“Your French is not very convincing,” he said when I finished.
“That’s because it’s Italian.”
He waved his hand, dismissing me. Except that he wasn’t sending me away—he just wanted me in a position where I couldn’t talk. This was accomplished by the guards. One came up and gave me a kidney punch. The other took me in a choke hold and coaxed me toward the floor.
Unlike Skinnyboy, this guard had real power. His forearms were thicker than telephone poles, and the press of his knee against my back as I went down felt like a crowbar. My legs buckled, and I had to use my hands to keep myself steady.
My right knee reminded me it had been taking a lot of abuse lately. My left knee wasn’t crazy about its recent past either.
“The Christians are a dog’s race,” said al-Yasur. “You have degenerated even further from the Jews. This is to be expected. The seed of the bad tree becomes an even worse tree as time goes on.”
The imam was off to the races. For the next fifteen minutes he talked about the downward evolution of the human race due to the influence of Christianity. In his worldview, every ill known to man could be blamed on or traced to a Christian: poverty, illness, the success of American Idol.
I suppressed a yawn, then several more. I can see why alcohol is banned in Muslim countries—half a beer and I would have been snoozing on the floor. Finally, one of his assistants leaned in close to him, and whispered something in his ear.
Al-Yasur looked at me. “I have to teach this evening. You’ve heard the text. I have a mind to take you with me, as an example. Though I’m sure the mosque walls would tremble to have an infidel between them.”
Skinnyboy said something in Arabic. Imam responded. Apparently they were talking about what to do with me, because presently the guards took hold of my arms and marched me back to the little hut.
I was disappointed not to be guest of honor at the mosque. I’d been looking forward to making the roof fall in.
* * *
Abdi had been talking with one of the guards while I was gone. The man was a Nigerian, and had lived in Mogadishu briefly. He claimed to have seen Abdi’s uncle’s restaurant, though Abdi thought that unlikely.
“He is a stranger in Yemen,” Abdi told me. “All of them are. He was brought here for the fight. They knew the trucks were coming weeks ago, and have been planning ever since.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say. There were bad men in charge—that was his excuse. They had to be killed. Even the driver.”
“Why?”
“There are conflicts—he is too low to understand or know much.”
Abdi was right on that score, and he’d made a fairly good assessment of the situation. Bringing in bodyguards from outside of Yemen meant, or at least implied, that al-Yasur didn’t trust the people in his own country, which in turn meant there was a power struggle going on. But that information wasn’t of immediate use.
“What are they planning to do with us?” I asked Abdi.
“You, for ransom. Me…” He put his lips together. “We have no money,” he said tightly. “Maybe—they kill me.”
“Don’t worry about a ransom. It’s not going to come to that. If it were a question of money, I’d pay. But we’ll be gone before they even figure out who to contact.”
“How?”
I went to the window and took the nail out of the crack where I’d put it. “Start scoring the edge of the mortar here where the brick meets the window. I’ll find another nail.”
Abdi took the nail eagerly. As mindless as the task was, it filled him with hope, and he dug at the brick.
* * *
Two hours later, enough of the mortar had been loosened that I was able to push it out. Unfortunately, I pushed a little too hard—the brick tumbled onto the ground before I could grab it.
The hole it left wasn’t quite large enough for Abdi to squeeze through, let alone me, so we went to work on the next brick. There was a sliver of a moon out; it gave us enough light to see what we were doing, though everything beyond the wall remained pretty much in shadow. Abdi and I worked like maniacal ants, scraping and scraping on both sides of the brick until our fingers and hands knotted. Needing a break, I put my nail down and walked over toward the door, flexing my fingers and arm. The compound had been quiet since the departure of the imam and his entourage about an hour before; under other circumstances I might have welcomed the peaceful bliss of the countryside.
I had just put my ear against the door, thinking I would listen for the guards, when I heard a dull humming sound in the distance, something like a vacuum cleaner with a muffler on it. I’d heard it before somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it.
In a flash, I realized what was going on.
“Down!” I yelled to Abdi, running over and throwing him to the floor. “Down!”
There was another flash, and the room exploded. SEAL Team Six had decided to pay a visit.
(II)
I’d love to tell you about the operation in great detail, explaining how the team took down the compound without incurring a casualty of their own. I’d love to describe the way they silently took care of the posted lookouts, incapacitated the guards, and stormed all of the buildings in the compound.
I can’t, though, and not because I’m sworn to secrecy. I didn’t see any of it. I didn’t hear much of it either. I’d no sooner thrown Abdi to the ground than the door blew open. The flash-bang grenades were still going off. The grenades are non-lethal—well, I wouldn’t want to swallow one—but render most people deaf, dumb, and blind long enough to be subdued. Before I could even cough, two SEALs trussed me like a lamb waiting for the butcher. Cuffed hand and foot with flexcuffs, I was rolled next to Abdi.
I expressed my gratitude freely.
“You such-and-sos,” I yelled, using words other than the ones my editor has supplied here. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Commander Marcinko, please relax,” said one of the SEALs in a slow-Georgian drawl that would have tenderized a slab of beef on a roasting spit. “We’ll let you all go once the area is secure.”
