Ansar Al-Islam was a Sunni terrorist group that had formed in the Kurdish region of Northern Iraq. They had been ardently supported by Iraq’s deceased dictator. A picture of Saddam still hung on the wall over El-Hashem’s head.
“Where is this?” Bishara asked as he held the strange blueprint up in front of the light.
Tariq El-Hashem was not at the top of the organization’s food chain. He was four or five men down the line. Considering he’d had the privilege of meeting with every other organization’s commander, Bishara took it as an insult.
“Uzbekistan, we have not moved them since late 2005. They are heavily guarded by our men and their location, as well as their existence, is still completely unknown to the rest of the world. I have made the overseer aware of your pending visit. Everything will be ready for you when you arrive.”
El-Hashem scooted himself to the edge of the couch.
“Now, I will tell you what I want in return.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
El-Hashem’s face contorted into a fleshy puzzle of wrinkles and folds.
Bishara reached inside of his jacket and extracted the same gun he had used to kill Shaikh Samara. El-Hashem flinched at first. Then he leaned back against the sofa and placed a small wooden smoking pipe between his lips.
“You will never get out of here if you kill me.” El-Hashem smiled a thick vicious smile. “Your father was just as quick to act as you are. You know that? Impulsive. Must run in the blood.”
Bishara lowered the pistol.
“How do you know my father?”
Hassan Bishara’s father, Abdel Bishara, had been a guerilla fighter during the Six Day War with Israel. He had instituted the tactics that were now used in bus bombings and improvised explosive devices. He was the first of his people to use terror as a means of gaining an edge against a formidable force. He had been wanted for crimes against humanity but had disappeared toward the end of the brief conflict. It was rumored that he had died in an air raid on an apartment building that he sometimes resided in. The truth had never been discovered. It had also been a rumor- though widely denied by state officials from every government- that Abdel Bishara had survived the War. Hassan knew the truth but he would never say and felt that it was his duty to protect the truth from being exposed.
El-Hashem smiled even broader.
“Did you know my father?”
“Yes, I served with him in the Great War.” A reference to the Six Day War.
Bishara had his doubts as to whether or not El-Hashem was being honest. Either way, it didn’t matter. El-Hashem was clearly not going to cooperate with Nazari without demanding some concession for leadership, which was out of the question.
He raised the silenced pistol again and squeezed off several rounds.
El-Hashem slumped forward and fell off of the couch.
Bishara didn’t like disposing of these men but if they were going to be too difficult to tame, then it had to be done.
He placed the gun back inside of his jacket and opened the door. Two guards stood at the end of a long hallway. They nodded to Bishara as he approached. They wouldn’t suspect anything for hours. By then, Bishara would be half way to Uzbekistan. Now he just needed to figure out how he was going to transport El-Hashem’s gift. It wouldn’t be easy to move six tons of Soman gas, (a deadly nerve agent), across multiple borders to Quneitra.
9
Quneitra, Syria
Day 4
Tracy Peters was falling asleep. It seemed the more she resisted, the heavier her eyelids got. She pinched the inside of her thigh with the very tips of her thumb and index finger. She knew that she couldn’t stay awake indefinitely but their ordeal had added a whole new level of creepiness to the dark night; she was afraid. She just wanted to make it to sun up. Once she saw the first few rays pour in through the window, she would let herself doze off. Until then, she had to be vigilant. She felt herself slipping away again; once more she pinched herself. The more often she did so, the less intense the pain was. Eventually, she wasn’t going to feel it at all.
It had been more than a day since anyone had seen either the professor or Matt Ward. There had been a lot of commotion throughout the night from the room next door. She figured they had been taken there.
Her neck snapped back hard as she caught herself drifting off again. The back of her head made contact with the stone wall.
“Ouch.” She exclaimed.
She looked at the guard several feet away. He didn’t move, he actually looked like he was asleep in his metal folding chair. She guessed the time to be about three in the morning. She was exhausted.
“You okay?”
At first Tracy couldn’t tell where the voice had come from.
“Tracy, are you okay?” It was Jerry Smith.
Back when they had only been students and not hostages, Tracy had had a little bit of a crush on Jerry. The feeling had been mutual, though neither of them had talked about it. It had been mild, at best. Now, Jerry turned her stomach. His cowardice was understandable, in a certain light but she felt he should have overcome that and done like the rest of the group, remain quiet and power through. Instead, he had rambled on in fear whenever a guard left the room. If he had had it his way, the students would have dehydrated yesterday when the professor and Matt put their necks on the line to get them some water. He had rebuked professor Rhinefeld for the gesture, even though he drank.
“Yeah Jerry I’m fine, thanks for asking.” She didn’t despise him really. She had just lost every bit of attraction there had been. She just wished he’d keep his mouth shut.
“Tracy?” He whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think we’re going to get out of here?” Jerry asked with a tremble in his voice.
“I have no idea, Jerry.”
She resisted the urge to ignore him; which had less to do with annoyance with Jerry than it did not wanting to talk at all.
“I’ve been sitting here thinking about things.” The tone in his voice took on a solemn note.
“What sort of things?” She asked.
