Joshuas Hammer km-8

by David Hagberg

  The Far Eastern Division morning supervisor Lieutenant Mark Hagedorn came over from the processing lab with a fresh batch of 100em X 100em transparencies. A third of them were marked with red tabs, indicating that they were infrared-enhanced. “Hot off the press, Maj,” he said. Hagedorn had graduated last in his class at the Academy, but he had the same gift as Colonel Wight. He was able to “see” things. Although his smartass attitude was almost unbearable at times, every supervisor he worked for, including Louise, wished they had a dozen of him.

  Louise looked up. “What did you bring me?” Hagedorn was only a couple of hours into his shift, but already his uniform looked as if it had been slept in.

  “The navy’s gonna be pissed off.” Hagedorn laid a couple of the transparencies on an empty spot on the light table. “Unless I’ve been playing with myself too much and I’m going blind, I think that’s bin Laden in the lower right quadrant.”

  Louise moved a large magnifying lens over the first photograph and studied the image in the lower right corner. It was definitely a man, and definitely dressed like bin Laden. His face was turned to the left, showing his profile. He was looking at a light bloom toward the center of the camp. Louise moved the magnifying lens, but she didn’t need it to see that what she was looking at wasn’t a fire or a secondary explosion; it was a missile strike.

  She looked up.

  “That was the second-to-the-last hit,” Hagedorn said. “But I wasn’t satisfied with the first shots, so I ran these through again, and played with some light values. The flashes from the HE warheads tend to fuzz out a lot of the details.”

  Louise turned back to the transparency. “How sure are you that this is bin Laden?”

  “The computer was about seventy-five percent with the first, but we hit near a hundred percent with the second.”

  Louise switched to the second image, and this time the figure had thrown back his head and seemed to be shouting something up into the sky. There was no doubt in her mind that she was looking at a very-much-alive Osama bin Laden.

  “That one’s after the last strike, so there’s no doubt that the navy missed him,” Hagedorn said.

  Louise cleared the other transparencies off the light table, and Hagedorn spread the rest of the pictures he had brought in sequence. “You’ve enhanced all of these?” she asked.

  “Had to, because we weren’t seeing diddly squat through the smoke, most of which incidentally came from burning diesel. Probably hit their fuel storage area. And the chopper was putting out a lot of smoke too.”

  Louise took her time studying each of the photographs that had been taken at two minute intervals after the attack had ended. The camp was flattened, nothing she was seeing changed her earlier assessment about that. But there were a lot of survivors. She counted at least two dozen, maybe more. But most disturbing was the fact that bin Laden had survived.

  “He’s carrying something,” Louise said.

  “Somebody,” Hagedorn corrected. He laid out three infrared-enhanced transparencies, and it became immediately apparent that bin Laden was carrying a human form.

  In each succeeding image the heat emanating from the body was fading.

  Louise looked up. “Whoever it is was killed in the raid.”

  “That’s what it looks like. The million dollar question is who. I mean bin Laden loves his men and all that, but he had a gimpy leg and he’s not about to dive into the middle of a missile raid and pick up just anybody.”

  Louise went back to the photograph in which bin Laden had gotten to his feet. She could see that he was carrying somebody. She switched the magnifying lens to the next image showing him heading toward the middle of the camp, and then the next three, a cold knot beginning to form at the pit of her stomach. She looked up again and Hagedorn was staring at her.

  “I think I’m going to show these to somebody who might know what they mean.”

  “Your old friend the colonel?” Hagedorn asked.

  Louise shook her head. “You wouldn’t know him. He’s next door in the DO. Name is Otto Rencke. But first I want you to enhance everything we’ve down loaded so far. I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  CIA Headquarters

  Rencke went over to Murphy’s office. Dick Adkins and Dave Whittaker were already there with the general who’d just returned from his home in Chevy Chase. “He’s alive and on his way to Kabul,” Rencke told them triumphantly.

  Murphy was rocked to the core. “Was he hurt?”

  “His phone was going bad so we didn’t have much time. He was ten or twelve miles outside of bin Laden’s camp, and he figured that he could make it down to Kabul sometime tonight, his time. Another ten or twelve hours.”

