The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “Who are you, then?” bin Laden asked Morgan.

  “My fiancée died in New York.”

  “Ah! You blame me?” Bin Laden clapped his hands together with the revelation. “I’m so sorry,” he said. His mock remorse was soon annulled by an arrogant laugh.

  A fly began feeding on Morgan’s forehead.

  “What puzzling virtue you Americans have!” He shook his head in persistent amusement. The room filled with laughter.

  “You are immoral…and denigrate God. You elevate homosexuals…and worship naked women.” His words lingered. “So many perversions!”

  Bin Laden looked smugly at the men. “Too many to list…”

  They laughed again.

  “Eagle One calling in, Admiral,” Graham said. “Getting painted.”

  Four F-15E fighter-bombers and their tanker were intentionally visible to Pakistani radar.

  “Tell them to stay cool,” he said. “Wolfpack status?”

  Wolfpack—a quartet of F-15C Fighter Interceptors—was northeast below the mountains, hiding from Pakistani radar.

  “Full bellies,” said Graham. She held up her hand to delay him briefly from speaking. “Sir, NSA reports F-16s warming up at Peshawar.”

  “Time to Thunderbolt target contact?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Llewellyn spoke into his headset. “CIA, confirm again Composer.”

  “Command, confidence level unchanged.”

  “Mr. President…” Llewellyn said into his headset.

  “Finish it, James,” said President Reeves.

  The admiral looked directly at Graham.

  “Sergeant…all sorties standby.”

  “Jamil tells me how you met.” Morgan could see Sayyaf leaning against a wall. “A tale of folly our great-grandchildren will enjoy.”

  Sitting forward in his chair, bin Laden grinned while he stroked his beard and sipped tea for a moment.

  “New York and Washington are the beginning. In America’s zeal to use the atomic bomb, it conceded any indignation.”

  Bin Laden’s nostrils snorted a breath, carrying hatred that radiated past his unchanging smile.

  “America talks and talks. It talks so well. But Pakistan will come to join with us.”

  With confident stature, he tipped his head back and looked at the fractured ceiling. “Their weapons of mass destruction”—his smile grew wider—“Iran’s, too, will belong to the true believers.”

  There was no doubt he was enjoying his monologue.

  “My friend, you should know by now that the American Satan is lazy and won’t fight, even if we scorch it to glass. That shall be only the beginning. Europe will follow, despite their appeasing pleas.”

  The vindictive smile waxed. “When the Kuffars…all the nonbelievers…are in hell, obedience will be upon those who remain, and the lands will unite in the Caliphate.”

  He placed his tea cup on a small table and picked up Morgan’s knife, drawing his finger across the serrated edge.

  “Death does not scare us. Our children do not fear it.” Bin Laden handed the knife to Jamil. “Let us help you understand.”

  Hands vice-gripped Morgan, ramming his chest to the floor.

  Morgan’s thoughts became free, distilling to a singular focus. He could smell her hair and feel her back arch, her blue eyes dancing as they made love.

  Guttural laughter, the same that Morgan had heard once in the cafeteria, spread contagiously through the men.

  “Allahu Akbar!” The men shouted the supplication.

  Morgan prayed he’d join her today.

  The sole of a dirty shoe crushed his head in the floor.

  To be with her again…

  “Captain Strafford has acquisition,” said Graham.

  The A10 Thunderbolt’s targeting image magnified on the screen.

  “Command, American 11,” called Strafford. “Master-Arm on.”

  “Attack execute,” declared Llewellyn.

  Graham relayed the order.

  “Roger.” Strafford said.

  The A-10 pitched down from one thousand feet.

  Don’t hit the damn building, Llewellyn reminded him telepathically.

  “He’s firing,” reported Graham. Her atonal voice never changed.

  Like a feather, the knife blade floated past Morgan’s eyes, coming to rest on his neck. Its gracious mercy would soon cleanse the horror born from the finality of her haunting words.

  “Hi. This is Caroline Pruitt. I am unavailable. Please leave a message.”

  “All true to target,” Graham reported.

  Streaming concussion missiles exploded at the base of the wall.

