Due to the stupendous reach of his underground Intel network, Aziz had managed to acquire a nuclear warhead. This same network also pinpointed the actions of the U.S. Navy only an hour after bin Laden had departed the compound. The military prowess of the United States might be the most hated force on the face of the planet in the eyes of the Jihadist, but it was undeniable that such prowess was not founded in myth or legend. That was precisely why Aziz now raced to remove the device from the camp before a possible seizure or strike took place.
Although the lone rider found himself in this country for an inordinate amount of time, he was Sudanese by birth. The multifaceted leader of HuJI-B was known to the locals as the "Arabian Knight" because of the multitude of gifts he had bestowed upon its resistance forces; gifts in the forms of both funding and weaponry.
Aziz's guard approached him outside the rusted metal hangar. The four aging jets that were standing nearby on the tarmac were gassed up and ready to go for another taunt of the U.S. Navy.
"It is secure," the guard said to the lone rider, referring to the nuclear device that was now packed carefully and gingerly into the rear of the vehicle. Aziz looked to the night skies and then to his guard.
"Good," he responded as he straightened and moved to the vehicle's driver's side door. "Let's go."
Before climbing into the truck, the guard whistled to the three men who were standing outside the open bay doors, smoking cigarettes. They waved and then closed the large metal, retractable doors behind them.
The truck's engine sputtered to life as Aziz opened a package of small opium-laced candies, popping a few into his mouth. Offering some to the guard in the seat next to him, the guard waved a hand.
"That stuff will be the death of you."
Aziz bellowed a genuine, hearty laugh as the guard pulled out a pack of thin, cheap African cigarettes.
"You do realize that those cigarettes are made from the anal droppings of elephants, right?"
The guard remained unmoved and, with an unflinching gaze, replied, "That's why I like them." He darted a quick look toward Aziz. "Flavorful."
Aziz laughed again as he gunned the truck out of the camp and drove quickly up the dusty dirt road toward the crest of the foothills to the east.
The three guards standing near the rusted building watched as the truck and its precious payload disappeared.
The first of the guards inhaled the last of the cigarette and tossed the butt to the ground, blowing a large cloud from his pinched lips.
"Aziz is crazy if he thinks the U.S. Navy knows about this place," he said with disdain as he reached in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. As he drew them out, the second man reached out a hand. The first guard scoffed loudly.
"I gave you two packs last week," he replied as he took out one cigarette and pocketed the pack.
"One pack," the second argued. "Not two. Besides…I'm only asking for one cigarette."
"Get a job," the first grumbled as he lit the cigarette.
The third man took a few steps forward and stared at the dark horizon.
"What's the matter?" the first guard asked him.
"I hear something," he answered quietly.
The other two began chuckling.
"That's my stomach," the first joked. They laughed, but the third man remained skeptical.
"Aziz has got him spooked," said the second.
The third turned and shushed them harshly.
"Listen!"
They obliged and strained to hear the phantom sound. Moments later, there was no need to remain quiet as the sound of the incoming missile fleetly approached with a growing and menacing hiss.
"Blessed Allah," murmured the first as he threw his cigarette down and the three of them bolted for the shelter of the building.
In the skies above, the Tomahawk roared toward its target. Flaps suddenly opened on the body of the missile and began depositing a few dozen hand grenade-sized incendiary bombs that fell to the ground ahead of the rocket, impacting the ground in red-orange explosions of fire that followed a jagged, serpentine pattern toward the hangar.
The first guard made it to the building, but the second and third were not so lucky as the bombs reduced them to plumes of flesh, blood, bone, and fire. Seconds later, the missile struck the hangar and exploded, completely decimating the building and spraying metal and concrete, sand and stone in all directions. The resulting column of hellishly hot flames could clearly be seen two miles away.
