Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  Sheep Dog grunted his appreciation.

  Shortly further on at the foot of the mountain, they turned into a small grove of ancient olive trees to relieve themselves. It was cooler there, and the trees gave some shade. It had been a wet year, by central highlands standards, and a good year for crops. There were a few well tended vegetable gardens around the olive orchard, and the presence of some green was a pleasant contrast to the harsh beige and browns of the otherwise nearly plant free wasteland.

  “We are about to ascend into a holy place,” Selah told the Sheep Dog. “It is the mountain of the prophet Shu’ayb.”

  Sheep Dog decided not to seek further details about the august prophet; so, Selah let it go.

  “It is the highest peak in all of Yemen…in all of the Arabian peninsula…3,660 meters tall,” the driver said with pride.

  “It is an impressive mountain, my friend,” Sheep Dog said, mentally comparing it to his mountains in Colorado and suppressing a derisive smile.

  They each drank a liter of bottled water and shared a shawarma which came out of a greasy paper bag. It was good and filling—layers of lamb and chicken that had been roasted by Selah’s wife on a vertical spit. Selah produced a delicious asabeeh pastry—lady fingers made of rolled filo pastry stuffed with pistachios, pinenuts and honey as the piece de resistance.

  “Shukran,” Sheep Dog said in genuine appreciation, aware that his pronunciation of the word for ‘thanks’ probably came across as very westernized. “That was a truly delicious lunch. I will buy us and all of your family a fine meal in Da’ir when we get back.”

  The two men set out again and wound up a road that curved its way to the top of the rock strewn dirt mountain. They passed a stagnant green-water reservoir about half way up, and Sheep Dog made a mental note of its location and distance from the top and bottom. The mountain top held a fortress looking set of irregular large grey-beige mud-brick multistory buildings. There were no signs indicating shops or hotels or services; so, Sheep Dog concluded that they were more likely than not apartment houses. He studied his GPS and gave Selah directions to a poorly maintained rutted dirt road near the crest of the mountain behind the apartment houses.

  “Stop here, please,” Sheep Dog ordered. “Wait for me at the bottom of the hill by the reservoir. I may be quite a while looking for the right kind of rocks; so, be patient. I will make it worth your while.”

  “Yes, [Effendi],” Selah said dropping into the formal Arabic use of the word denoting a nobility title meaning a lord or master. “Masha’Allah,” Selah went on, hoping that Allah would not will a wait past the time for evening prayers. He always liked to be home for Maghrib—the sunset prayer—and especially on this day.

  Sheep Dog, now feeling uncomfortably hot in his disguise climbed the hundred yards to the crest of the mountain behind the multi-story mud brick edifices carrying his sniper rifle, took out his binoculars, and surveyed the valley below. There was a medium sized but apparently well-built house of the same mud-brick construction as most of the other buildings in the country sitting in a level area mid-valley. The road to the house was of a construction quality far beyond what one would expect for such a remote and unimposing structure. The other unusual feature of the property was the high—obviously electrified—elk fence with guard towers at each corner. The periphery of the house and the fence were patrolled by about fifty Yemeni soldiers, all heavily armed and apparently diligent. The court yard in front of the house had a small decorative tiled fountain for ease of washing for the five daily prayers; otherwise, the grounds were smooth and bare.

  Sheep Dog noted the distance to the center of the yard in front of the main door with his range finder—748 meters. He set his sniper rifle on its bipod and drew the uncomfortably warm ghillie cloak over him. At a distance of even a few yards, he was, for all practical purposes, invisible. The information Ed Salinger had given him described the daily routine of the place. The lone prisoner in the house had been recorded as having a rigid schedule of outdoor appearances. She was allowed out for thirty minutes just after sunup and for thirty to forty-five minutes at noon. The CIA surveillance reports indicated that the noon appearance was invariable. The day was clear, and the sand shimmered in the heat. The sun was vicious. Sheep Dog was sweating as if he had been drenched by a garden hose.

  As predicted, Faizah Batool al-Faisal walked out of the front door on the stroke of noon. It surprised the Sheep Dog to see her bare-headed and in a modest, but nonetheless Western style dress. Through the spotting scope, even at that distance, he could see that she was a beautiful, svelte, ravenhaired young woman. She moved with grace. She did a series of stretches then walked briskly back and forth as her keepers watched appreciatively. She did not appear to pay them any heed, looking straight forward as if they did not exist.

  Sheep Dog wiped the copious sweat from his brow and away from his tired eyes as the young woman began to slow down. When she took a seat on the edge of the fountain, he brought his eye to the eyepiece of the telescopic lens and fixed her head dead center in the reticle. He mentally computed the distance and windage. She seemed lost in thought and was as still as a statue, her attractive face turned away from the broiling sun.