“I don’t know, stuff. You know?” He said.
“Deep.” She thought to herself.
“I miss just playing video games and eating cold pizza in my dorm room. I miss the days when the most I had to worry about was a final.”
Tracy was disappointed that Jerry hadn’t paved the way for a more meaningful conversation as she had assumed he’d been about to do. But she understood where he was coming from. Except for the part about the video games.
“Yeah.” She said with a measure of unplanned longing. She missed her parents. Her mom especially. A tear began to well up in her eye. A flood of memories rushed through her mind as she dropped her face in her open hands and began to sob. She sucked in her breaths so the guard wouldn’t hear.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you….I…”
Tracy’s tears were getting harder and harder to control. All of a sudden, the intensity of her situation made her heart pound and her breath cranked in short wrenching sounds. Her tears turned to panic and she shuffled to her feet. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.
“Tracy?” Jerry said through clinched teeth.
Though the room was dark, Tracy’s vision was being drawn into a tunnel. The outer perimeter of her peripheral sight began to fade and collapse. Her heart pounded in her ears, the flow of blood sounded like a river.
“Sit down.” The guard shouted after being woken from his fitful sleep on the uncomfortable chair. He stood and brought the end of his rifle up to bear. He aimed it at Tracy.
She saw the man get up. She knew he was speaking to her in a hostile tone and pointing his weapon at her but the panic that had set in was choking out all reason. The last thing she wanted to do was sit down.
“I am speaking to you woman. Sit down!” He shouted again.
The room began to move as the students, most of whom had dozed off, stirred.
Tracy’
s field of vision had narrowed so much that all she could see was the area of the floor directly in front of her. She could hear voices and shouting but she could no longer process the words or their meaning.
The guard moved toward her. Several students recoiled at his rapid movement. Where the atmosphere had been subdued for hours, a feeling of angst and danger replaced it.
Tracy could see the door. She headed for it. She was no longer cognizant of her motion anymore. She just needed air, clean, fresh, non-oppressive air.
“Tracy, he’ll kill you.” Jerry screamed. He didn’t move from his place on the floor. He eventually recoiled back into his corner and buried his head between his knees, scared to look and witness Tracy’s fate.
The guard moved toward Tracy until she was mere inches from the end of his assault rifle. The two of them stared at each other for some time. Neither said a word. Of course, Tracy had no idea what she was doing at this point. Her mind had caved and given way to the mechanical motor functions of her muscles. She didn’t even hear the other people in the room anymore.
The man had fire in his eyes. He had strict orders on how to deal with any confrontation. They had been trained to use it as an opportunity to instruct the rest of the students on what would happen to someone who resisted. In case any of the guards struggled with a weak stomach, Saleem had made sure that they had sufficient motivation. He had told them that if any one of his guards showed weakness in disciplining the students, they would join them.
The terrorist stood there with his gun leveled at Tracy while she just stared, oblivious to the peril that she had landed in. Not a sound could be heard but the man’s breathing which was coming in quick, shallow puffs. The students were silent, not wanting to insert even an ounce of tension to the situation.
The guard had to act now, or face Saleem. Her defiance had gone too far. He stared down the barrel’s sights and squeezed the trigger.
Camp Doha, Kuwait
Permanent Coalition Forces Land Component Command
“As you can see gentlemen, this bird has been stripped of her armament.”
Colonel Schaffer said.
Schaffer was a Colonel in the United States Army. He was short and wiry, with a thick mane of black hair that had begun graying at the sides years ago. Schaffer had command of 5th group Special Forces out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Camp Doha served as their base of operations in Iraq. Kingsley knew him to be a straight shooter.
“We can’t have an armed aircraft flying through ‘friendly’ airspace, without prior approval. As you’ve probably already guessed, there won’t be any approval.”
Kingsley looked at Brad. They had intended to bring a small cache of weapons with them.
Just as Brad was about to object- a young buck sergeant approached from one of the buildings to the south of the base. He had a green duffle bag slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t full but it was heavy.
“What you requested sir.” The soldier said placing the bag in the Colonel’s open right hand.
Schafer heaved the duffle up onto his shoulder. “Thank you Sergeant Hendrickson.” He said as the sergeant turned to leave.
“So, we can’t send you guys out with any mounted weaponry. That doesn’t mean you have to go unprepared. Even though you’ll be flying the ‘friendly’ skies of our allies, this is the Middle East. Every now and then, we take ground fire. It is usually from an AK or something even smaller, hardly a threat to one of our aircraft. But still, you never know,” the Colonel said as he unclipped the black metal clasp at the top of the bag. Once he had the bag open, he showed Kingsley and Ward its contents. The men leaned in and peered down into the bag. There were two M4 assault rifles, two nine millimeter pistols and a slew of flash bangs and hand fragmentation grenades.
“These will do fine.” Kingsley said.
“Colonel Schaffer, I greatly appreciate your help. We wouldn’t be able to get to Israel in less than twenty four hours without the use of your helicopter,” Brad said looking at the career soldier.
“I know. That’s the only reason you have my aircraft. Besides, Kingsley and I go back a bit.”