Aziz gripped the vibrating steering wheel of the rattling vehicle tightly as the truck continued to race on through the rocky foothills. A sudden explosion in the distance behind had enough force to rock the truck as Aziz looked into the rear view mirror to see the terrific conflagration rising menacingly into the night skies. The guard to his right was watching in his mirror as well.
"The base!" the guard yelped in terror.
Aziz narrowed his eyes as he watched the bright horizon to their rear, knowing that the entire camp would be overrun with U.S. soldiers by morning.
"No one survived," he muttered, mostly to himself. Stepping hard on the accelerator, he pushed on to the east, grabbing the main road, and hooking a right to head south, intent on being as far away from Benni Hissar as possible. By his estimation, the loss he had just suffered in munitions was too painful to ponder. This payload they currently carried had just become one hundred times more important to the cause.
Joe removed the headset from his ears and stretched. Standing, he fished out a cigarette from his pack and tapped Hahn on the shoulder. Looking up from his monitor, Joe mimed smoking and Hahn nodded. He walked out onto the deck and approached the railing. From the Leyte Gulf and from the other gunships in the battle group, some fifty missiles roared into the night skies, illuminating the hulking metal vessels in fiery streams of orange and red. He was momentarily stunned, never having seen so many fired off all at once. Even more impressive was the thought of how minutely small this particular launch was in regards to the total available munitions of America, but that this tiny display of firepower was enough to disable a small third-world country.
Right at that moment, he thought of Toni and little Liam and wanted to cry.
Morning had broken with a brilliant, hot sun. The heat from the desert, however, was nothing compared to that which was rising from the huge crater that sat where the rusted hangar once stood. The four jets that had been parked on the tarmac, ready for their harrying flights, now sat haphazardly deposited in twisted heaps upon the debris-strewn runway. Where the missile had burned the sand with intense, unimaginably high temperatures, there could be found now only sheets of dark, lumpy, bubbled glass. The former compound now resembled Hiroshima following the atomic blast in World War II.
A smoldering cloud rose from the crater as dust and ash were swept into the air on the winds. Several U.S. soldiers were scanning the area with radioactive detectors.
In the distance, a Navy helicopter touched down and an officer climbed out onto the damaged blacktop. As he did so, a young Marine lieutenant rushed toward him, hunched over as he approached his superior. The colonel casually returned the salute toward the junior officer and shouted above the spinning rotor blades.
"Were you in charge here?"
"Yes, sir," he replied, "but I haven't been relieved yet."
"You are now," the colonel came back loudly. Peering toward the smoking crater, the colonel began to slowly walk in its direction as the lieutenant followed behind like a faithful puppy. "I'm here under General Strak's specific order to oversee the handling of any W-M-D materials located at this facility."
The lieutenant's face looked troubled.
"Sir, we haven't found any evidence of W-M-D's so far."
The colonel turned to face the lieutenant with a confused countenance.
"Lieutenant, we were informed by Intel that they had confirmation of a device or devices here at this site." The junior officer continued to stare. "Did you have the bunkers checked?"
; "Sir, my men have sifted through every inch of sand, rock, and dirt. There's nothing here."
"Are you sure you've found all the bunkers?"
"We have an up-to-date layout of the camp as of three days ago. All bunkers have been located and searched. Right now, my men are looking for trace amounts of any evidence that will be pertinent to where the weapons may have been spirited away to."
The colonel was doubtful. Intel was absolutely clear about the presence of WMDs.
"Three days ago, huh?" he murmured as he scanned the compound, grey and black smoke rising into the air everywhere. Removing his cap, he wiped his brow. Putting the cap back on, he said in a lower voice. "Well, lieutenant, sift again. They're here somewhere. I'm not reporting back that we came up empty-handed."
"Sir, there were fresh tire tracks in the sand near the entrance from the road a ways out."
"And?" the colonel asked angrily, upset that the lieutenant hadn't mentioned this to start.
"There's reason to believe that a heavy payload was transported out of here very recently," the lieutenant went on hesitantly. "Could even have been taken out of here within the last day or two…taking into account the freshness of the tracks."
