Destiny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I do hope you are treating Achmed with the respect a prisoner of war deserves,” Farrar said, while actually wishing the man to die a thousand deaths.

  “Prisoner of war?” Ben asked. “Now that’s a strange term to use for a terrorist caught in our country without uniform or insignia of rank. That sounds more like a spy to me, and spies certainly don’t rate prisoner-of-war status.”

  “Nevertheless ...” Farrar began, but Ben cut him off.

  “Nevertheless, nothing!” Ben said sharply. “None of you qualify as soldiers, Farrar, so you’d better inform your men they will be treated as terrorists if captured and will be executed on the spot, as will the FFA men working with you.”

  Farrar bit his lip, trying to decide how to answer this, as Ben continued.

  “But, I must say, what Sharif had to say was not nearly as interesting as this little gadget he gave us to play with,” Ben said, a taunt in his voice.

  “Gadget?” Farrar asked, not understanding the term.

  “This cell phone,” Ben answered. “My technicians say it’s quite a nice little toy. After they took it apart and learned all its secrets, they tell me it’ll be no problem to program its codes into our satellites so we will be able to talk to you any time we want to in the future. In fact,” Ben continued after a slight pause to let what he was saying sink in, “they tell me all you have to do is talk on any of your phones and we’ll be able to hear you.”

  “That’s impossible!” Farrar blurted out before he could stop himself.

  “Not really,” Ben said mildly. “As a matter of fact, my technicians tell me it was easy as pie once Sharif told us all of the phone numbers and codes of your men.”

  Farrar cast his eyes heavenward, silently cursing the day Achmed Sharif had been born.

  When Farrar didn’t answer, Ben continued. “Old Achmed also told us quite a bit about your home territory, Abdul. In fact, he told us that the home your family lives in is quite exquisite and is just full of beautiful antiques and furniture, not to mention most of your blood relatives.”

  “My home?” Farrar asked, trying to understand what Raines was talking about.

  “You know, Abdul,” Ben said in a musing tone of voice, “if I had more money than I could ever spend, a nice family with lots of brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, a beautiful home full of precious artifacts, and a steady income from an oil refinery, I don’t think I’d risk all that just to try and take over a half-broke country that’s long past its prime.”

  Farrar almost choked on the words that came from his mouth, his heart hammering in his chest. “What are you saying?”

  “Just that what goes around comes around, as we say in America,” Ben answered.

  “Are you threatening my family?” Farrar asked, his voice full of rage.

  “Not me, old stick,” Ben said. “I personally don’t believe in that sort of thing. But some people are kinda funny about having their country attacked for no reason at all and lots of fellow citizens murdered in the streets. In fact, I’ve heard talk that a man who does something like that deserves anything that happens to him . . . or to his family.”

  “How dare you threaten my family!” Farrar almost screamed into the phone.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Abdul,” Ben said, his voice very calm and reasonable. “But we do have a saying over here that about covers it.”

  “What’s that?” Farrar spat into the phone.

  “A man who sticks his hand in a beehive to steal some honey shouldn’t be surprised if he gets a few stings for his efforts, and he certainly shouldn’t bother to complain about it to the bees.”

  “I will see you dead for this, Ben Raines!” Farrar hollered into the mouthpiece.

  “Better men than you have said that, old son,” Ben said, a chuckle in his voice, “and you know what? They’re all food for the worms and I’m still here.”

  When Farrar had no answer for this, Ben continued. “Well, gotta go, Abdul. We’ll be listening for you to make some calls, so if you need to talk to me again, just use that phone in your hand. Bye-bye.”

  Thirty-eight

  Just as Farrar slammed the cover of the flip-phone shut, cutting off the connection to Ben Raines, the phone in John Waters’s pocket buzzed.

  He glanced at Farrar and shrugged as he pulled it out of his pocket and answered it.

  “Hello, this is John,” he said.

  “John, this is Sam Jenkens,” a voice said.