  SIXTY-THREE

  White.

  Brighter than the sun…

  No breath…

  His muscles contorted violently.

  I’m dead.

  The huge vacuum imploded, ripping apart any flesh outside the wall. Inside the building, the concussions knocked everyone to the floor.

  “Pulling up…looking.” Strafford banked forty-five degrees. “Building remains intact. You’re up next, United 175.”

  The men fell away from Morgan, the knife lost in the dust. His fingers struggled with the ankle knots until someone jumped him, wrapping an arm around his face. Morgan tasted sweat and bit hard, jamming his elbow into the attacker’s ribs.

  The second Thunderbolt fired.

  “Command, United 175…” The pilot relayed as he turned. “Bottom of the hill clear.”

  The flashes illuminated Jamil trying to crawl away. Morgan grabbed a hunk of masonry and raised it over his head.

  “Eat this,” he shouted, crushing Jamil’s skull to mush.

  Morgan pulled apart the knots, threw the rope over his shoulder, and started his hunt again.

  “Coming back around,” Strafford radioed.

  He fired the Gatling cannon.

  “NSV destroyed. Checking again…American 11 outbound.”

  “Getting plinked,” the pilot of United 175 reported. A heavy-caliber gun was firing through the sunroof of the remaining SUV. “Bugger getting a visit.”

  The SUV became a fireball.

  “That’s it for us,” the pilot called. “United 175 leaving.”

  “American 77 copies,” the Spector AC130 command pilot said. “Coming in.”

  “United 93 staggered on the flank,” Graham told Llewellyn. “Sir, there are Pakistani F-16s heading northeast on burner. AWAC has acquired,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Aboard the first Spooky gunship, the captain placed his finger on the master-fire trigger.

  “Preparing to fire,” he said.

  “Weapons ready,” replied the fire control officer. He put his hand on the dual trigger. “Confirm target.”

  “FCO, terrain confirmed.” A slight bank left. “Going into pylon turn…plowing the field.”

  Alternating groups of twenty-five-millimeter Gatling guns gimbaled up and down, raking the ground at eighteen hundred rounds a minute. Whatever was left alive in the three square miles wouldn’t last much longer.

  “Firing cannon.”

  Dozens of rounds peppered the ground with explosions. The second Specter hit the meadow’s outer flank.

  Their jobs finished, they powered up and began to climb.

  “Sergeant, tell Wolfpack to acquire those Pakistani fighters. Contact Air Chief Marshall Anwar Raza.”

  The AWAC uploaded the intercept coordinates.

  “Wolfpack One vectoring,” said the wing commander. There was brief radio crackle. “Flight, Push, Attack frequency.”

  The three other fighters confirmed the radio change.

  There was a strange quiet. Llewellyn could almost feel the twenty-nine thousand pounds of thrust pour from their afterburners.

  “All wolves hot. Mach 2.4. ETA…two plus ten,” said Graham. Raza’s on line.”

  “Fifteen-second reminders.”

  Llewellyn watched the Wolfpack’s progress.

  “One mi
nute gone, sir.”

  The admiral pressed a button. “Anwar…James Llewellyn.”

  “Llewellyn, what the fuck are you arrogant assholes doing? Starting World War Three?”

  His English was faultless, as was his use of it.

  “Air Marshall Raza, we’ve been friends a long time.” Llewellyn was stalling, waiting for the F-15s to arrive. “The United States is conducting an operation to extract a bad person from Swat. It will be over in sixteen minutes.”

  “You’ve violated Pakistani sovereignty. Our fighters…”

  “Wolves have acquired,” Graham whispered in the loop.

  “Anwar, my F-15s are on top of you.” Llewellyn could hear yelling in the background, confirming what he just told his friend. “I will clear them to fire if our aircraft are attacked. Do you copy?”

  Jesus Christ! President Reeves tried to check his shock, praying to God that Llewellyn was bluffing. The interdiction was on the verge of drawing both countries into a full-scale war.

  “Kiowa One coming on station,” reported Graham. “Ball going up.”

