by Rick Jones
“Allahu Akbar.” He slowly raised his lip mike, knowing that he would never see or speak to Azlan again.
After a pause, Shazad cried out with a sense of urgency. “Let’s go, people! Company’s on its way!”
But Azlan would greet them at the front door and give Shazad what he needed most.
He would give him time.
#
Near the south-side acreage of the facility lay the Motor Pool, a structure that housed several machine-gun mounted Jeeps with .50 caliber weapons.
From an adjacent barrack, four two-man teams seized four vehicles, a driver and a gunner for each. They sped their way toward the point of contention.
In the distance the landscape was lit up with eruptions of fire, the barracks razed to a mangled foundation of twisted steel and burnt flesh. To the southeast of that location a truck bore down on them with headlong speed.
The four Jeeps quickly separated into a straight-line formation approximately twenty feet apart. The gunners were on their heels, racking the machine guns as they closed on the truck.
The truck began to weave recklessly from left to right, right to left, making it difficult for the gunners to line up their target within the crosshairs.
When Azlan saw the high-powered weaponry directed his way he grabbed the detonator, situated a thumb over the button, and called upon Allah to give him the courage to see him through.
In coordinated bursts, the .50 calibers went off in quick succession, the rounds punching holes in the pavement as the truck weaved erratically in an attempt to dodge the strikes. The evasive maneuvers failed. Bullets from the unshakable Jeeps blasted the grill, the hood, and the windshield. Glass exploded into tempered shrapnel that sliced flesh until the little shards shone like bloody diamonds.
Azlan ducked the volley as glass sprayed all through the cab’s interior.
Allah, give me strength.
More bullets tore into the truck’s engine block, crippling the vehicle further. But its momentum carried it forward, the Jeep brigade closing in until they were almost on top of each other.
Azlan raised his hand. “Allahu Ak—”
A bullet ripped into his shoulder. Another hit the side of his neck, shearing out a grooved path that tore through the carotid. A third clipped the top part of his right ear, the pain beyond intense. As his world began to fade away with the purple edges of his sight beginning to close in, Azlan had the presence of mind to do what he was tasked with.
He pressed the button on the detonator.
The truck broke apart into pieces that spread across the property in a deadly radius of heavy debris. Jeeps were lifted through the air as though they were playthings. Machine guns broke from their mounts and bodies took flight. When the corpses landed against the pavement and bounced along its surface, so many bones broke that their owners were hardly recognizable as anything human.
An immense fireball lifted skyward, reaching and rolling until it turned black with smoke.
The second of Shazad’s lines had held.
#
Even from his position Shazad could feel the concussive waves of the blast hit, causing the structure around him and the earth beneath him to shudder. He watched the fireball rise and dissipate into smoke.
More would be coming, he thought. But Azlan had created the second diversion that would see his team through, since the main points of the JBAB’s manpower had been eliminated. The subsequent crews arriving on scene would see the flames and gravitate towards them, rather than to his team.
Shazad waved his unit on. “Let’s go, people! We’re locked and secured!”
He quickly maneuvered behind the wheel of the lead truck, shifted into gear, and sped out of the hanger with the other trucks in tow, a predatory convoy in retreat.
They moved rapidly, the camo-painted trucks looking as if they belonged here, but at the same time, Shazad was painfully aware that no vehicle on base would be above suspicion at this point. Speed and efficiency were their friends.
When they reached Main Gate, his lieutenant, Naji Mihran, and two others who were standing sentinel by the gates, jumped into the cabs. After a quick head count and visual check, they exited the base and made their way north.
Aasif al-Shazad blinked back tears of joy. He had pulled off the impossible. Only it wasn't, he knew, as he stared at the columns of gritty smoke rising in his rear view.
Nothing was impossible with Allah's will, peace be with him.
CHAPTER THREE
The White House. Oval Office
0547 Hours
There was no mistaking the look in the eyes of President John Carmichael. His concern went beyond words. When he got the call at 2:40 in the morning that the JBAB had come under attack by a highly sophisticated military force, and that hardware valued at more than one hundred million dollars was missing, he reacted with a wide spectrum of emotions ranging from disbelief to unbridled anger. He called his team together for an early-hour session inside his office. At the moment he was surrounded by his secretary of state, Jenifer Rimaldi, his chief presidential advisor, Simon Davis, and Attorney General Steven Cayne. Vice President Madison was on his way in from his residence at the Naval Observatory.
When President Carmichael spoke he did so in a clipped manner. “Can anyone here tell me how in the hell someone can waltz right into a major military facility and walk away with more than one hundred million dollars worth of top-of-the-line hardware?”
Secretary of State Rimaldi responded by opening a manila envelope and producing several 8x10 glossies, which she placed before the president. They were photos of the insurgent movement inside the JBAB, starting with the main gate guardhouse.
The president sorted through them with careful study. “What am I looking at here?”