  “Then what?” Adkins asked. “And what the hell happened to his chip?”

  “He didn’t say about the chip, but he’s going to try to make it to the ambassador’s old residence,” Rencke said.”

  “I’ll see about getting our people over to him,” Whittaker said, but he didn’t sound so sure. “They’re under siege at the old embassy so it’s going to be a problem for them.” “Okay, assuming that he gets that far without running into a Taliban military patrol or the crowds, getting him out of the country isn’t going to be a piece of cake,” Adkins said.

  “We’re not going to leave him there,” Murphy said firmly. “What do you have in mind, Otto?”

  “There’s maybe fifty Americans in Kabul right now, and they have to get out too. It’d make sense if we sent a C-130 from Riyadh to pick them up.” “It’s likely that the Taliban are looking for him,” Adkins said. “If he’s spotted they’ll never let him get close to the airport, let alone get aboard — even if the Taliban do let us fly in.”

  “Mac said that if we could get a C-130 in there he’d get aboard,” Rencke countered, keeping his temper in check.

  “I don’t know how,” Whittaker said.

  “If Mac says he can do something, then we’d better believe him,” Adkins flared. He turned to Murphy. “I can get the plane, that’s no problem, but we’ll have to put pressure on the Taliban government to give us flight clearance.”

  “I’ll call the President right now,” Murphy said. “He promised that if we found out that Mac was still alive he’d give us whatever we needed to get him out in one piece.”

  “I’ll get Jeff Cook started. He can pull some strings, and with any luck by the time the C-130 approaches Afghani airspace we’ll have the clearance,” Adkins said, and he picked up the phone.

  Murphy glanced at the clock. It was coming up on two. “The rest is going to be up to Mac, although I don’t know what the hell the President is going to say to them.”

  “We only hit bin Laden’s camp,” Whittaker pointed out. “It’s not as if we hit an Afghani civilian target. There’s nothing else up there.”

  “There’s more,” Rencke said as Murphy reached for the direct line phone to the White House.

  The general stopped.

  “Mac told me that there’s no doubt now that bin Laden has the bomb.”

  They all looked at him, the office suddenly very quiet. It was their worst fear. The reason they had sent McGarvey into what they all thought was a suicide mission.

  “If he wasn’t killed in the raid he’ll use it against us.”

  “Do we have anything new from the NRO?” Murphy asked, subdued.

  “Not yet, but they’re working on it. The NSA is monitoring the usual lines of communications he’s used in the past, but unless we get lucky we might not know for sure until it’s too late.”

  “Until it’s too late,” Murphy repeated softly.

  Rencke nodded glumly. “Mac wants a SNIE developed for the National Security Council by first thing in the morning. I’ve already called Fred Rudolph and told him what might be coming our way, and INS will have to be notified asap. Mac wants all of our assets worldwide put on alert, because the only way we’re going to stop this shit is if somebody spots him.” Rencke shook his head. “Oh, boy, this is the big o
ne. If bin Laden is alive, and he wants to get a nuclear weapon to the U.S. and set it off, he’ll do it.”

  “We’re pretty good too, Otto,” Murphy said.

  “Yeah, but if he’s alive he’s gotta be seriously pissed off, ya know? He’s gonna be one motivated dude.”

  Adkins put the phone down. “Jeff will arrange the C-130, but they’ll need formal orders. They’ll have to fly down the Gulf to avoid Iranian airspace, but the real problem is going to be Pakistan. The President will have to talk to them for over-flight permission. As it is Jeff figures that the one-way air distance is around sixteen hundred miles. But if they have to fly another route, over India let’s say, it’ll take twice as long.”

  “Can we make contact with Mac?” Murphy asked Rencke. “No, his phone is still on simplex. But he said that he would call again once he got to Kabul. We have until then to come up with something for him. He’ll need an ETA.”

  “We will, Otto,” Murphy said seriously. “You have my word on it.”

  Adkins and Whittaker got up. “We’d best get to it then,” Adkins said and they left.

