When the imam stood, the man stood. When the imam ascended the minbar raised his hands; he raised his hands. The congregation said, “Allahu Akbar.”
Their eyes met, and the man nodded imperceptibly. Folding his hands over his chest and staring straight ahead, he recited the first chapter of the Quran aloud in Arabic. He uncrossed his hands. “Allahu Akbar.”
The man went to his knees, bowed, and recited three times, “Subhana rabbiyal adheem,” Glory be to my Lord Almighty.
Standing, he recited, “Sam’i Allahu liman hamidah, Rabbana wa lakal hamd.” God hears those who call upon Him, Our Lord, praise be to You.
Again he raised his hands. “Allahu Akbar.”
The words reverberated in the mosque. He prostrated on the carpet and recited three times, “Subhana Rabbiyal A’ala,” Glory be to my Lord, the Most High. Breathing deeply, he rose to a sitting position and said, “Allahu Akbar.”
On the first bow, the man slipped an envelope from under the prayer carpet and into his sleeve. After coming to a sitting position after all the rak’as were completed, he recited the second part of the Tashahhud. When he was done, he turned to the right and said, “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah.” Peace be upon you and God’s blessings.
He inhaled deeply and whispered, “Allahu Akbar.”
*
The packet contained a detailed dossier in coded Arabic on all twenty-seven Special Operations forces personnel attending or teaching at the NWC. The first name in the half-inch-thick notebook was Captain William McGee. The last was Duncan Hunter. Since the beginning of school, the little notebook reflected the make and model of private vehicles, license plate numbers, and anything of note one could determine by walking past or sitting in class, such as questions asked in class and a person’s daily routine.
Zaid Jebriel, Lieutenant Commander in the Royal Saudi Navy, Saudi Intelligence Services and al-Qaeda intelligence lieutenant, retraced his steps from the mosque and headed for the train station for the return trip to Newport.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1000 December 7, 2002
McCarty Little Hall Naval War College
The informal surveillance on Hunter for the previous two months turned up nothing unusual. McGee gathered the other SEALs, from the junior and senior class, and asked them to keep an eye on Duncan Hunter.
“I want to know what he’s doing here, and you don’t have a need to know yet,” McGee said.
He learned Duncan was a good student, something of a ladies’ man, and he went to the gym every day, sometimes three times. Ever few weeks, he invited classmates for an adventure. They left the base, retrieved his car on a trailer, and went to a racetrack in Lime Rock, Connecticut.
One of McGee’s SEALs thought Hunter was under surveillance. He noticed a couple of Middle Eastern men watching Hunter intently, as he worked on his car at a storage area where he garaged the race car.
“Bullfrog, it was hard not to stare,” the man said. “That’s an incredible car on that trailer, and I saw these dudes scoping it out. At first, I thought they were casing the storage units, then I thought they were interested in the bright-yellow Corvette. The longer I watched, I wondered if they weren’t watching Hunter like I was.
“He put a car cover over his car, locked the shed with a big padlock, and left. The dudes stayed. I left after ten minutes. Maybe they were watching him, maybe not. They didn’t see me.”
McGee walked from the library SCIF and found Duncan ahead, browsing a journal. “Hey, you ready?”
“Yes, Sir.”
They walked together across the elevated covered walkway between Hunter Hall and McCarty Little Hall for the weekly intelligence brief. McGee wore his service dress blues with ribbons and badges. Hunter wore a black herringbone suit with bright-red tie. They didn’t speak until they approached the auditorium checkin booth and greeted the petty officer checking security badges.
McGee and Hunter took their places in the front row.
“I’m playing in a racquetball tournament this weekend near Boston,” Duncan said.
McGee nodded. “I’m taking my family to Boston for shopping and sightseeing. We might stop in to watch if we’re in the area.”
“I’ll flip you the address and name of the facility in an e-mail when we leave here.”
“That’ll work. Thanks.”