“What the hell did you tie us up for?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re under orders to treat everyone like they’re hostile,” continued the SEAL. “Even you, Commander Marcinko.”
“How do you know who I am?”
I didn’t get an answer. Securing noncombatants is standard operating procedure, and it wasn’t as if we were manhandled or ill-treated. But cuffing us was a bit over the top, especially since they knew who I was.
After we’d been on the floor for twenty minutes or so, I heard two or three sets of boots come into the building. A voice that could only belong to a chief petty officer barked.
“You can let that asshole Marrr-chink-O up,” he growled. “I don’t think even he could screw this up at this point.”
I grinned. The chief 32 was an acquaintance whom I’d raised practically as a baby. When I first met him, he was a squirrely-looking preteen looking for advice on how to get into the SEALs. I took him under my wing, offered encouragement and the occasional kick in the seat of wisdom as he progressed. Despite my help, he had not only managed to become a member of the Teams and then DEVGRU, but had actually thrived. Some people are born to achieve no matter what handicaps they labor under.
We exchanged a few terms of endearment after my bonds were cut and I was raised to my feet. The chief tried to claim that I owed him money from a bet gone bad at our last social encounter. I countered that I had in fact paid; it wasn’t my fault that he had decided not to grab the money from the G-string in which it had been placed.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked, pointing at Abdi.
“My terp,” I told him. “We needed a Somalian. He’s done a good job.”
“Take the terp outside,” Chief told the others. “Grab a cigarette break.”
“Chief, none of us smoke.”
“Then burr-ache something else.”
The house w
as quickly vacated.
“Damn new guys,” griped Chief. “I gotta teach them some vices.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Can’t say.” Chief winked at me. “Have to talk to the head shed on that one.”
“You are the head shed.”
“Marcinko, you curse me like that again, I’m going to have to do something about it.” He lowered his voice. “Can’t say. The walls have ears here.”
“Who’s in charge of the operation?”
“Lieutenant Colby would be the officer in charge here. Whole operation is actually under the domain of—”
“Wait, don’t tell me.” I should have seen this coming two thousand miles ago. “It’s a CIA operation with a guy who wears thick glasses and squints a lot?”
“Magoo,” said Chief. “Never seen a man whose last name fits him better in person. You’ve met?”
* * *
The SEALs had come for al-Yasur. The operation had been planned for months, ever since the Christians in Action intercepted communications indicating that the old-line elements of al Qaeda were planning on shaking up the drug trade and reinforcing their role in al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula at the same time. They saw prescription drugs as a profitable loophole in Islamic law, and intended to move the operation in that direction. There had been resistance, however—some of it probably instigated by the CIA itself. In any event, the agency had seen the conflict as an opportunity to get al-Yasur.
Was my presence a coincidence?
Ha. And Santa Claus just wanders down a billion chimneys every Christmas.
Upon hearing the plans to get al-Yasur in Yemen, the current administration balked. They had just concluded a major diplomatic pact with Yemen and Saudi Arabia, and feared that the raid in Yemen would start a diplomatic firestorm. The Saudi situation was especially touchy. If the Saudi princes might raise the sort of hell the Pakistani MPs had raised after Osama was brought to justice, the result might be an oil embargo and serious damage to the world economy—and the president’s chances of reelection.
“No raid in Yemen,” the administration directed.
Which threatened to torpedo the whole project, until someone at the CIA came up with the notion that while “arresting” a bad guy would be bad publicity, “rescuing” an American would be the opposite. The plan was back on, as long as they could find an American to rescue.
Guess who.
“I was set up from the beginning?” I asked Chief.
There may have been a few other verbs and adjectives used, but that was the gist.
“Three weeks ago, someone started talking about you.”
“Magoo?”
“I heard it came from someone higher. But…”
“Higher” meant only one person to me—the admiral. His was exactly the sort of devious mind that would think nothing of putting an American citizen in a dangerous situation to save a few thousand lives.
I admired him for it. In his position I’m sure I would have done the same. I also wanted to kick his ass for not telling me what was going on.
Murphy, though, had thrown Six a curveball. The imam had left a while before and not returned, messing up their plans to assassinate him.
I mean, to coax him into freely surrendering and repenting the error of his ways.
Unsure where he was, they had hidden themselves in the house and outside the compound, waiting for him to return. The problem was, they couldn’t wait all night. They needed to be out of Yemen and on their rendezvous vessel within two hours, or there was a good chance they were going to swim home. SEALs do like to swim, but it was a bit much even for them.
“Lieutenant’s trying to get permission to move,” said Chief. “We’ve got it narrowed down to three places. But we had to drop off some personnel when we lost one of the helos coming in, so we can’t get to all three. We can get two. Murphy’s working overtime tonight.”
“I know where he went,” I said.
“You do?”
“He’s giving the Sermon on the Mount at a local mosque. He gave me a private preview.”
“No shit?”
“I wouldn’t shit you. You’re my favorite turd.”