"Meteorologic reports say that a major sand storm blew through here about ninety-six hours ago, so those tracks are very fresh," the colonel pointed out matter-of-factly.
"Sir, our radiological boys are getting high readings," the lieutenant said in a dread-filled voice.
The colonel's eyes flicked back to the lieutenant's face.
"Say again."
The young officer cleared his throat.
"They're saying these guys have nukes," he answered in a near whisper. The colonel stared for a few moments before the full weight of the situation began to sink in to his thoughts. "They're guessing the W-M-D's left the compound just before the attack." The older officer continued to stare out at all the desolation. "Sir, that's why we were so sure that the armaments weren't here. If a Tomahawk hit this site and there was a nuke present –"
"The whole damn place would be vaporized," finished the colonel. He paused for a long moment, piecing together in his head how he would be explaining this to the higher-ups. "Which way were the tracks heading?"
"They took the road south," the lieutenant answered.
The colonel inwardly cursed the ill timing of the strike. Had they been just a few hours premature, this entire region would have been obliterated. The bellicose side of him would have cheered this result. It would have meant that there was one less nuke flittering about out there in the middle of this God-forsaken countryside; a warhead that could possibly be used against the homeland, or to harm their allies in Israel or Europe or elsewhere.
The other more reasonable side of him, however, knew that just a few miles away from here was a thriving, well-populated suburb of Kabul, tucked securely in the center of a saddle depression between two inferior ridges that, had an atomic weapon been detonated nearby, would most certainly have been laid to waste, its inhabitants haunted for decades by the compelling after effects of a nuclear winter.
Obviously, though, had he been aware that bin Laden himself was there in that exact locale only hours before, this entire internal debate would be completely irrelevant.
Pulling out his portable satellite radio phone, he attempted to hail his superiors.
"Endeavor, this is Alpha niner-five. Over."
As he waited for a response, he watched as a jeep approached from a location close to the hangar ruins, a large billowing cloud of dust trailing the vehicle and mixing with the black smoke rising from the still-burning husk of a fighter jet.
The Marine sergeant driving the vehicle got out of the jeep rather urgently and strode determinedly toward the pair of officers, clutching what appeared to be a photograph.
"Endeavor, this is Alpha niner-five. Do you read? Over," the colonel repeated as he watched the sergeant hand the photo to the junior officer.
"Where did you find this, Bryan?"
"The southern bunker, L-T," the sergeant answered. "Penfield was pokin' around in some burnt-out desks and filing cabinets and fount it."
"What is it?" the colonel asked as he craned his neck to see the image. The lieutenant handed the photo to his superior. "Is this a tanker?"
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant answered. "Not one of ours."
The colonel squinted as he studied the Arabic letters near the bottom frame of the photo.
"We need to get someone on these words here," he went on as he showed the photo to the junior officer. The lieutenant smirked and indicated the sergeant.
"No need, sir," he replied. "Sergeant Rails here can speak, read, and write in Arabic." The colonel looked up with an unexpected glance. Handing the photo back to the sergeant, he waited for an answer.
"Merchant Vessel Samra," he read without pause.
"What's that…Saudi?" the colonel requested quickly.
"Iranian," the sergeant replied.
"Alpha niner-five, this is Endeavor. We read you. Over," came the hail over the phone speaker. The colonel stared long and hard at the photo. Then, the voice on the other end changed. He recognized it immediately. "This is Endeavor, Alpha nine-five. Do you read me? Over." It was General Strak.
"This is Alpha niner-five," the colonel answers with a distressed face. "Sir, you'd better get a hold of the Fifth Fleet."
