The Assassins

by Oliver North

  “Yes,” Samir replied quietly, in contrast to Ainsworth's agitation. “We believe that they are going to use nuclear weapons—like the one used in Saudi Arabia on Monday night—to prove to the world that they have more of this capability.”

  Ainsworth knew there was a lot of “chatter” being picked up that hinted at some unspecified acts of terrorism. “Who wants to demonstrate that they have more nukes?” he asked.

  Samir placed both hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward to speak. He laid out his narrative as his father had instructed him, and wanted to get it right. “In 2004 there was a fatwa issued by an important cleric—a radical Muslim. He said to all people that the Quran sanctioned the right of Muslims to kill American, British, and Israeli civilians—along with other Westerners they call infidels.”

  “In 2004? Now, Mr. Habib…Samir, these terrorists have been killing people for a lot longer than that,” Ainsworth said.

  “The fatwa went further than the jihadis have ever gone before. This cleric said that the Islamic holy book authorized and approved the ‘use of all available weapons’ to kill infidels.”

  Ainsworth tilted his head and asked, “By that this cleric meant—?”

  “Nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons,” Samir answered. “The fatwa said that even weapons of mass destruction are ‘approved by Allah’—according to the Quran.”

  The CIA Station Chief recalled something about such a fatwa, but at the time the Agency consensus was that it was simply more posturing by radical clerics to bolster sagging support. “Who are these terrorists who are going to use these weapons of mass destruction, and how do you know?”

  “It is the Iranians—not terrorists. I can't explain it entirely. But my father, who has carefully studied all this, knows.”

  “Your father knows? How does your father know?”

  “Through a study of their religious books and their writings and the preoccupation of the radical Islamic leaders with the number eleven. And by the study of our own Holy Bible,” Samir said.

  Ainsworth thought, Oh boy—another religious nut. How did this guy get on the “protected asset” list? But he just said, “Go on.”

  Samir nodded and said, “My father has discerned that the jihadists are distorting the Quran to achieve their own plans and purposes. They have said that Allah gives them permission to kill infidels through means of mass destruction. And now they have nuclear weapons.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “My father has the inner assurance that the fatwa goes against the nature and character of the true God—and God will never condone anything that is contrary to His nature and character.”

  Yeah, whatever that means, thought Ainsworth. “But Mr. Habib, before we can do anything, we have to have proof. We need proof that they really do have nukes, and proof that they plan to use them.”

  “But one proves the other,” Samir said.

  “Huh?”

  “If there is proof that they have nuclear weapons, it proves that they intend to use them. They have said it many times over the past several years—particularly and specifically in the fatwa of 2004. For more than a decade they have been seeking an Islamic nuclear weapons capability. They do not believe that the Pakistanis are a reliable Islamic nuclear power since they cooperate with the Americans, who are infidels—so the Iranians have acquired their own. They have already used one—in Saudi Arabia. Tomorrow they will use another and in November, the eleventh month of the Christian calendar, they will use more of them.”

  Ainsworth was stunned. Some inside the Agency had speculated that what they were calling “the Saudi nuke” had been detonated by Iran, but there was no evidence whatsoever connecting Tehran to the nuclear device. Nonetheless, Monday's nuclear explosion proved that someone had been willing to expend a nuke, and Langley had instructed all CIA bases and stations to report any information they could gather on the event. “All right,” said Ainsworth, “suppose you're right. Suppose the Iranians have some more nuclear weapons. Why do you say they're going to use them tomorrow—and again in November?”

  “It is as I said before. All the jihadists, and that includes the mullahs and ayatollahs in Tehran, are preoccupied with the number eleven. For them it means power and leadership. Jihadists destroyed the two towers in New York on the eleventh. They bombed the trains in Madrid on the eleventh. The jihadist attack on Saudi Arabia occurred at eleven hundred hours on the fourteenth of October. That date can be written as 14/10/07. Subtract ten from fourteen. That equals four. Now add the four to the remaining integers, zero and seven and the sum is...”

  “Eleven,” replied Ainsworth—unconvinced.

