Years after the lumber baron was gone, the estate was bought up and improved by an automobile magnate from Detroit. He had a two-story summerhouse built on the island. The mansion-sized house held six bedrooms, each with their own bathrooms, a maid’s room with bath, and a rambling first floor. This floor included a billiard room, music room with a separate chamber for the pipe organ, a library, and a twenty-by-forty-foot indoor swimming pool.
Built on a hillside, the summerhouse had a walkout basement foundation with over a dozen rooms and chambers including a photographic dark room, several walk-in refrigerators, a coal cellar, four huge cisterns holding thousands of gallons of water, and even a single-lane regulation-sized bowling alley that runs along the east side of the pool structure. At the opposite side of the pool is a collection of utility pipes that lead to a six-foot-wide tunnel connecting to a powerhouse two hundred meters away.
The powerhouse holds large diesel-electric generators that supply power to the house and other structures and facilities on the island. The powerhouse is part of the hangar facilities and garage that stand at the southern end of a 1,200-meter landing strip. At the west shore of the island, directly across from the large rise that the mansion stands on, are the boat docks and landing facilities.
The offshore waters teem with fish at different times of the year. Shallow water shoals extend for more than three miles to the north of the main island. The South Wolverine Island Shoals, a long expanse of treacherous shallow waters, extend for more than nine miles to the south of the island. Thirty-foot-deep channels separate the different parts of the southern shoals. The three most dangerous areas of shallow water are marked with lighted buoys. It was to warn boats from this stretch of water and the hidden dangers there that the lighthouse was designed to do.
The geography and location of the South and North Wolverine Islands made them excellent places for sportsmen. But, except for the small spit of land above the sand that holds the inactive lighthouse, the islands are private property. Even the lighthouse was not open to the public, so very few people landed on the posted property of the islands.
The islands were a huge, private playground for the rich of several cities, lying roughly 250 miles equidistant from either Detroit or Chicago. The auto magnate and his family had long since left the area. The properties had gone through a number of hands, each trying to make something more of what was available at the remote location. The previous owner had established a hunting lodge on South Wolverine Island, surrounded by thousands of acres to support exotic imported game.
The owner of the hunting lodge had failed to see his private club become a successful concern. He had fallen on difficult times, both personal and professional, something Paxtun had been able to take advantage of. Obtaining both North and South Wolverine Islands for under market value, Paxtun now had a very large, very isolated facility available to him. That was something his investors had ordered him to obtain for their use.
Now, the hunting preserve and lodge were listed as being closed to the public for renovation and upgrading of the facilities. That explained a large number of workers going to and from the islands whenever the weather permitted. One thing that had not been announced publicly was when the hunting club would reopen, if ever.
Having finished leading the morning prayers with his men, the man called Ishmael sent them out of his suite of rooms. The main room of his sumptuous quarters at the mansion was easily large enough to hold all of his men. Ishmael was a tall, medium-built, intense man. His close-cropped, thick black hair, beard, and mustache framed an oval face with a very high forehead. Shaded by thick eyebrows were bright, intense, dark brown eyes.
Ishmael had been with al Qaeda since its beginnings and had spent his share of time sleeping on little more than rocks. His quarters now were what had been called the “Owner’s Chamber.” The suite had an almost thirty-foot-square room with an attached semicircular enclosed sleeping porch and two separate large combination dressing rooms and baths. Ishmael thought it shameful that just the cupboard space and closets of one of the baths were larger than what many families called a home back in his adopted Afghanistan.
Not that he hadn’t been used to luxury at one time in his life. Ishmael had been born into a privileged family in ‘Ajman, in the United Arab Emirates. He had been educated and raised a devout Muslim, and remained so even when studying abroad in Europe and England. He spoke a number of languages, including English, German, French, and Arabic.
When the Soviet Union had invaded Afghanistan in 1979, the young man who would become Ishmael went to fight the infidel invaders. He joined the mujahideen and took part in the jihad.
The fighting hadn’t stopped with the Soviets abandoning their actions in Afghanistan. The occupation of holy Muslim soil by the infidels from the United States had incensed Ishmael as it had many other fundamentalist Islamic Muslims. It had been obvious to any devout true believer that the U.S. had been bent on driving Iraq from Kuwait solely for its own benefit.
The defeat of Iraq had only been the United States’ opening gambit into the Arabian peninsula as far as Ishmael and his contemporaries were concerned. The justice that had been brought against the United States by the Prince, bin Laden, had been used by the infidels as an excuse to destroy what had become Ishmael’s new home in Afghanistan.
Planning had been going forward for several years for a new strike against the Great Satan, deep in his own homeland. That planning had been modified by the horrendous invasion of Iraq by the U.S. forces as they went forward with their intent of occupying the Middle East. But Ishmael and his men were now in the United States itself, deep in the heart of their enemy. And they would very soon be striking fear in that heart—fear that would reverberate throughout the world and let their Muslim brethren know that the fight was not over.
