by Nathan Ronen
The soldiers of the King’s Guard, stationed outside the mosque, opened fire at the crowd; it was no longer clear who was shooting at whom.
Arik watched the screens with a clear mind, suddenly realizing that all of the activity was merely a diversion. Therefore, he focused primarily on what was going on within the temple. The large, heavy titanium doors withheld the pressure from the enflamed mob outside, attempting to make its way in. Bodyguards who had lost their cool laid the kings and presidents down on the floor and shielded them with their bodies, drawing their guns in utter hysteria.
And then it happened.
From his seat in the control center, Arik couldn’t spot who gave the signal, but the soldiers of the King’s Guard, comprising the inner circle around the king’s entourage, turned as one, aiming their weapons and beginning to shoot at the entourage at zero range.
Arik yelled into his two-way radio: “Nail them from above, shoot them in the head!”
The command was unnecessary. The sharpshooters of Sayeret Matkal were firing precisely from above, starting to eliminate the traitorous soldiers one by one. Simultaneously, Arik spotted the French bodyguards exchanging shots with the Moroccan ones. Arik watched the central screen in horror as the camera zoomed in on the king’s entourage, seeing through the camera in Louis-Pierre’s glasses that the king had collapsed, bleeding from his chest and ear. Immediately afterwards, he saw Louis-Pierre collapse as well, dragging the king to a concealed corner with his last remaining strength.
The phase of loss of control began. From the command shelter, it seemed to Arik as if it was very dangerous to roam around the mosque. The kings’ and presidents’ bodyguards opened fire in order to rescue their VIPs, while French soldiers shot the bodyguards who looked like terrorists to them; no one could distinguish friend from foe. Everyone was shooting at everyone else, while the Israeli sharpshooters above tried, per Arik’s instructions, to clear a path of escape for Louis-Pierre.
What the fighters didn’t know was that the event had become an immediate media sensation. TV crews from all over the world were broadcasting the event live, and within seconds, it became the focus of global attention.
At those very moments, next to the floating floor upon which the Grand Mosque had been built, three rubber speedboats emerged from the sea, and fifteen frogmen disembarked from them, bursting out of the water like mythological creatures, armed with special Russian APS underwater assault rifles. They shed their diving suits, tossed away their scuba fins, split up and began to run toward the Grand Mosque, holding a “battering ram” explosive charge, intended to break through the mosque walls with powerful Semtex plastic explosives.
The French Commando ambush force shook off the fishing nets camouflaging its members and opened fire at the frogmen. Some of them were felled by the shots, while the remaining ones ran back toward their boats. One of the boats exploded, and the remaining two spun around and took off.
The battle was over. Now began the drama of saving the king and Arik’s friend. Arik left his command shelter and ran with his gun drawn toward Louis-Pierre. A member of the Royal Guard emptied a cartridge in his direction, but Arik shot him in the head and kept running, with Commander Lambert at his heels, covering him with a submachine gun emitting constant rounds. The officer on duty and several technicians were left behind in the command shelter.
Arik found Louis-Pierre semiconscious, and yelled to Lambert: “Run and get a doctor here ASAP.”
Chapter 78
Rescue at the Grand Mosque, Near the Imam’s Stage
Louis-Pierre remembered the sudden explosive sound of automatic weapons, growing gradually louder. He heard the round that hit the king, and saw him collapse by his side. He grabbed hold of the king’s body and pulled him down, mindlessly shooting at whoever had hit him. He knew he had to drag the wounded king to a hiding spot. A grenade falling next to him exploded, causing him to lose his hearing and experience intense vertigo. The arc of the grenade fragments’ distribution hit only those standing, and not those kneeling on the floor next to it. He didn’t remember if he yelled out, “Arik, I need you here…” before his consciousness grew dim. He felt blood flowing from his ear, and his neck was soaked with blood as well.
