that the boy must be stopped in a way that did not permit him to cry out or allow the bicycle to clatter to the cement. Waiting until the boy had just past and smothering him with his body and massive arms from behind and to the left, the big man was able to accomplish both.
As soon as one of the other fighters had dashed over to grab the two-wheeler, which was resting on Shaher’s hip, the large man hoisted the boy up bodily and, his hand over his mouth, walked him back into the buffering darkness of a cargo container. The other men moved quickly around the boy who was shouting into Shaher’s massive, muffling hand. One of Abdullah’s men relieved the boy of the switchblade in the pocket of his Western trousers. Another punched him hard in the belly to keep him from squirming, and also turning the cry into a moan. The third squatted, pulled off the boy’s sandal and wrapped a wire around the right ankle, just below the bone. He inserted a pencil in a loop formed by the two ends and remained in position.
The panicked youngster was still upright, sucking air through his nose, his feet off the ground. Shaher’s belly held most of the boy’s negligible weight.
Abdullah approached him. He could see the whites of the boy’s eyes become slightly more expansive. He knew that whatever was coming, this was it. The eyes searched for Abdullah’s hands, found them. The warlord held them palms up to show the boy he was unarmed. The eyes did not, however, relax.