  The helicopter’s sensor platform rose above the propeller to guide in the Blackhawks.

  Morgan didn’t understand or care what was happening outside. Amid the rubble he found an HK and sprayed a circle of bullets through the room.

  His search resumed.

  “James, my F-16s will break off.” There was momentary static. “I give you fifteen minutes before my hornets swarm. Understand?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Bastard Americans…”

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Someday Llewellyn would laugh, but not now.

  He cut the connection. Intolerable seconds passed as he waited for Graham’s confirmation.

  “AWAC confirms Pakistani fighters turning.”

  “Tell Wolfpack to unlock in ten seconds.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Graham. “Kiowa Two now ringside.”

  The second Kiowa took station high above the compound to keep all the helicopter blades apart—and watch for other trouble.

  “Command…” The Blackhawks were calling in. “North Tower and South Tower teams on final approach.”

  The four Blackhawks were twenty seconds out.

  “Reaper Two here, acknowledge now!” The quick words drew Llewellyn’s immediate attention. “Large flatbed vehicle approaching from the west. Signature suggests SAMs aboard. Permission to Hellfire.”

  “Standby,” said Graham. “CIA, can you corroborate?”

  “Images suggest burkas. Confidence level not acceptable.”

  “What! Say again?” questioned the sergeant.

  A new voice jumped in. It was Rushworth. “Vehicle may be carrying women, understand?”

  “This is Reaper Two! Burkas leaving vehicle! Permission to Hellfire!”

  “CIA!” Llewellyn yelled.

  A missile hit on a Blackhawk would be catastrophic.

  “Launcher going erect! Request permission to fire! They’re energizing!”

  “Reaper Two, this is James Llewellyn—fire! Fire! Fire!”

  Larsen had the laser already locked. The drone shuddered with each launch.

  “One, two, three missiles true at Mach one point three.” The race would only last seconds. “Too fucking close!” His microphone was keyed. “Go you fuckin’ rockets!”

  The truck, launcher, and burkas evaporated.

  “Jesus Christ!” shouted Larsen. “That was just stupid! Did they hire a new girl at CIA just for this?”

  “Um, Reaper Two,” Graham called, “you’re live.”

  “Copy, Command! Opinion here remains unchanged! Whoever that woman is, she’s an idiot! When this is over, send her ass out here for some face time with me. Reaper Two out.”

  The other Predator descended to eight thousand feet. Llewellyn saw the eerie static electric glow of the helicopter blades as the rotors hit dust particles in the air.

  “North Tower Alpha firing.” A pair of concussion missiles from the Blackhawk collapsed the roof, another rude dose to anyone below.

  The helicopters hovered over the smoldering compound, their doors open.

  “Standby to insert!” Travis Sherpao instructed his SEAL teams.

  They prepared to fast rope down.

  “Remember…possible friendly on ground,” Sherpao said through his radio.

  A private communiqué from Llewellyn regarding that prospect jogged Sherpao’s memory. He recalled a conversation with a former SEAL named Tony months earlier at a tribute celebration for fallen colleagues.

  “This doctor’s fiancée died on 9/11!” he’d said, adding with only a half laugh, “The guy insisted he would kill Osama himself.”

  While quarantined with the assault teams after their final mission briefing, Sherpao mentioned the possibility of a lone wolf. Every SEAL team member agreed to press for mission completion. Failure wouldn’t be theirs.

  As Sherpao listened to what was happening on the ground, damn if it wasn’t perhaps a reality.

  “Make sure your air is on!” he reminded his colleagues.

  Their faces were sealed inside shatterproof masks with integrated night-vision.

  Graham and Llewellyn exchanged glances.

  “Admiral,” she said, “we are dead on timeline.”

  “Advise the teams this is now a kill mission. With what’s gone on down there, I’ve no stomach for more risk.”

  He didn’t give a damn if they blew bin Laden to bits.

  From each side of the helicopters, tear gas canisters fired through the holes in the roof. More canisters spewed white clouds outside.

  “Insert now!’ said Sherpao.