  “Yes,” said the Iraqi. “That is why my father is certain that they are going to use another weapon of mass destruction tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Why tomorrow—it's the nineteenth of October. And the nuclear weapon that detonated in Saudi Arabia went off on the fifteenth of October. What do those dates have to do with the number eleven?” asked Ainsworth, his voice heavy with skepticism.

  Samir patiently reconstructed what his father had told him last night. He said, “Write the date 15 October 2007 as 15/10/2007. Then, add one and five. That equals six. Add the ten. That equals sixteen. Add the two—that makes eighteen. Now subtract the seven and that equals eleven.”

  “It's just a coincidence,” said Ainsworth. “What about tomorrow— the nineteenth?”

  “Ah yes,” replied Samir tolerantly. “Tomorrow is the nineteenth day of the tenth month. Add the numbers, one plus nine plus one plus zero...and that too equals eleven. My father explained all this to me last night.”

  “Tell me again why your father thinks all this is going to happen,” Ainsworth said, sensing Samir's respect for his father's opinion.

  “My father told me that many of their imams attach great significance to certain numbers—in this case the number eleven. He is still studying the Holy Bible, and he is praying to God, to reveal to him answers about where and when. But because the time is short, I thought I should tell you right away what we do know, and if he discerns more, we will tell you.”

  As Samir sat back in his chair, ending his “report,” Ainsworth leaned in and turned off the recorder. He said nothing for a long while, wondering, What are people at Headquarters going to think if I include all this weird stuff about the number eleven, the information about God, the Bible, the Quran, and praying in a report? I know that if such an account came to me, I'd dismiss it outright—especially if it came from a “walk-in.” Still, this man claims to be a friend of Bill Goode, and the Marine gunnery sergeant had said that this Iraqi knew some general back in Washington. Maybe I'll just kick it upstairs to Goode.

  “Tell you what, Mr. Habib,” Ainsworth said, deciding on a way to handle the matter with minimum jeopardy to his career. “I'm going to send along this recording to Mr. Goode right away. Ordinarily I'd write up a report, but I think it's best if I just send him what you've told me. It will be faster that way, and he'll know what to do with the information. And thank you for coming in, Mr. Habib. Mr. Conway will show you out. Please thank your father for his effort on this. Mr. Conway will give you a number you can call if you or your father have information for us in the future.”

  Camp Snoopy

  ________________________________________

  Doha International Airport, Qatar

  Friday, 19 October 2007

  0200 Hours Local

  The two Air Force C-17s carrying SOCOM Det 2 had required a single aerial refueling from a pair of KC-10s out of the Azores during the thirteen-hour flight to Doha. When the aircraft landed at exactly 0100 Thursday—the men had deplaned, enjoying the opportunity to stretch their legs and get the circulation going again.

  Marine Colonel “Buck” Beyer, from the CENTCOM Forward HQ staff had been there to meet Captain Christopher and his men with three buses and two seven-ton trucks, escorted by three of the latest up-armored Humvees. Beyer supervised the offload of the un
it equipment and ordnance from the aircraft, stowing it all aboard the vehicles, and then led the little convoy from the airbase, three miles to CENTCOM's whimsically dubbed Forward Headquarters, Camp Snoopy.

  Named after the Charles Schultz canine, the base didn't live up to its amusing namesake because all humor ended at the main gate. The high, well-lighted perimeter berm topped with coils of razor wire was interrupted every one hundred yards or so by elevated guard towers—manned by two U.S. soldiers each. Protruding from the towers were the snouts of 240 Golf and .50 cal. machine guns. Outside the perimeter, seven two-man teams patrolled with guard dogs. At the entry portal there was a lengthy delay while U.S. Army MPs in full “battle rattle” inspected every vehicle before it was permitted to enter—using mirrors to peer underneath and insisting that the drivers open the hoods of their vehicles so the spaces could be checked for bombs.