  Sam Jenkens was a friend of Waters and one of his closest cohorts in the Freedom Fighters of America.

  “Hi, Sam. What can I do for you?” Waters asked, wondering why Jenkens was bothering him when he knew he was in a strategy meeting with the Arabs.

  “Are you watching TV?” Jenkens asked.

  Waters sighed. “No, Sam. I’m really very busy right now. I don’t have time for . . .”

  “Make time for this,” Jenkens insisted. “They’ve got one of Farrar’s head men on the tube and he’s spilling his guts.”

  “Oh, shit,” Waters said, hanging up the phone without bothering to say good-bye.

  He walked to a television set in the corner of the room and flipped it on.

  “John, is something wrong?” Farrar asked.

  “That was one of my men. He says they’ve got one of your men on the TV and he’s talking.”

  Farrar, Osama bin Araman, and Mustafa Kareem joined Waters in front of the television set.

  As the picture flickered and then cleared, a picture of Achmed Sharif appeared. It was a close-up, showing only his face and upper chest, but he looked strange. He was talking in a weird monotone and his eyes were half-shut, as if he were talking in his sleep.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Waters asked.

  Farrar’s heart sank. He’d seen this sort of reaction many times. In fact, he’d caused it himself when questioning dissidents in his home country.

  “He is being drugged,” Farrar said, as if to himself. “They are using chemical means to make him talk.”

  “Who is it?” Waters asked, looking at the three Arabs.

  “That is Achmed Sharif, the commander of my western forces,” Farrar answered, his eyes staying glued to the screen as an off-screen voice could be heard asking questions, which Sharif was answering.

  “And, so you say your leader, Abdullah El Farrar, has enlisted the aid of American traitors in his takeover bid for the United States?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” Sharif answered. “They call themselves Freedom Fighters of America.”

  “Shit!” Waters exclaimed. This was not good. He didn’t want his organization’s name plastered all over the television for everyone to hear.

  “And why would Americans agree to help you foreigners take over their own country?” the voice asked.

  “El Farrar has promised their leaders a voice in the new government. He told them they would be allowed to share the leadership of the country if they helped him overthrow President Osterman and her regime.”

  “So, these FFA traitors will be allowed to govern the country they betrayed?”

  Sharif moved his head slowly from side to side. “No. El Farrar is lying to them to get their help. He has plans to dispose of them once he has control of the country. El Farrar will share command with no one.”

  “That means the FFA turncoats are not only traitors, they are stupid pawns of El Farrar in his invasion?”

  “Yes,” Sharif said.

  “And they are to be disposed of, you say?”

  “Killed,” Sharif answered. “Just as soon as Osterman and her forces have been defeated.”

  The image cleared and a picture of Claire Osterman sitting behind her desk came on the screen.

  She smiled and spread her hands. “There you have it, my fellow Americans, from the terrorist’s own mouth. I have an offer to make to these so-called FFA men, traitors though they are. If you lay down your arms immediately and quit helping the terrorists, you will be forgiven for your treason by your go
vernment. Once the terrorist invaders are killed or driven from our shores, there will be nothing further said about your involvement with them.”

  Waters turned to glare at Farrar and his men even as Claire continued.

  “However, if you persist in your misguided efforts, once the Arabs are defeated, and defeated they will surely be, you will all be hanged as traitors, along with any of your friends and family members who knew of your treachery and didn’t inform on you.”

  She leaned closer into the camera until only her face was visible, her eyes as hard as flint.

  “Our prisoner has given us the names of many of your leaders in the FFA, and as soon as they are arrested, I can assure you they will give us the names of all of the members. You will have no place to hide once this is over. So, be forewarned, your time is at hand unless you rededicate yourselves to serving your country.”

  The picture of Claire flickered off and an announcer came on to restate what had been seen.

  Waters reached down and turned the television set off. And then he turned back to face the three Arabs, his arms crossed across his chest.

  “Well?” he asked, his face stern.