The Colonel slapped Tom on the back.
Brad’s smile was fake; his mind was saddled with details and contingency plans and his brother’s face.
Schaffer wished them luck and left the helipad. Kingsley and Ward were in the air in minutes. The pilot sent the aircraft vertically for 1500 hundred feet and then darted forward. Kingsley’s stomach groaned in protest. He instantly regretted eating lunch.
The interior of the AH-6 Littebird was loud. Its turbine engine whined and vibrated through the tiny fuselage. Brad was grateful for the noise. It helped to drown things out of his brain so that he could just lay back and enjoy the view.
They swept over Saudi Arabian sand dunes and Bedouin caravans, with their prized camels and elaborate tents. When they skirted an unknown city, Kingsley keyed the mic to the headsets they were wearing.
“You up on Hezbollah?” Kingsley released the button that allowed him to be heard in Brad’s and the pilot’s earmuffs and watched as Brad made a face. The pilot just kept looking straight ahead.
“A couple of days ago, I got some information from a source. The commander of Hezbollah was Shaikh Samara. He was killed in Riyadh. He took two in the chest while sitting at his desk.”
Brad processed the information and then asked, “Do they know who killed him, or why?” Both men glanced at the back of the pilot’s head. He still hadn’t acknowledged their private conversation.
“How reliable is your source? I don’t recall seeing his name on any terrorist watch list. I would think if he were the commander, the United States or Interpol or somebody would have identified him as such.”
“My source is in the ‘House of Saud’. Samara was an underground leader. He had gone about from day to day in relative peace and harmony precisely because few knew who he really was.” Kingsley said.
“Huh.” Brad turned his attention back to the city that lay to the west of them.
“I’ve asked around. No one is talking. Everybody’s tight lipped. Makes me suspect someone from the Saudi family is in on it. There’s no way we did it, I would have known.”
Brad knew that Kingsley was right. The world of U.S. intelligence was very small. Chances are, Kingsley or someone he worked with would have received the order for Samara from higher up the chain of command if the American Government had been involved. Kingsley and his team were one of the State Department’s prized swords in the Middle East.
Even with the large external fuel tanks that had replaced the usual rocket pods, the AH-6 could only travel a few hundred miles before needing to refuel. The helicopter landed at a small airport in Rafha, then again at Turaif domestic airport. Three more hours passed before they were in Israeli airspace.
“Colonel Schaffer must have moved heaven and earth to convince the Israelis to let us enter their airspace without escorts.” Kingsley said. Just as he got the words out though, two American made F-16’s converged on the helicopter. They ripped by and climbed to several thousand feet above the tiny helicopter. They made a large circle out of sight then reappeared.
Forty minutes later the helicopter banked left over Zefat. The valley below looked like a postcard from New Mexico with its adobe style architecture, low lying hills and sparse vegetation. A few short minutes passed and they neared the site of the kidnapping. The pilot circled the area. The unearthed outline of the ancient city of Hamal stood in neat, small squares and rectangles. At the south-western most corner of the site was a three foot wide burn pattern on the ground. Black and white streaks headed away from the center of what had obviously been an explosion. Brad’s stomach churned. He realized that he wouldn’t be hopeful for anyone else who was looking for answers in the mess below.
The pilot found a suitable flat spot close to the charred earth and set the helicopter’s skids down onto dry dusty ground.
Ward and Kingsley exited the helicopter and the bir
d lifted off in a whirl of sand and dust. It returned the way it had come with the two F-16’s pursuing.
Several vehicles were scattered about the site. Yellow caution tape surrounded the area around the burn marks on the ground. Brad guessed this to be the underground shaft that led to the library
As the two men approached, they were stopped by a large Israeli. He held an Uzi in his hands but didn’t raise it to greet them.
“May I help you?” He said with a distinctly Middle Eastern accent.
“They are okay, Abel. They are the Americans.” His superior said coming up behind him.
“Hello gentlemen. My name is Efran Levy.” The man said, extending his hand.
Kingsley grabbed onto it and gripped.
“Pleased to meet you, Efran. I’m Tom Kingsley and this is Brad Ward. I believe I spoke with your boss on the phone?”
“Yes, you did.” Efran rolled his eyes at the mention of his superior and pulled a cigarette pack out of his pocket.
“He said you are both here on unofficial business.” Efran stated, so that it sounded more like a question.
“That’s right.” Brad said.
“For now. Until something links a particular group or person to the crime.” Kingsley added.
Brad nodded toward the scene behind the yellow tape. “We need to take a look.”
“Of course.” Efran said, as he held up the tape barrier for the men to cross under.
Brads eyes were drawn to the crumbled mess on the ground.
“Is this where the shaft to the library was?” He questioned.
Efran appeared puzzled at the question; he was surprised that they already knew about the library. It had only been learned of by the University, days before the kidnapping. Except for Katherine Boyd and her cameraman, only the news producer at her station knew about its existence. All of which meant, that Brad Ward had learned of the Library after the attack.
“Yes, this is where we believe the entrance was.” Efran said.
“I’m sorry, how did you come by that information? It’s not been in the news.” He said directly.
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 7