This wasn’t his first time on the battlefield; however, this time, he was fighting for his life. Dimly, he saw members of his force, wearing masks and clad in black, storming toward the Moroccan soldiers wearing pale camouflage uniforms who were shooting at the king’s entourage. The soldiers were yelling, “Allahu Akbar,” and assaulting the king’s entourage, indifferent to the massive fire directed at them. They seemed to be drugged.
Suddenly, he felt something hard hitting him and a wave of pain. The wave swooped in, growing more intense until it struck again, dropping him to the floor. He looked around him. His men were advancing, firing their submachine guns. The silencers made the bullets emerge with rhythmic barks. He saw his force screaming and shooting at the soldiers advancing to their deaths in the name of the Great Allah, and the soldiers dropping with a hole in their forehead or the back of their neck.
Louis-Pierre knew the wound had opened somewhere in his left shoulder, close to his neck. He felt the slippery wetness flow and soak into his shirt, under his ceramic flak vest. He tried to cry out, “Medic,” but the word would not leave his mouth. A paralyzing pain took hold of the left side of his body, and his left hand, holding the gun, dropped like the hand of a broken doll.
He looked at the body of the king, sprawled out below him on the floor. The king’s eyes were blank. He had no pulse, with one entry wound in his forehead and another in his eye. Several more bullets were embedded in his chest.
Louis-Pierre dragged himself to a dark corner. While crawling, he apparently lost his special glasses. His hand slid down the coarse fabric of his vest and discovered that his left shoulder was soaked with his blood. His pointer finger fumbled in search of an exit wound. A moan escaped him as his finger alighted on the wound, which was twice as large as his fingertip. He grasped the meaning of this immediately: he had been shot with a hollow-point bullet. The amount of blood flowing freely, like a running faucet, worried him. If the bullet had hit a major artery, it was almost certain that very soon, he would lose consciousness and bleed to death.
Louis-Pierre was beginning to black out when he felt strong hands grabbing hold of him. Someone swung him into the air, and he found himself loaded onto the shoulders of a tall, sturdy man who carried him toward a dark corner at a run. The man was yelling out commands in an incomprehensible language. Louis-Pierre examined him with hazy awareness. The man’s face looked familiar, but he couldn’t remember how he knew him.
The stranger extracted a butterfly knife from the holster on his ankle belt and began skillfully cutting the buttons of Louis-Pierre’s flak vest. Ripping the vest and shirt off his body, he extracted a small packet, the size of a pack of cigarettes, from a hidden pocket in his belt and laid out its contents on the floor. Louis-Pierre gazed at him as he swooned, trying to remember. The man produced a tiny Maglite flashlight and held it between his teeth, illuminating the open wound and rapidly assessing the situation.
Louis-Pierre heard the “Shit,” that the stranger blurted out. Apparently, the situation was not good. The stranger kneeled over the open packet and picked up the first of four syringes laid out side by side. He removed the lid and injected all of the iodine within the syringe into the open wound. Louis-Pierre grunted with pain.
The man tore the packaging off a gauze dressing and thrust it with a skilled finger into the exit wound on Louis-Pierre’s shoulder, as Louis-Pierre screamed in pain. He then picked up the second syringe, poked its tip inside the wound and pushed the plunger. A coagulant flowed into the open wound.
Now came the most important part. The stranger opened the third syringe and emptied its entire contents into the entry wound. This syringe contained a biological ‘superglue’ intende
d to stop the massive bleeding and create a barrier. A strange scent of acrylic glue spread through the air, mingling with the smells of blood and sweat. The stranger picked up the fourth syringe and powerfully stabbed Louis-Pierre’s thigh with it. This was a jet injection of anti-tetanus serum and broad-spectrum antibiotics.
Arik held the flashlight with his teeth and illuminated the wound. The bleeding had stopped. He sat down next to the unconscious Louis-Pierre, heaving a sigh of relief.