Paxtun retained his office down the second-floor main hallway from what had been his personal quarters now used by Ishmael. For his own sleeping quarters, he had moved into what was called Chamber 4, part of an extended suite of rooms. From Chamber 4, he could pass through a dressing room and vestibule and be in his outer office.
Made from one of the major sleeping chambers of the original mansion, Paxtun’s office had a large central chamber, sixteen-by-twenty-five-feet in size, as well as an attached bath and separate dressing room. The main chamber was his outer office, that Paxtun used for meetings and such. The enclosed semicircular sleeping porch just off the main chamber was where he kept his private inner office.
Sleeping arrangments were not of major concern to Paxtun at the moment. Since Ishmael’s arrival weeks earlier, he had done little in the way of sleeping. And what sleep he did get was restless and unsatisfying. Ishmael was a demanding taskmaster. Nothing short of perfection was acceptable to him in support of what he considered his holy duty.
Paxtun had yet to be fully informed of the details of the operation. The only thing that he knew was the code name of the attack, Operation Shaitan’s Blessing. That could mean anything and take place anywhere. It made for a situation that he had a hard time accepting. It wasn’t that his conscience bothered him about being responsible for a possible major terrorist attack in his home country. It was the fact that he didn’t know enough of the details to insure that he was protected from possible discovery.
Inside his inner office, Paxtun still felt safe and relatively in control. His extensive knife and sword collection was in cases and racks both on the walls and several glass-topped tables. On the table between the two doors that connected the inner and outer offices was his most recent acquisition. The long, flat wooden case that Hadeed, one of Arzee’s cousins, had brought to him didn’t hold an antique or foreign blade. It did hold the sword made by Reaper’s own hands. Arzee’s relatives had known of Paxtun’s passion for blades, and they had brought him the sword as well as a real prize—Reaper’s family.
The wife and son of the man who had forced him to relinquish his military and intelligence career were in his complete co
ntrol. For the time being, he had them secured in a storage room in the basement. It amused Paxtun to have the woman and child secured in the windowless, concrete-walled room. Twice a day, they were taken out to make use of the toilet facilities. All the rest of their time was spent in their prison room. Even their meals were brought to them there.
Paxtun hadn’t quite decided what to finally do with the two hostages yet, but he had time. They had to be kept alive to insure Reaper’s cooperation—for the time being.
As Paxtun was contemplating the good parts of his situation in his inner office, Ishmael strode in from his room down the hall. His arrival instantly brought Paxtun out of his reverie. The news had come in from Arzee that he had secured four of the Jackhammer shotguns. Any additional weapons would be available in two days. The exotic weapons would help replace part of the firepower confiscated by Canadian customs. Additional weapons would take longer to obtain—there just weren’t any more immediately available.
This was not the news Paxtun wanted to give Ishmael. That the man was a fanatic went without question. Causing him difficulties could set off what Paxtun had quickly learned was a violent hair-trigger temper. Ishmael and his superiors had proved a very profitable group of partners for Paxtun’s enterprises. Now that the time had come to pay back some of those investments with interest, Paxtun was having some second thoughts about the arrangement. It was one thing to very profitably distribute narcotics and build an infrastructure to support activities in the United States. It was quite another to actively take part in a terrorist action within the continental United States itself.
Paxtun had little choice in how events moved forward now. The last group of Ishmael’s men were coming into the country that night. They would be at the island base the next day if everything went according to plan. That was another bit of good news that Paxtun could pass on to Ishmael. But even that news had a bad taste to it for Paxtun.
Once all twelve members of the Sons of Ishmael had joined with their leader, the group would greatly outnumber Paxtun and his handful of men on the island. Ishmael had insisted that there be as few support people as possible on the island to insure security for himself and his men, an insistence that Paxtun had to go along with.
Even the cook and caretaker staff had been removed from the island more than a month earlier. Paxtun had one of his junior men doing the cooking, something that was wearing thin over the weeks. Coming to the island was a strain now, especially after the fare they had been used to from their usual expert cook. He was tired of food that was microwaved or had come from cans. There was no wine at the meals either. Drinking alcohol would be a sin in the eyes of Allah. More importantly, it would piss off Ishmael and his men.
Ishmael entered Paxtun’s office unannounced and without knocking. The arrogance of the man was just another bitter pill that Paxtun had to swallow.
“Good news, Ishmael,” Paxtun said, “the final group of your men have arrived in Windsor. They’ll be brought across the border tonight.”
“You are certain that your procedures will work?” Ishmael said in flawless English. “And that their papers will stand up to the closest scrutiny?”
“No problem whatsoever,” Paxtun said. “The crossing procedure is the same as we used for yourself and the other four groups of men. The papers are the very best available. Each man will have an authentic U.S. government passport with his picture in it as well as a Michigan driver’s license.
“We used the photographs of your men you forwarded to us. The driver’s licenses are as authentic as anything issued by the State of Michigan. No police officer or customs agent would be able to tell them from the real thing. The passports are of the same quality.
“Before they cross the border, each man is given pocket litter to go along with his papers—money, random documents, receipts, and ticket stubs. Those items would mark him as just another tourist out of the thousands that cross the border every day.”