Chief shook his head. “Such a mouth.”
“Let me talk to the lieutenant.”
“Yeah, all right. But listen. You might want to salute. He’s got a bit of a hard-on for you.”
That wasn’t meant as a compliment, let alone a reference to his sexual preferences. While Yours Truly is long gone from the active rolls, the legend lives on, and continues to piss off a decent percentage of the brass.
Mom would be so proud.
I didn’t salute. I did call him “Lieutenant.” He was equally pleasant.
“What the hell do you want, Mar-chink-o?” he said when I walked in the door. Was it a coincidence that he was standing in the same spot where al-Yasur had lectured me a few hours before?
In fact, now that I think about it, there was a bit of a resemblance.
“It’s pronounced ‘Marcinko,’ Lieutenant,” said Chief. “Soft c.”
“That’s not all that’s soft around here. What the hell do you want, Mar-chink-o?”
“I know where the imam went.”
The lieutenant’s mood changed instantly. Now I was his best friend.
Well, not quite.
“Damn it,” sputtered the lieutenant. “Are you going to diddle around all day, or you going to open up the flytrap you call a mouth and share your information?”
“He went to preach at a mosque. He left about two hours ago. He may still be talking. He’s pretty long-winded.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You can’t find the mosque?”
“Oh, I have a pretty good guess which one it would be. It’s just off-limits.”
Chief explained that the mission had been approved by “the highest levels.” That approval—some might call it interference—included a long list of THOU SHALT NOTs.
At the top of the list was THOU SHALT NOT GO INTO A MOSQUE.
“I don’t think that’s much of a problem,” I said. “If you know where the mosque is.”
“Listen, Mar-chink-o.” The lieutenant’s tone suggested I was more than a little dense. “I don’t go around disobeying orders.”
“Who says you’re disobeying orders?”
“You’re suggesting we go into a mosque. My ass will be court-martialed faster than you can say Leavenworth.”
“You’re not going into the mosque. I am.”
(III)
The word “dubious” does not begin to describe the lieutenant’s attitude toward my proposal. He dismissed it, waving his hand at me and telling Chief to get me out of his sight. Chief escorted me from the building apologetically.
“We’ve been training on this one for a while,” he told me. “The lieutenant has been on the top team tracking al-Yasur. He was in Pakistan a while back, and we almost got him there. We were going after him in Africa, but at the last minute someone tipped him off. And a sandstorm screwed up another mission.”
“Nine lives, huh?”
“He’s got more than that.”
“Your lieutenant been in charge of every operation?” I asked.
“Every one. Unluckiest son of a bitch in the navy.” Chief rubbed his chin. He had a scar there that I recognized—he’d gotten it in a bar fight during his first leave. It was then that he knew he had made the right career choice, or so he claimed.
“Your ROEs are what screwed you,” I pointed out. “But we can fix that. Send me there, I’ll drag him out, and then you can do the rest. Or you can claim I was being held there. That was the original plan, right?”
“Not in a mosque. We were reasonably sure where you’d be. Place has been under surveillance for months. There’s only one other safe house along the route the truck takes. We trained on that one, too.”
“You know that, the lieutenant knows that, but nobody else does. And screw the mosque crap. They’re us
ed by terrorists and crooks all the time. They have no right to sanctuary.”
“I’m with you, Dick. But it’s not my call.”
He walked me back to the building where I’d been kept prisoner.
“If I was in charge,” said Chief, taking a cigarette from his tac vest, “and I said you could go for it, what would you do?”
“Well, I’d go into the mosque,” I said in my best old-timer’s voice as I bent and held my back, “I’d go into the mosque to pray and make sure my prayers were answered.”
* * *
A half hour later, with their time on the ground already over an hour, the lieutenant concluded that the operation to arrest al-Yasur was a bust, and ordered a full evac of the premises. The helos were just taking off when a fresh call came in:
An American citizen was in deep shit nearby.
“I cannot ignore an American citizen in danger,” declared the lieutenant. “Turn these helos around.”
That was the way the press eventually reported it. Events on the ground may have been slightly different.
(IV)
0155, on the ground in northern Yemen
A stranger pauses to remove his shoes outside the mosque in the small city of Te’h’run. The mosque is nearly as old as the city itself, which was a trading post in the hills before the Ottoman Empire conquered the known world. It is a good-sized building, with a large, open area where the men pray. Women are not allowed into the prayer area proper, and must content themselves with one of the porches, which are closed to the elements but open to the main hall via an arched wall.
Lit by candle, the place is filled with more shadows than light. But this doesn’t bother the speaker, who has been talking now for more than two hours, and looks as if he can talk for several more.
The mosque is attached to a school, which has played a key role in the continuing struggle of the faithful as they seek to undo the horrible injustices imposed by the Infidel West and its audaciously evil plan to poison Islam. The preacher notes all of this, meeting with nods of approval from the crowd. About three dozen men sit or kneel on the floor nearby. A few have eyes nearly closed, but most of the rest are at absolute, rapt attention.
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 24