The commotion of a group of soldiers running in his direction reached his ears. Arik grabbed his pistol and flattened himself against the ground, holding the gun before him, but then heard Lambert yelling in French, “It’s here!” and Arik waved them over with his flashlight. A collapsible gurney clicked open next to him, and a French medic kneeled down and examined Louis-Pierre in the beam of a headlamp affixed to his forehead.
“You did all this?” he asked, and Arik nodded and gave him the first-aid kit that included the empty syringes.
“Superglue?” the doctor asked in disbelief, examining the contents of the syringes.
Arik nodded again. “Israeli biologic superglue. It’s called Omryx.”
“That’s amazing. Where did you learn that? Monsieur, you saved his life. That bullet tore through his main artery.” The doctor inserted an IV of blood as well as an infusion of saline and carbohydrates, into Louis-Pierre’s vein. He was hoisted onto the gurney and disappeared along with the French doctor’s whispered expression of gratitude.
Arik rose to his feet. The Grand Mosque was oddly quiet. Many bodies of Royal Guard soldiers who had been shot in the head were sprawled over the bodies of guests and bodyguards. The quiet moans of the injured calling for help echoed from every direction. The emergency services that had been on their way to the site of the attack had themselves been attacked by a terrorist cell lying in wait for them outside, which had thrown grenades at them, hitting the ambulances with RPG launchers.
Arik rose and began looking for the bodies of General Kadiri and Prince Mansouri. They were nowhere to be found. There was no sign of them, as if they had disappeared into thin air. Admiral Lacoste was not there either.
What Arik didn’t know was that TV cameras belonging to all the major networks were broadcasting his form as it zigzagged through the mosque, shooting as he made his way toward the king’s entourage. Everyone began to ask, “Who’s that hero wearing a ridiculous outfit, running around with his gun and shooting terrorists?”
Chapter 79
The Rapid Retreat from Casablanca
Arik exited the mosque into the massive courtyard and observed the scale of the massacre in amazement. The screams of the wounded mingled with the moans of the dying, captured under the toppled remains of the large minaret. A cloud of dust was still hovering in the air, infused with the pungent smell of explosives. There was no sign of emergency services personnel.
Apparently, he had lost his earpiece while rolling around in the midst of the battle. No one could hear him talk. As he entered his command shelter, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, lowered the register of his voice and said, as quietly and deeply as he could, “Forces, count off!”
The answer, arriving in Jonathan’s melodious voice, was like the gurgle of a fresh-water fountain in a desert oasis. “Everyone’s here. Our forces sustained no injuries in the battle. Other than the sharpshooters, no one fired.”
Arik heaved a sigh of relief. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Pack it up. Collapse all equipment, including munitions. Jonathan, tell the pilots to get to the plane and start it up. Check with Joe Amar to establish the quickest route to the airport.”
In clipped military jargon, Jonathan responded, “Roger,” indicating acknowledgment and promising a rapid execution.
He heard Jonathan ordering the force to assemble next to the “Azeri delegation” tent in thirty minutes.
The climbing, scaling and rescue team fighters glided down from the ceiling on steel-reinforced nylon ropes.
Arik was no longer there. He was consumed by the thought that Kadiri had managed to make his escape along with Prince Mansouri, and the fact that Admiral Lacoste was nowhere to be seen made him come to the inevitable conclusion that the French had acted traitorously. He remembered the admiral’s words: “Morocco is France’s domain, and as a superpower, France has its own agenda.”
Arik called Joe Amar on his Chameleon. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“You remember talking about the head of the snake commanding the whole affair and orchestrating things from behind the scenes?” Joe Amar asked excitedly.
“Well?” Arik responded, impatient.
“Since we left you this morning, hijacked the police cruiser and stashed it in a hiding spot, I kept hearing someone over the police network calling out directions to the terrorists, like a director instructing the actors when to enter the stage…” Joe Amar said.
“What exactly do you mean?” Arik asked.