There’s no finer place to study the art of war than at a war college with a war raging on the other side of the planet. Adding the top-secret facilities of a national war gaming center and the Office of Naval Intelligence solidified the Naval War College’s position as the best-equipped war college in the DOD.
The National War College may have held more cachet for politically minded or passive officers and civilians. For the more-active war fighters, the intelligence and information held in the three SCIFs was enough for one visiting democratic US senator. He had a troubled relationship with the Navy and argued strenuously to close the war colleges, especially the NWC. After his visit, he reversed himself and became one of the NWC’s more-vocal supporters. The ability to think and war-game through complex situations and contingencies was invaluable to ground and maritime warriors. SEALs war-gamed and practiced whenever they could for every situation.
The doors remained open, and students filed in. McGee leaned over and said quietly, “Less than twenty-four hours after the Twin Towers fell, I was up here with about fifty shooters planning to go into Afghanistan. You can imagine what we were planning.”
Hunter lowered his head and cocked it before looking at McGee. Something passed between them. McGee wanted to tell someone what really happened up there in the mountains of Tora Bora.
“I’m pretty sure if you found and killed him, you wouldn't be here,” Duncan said. “I can’t imagine how that fucker escaped with a bunch of SEALs on his ass. What little I know makes me think it was crappy support and poor intelligence. My bud Greg and I think they should have had quiet airplanes covering the area, but the Air Force wanted to show they were masters of their domain with their high-flying UAVs. Wrong solution.”
“You don’t know how right you are. You have to tell me more about quiet airplanes when we get out of here.”
“Can do easy.”
A female Navy commander walked to the lectern. “Good morning. I’m Commander Guilford, Commander of the Naval Intelligence Detachment Newport. I’ll be giving your briefing this morning. This brief is classified SECRET NOFORN. Slide!
“On 2 December, fierce clashes between forces of Amanullah Khan and Ismail Khan resumed in western Afghanistan. This fighting is a continuation of a land squabble and isn’t related to any operations in the north or east. Slide!
“Three people were killed and five wounded in a gun battle between police and fighters of a military commander in Kandahar. US Special Forces based in Lwara, near Khost, called in AH-64 Apache helicopter support to help chase five people seen moving in the vicinity of the base. A small team of soldiers discovered five rockets in the area where the suspects had been seen, and one person was detained for questioning. The five suspects fled into a building two miles away.
“A US Air Force Predator tracked them into the building. Let’s see. Do we have the video?”
She clicked the remote, and a FLIR video replaced the PowerPoint slides on the front screen. Five ghostly images ran into a one-story building. A moment later, three images emerged onto the roof and looked in the same direction. Fire-control symbology overlaid the FLIR image. The upper-right corner began flashing the word FIRE.
“Wait for it. Wait for it….” urged the commander.
Five seconds later, the picture showed the after—effects of a Hellfire missile launched from the Predator.
McGee muttered, “I hope there weren’t any kids in that building.”
Hunter sighed and nodded.
At the end of the brief, the commander asked Captain McGee and all other SOF to stay.
“I’ll send you that info,” Hunter said. “If I don’t see you
this weekend, have a great time with your family, Bill.”
McGee watched the man leave and again wondered what Hunter was really doing at the war college.
CHAPTER TWELVE
0715 December 9, 2002
Wayside Racquet and Swim Club Marlborough, Massachusetts
What started as a simple way to make a little money without much effort quickly became more interesting. The two men from the mosque were summoned several days earlier by the imam, who said, “I want you to report when this infidel leaves the Navy base in Newport and follow him wherever he goes.”
The imam gave them two 8 x 10 glossies of Duncan Hunter, taken at a distance, and his truck. Written on the back of the picture of the Silverado was BIG CAT, the personalized license plate bolted onto the rear of the truck.
“This is a very important mission,” the imam said. “You’ll be paid well for accurate information. Another team is watching another infidel at the Navy base, and they’ll watch you as well. If you fail me, you’ll be severely punished. You can’t let this man and his vehicle get out of your sight when he’s off the base.”