  U.S. Seabees had constructed Camp Snoopy on the eve of Operation Iraqi Freedom. The Navy Combat Engineers had begun by moving more than 10,000 cubic meters of soil and sand to build the perimeter berm. Then they chiseled their way through granite-hard bedrock to erect high-security, bomb-proof headquarters buildings and finally, row after row of modular billets. Using some 50,000 pounds of steel rebar and beams, and nearly 700 cubic meters of concrete, they constructed three-dozen “Scud bunkers,” with a blast wall almost a hundred meters long, plus a mile of road, and another mile of trenches inside the camp. Army Reserve and National Guard engineers working with civilian contractors built mess halls and recreation facilities, and installed dozens of generators, fuel storage tanks, enormous water purification units, sewage treatment plants, and thousands of air conditioners to keep the heat from setting off the fire sprinklers inside the buildings. Even the water for the swimming pools was cooled to prevent troops from being scalded during training or recreation.

  Captain Christopher had been through Camp Snoopy on deployments to Iraq several years earlier, and he noticed that not much had changed since. The most obvious difference was the higher security profile—which provided a certain level of comfort. Once they were inside, Colonel Beyer told him, “Your unit is billeted over at the Spec Ops Compound. You have your own storage area, motor-park, and mess hall. Do you and your officers want to stay over at the CENTCOM BOQ?”

  “No, sir,” the captain replied. “We'll stay with our men. According to my orders we only have twenty-four hours or so before we have to move. I want to get 'em fed, bedded down for awhile, and have plenty of time to brief before this mission goes down.”

  “OK by me,” Beyer said. “I'll be back here in eighteen hours with the final op order from SOCOM.”

  At 0100, Friday morning, exactly twenty-four hours after SOCOM Det 2 had arrived at Doha, Capt. Andy Christopher had his three teams back at the air base and mission ready. Inside a large hangar lit with blue lights to preserve their night vision, the members of each team conducted a final gear check. The threat of chemical “poisoning” from the petroleum fires raging throughout the country mandated that everyone wear full NBC protective suits and carry their gas masks. And because of the nuclear detonation, every Marine was also issued a radiation dosimeter and told to hang it on the outside of their armor vests. Outside on the tarmac, three different types of aircraft awaited the troops who would ride them to their designated targets.

  Two USMC MV-22, tilt-rotor Ospreys from VMM-263 were waiting to fly Lieutenant Weiner, a portion of the HQ element, and the sixteen men of Team 3 to the USS Makin Island, LHD-8. From the Expeditionary Assault Ship, twelve miles off the Saudi coast, they would serve as the Detachment QRF.

  Parked beside the haze-gray Ospreys were two CH-53E Sea Stallions—also from the Marine Composite Helicopter Squadron aboard the Makin Island. The big Sikorski birds had been selected to carry Team 2 and the two NEST scientists directly from Doha to the Rub al Khali nuclear detonation site in southeastern Saudi Arabia. The sixteen Marines and the two civilians were already perspiring heavily in their full MOPP nuclear, biological, and chemical protective suits. So were the CH-53 pilots, crew chiefs, and the door and ramp gunners.

  Further out on the apron, a USAF MC-130, rigged for a rapid parachute drop, waited with its ramp open for the team that would jump into the besieged embassy. Since this was likely to be the most dangerous of the three missions, Captain Christopher, his radio operator, two additional Navy medical corpsmen, an air-control communicator, and a satellite technician were accompanying the sixteen Marines of Team 1 into the heart of Riyadh. The MC-130, with its terrain-following radar, would fly at fifty feet all the way to Riyadh, pop up and drop the twenty-one paratroopers—hopefully inside the wall surrounding the three-acre embassy compound.

  The CH-53s with Team 2 and the scientists aboard took off at 0118, heading for the southeastern desert of Saudi Arabia. They were followed minutes later by the two MV-22s—the strange-looking aircraft lifting straight up and rapidly transitioning into forward flight—headed for the USS Makin Island with Lieutenant Weiner and the QRF. As soon as the first two teams had departed, Captain Christopher and Team 1 left the hangar for the MC-130. Their heavy gear—primary and reserve parachutes, equipment packs, and NBC protective kit—gave them the appearance of pregnant turtles as they waddled up the ramp.