“Someone came on the police band and said, ‘Phase One, repeating, Phase One,’ and a few seconds later, the big explosion in the Grand Mosque minaret happened, after which I heard the same weird voice on the police band saying, ‘Phase Two…’”
“What do you mean, a weird voice?” Arik asked in confusion.
“It wasn’t a voice with a Moroccan accent. He did speak Arabic, but he had a strange accent, maybe Russian, or something else I can’t identify. Definitely not Arabic,” Joe Amar said confidently.
“Did you happen to see if there was a match between that voice and the sample I gave you this morning?” Arik asked hopefully.
“I did. I tried to give you his GPS location, but you weren’t responding, and then I noticed his location kept changing. I think he’s constantly switching cars or cruisers. Apparently, he’s got collaborators in the local police force or security agencies.”
“That son of a bitch is walking around here. I’m going back to the mosque. I want to look at the dead terrorists’ faces. If they’re not local, this is a leap in terms of global al-Qaeda activity.”
Joe called back a few minutes later. “Jonathan told me to join him on the plane. You wouldn’t believe the chaos on the police band right now. I just heard the chief of police announce to all forces that the king is dead and that his brother has seized control and is calling himself Moulay Hassan the Third, which is actually the name of the future heir to the throne, still a minor, son of King Mohammed the Sixth.”
“Can you check with your sources where Kadiri and Prince Mansouri, the minister of the interior, are at the moment?”
Joe got back to him a short time later: “Apparently, the moment the shooting began, they fled through a hidden door to a secret tunnel. It turns out the royal helicopter took General Kadiri and Prince Mansouri to Rabat, where the coup council is assembling tonight.”
“What’s that noise of a siren rising and falling that I hear from the city?” Arik asked in concern.
“The chief of police just announced a general curfew and called all police cars to instruct people to go back to their homes and stay there. Moroccan TV is broadcasting mournful music and keeps repeating the announcement that in a few hours, Prince Al Mansouri will appear on air and address the public as the new monarch.”
As the force began its retreat toward the airport, they could already see tanks moving on chains toward the center of the city and the government offices.
At that moment, more than anything, Arik wanted to capture the owner of the odd voice, Iman al-Uzbeki. He simply did not know how to do it without exposing his forces and putting them at risk in view of the impending curfew and the country’s unstable state. He was certain he would meet the red-bearded man again sometime in the future. It had taken him twelve years of relentless pursuit to eliminate his previous rival, Imad Husniyah, Hezbollah’s chief of operations in Damascus.
Arik’s two-way radio came to lif
e suddenly, and after a bit of moaning and crackling, he heard a familiar voice. “This is Admiral Lacoste, can you hear me?”
“This is Arik Bar-Nathan, over,” Arik said. “I assume you’re calling from the device I gave Louis-Pierre?”
“Affirmative. Where are you?” the admiral asked.
“On my way to the airport,” Arik said, sitting in the shelter serving as a command center as it sped north. “I have to get out of here before the curfew begins. I don’t want to be in a position where I have to force my way out by opening fire at the local security forces.”
“Wait for me at the airport. We have some loose ends to tie up. I’m sending a helicopter to pick you up.”
“Where are you?” Arik asked.
“I’m on our aircraft carrier, Charles de Gaulle, a kilometer away from the coast of Casablanca.”
“I’ll wait half an hour for you, then I’m out of here,” Arik said. “I’ll be at the end of the runway, in an Ilyushin aircraft with its tail painted in the colors of the Azeri Republic and its engines on.”
“I’m sending you a Puma helicopter with Commander Lambert. You’ll be happy to hear that Louis-Pierre is out of danger, and is on his way to a hospital ship. Besides that, you’re famous. Every TV station in the world kept replaying your heroic scene and the footage of you rescuing Louis-Pierre.”
“Did you manage to locate Iman al-Uzbeki?” Arik asked.