  Farrar shook his head. His entire plan seemed to be coming down around his head. He glanced at Kareem and then at Waters. “Well, what, John?” Farrar asked.

  “Is what Sharif said true?”

  Farrar laughed, a low, nasty laugh without any mirth in it whatsoever.

  “Of course it is, you fool,” Farrar said, turning to walk back to the table with the maps on it. “Did you really expect me to share my government with fools like you who would betray their own country?”

  “But . . .” Waters stammered. “We had a deal.”

  Farrar shrugged. “I don’t consider deals made with traitors to be binding.”

  Waters’s face froze in an expression of rage as his skin turned bright red. “I’m getting out of here,” he said. “I’m gonna tell all my men to quit helping you as of now.”

  “No, you’re not,” Farrar said gently. He glanced at Kareem, who had his hand on the hilt of the dagger in his belt.

  “Mustafa, take Mr. Waters into the next room and deal with him.”

  “What? No . . .” Waters said as Kareem grabbed him by the arm, the blade of his dagger at his throat.

  “It will go easier on you if you don’t struggle,” Kareem said in an even voice, his eyes as flat and dead as river ice in winter.

  A few minutes later, Kareem came back into the room, wiping the blood off his blade with a hand towel from the bathroom.

  Farrar didn’t look up from the map he was studying.

  “What are we going to do now?” Araman asked, his face a mask of worry.

  “Should I call our commanders and warn them of this message to the FFA men?” Kareem asked as he sheathed his dagger.

  Farrar shook his head. “No, I am afraid our phones are no longer secure.”

  “But how will we keep in touch with our group commanders to guide them in their attacks?” Araman asked.

  Farrar sighed. “We won’t. I will call them with one last message, and it won’t matter if the infidels intercept it.”

  “What will you say?” asked Kareem.

  “To press on toward the American capital and to take no prisoners and to spare no one. This is to be a war to the death and we will either win and survive, or lose and die,” Farrar said, a glint of mania in his eyes.

  “Then,” he added, “I must make one other call.”

  “To whom?” asked Kareem.

  “To my family . . . to warn them of possible retribution from Ben Raines,” Farrar answered.

  Kareem grimaced. “Do you think he really means to attack your home in Iraq?”

  Farrar looked up at his longtime friend. “Of course,” he said. “Ben Raines is a warrior, just as I am, and it is a thing I would not hesitate to do.”

  “But the United Nations would not allow such a thing,” Araman said.

  Farrar laughed. “Do you really think we are in any position to complain to the U.N., my friend?”

  Thirty-nine

  On the trip back to the SUSA, Buddy Raines and Mike Post reviewed their plans for the upcoming assault on Abdullah El Farrar’s home turf.

  “I’ve checked with my sources, and we don’t have any assets in Kuwait that would be suitable for an assault on the refinery owned by El Farrar’s family near Al Basrah on the Persian Gulf,” Mike said.

  “No problem, Mike,” Buddy said, smiling. “I’ll just take an insertion team over there and do the job myself.”

  “You’re gonna have to be careful,” Mike said. “If the Farrar family is as important as Ben says they are, they’ll likely have spies and paid informers in the Kuwait government offices. You’ll have to be very discreet to get your men into the area without Farrar’s family knowing you’re coming.”

  “I’ve already thought of that,” Buddy said. “The oil minister of Kuwait has been trying for over a year to get President Cecil Jeffreys to sell him some helicopters to use to patrol their oil fields. I’m gonna go over there with some choppers in a C-130 and offer them to him at a very advantageous price. The technicians I take with me are gonna be SEALs, and after we’ve unloaded the choppers, naturally we’ll have to take them on a field test to make sure they’re working properly.”

  “You’re not planning on flying all the way into Iraq on a chopper, are you?” Mike asked. “They’d shoot you down before you got within fifty miles of the refinery.”