He handed them five $100 bills each, and their eyes widened. That was more than they usually made in two weeks.
“We won’t fail you, Sahib. Inshallah. Thank you for allowing us this opportunity.”
The black truck with the Texas license plates emerged from the NWC’s main gate.
Achmed jabbed the napping Muhammad in the ribs. “There he is! Go. Go!”
He fumbled with his handheld radio, which fell to the floor between Muhammad’s legs. As he reached for it, Muhammad popped the Honda’s clutch, throwing Achmed rearward, his face jammed into the man’s crotch. Achmed tried to yell, but a mouthful of denim stopped him.
Eventually, they composed themselves, looked at each other, and silently agreed not to discuss the episode ever again. They followed the Texas truck in silence.
An hour later, the driver of the truck parked at an athletic club. He slid to the ground, retrieved a long, black bag from the back seat, and walked toward the fitness center.
The little red Honda with faded paint on the hood and top pulled into a driveway across the street from the black Silverado and parked.
“This truck was very easy to keep in sight,” Muhammad said. “The infidel is an idiot.”
“If the imam wants us to watch this truck and tell him what this infidel does and pays us for it, it’s better than working at the airport or those stinky fast-food places. That’s women’s work.” Muhammad nodded. “What if the infidel saw us?”
“What would he say? If he claims we’re watching him, I’d deny it. I’d say, ‘It’s a free country. I can sit here and enjoy the beauty of America, and no one can deny me.’”
“He’s from Texas. I’ve heard that people from Texas are wild. They carry weapons all the time. He has something in the back window of his truck.”
“It’s called a gun rack,” Achmed said. “In Texas, infidels display their weapons in their trucks in the open.”
“Americans are all cowards and stupid. This one flaunts his money with a big truck and a race car. Have you seen such a thing?”
“No. It’s very unusual here. I haven’t seen a race car before. I only hope we’re asked to do something else soon. Inshallah.”
“Inshallah. What do you want to do?”
“I want to fuck American bitches.” He laughed.
“Me, too.”
They laughed heartedly and loudly. “I wish the imam would pay us to fuck American whores. Maybe our next job will be to fuck American bitches.”
“Inshallah.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1045 December 9, 2002
Wayside Racquet and Swim Club
Duncan Hunter was exhausted, having expended more energy than was smart to stay in the game, but he was within one point of sending the match to a tiebreaker.
“Fourteen serves six,” the referee on the second—floor observation deck said.
Hunter wiped sweat from his forehead on his sleeve, looked at the receiver, and bounced the worn green ball there times before hitting a lob high off the front wall. The ball arced to the right wall, floating three-quarters of the way back, where it barely touched the wall and dropped four feet from the rear glass panel.
The receiver, not believing his good fortune at the poor serve, immediately assessed his options before driving the ball into the corner. Hunter, anticipating that response, ran toward the right corner, hoping to cut the ball off and quickly return it for a winner.
Traveling almost 150 mph, the racquetball was smashed into a blur as the receiver, made it carom off the right wall inches from the floor and ricocheted to the front wall and left, away from the diving-right Hunter. Duncan positioned himself to reach across his body. At the last possible moment, he reached out and barely touched the ball with his racquet. Like a drop shot in tennis, the inertia of the fast-moving ball dissipated when it touched the racquet, leaving just enough energy for the ball to hit the front wall at the baseboard and roll out along the floor at walking speed. The referee yelled, “Point!”
Hunter’s diving contortion resulted in a winning shot he couldn’t see. He landed heavily on the floor. His momentum rolled him onto his right shoulder, and, like a tumbling gymnast, he rolled 360 degrees before his legs slammed against the wall to a stop.
He lay there, crumpled on the floor with his feet against the front wall, while his competitor shook his head, turned, and walked off the court.
On his back, looking up at the ceiling, Hunter took a deep breath, rolled onto his knees, and stood. Off to the right of the glass wall, among fifty onlookers, was Captain McGee and his beautiful girls and wife. Hunter stepped through the open glass door and smiled.