  Connected to the outrigger, he dropped to the ground first. He saw a man emerge from behind the wall, preparing to fire an RPG. Sherpao’s gun stopped him with a two-round burst.

  Twelve black apparitions fluttered to the ground and formed into trios. Their patterned search began.

  “Twelve-minute mark,” came into their helmets.

  Morgan’s brain felt thick—full of mud. The building shook again. A wood beam dropped on his shoulder, dislocating it. He fell, inhaling dust and choking. Illuminated by the fire, he saw bin Laden scrambling away.

  “Not this time!”

  Morgan tackled him, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Wrapping the rope around bin Laden’s neck, he shoved a clump of pig hair in the terrorist’s mouth.

  “Pig…from America!” he screamed in his ear. “Suck on it to Hell!”

  The noose tightened.

  “For my Caroline!”

  The man struggled more.

  A wave of tear gas overwhelmed Morgan. His grip slackened. Bin Laden rammed a fist to his testicles. Morgan grunted but held firm.

  The SEALs were probing the inside spaces, entering a room of tangled chairs and tables. Stepping on broken plates and splattered food, they passed multiple bodies.

  “Four down near back wall,” Sherpao heard. “Not our work. Moving.”

  He heard gunfire outside until a slash of white streaked from Warrior Two.

  “SAM neutralized,” said a voice.

  “Nothing upstairs but dead bodies,” radioed another SEAL.

  Sherpao’s trio stopped outside a door with a hole in it. There was an active struggle on the other side.

  “Admiral,” said Graham, “more Pakistani fighters scrambling.”

  “Call the Eagle Fighters in,” Llewellyn said. The situation was deteriorating. “Get Wolfpack refueled,” then he spoke directly to the White House situation room, “we may need your help shortly.”

  He looked at Graham again then reflexively at his watch. “Tell them only five minutes. We either get that SOB this time or we try again.”

  Morgan’s universe constricted as he tightened the rope noose more. He gave it slack and pulled again.

  He felt ecstatic.

  “Wes…”

  His grip held firm.

  “Wes…no…”

  The man was struggling less. />
  “Flash-bang,” said Sherpao.

  The grenade went through the hole.

  The blast stunned Morgan, knocking him flat. His grasp on the rope softened.

  “No more killing, Wes.”

  The bedlam around him dissolved to silence. He became transfixed.

  “Not for me…”

  That music! He had heard it before! His memory reached back then came forward.

  “Dante…go scout!”

  One of Sherpao’s men released the dog. The Belgian Malinois jumped over the door blown from its hinges.

  Eddies of red spun inside Morgan’s eyelids. Consumed by the acrid smoke, he coughed hard. When he opened his eyes, Dante’s intense stare was body-checking him.

  Morgan breathed in and coarsely whispered, “A…friendly face.”

  A light blinded him. New men were in the room.

  “My name,” Morgan shouted, “is Dr. Wesley…Randall…Morgan.” He was panting. “From…Chicago.”

  Sherpao heard the three-minute warning.

  “Name the football team,” he said, stepping closer.

  Morgan had only seconds.

  “The Bears…” Trying to breathe, he wanted to give him more. “Won the…’85…Super Bowl…”

  “Command,” Sherpao radioed, “we’ve got Wildcard.”

  “Admiral! What crap!” Rushworth spoke in the loop. “We want Osama, remember?”

  “Shut up, Priscilla!” President Reeves cut in on the line.

  “He was here…” Morgan wheezed. “Couldn’t kill him…passed out.”

  “Stay put,” Sherpao said, looking at his bloody neck. “Just breathe.” He spoke into his headset. “Wildcard wounded.”

  The steady voice from Washington said, “Outside teams to extraction perimeter.”

  Dante raced everywhere while the SEALs picked through the remaining rooms.

  “Dad-gum-it! No contact,” said Sherpao. “Composer went in a rathole. Must be in a tunnel below.” He paused to control his irritation. “Damn!”

  “Hunting season stays open.” The resigned reply came through space into his ears.

  “Withdrawing now. Taking’ my hat off to Doc, though.” Sherpao chuckled. “Got some big balls! Sign that boy up.”