  Once aboard, they “counted off”—one through twenty-one—and Christopher shouted, “As soon as we get the word that the QRF is aboard the Makin, we'll fire up the engines and take off. Once we're airborne, everyone puts on his gas mask. As we approach the DZ the crew chief will signal us to stand up and move to the ramp. As soon as the light turns green—exit fast!”

  The Marines, facing each other in the eerie blue night-lights, responded with loud, “Oohh-Rahh!”

  The captain, standing all the way forward, leaned toward the two rows of Marines facing each other in red nylon web seats and continued, “The aircraft will be nose high and climbing directly over the compound—but we still have to get everyone out in four seconds—or the last guys out may not be able to steer inside the embassy wall. And since I'm the last one out—I don't want to land outside the compound and have Mrs. Christopher get the videotape of some ‘jihadi’ removing her husband's head from his body. Got it?”

  “Aye aye, sir!” the men called out in unison.

  “As soon as we're on the ground, everybody move immediately to your assignments—first thing is chain saws to remove the trees we saw in the satellite photos. We need to have the ‘landscaping’ done before dawn.” Turning to the Navy First Class Petty Officer seated beside him, he continued, “Doc—get your corpsmen treating any embassy people who are wounded and start prioritizing the evacuees. The security element will coordinate with the senior MSG Marine to reinforce the embassy perimeter. Communicators—stay with me to get our comms up so that we can tell Makin when the LZ is clear enough to send in the Ospreys for the evacuation. And remember, we're supposed to go ‘live’ with SOCOM and Washington as soon as we get on the ground. Last chance—any questions?”

  One of the Marines spoke up in the darkness: “Yes, sir. When do we move back into position to go out?”

  “On my signal,” Christopher replied. “Radio is primary. A green star cluster is backup. We'll keep any MSG personnel who aren't wounded with us—and we'll go out last.”

  At 0145 the Air Force crew chief shouted, “The pilot has gotten the word from the USS Makin Island that the QRF is in place. Please fasten your seat belts. Thank you for riding Spec Ops Air. We hope you enjoy your one-way flight.” The ground power unit beneath the right wing fired up and hydraulic pumps whined as the clamshell ramp on the MC-130 closed. Then, one by one, the Marines heard the four engines begin to turn and the aircraft taxied to the runway. As the big bird lumbered into the air, Captain Christopher checked his watch. It was exactly 0200.

  THE SKY

  IS FALLING

  ___________________________________________________

  ___________________________________________________

  CHAPTER EIG
HT

  Situation Room

  ________________________________________

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Friday, 19 October 2007

  0900 Hours Local

  For the first time since the “Saudi Crisis” began, William Goode, the CIA Deputy Director of Operations, had been invited to sit in on one of the now twice-daily National Security Team meetings in the White House Situation Room. But his presence was not without its own controversy.

  When he received the audio file of Samir's report from Ainsworth in Baghdad, Goode had dutifully called his boss, the CIA director—who punted the matter to Perry Straw. The DNI dismissed the report out of hand and called Goode, telling him to “stop wasting time with religious nut cases and get back to work finding out who really popped the Rub al Khali nuke and whether this ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ outfit has anymore of them.”

  After hanging up the secure phone, Goode leaned back in his chair and stared out his seventh-floor window deep in thought—all the while, fingering the tiny fish he wore on a military ID chain around his neck. After a few moments watching the dawn bring color to the trees surrounding the CIA Headquarters, he made up his mind, picked up the secure phone, and dialed the number of the most senior American official he knew—a man who also carried the “sign of the faith.”

  Goode heard the phone ring twice, then a whooshing noise and a ping as the encryption systems synchronized—followed by a slightly garbled, but familiar voice that said simply, “Grisham.”

  “Good morning, General. Bill Goode at Langley,” the CIA Deputy Director said.

  “Good to hear from you, Bill. What's up?”

  “I have received an urgent message from one of our ‘Fellowship of Believers’ in Iraq—Samir Habib. I believe it may have immediate bearing on your operation to evacuate our embassy in Riyadh,” Goode began. “I have been unable to get anyone out here or the DNI to pay attention to it. It's an encrypted audio file. If you don't mind, I'd like to e-mail it to you.”