  Rencke got to his feet. “We can’t leave him stuck there, General.”

  “We won’t,” Murphy said. “What did Kathleen say when you told her.”

  Rencke looked like a startled deer caught in headlights.

  “I know you called her,” Murphy prompted gently.

  “She’s a tough lady, but I thought she should know what’s coming down,” Rencke said defensively.

  “Maybe we should send someone out to be with her.”

  “Already done, General,” Rencke said. “And Liz is on her way in right now. I’m putting her in the loop.”

  “Good idea,” Murphy agreed. “If you hear anything else let me know. But we will get him out of there. And we will stop bin Laden.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rencke said, but he didn’t seem to be very convinced about the second part.

  Bin Laden’s Camp

  “We will talk now,” bin Laden said. The morning was surreal, almost like a nightmare of hell. The sky over the camp was still filled with smoke. The distant mountains, usually crisp in the clear air, were obscured. Below there was a lot of frantic activity as their remaining mujahedeen cleaned up the missile damage, buried their dead and sifted through the rubble for anything usable. Although the order to pack up and leave had not come yet, everybody knew that they could no longer stay here. If the Americans suspected that anyone had survived, which they surely did by now, they might mount another attack. Even if they didn’t, however, there was little or nothing left here except for the facility inside the cave. There were other camps, other caves that had not yet been pinpointed.

  Bin Laden was numb with fatigue and grief. He wanted to run away and hide somewhere until it was time to die. His body was on fire, his left leg ached from the bone cancer eating at his hip and pelvis. Strange thoughts and visions kept popping into his head like lightning flashes, there for one brilliant split second, and then gone. He’d actually managed to do his midmorning prayers, lingering over each word, savoring each as if it were a sip of blessed ice water in the middle of the hot desert. But when he was finished he did not feel the same refreshment of spirit that he usually felt. Sarah, the light of his soul, was gone, and the only thought that allowed him to hold onto even a small portion of his sanity was that he would soon be joining her in Paradise, if indeed she was there. The Qoran said nothing about women in heaven. But Allah was just. He would not abandon her. He could not.

  Bin Laden closed his eyes for just a moment, seeing the missiles raining down on them, feeling Sarah’s lifeless body in his arms.

  “As you wish,” Bahmad said softly. He had read most of that from bin Laden’s body language. He watched the struggle the man was going through with some sympathy because he had been there himself.

  Sarah’s body, completely wrapped in linen, lay on a prayer rug in the middle of the main chamber. When it got dark they would burn it. Bahmad was brought back to the funeral for his parents. He’d felt an impotent rage that he’d tried to quench all of his life. But now, though he wanted to feel some sadness for the girl, that part of him was already burned out. Sarah had been a wonderful girl; a daughter that he’d never had, never would have. They had talked often about life in the West, and she’d hung on everything he told her. And yet he still could not feel the loss. He could feel now was a little sympathy for the stirrings of anticipation for what might be.

  Leaning heavily on his cane, bin Laden walked back from the entrance and settled wearily on the cushions in front of the brazier. A young mujahed brought him tea, and then bin Laden dismissed him and the other guard standing by. They looked nervously to Bahmad who nodded, and they went out.

  “We must leave here, Osama,” Bahmad said, joining him on the cushions. Bin Laden poured him a glass of tea with shaking hands.

  “Soon,” bin Laden said. “But for us there will be different paths.”

  Bin Laden“‘s manner and speech were formal, which was worrisome to Bahmad. The man was coming unglued. There was a holy zeal in his eyes. He’d seen the same look in the eyes of mujahedeen about to go off on suicide missions with ten kilos of plastique strapped to their chests. “I have always followed your orders faithfully.”

  “Yes, you have. And now I am sending you out on one last mission.”

  “Are you asking me to throw away my life?”

  Bin Laden shook his head. “No, my old friend. But you will have to be very clever to walk away from this one. And where you will go afterwards will be up to you. Once your assignment is completed, you will be on your own.” Bin Laden managed a small, coy smile despite his obvious physical and mental pain. “I think that you miss London.”