“These photos, Mr. President, are stills taken from the security video feed. What you’re looking at are the faces of the command team. The recognition programs have pointed out enough facial landmarks to identify at least two of these people,” she told him. Her manner remained stiff and edgy, which was consistent with her usual demeanor.
“The first image--the one at the main guardhouse--is that of Naji Mihran.”
The president looked up. “Arab?”
She gave a shrug. “Yes and no."
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mr. Mihran is of Arab heritage, although American-born with strong fundamentalist beliefs. But he was also a member of our military, serving as an Army Ranger prior to his going AWOL sixteen months ago.”
He held up the photo. “Are you telling me that he’s one of ours?”
“Was, Mr. President. Was.”
“So now we’re unwittingly training terrorists within our own military system, is that it?”
Carmichael's Chief Advisor spoke up for the first time since the meeting began. “As you know, Mr. President, our armed forces currently employ somewhere between fifteen to twenty thousand self-reported Muslims. We have long speculated that al-Qaeda and other groups may have patiently infiltrated the various military branches in order to fight the enemy from within. If that's true in this case, then unfortunately this action may be the tip of the spear for what’s to come.”
The president shot his Advisor a withering stare. “Am I to understand that this is some kind of internal military insurrection?”
“Right now, Mr. President, we’re simply saying that these men have been trained by our own military, which gives them some level of sophistication.”
“But it appears that Mihran is a secondary player in this.” Rimaldi crossed one leg over the other, subtly showing off her fine contours. “He was left to secure the front gate while the man in the subsequent photo—” The president lay down the black-and-white of Naji Mihran and focused on the lean and angular face of a man presumably in charge “—seems to be the one captaining his team from start to finish.”
“He’s the one we have to worry about,” said the attorney general. Steven Cayne was a dimin
utive man, small and slender at the shoulders, someone with a Napoleon complex who exhibited the weight of his authority as if it was Thor’s hammer. To cross him invited a scorn so relentless that it would break a man down to his husk, his opponent eventually waving the white flag of defeat while Cayne puffed his chest in glorious victory. Even Carmichael knew his limits against his attorney general, as small as he was. To love him as a god, however, garnered his loyalty.
The president stared at the photo. “Who is this?”
Cayne's voice dripped with disdain. “His name is Aasif Shazad."
Rimaldi nodded, running with the ball. “Sixteen years of impeccable service, highly decorated and respected soldier, until he disappeared just over two years ago from the JBAB.”
“He was stationed there?”
“He was. So when he did this thing he knew exactly what to expect. He led his team directly to Hanger 17 and commandeered the drones. He knew what he wanted, where they were-- knew the layout of the facility and the locations of the responding teams. He secured the front gates with Naji Mihran and his unit, breached the hanger, and sent forward a truck with an undetermined amount of explosives--probably plastic explosives-- to neutralize the threat of the first response team located at the barracks.”
“Casualties?”
“Twenty-two dead from the barracks.”
The president shook his head in abject disgust.
“The explosion at the barracks, Mr. President,” stated Cayne, “created a diversion for all responding units to gravitate to that particular point. A second unit of eight soldiers from the Motor Pool responded, but they were intercepted by a second attack truck that killed everyone involved.” There was a pause as the attorney general allowed this to sink in. Then: “By the time additional support arrived, Mr. President, Shazad and his team were gone. They knew precisely what targets to hit in order to achieve the means. They were well coordinated and highly sophisticated in their approach and execution.”
The president closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, causing the muscles in the back to work. "How many of these attackers were killed?"
"Two that we know of--the suicide drivers of the truck bombs; if more were killed, their bodies were taken with the combatants when they left with the drones."
“How many casualties on our side?”
“Thirty-six,” answered Rimaldi. “In addition to the barracks and the truck--two more at the main gate and four at the hanger."
“This is a goddamn fiasco, isn't it?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "What about the rest of Shazad’s team? Who are they?"
“They appear to be of Middle-Eastern descent. But that description is a hazard guess based on superficial appearances from the security footage rather than actual evidence.”
“So we have a terrorist cell on our hands,” Carmichael added softly. “One that we helped create with our own military training.” President Carmichael stated this rhetorically, but Rimaldi answered him as if it wasn’t.
“Mr. President, we know that Shazad is highly trained as a military specialist, one who achieved the rank of lieutenant commander as a Navy SEAL before he disappeared. He commanded SEAL teams into numerous delicate missions and saw them through. He's intimately familiar with the style and tactics of our most elite unit.”
“And Naji Mihran is no slouch, either,” added Cayne. “He was an Army Ranger. God knows who the others in the team are or the skill sets they possess.”
“Do we have a body count for these...enemy combatants, let's call them for now...as to how many were involved in the breach?”
“Fourteen altogether,” Rimaldi intoned. “Including the two of those who dispatched themselves in the truck bombs, leaving a working faction of twelve.”
President Carmichael sighed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The assailants were American born--at least the two they knew something about--growing up under American values but greatly influenced by the fundamentalist philosophies of their religion. He mentally kicked himself. He should have known it would come to this. Now he would be lambasted in the media for failing to pay attention.