“I will not accept any errors at this stage of the game, Paxtun,” Ishmael said. “There is far too much at stake and the timing is becoming critical.”
“It might help if you let me know what part of the mission timing is tight,” Paxtun said.
“That is of no concern of yours,” Ishmael said firmly. “You are simply to make sure that there are no flaws in the support that is asked of you.”
“No flaws at all,” Paxtun said, trying to steer the conversation away from the delicate matter of Ishmael’s mission. “We have men of the one faith in a number of different areas who have been brought into the plan but have no knowledge of their specific part in it.”
There were more details on how Paxtun had obtained the identification papers that he had told Ishmael. But he did not feel it necessary to tell the terrorist leader all of his secrets.
“The actual border crossings,” Paxtun explained, “were planned to take place at the times of the highest traffic volume. The vehicles used all had multiple passengers and were known to frequently visit the gambling casinos on both sides of the border. Once in Canada, your men were issued the passports with their photos and descriptions inside and their original documents were taken away. For all intents and purposes, they were U.S. citizens from that point on.
“They would cross back into the States by another route than the one the vehicle had originally crossed over by. As far as the customs people were concerned, they were looking at U.S. citizens coming back from a good time across the river. The passports were just a backup, the driver’s licenses alone have proved enough for each crossing so far. The driver knew what to say and coached each person in the van as to just what answers to give at the border.
“Your people came into the country without ever even raising a blip on the radar of customs. The Immigration and Naturalization Service wouldn’t even think to look for them. By the next day, they are on their way here to the island.”
In spite of the detailed and methodic nature of Paxtun’s techniques, and the fact that they had worked flawlessly so far, Ishmael still felt it necessary to prevent his subordinate from feeling too full of himself.
“The loyalty of your people is something I question,” Ishmael said. “You simply buy it, which is not the same thing as true loyalty at all. My men have loyalty unto death for our cause. Your people are less than mercenaries. They betray their own country for mere monetary gain.”
The rebuke was directed at Paxtun and the line about money was intended to sting him. The mild insult didn’t mean anything to him. He had been listening to such for weeks now anyway. But what he had to tell Ishmael next did worry him.
Finally, Paxtun told Ishmael the news about his missing hardware behind the closed doors of his office, quickly adding the news about the new firepower that had been acquired. The reaction of the big terrorist leader was everything Paxtun had expected and feared.
The fact that his mission might have been put in jeopardy by another’s incompetence filled Ishmael with rage. The tall, slender man stalked back and forth across the room like a caged tiger. He paused for a moment and gazed quietly at Paxtun who stood next to his large wooden desk that faced away from the four large windows in the curved outer wall. Then Ishmael crossed his arms and lowered his head as if in deep thought, walking past the desk and near where Paxtun was standing.
As Paxtun took a step closer to Ishmael, the bigger man suddenly turned and viciously backhanded Paxtun across the face. As Paxtun staggered and almost fell, Ishmael lashed out with another stunning backhand with his opposite hand. The smaller man reeled and fell against the heavy desk. Only his hands gripping the edges of the desk kept Paxtun from collapsing to the floor in a heap.
“You think some new toys would cover up your incompetence?” Ishmael snarled. “There is no tolerance for failure. We cannot afford to let mistakes hinder our cause. The only reason you are not dead now is that you may still be able to serve the cause—an arrangement that has paid you very well.
“You have served us well in the past,
” Ishmael continued in a deceptively softer tone. “That is why you reap the benefit of our compassion. You brought us weapons when we needed them to drive the Soviet invaders from our country. Perhaps it was too much for me to expect you to be able to do so again on such short notice.
“Others who I respect told me that you were once a warrior. You have been living here in this decadent country for too long since leaving Afghanistan. You were once hard, but these surroundings have softened you and made you easy. Your own country proved itself false to you and your faith when it abandoned you once. Then it so unjustly turned you out after your service in Bosnia. We are the only ones who have accepted you fully and made you a trusted brother of ours.
“It was arrogant and stupid of you to assume that I did not know of the lost shipment of arms the instant that it happened. Do you consider me so slovenly that I would leave a detail as important as the delivery of such a thing solely up to you? I know that you had to put together a plan for obtaining replacement weapons in a very short time. And that woman and her child that you brought to the island last evening are part of that plan.
“Let me assure you,” Ishmael said in a soft, dangerous tone as he leaned in close to where Paxtun still held himself up at the desk. “That woman and child had better not turn into a threat against us. If anything you do risks me, my men, or our mission, you will be the first one to die. I agree they make good hostages no matter what your original plan may have been. The Americans are soft that way about their own women and children.
“Not that they extend that compassion to anyone else in the world,” Ishmael said as he started pacing the room. “They have bombed our women and children, attacked us out of the sky, and out of our reach. When the much-vaunted U.S. military finally came down to the ground, they did so in their heavy tanks and armored vehicles—smashing everything in their way.”
Paxtun now realized with certainty just how great a fanatic Ishmael was. His fate was inextricably intertwined with this madman who walked about the room, ranting as if he were giving a speech to his men. It was as if the man wanted to keep convincing himself.
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