  Buddy grinned. “No, that’s not it. I’ll keep us out over the Gulf, and we’ll drop into the water along with one of our jet-powered Zodiac assault boats. Once we’re in the water and transfer into the boat, it shouldn’t be too hard to find a place to land unobserved. Then we’ll make our way overland to the refinery, blow the shit out of it, then back to the boat for our return to Kuwait by water.”

  “But that’s a fifty-mile trip across an ocean that can be very tricky if the weather’s bad,” Mike said.

  Buddy shrugged. “Then let’s hope the weather holds, partner, or we’ll be getting our feet wet.”

  Back at the SUSA headquarters, Buddy went immediately to contact the Kuwait oil minister and make arrangements for the transport of the helicopters, and to meet with and brief his SEAL team.

  Mike went to his office and picked up the telephone. He dialed the number of his computer center control room.

  When the phone was answered and a high-pitched voice said, “Mac the Hack,” Mike could hear raucous rock-and-roll music playing loudly in the background.

  “Mac,” Mike said, speaking to Johnny MacDougal, the fifteen-year-old computer genius that practically ran his computer center.

  “Hey, Mike, how’re they hangin’?” Mac asked irreverently. He’d never quite gotten the idea of rank and the respect that was due it, but his skills made him irreplaceable and he knew it, so he continued in his informal ways.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” Mike said.

  “Hey, I’m pretty booked up right now,” Mac said, a whining tone in his voice. “I’m tryin’ to debug your latest scrambler program and it’s a bitch.”

  “This is more in the way of your . . . hobby,” Mike said.

  “Oh?” Mac asked, sounding more interested to know the job wasn’t a routine one.

  “Yeah. I need you to do some hacking for me,” Mike said, knowing that would trip Mac’s trigger.

  “But Mike,” Mac said, sounding a bit suspicious, “you know hacking is illegal and you made me promise last month not to do it anymore.”

  Mike laughed. “So you haven’t been hacking lately?” he asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I send a couple of experts over to your room to check out the three machines you have there, will you?” Mike asked.

  “Uh ... wait a minute . . .” Mac stalled.

  “Don’t worry. This operation has been cleared all the way to the top. And,” Mike added, “I think you’ll
have some fun with it.”

  “Well then, my man,” Mac said, sounding more chipper, “take a jaunt down to the cave and let’s talk.”

  The cave was the name Mac used for the basement computer center that housed the SUSA headquarters’ banks of mainframe computers they used to monitor all of the intel that Mike relied so heavily upon.

  When Mike entered the room, he found Mac leaning back in his chair, his feet up on a desk covered with candy-bar wrappers, empty potato-chip bags, and several empty bottles of a high-caffeine soda popular with teenagers.

  “Jesus,” Mike said, “what a mess.”

  “Hey,” Mac replied, sitting up and putting his feet on the ground. “This is a high-stress job. I need my carbs and my caffeine to keep sharp.”

  Mike smiled and nodded. “Yeah, right.” He handed Mac a sheet of paper on which he’d outlined the task he wanted him to do, complete with the names of El Farrar and all of his family members.

  Mac read the sheet silently for a minute, then looked up and grinned. “This is all?” he asked sarcastically.

  “What do you mean?” Mike asked.

  “You want me to break into the Central Bank of Iraq, somehow get past all the firewalls and encryption codes, and steal these guys’ money and transfer it somewhere else, all without knowing their bank account numbers or codes or anything?”

  “Yes,” Mike said quickly.

  “Jeez, Mike, do you realize what’s involved in doing all that?”

  “Oh, well,” Mike said, reaching for the paper. “If it’s too tough for you . . .”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mac said, pulling the paper back. “I didn’t say it couldn’t be done, just that it’s gonna be hard.”

  “You want me to give the job to somebody else?” Mike asked, knowing Mac would rather cut out his tongue than admit anyone else was better on a computer than he was.

  “Are you kidding?” Mac asked, a smirk on his face. “You know there’s not another soul who could pull this off.”

  “How long will it take you?”

  Mac shrugged as he turned his chair toward the large computer console in front of him. “Depends.”