Focus, Carmichael. He ignored the stares of his team while he thought.
He mentally recounted the known precedents for this kind of thing: There was Nidal Malik Hasan, a U.S. Army major and military psychiatrist who was Muslim and motivated by jihadist leanings, a solid soldier until one day he fatally shot thirteen people and injured more than thirty others at Fort Hood. A similar incident took place when a U.S. soldier of Muslim faith, one who had pledged to serve his country, lobbed grenades into a tent full of American officers, severely wounding thirteen.
How in the hell do you fight something like this? How do you weed out the extremists from the rest of the pack? Especially when the enemy was born, bred and raised as a flag-waving, apple pie-eating American.
At length, he asked Rimaldi, “Are we privy to the motives behind this action?”
“We’re assuming, since this is coming on the heels of Zawahiri’s arrest in Pakistan, that our demand for Zawahiri’s extradition was probably leaked through Pakistani subversives not in line with our interests. In response, al-Qaeda has activated a sleeper cell. We’re certain that demands are forthcoming.”
“What can you tell me about these drones?” Carmichael asked, moving on.
The attorney general responded in earnest. “Five modified Predator drones--Reapers--have been extracted from the site along with twelve MUAVs.”
“MUAVs?”
“Mini-unmanned aerial vehicles. They’re new add-on capabilities to the modified Predators.”
“What exactly are we talking about as far as capabilities?”
“For the Reapers, the MQ-10s have been modified with stealth capabilities, a new adaptation unique to these particular models. They can fly undetected up to a ceiling of sixty thousand feet, and like their predecessors, carry two Hellfire missiles. These are tactical missiles that can be locked onto targets either prior to or after launch. The Reapers can also be equipped with additional payload in the form of four MUAVs per drone, which are referred to as remoras.”
“Remoras?”
“Small drones that attach to the larger drone like a sucker-fish to a shark, Mr. President. They're no larger than eagles and look about as such in the sky to a casual observer. They can be used as surveillance tools, or as explosive weapons . . ." He paused as if considering something uncomfortable. "...Or even be modified as weapons of mass destruction.”
The president cocked his head, trying to intuit a conclusion from the picture that the attorney general drew. “Are you saying that these devices can be altered as WMDs?”
“I am, Mr. President. Yes, sir.”
“And these remoras—” He let his words hang long enough to pull an explanation.
“Each remora has the capability to carry a single canister that can be filled with biological or chemical agents that could be spread via an aerosol over an area, which we both know is against international law."
"As if these people care about international law, for Christ's sake!"
The attorney general nodded in acknowledgement before continuing. "Or it can be simplified to contain five pounds of Semtex plastic explosives, which is powerful enough to raze a four-story building."
The president rubbed his temples as if warding off a headache while his attorney general went on.
"Now, these remoras can act in a couple of different ways,” he told him. “Unlike the Reaper, which can fly a distance of 460 miles one way, the MUAVs only have a maximum range of six miles. So they latch on to the mother drone until they reach their targeted destination. Each one can be programmed to disengage and attack a very specific target from the mother drone’s back, as long as the target is not beyond a six–mile range.”
“And the second use?”
“Should the main drone's stealth capabilities fail, the MUAVs would act in the same manner as decoy flares. If a trailing air-intercept missile
has zeroed in on the mother drone, then a remora would detach itself and confuse the missile as to its intended target, taking the hit so that the mother drone can continue on with her course.”
Everyone could see that the president was becoming increasingly agitated, a flurry of nervous tics manifesting themselves as he addressed his inner circle. He rubbed an eye while he spoke.
“So you mean to say that these drones, fortified with stealth capabilities as they are, also have the failsafe backup of detachable mini-drones to support a mission for purposes of mass destruction, or even to provide comprehensive protection from our best defensive alternatives?”
“That's correct, Sir. They certainly weren’t supposed to fall into the hands of insurgents. This weaponry was strictly devised for the U.S. military and is--or so we thought--carefully guarded on select few installations throughout the homeland and abroad.”
"Well, make damn sure that the rest of the facilities where these things are housed are put on lockdown status, do you hear me?" The president glared at his attorney general.
"Already done, Sir."
"Good. So now we're left with the ramifications of our best drone technology in the hands of a terrorist faction fighting some misguided jihad. We have to assume that we are now within the crosshairs.”
He settled back into his chair, taking comfort in the sense of command he felt from his reclining position in, which he often mulled over the problems of the day. He needed to get back in control. He consulted his jeweled chronograph. Time was crucial. The drones had been taken just over three hours ago, leaving little time thus far for the terrorists to set up a launch base.
“All right,” he said, composing himself. “If they're going to use these things against us, they need to set up a launch field, right?"
He continued amidst the chorus of affirmative monosyllables. "But if these robot planes have a max distance of 460 miles, then I want every law enforcement agency within a radius of one thousand miles to find those trucks.”
“The trucks involved in the theft of the drones, Mr. President, have already been found abandoned about fifteen miles north of D.C.”