The cargo truck carrying the head of the HuJI-B and its precious payload sped along the dusty and dry mountain road, hell-bent on making incredible time to the coastline. Fully aware that the jostling of the trip could detonate the warhead at any moment, the Arabian Knight, Abdulrahman Aziz, pushed on with a fury that matched his hatred of the West. He was incapable of tolerating the infidel in these sacred lands for any length of time, despite the Great Satan's growing influence on the world stage. The fact that they had just cost him most dearly in Kabul by destroying one of his four important training compounds in Afghanistan didn't even play into his wrath toward these non-believers.
He had been raised in very modest surroundings and was devout to his core beliefs nearly to a fault. According to his faith, any incursion to the Holy Land by the enemy was to be punished by death in any means possible…even if the repulsion of the infidel was effected through means of the mass extermination of its filthy people…men, women, or children. What mattered most was doing your best to aid those who had the capability to deliver the most dreadful and convincing example of the power of Islam in order to abate to black tide of animal refuse and depravity that worked ceaselessly toward these sacred shores.
The lone rider had heard all the arguments by his contemporaries…about how his "version" of the Muslim faith was flawed and did not properly and fairly describe what Islam actually stood for; the contemporaries who would have the entire continent overrun with the disgusting practices of the West. Their alcohol and pornography was terrible enough without their willingness to be the sycophantic lapdogs of the illegal Zionist State. Aziz squinted with some sadistic inner pleasure knowing that, Allah willing, repelling the foreign invaders of the motherland would soon be completed. Thankfully, most of his naysaying contemporaries had been silenced. There was no more room or time for dissension in the ranks, theologically or otherwise.
"How much farther to the port?" he asked of his sleepy bodyguard.
"Fifteen…twenty minutes," the companion offered.
Aziz arched his eyebrows.
"Let's make it ten," he said as he pressed down on the accelerator pedal. The engine roared loudly as it continued toward the coast.
A few hours had passed since the order had come down from on high to begin tracking a specific vessel in the Persian Gulf. Captain Thompson was not sure of the exact interest in this Motor Vessel, but he wasn't ignorant enough to believe that this 30-billion-dollar warship would be assigned to tracking and boarding it if the issue was merely a minor violation of protocol. It they were being ordered to watch the vessel, there was a compelling reason. The admira
l had intimated that this vessel had direct ties to the Benni Hissar compound; the very one they had been ordered to Tomahawk the night before.
The Iranian tanker, Samra, had entered these waters about an hour before and they were in the process of hailing it. It had not answered the hail, nor had it slowed its passage. The Leyte Gulf had matched its speed without much effort, but the logistics officer on board was quick to point out how heavy the vessel appeared in the water, not to mention that it was listing slightly. This was significant in that, currently, there was a suppression action taking place on all vessels in this region carrying anything other than humanitarian aid supplies. According to the sanctions, food, water, agricultural, horticultural, and medicinal supplies were all legal imports. As well, any construction materials that would be used for building or equipment repair, upkeep, or creation of new facilities were allowable. However, oil imports and, for obvious reasons, weapons, weapon supplies, and ammunition were all banned under the sanction importation rules. Any ship traversing the waters of the Persian Gulf, Suez Canal, or the southern and eastern portions of the Mediterranean was subject to scrutiny and could, under the newly enacted rules of the United Nations and allied governments, be boarded and detained as necessary, all up to the complete discretion of the captain of the empowered patrol vessel.
Thompson continued to study the vessel through binoculars as a sailor nearby picked up the ringing telephone.
"Sir, it's Commo," he informed the captain as he handed the phone to his superior.
"Captain speaking," he said into the receiver.
"Sir, I'm unable to query the Motor Vessel, Samra, over bridge-to-bridge," the Communications Officer relayed.
"I haven't seen a distress flag," the captain replied as he raised the binoculars to his eyes once more.
"No, sir, but they're displaying a United Arab Emirates flag."
The captain scowled and inwardly cursed the failed diplomatic methods they were forced to employ, knowing full well that the likelihood that this particular vessel was piloted by friendlies was about as likely as him seeing early retirement.
A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11. Page 13