  “There are some aspects of life in the West that I have enjoyed,” Bahmad admitted. “But no place might be safe for me if you want me to do what I think you want.”

  “Are you a mind reader?”

  “No, a loyal servant.”

  “Of me, or of the cause?” bin Laden asked sharply. He glanced at Sarah’s body.

  “I’ve never known the difference.”

  Bin Laden might not have heard him. “It will be another burden for her mother to bear. So many burdens, so much pain. But she understands the jihad.” He looked back in anguish. “She must!”

  “The most difficult pain for a mother to bear,” Bahmad offered gently. He thought about his own mother who had been mercifully spared that pain, though she had endured others. Because of the West.

  A silence fell between them. The hiss of the gas lanterns was the only sound to be heard. After the missile strike the quiet was almost shocking.

  “Kirk McGarvey must not be allowed to leave Afghanistan alive,” bin Laden said after a minute. “Have you received word from Hamed?”

  “I gave him orders to kill McGarvey, but he is out of radio range now, so there is no way of knowing if he succeeded until he returns.”

  “What if he reaches Kabul?”

  “I have made arrangements.”

  “There must be no mistakes.”

  “Not this time.”

  Bin Laden nodded his satisfaction. “Sarah told me that she and McGarvey spoke about his daughter. She works for the CIA.”

  “She also mentioned it to me. But we knew about his background.”

  “Her name is Elizabeth.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to kill her,” bin Laden said in a gentle voice. “After Mr. McGarvey, she will be your first priority.”

  Bahmad hid his surprise. “There is no reason for that, Osama,” he said carefully. “Her father came here on a dangerous mission to find you and lead the missile attack. Killing him can be viewed as an act of war. Killing his daughter will be taken as nothing more than a senseless act of vengeance.”

  “You had Trumble and his family killed.”

  “That was to send the CIA the message that we were serious. It guaranteed that someone such as McGarvey would come.”<
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  “Will you do it?” bin Laden asked simply.

  “Killing her would be a criminal waste of resources. Every American law enforcement agency would go on a worldwide alert of such intensity that no place would be safe. She is an innocent—”

  “There are no innocents,” bin Laden raised his voice. “You will show them that. You will teach the entire world.”

  Bahmad lowered his eyes. Not out of deference, but because he knew what else was coming. He’d known for several months, the realization coming to him on the day he learned about the bomb, about bin Laden’s illness and about the final deal bin Laden had wanted to make with the West, with the nuclear weapon as the ultimate bargaining chip. He’d known that negotiating could not succeed. And he’d begun to work out a plan that he’d sincerely hoped he would never have to implement. Nevertheless he had started putting things in place in the U.S.” renewing old contacts there and in London, Paris and Berlin. Phone calls, promises, threats. The only surprise now was going after McGarvey’s daughter. It would present certain problems.

  “Will you do it?” bin Laden asked again.

  “Yes.”

  A new, even more intense light came into bin Laden’s eyes. “Then there will be the final act of retribution,” he said softly. “Joshua’s hammer.”

  When the realization had come to him that they would use the nuclear weapon in some way to strike against America, Bahmad had gone searching for the right target at the right time. An air burst over Washington during a joint session of Congress would certainly never be forgotten so long as there was a civilized world. Nor would it be forgotten if the bomb were to be detonated in front of the White House, killing the President and his staff. An air burst over the financial center in New York would disrupt the Americans’ capitalist hold on the world, as an airburst over a small Midwestern town would disrupt the average American’s feelings of safety and invulnerability; the bomb at the Murrah Federal Building had done just that to the nation, though on a much smaller scale. But he came finally to the notion that what would strike the most fear in Amer icons’ hearts would be an attack on what was most precious and sacred to them: their children. He had not foreseen Sarah’s death, nor had he envisioned going after McGarvey’s daughter. But he had come up with a plan to do the one thing that would not be forgotten in a thousand years. Thinking about the plan he had devised, he could see that there was a certain symmetry between it and what bin Laden had ordered him to do. Sarah had been murdered by the Americans. In retaliation bin Laden wanted McGarvey’s daughter assassinated, and he was now ready to use the nuclear weapon.