“That was incredible,” McGee said.
“It was lucky, and he and I both know it. But I won a game off a professional—a very charitable one. That’s all anyone could ask for.”
“That guy’s a pro?”
“That’s Cliff Swain, one of the greatest racquetball players of all time. He’s probably already in the Racquetball Hall of Fame. I think he owns this facility. He isn’t even working hard, and I’m dying. He’s playing for the fans. Trust me. If he wanted to, he could crush me like a bug, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. He’s been playing with me while he’s on cruise control. I’m working way too hard and can’t stop. This is how I get my fun. I’ll be surprised if I can walk in a couple hours.
“Thank you for coming. Bill, where are my manners? Wow, this is the missus? You must be half-blind. I don’t see what anyone could see in Bill. You guys have a beautiful family.”
Bill laughed and made introductions. “If you don’t mind, we’ll watch you finish. This is pretty exciting. I never saw anyone play at this level before.”
Duncan Hunter couldn’t resist the opening. “I never saw anyone play at this level before, either.” All of them laughed.
Hunter changed into a dry shirt with Master Yoda on the back, revealing the cobblestone abdomen definition of a twenty-five-year-old Olympian, not a forty-eight-year-old man. Hunter knew he would lose the next game, but, with McGee and his family watching, he was inspired to give it a good try and keep the thirty-three-year-old pro honest.
Swain appeared distracted throughout the eleven-point tiebreaker. At 7-7, Hunter and Swain dived for balls left and right, keeping the rally alive. Both sprinted to the front or back walls to return shots.
McGee never saw such a demonstration of blinding speed and never giving up. Any other racquetball player would have long ago quit, as each man with huge quadriceps and calves hammered the ball with all their might, hoping for an incremental edge over the other. Hunter found himself jammed along the right wall, as Swain crushed a passing shot driving the ball behind him. The right-handed Duncan swung his racquet left behind his heels, blindly making contact with the ball.
As happens occasionally in racquetball and lotteries, Lady Luck str
uck at the right time. The crowd saw Duncan hit what should have been a winning passing shot for Swain, who was totally unprepared for a lucky and unconventional save. Duncan looked composed, as if he designed the behind-the-back-to-the-opposite-corner winning shot.
Swain smiled and raised his hands in applause. “Nice shot…for an old man.”
The crowd, stunned at the turn of events, cheered and applauded.
“Point!” the referee shouted.
For the next three minutes, Hunter showed flashes of how well he and Swain were matched. They tied at 9-9, and Swain didn’t anticipate Hunter’s wicked backhand cross-court shot. Hunter concealed the racquet’s position perfectly, unleashing every bit of energy in his torso and legs, concentrated into one small spot at the top of his racquet.
The ball shot off the racquet at nearly 170 mph. Swain tried immediately to change direction only to have his foot touch a drop of sweat on the floor. Even with gum-soled shoes, his foot skidded. The man rolled his ankle and fell hard.
By the time Hunter recovered from his follow-through and waited for the crushing return, he saw Swain on the floor, holding his ankle in both hands, his racquet dangling from his wrist. Play stopped with the winning passing shot. The crowd gasped, as Swain blinked wildly, closed his eyes, relaxed, and rolled onto his knees. He stepped gingerly onto the foot.
Hunter raced to the fallen man, holding out his hand to help him up.
“I’m done, Duncan,” Swain said. “Great racquetball. Congrats.”
Both men dripped lakes of sweat to pool on the floor. “Are you sure?” Hunter asked.
“You know when you’re done, and I’m done. I’ll be all right. I just twisted it. Thanks. Great game.” Cliff Swain looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Ref, that’s it!”
“Thank you, Cliff,” Hunter said. “I appreciate your taking it easy on me. You made an old man very happy. I hope someone caught this on video.”
The pro, mildly amused, slapped Hunter’s back, tossed the referee the ball on his way off the court, and hobbled out the glass door.
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