  Sheep Dog took three slow deep breaths. With his final exhalation, he slowly squeezed the trigger. The sound was no louder than if he had massed a hearty expectoration. Through the scope, he saw the woman’s head explode in a burst of blood and fragments as dramatically as if he had just blown up a water melon. He retracted the sniper rifle in under the ghillie cloak, waited, and watched. The courtyard exploded into chaos. Guards looked all around the perimeter of the grounds in a futilely narrow search. Only the occasional set of eyes turned to the crest of the mountain where the Sheep Dog lay. Trucks began to buzz up and down the road. When the chaos reached maximum, Sheep Dog slowly crawled backwards until he could feel the declining edge of the mountain he had climbed three hours earlier. It was a slow and very uncomfortable process. When the valley floor was no longer in his line of sight, he hurriedly marched down the hill to where Selah sat sleeping in the hot truck cab.

  “I have completed my work here,” Sheep Dog said to the groggy driver. “Let’s move on to our second destination.”

  Selah was still half asleep, and it was evident that he had heard nothing. The area on this side of the mountain top remained as tranquil as it had been when they first arrived. Sheep Dog pressed the driver to hurry, ostensibly to meet a fictitious deadline. He frequently, and as surreptitiously as possible, checked the rear view mirror to see if they were being followed. The route to their next destination, Ad Dummam, fortunately avoided all heavy population centers in the Sana’a Governate; and the activity generated by the assassination of Faizah Batool al-Faisal was concentrated north and easterly towards Sana’a. Ironically, al Qaeda and Saudi intelligence operatives and Yemeni security forces all suspected each other and all frantically made centripetal movements towards the city center. Sheep Dog and Selah traveled north and west to the drab little city of Ad Dummam then took the west road out into the flat, dry, farmlands of what was once North Yemen. No one paid them the slightest attention as they traveled out past the last houses.

  Sheep Dog checked the satellite photographs against what he was seeing and followed his GPS coordinates to a point in the road where the GPS direction pointer demanded a turn to the left—south. That presented some difficulty since there was no road. Off in the shimmering dry distance, across a patchwork of dry stubble fields was a single house with one small outbuilding. It was 1515, and the meeting of the terrorists was slated to begin in forty-five minutes according to the information supplied to him by the CIA spies and analysts. There was no activity at the L shaped house, in the flat plains around it, or along the roadways. The western road was empty except for the Jabal an-Nabi Shu’ayb Mountain Transport Service pick-up truck and its occupants.

  Sheep Dog had Selah park on the roadside for a few moments while he puzzled. He made up his mind.


  “Friend Selah, I will get out here and take my equipment. Go to the city and wait by the fire station. We saw it on the way in. I will likely be two or maybe three hours; I can’t be sure. I will catch up with you in time for evening prayers. I am counting on you.”

  “Of course, effendi, I will not fail you. May the peace of Allah, the Merciful, go with you.”

  “And with you.”

  Sheep Dog lifted his heavy bags out of the truck bed and watched until the little pick-up disappeared from view. Then, with one last look in all directions to be sure he was not being observed, he trotted off the road and into a dry stream bed lined with a sparse but useful line of scraggly trees. The stream bed was sandy; but the sand was packed hard; and Sheep Dog was able to make good time, covering the approximately one mile distance in twenty minutes. He had plenty of time to set up his watch site. He found a large, old, dead tree whose dry gnarled roots overhung the river bank. With a little easy digging in the loose sand, he made himself a hidey hole. His place was secure from any but the most scrupulous searchers, and he was able to see the entrance to the house very well. It was ten to four, and Sheep Dog was tense and ready.

  He was beginning to develop a low grade anxiety that the terrorists would not show up, that they had been warned, or that the activity generated by the search for the assassin of Faizah Batool al-Faisal had scared them all off. His anxiety lasted only a couple of minutes. From the distance—from three distances—he heard the rhythmical whump-whump of helicopter engines and rotor blades. As they came steadily closer, he was sure that his information was correct. This was the place, and this was the time. His heart and respiratory rates began to climb, and he reverted to his training to calm down.

  In all, five helicopters touched down in front of the house. The occupants of the Yemen Air Force helicopters—thirty-five of them—alighted and the principle players, all dressed in formal kaftans and thobes, moved swiftly into the house without superfluous chatter. A dozen guards fanned out around the house and began making regular walking inspections. Sheep Dog could see their faces. They were all tense, serious looking, and obviously well-trained and well-armed young men. None of them smoked or spoke to the others. They were all business. So was Sheep Dog.

  He got out his AA-12 Combat shot gun and loaded 15 rounds each of special Frag-12 18.5 mm fin-stabilized HE, HEAP, and sensor fused HEAB air- burst fragmentation shells—that were designed to detonate in mid-air—into the circular magazine, added several incendiary grenades, and made sure he was locked and ready. He set the shotgun on the edge of the dead river bank under the tangled roots; so, it would be readily available to him. He checked the position of his throwing knives, silenced Taurus 809B ambidextrous 9 mm, and his combat fighting knife, then slithered out of his hidey hole and up into the shadow of two bent trees. He flicked the 3 position safety to off and made sure the decocker was in the correct alignment.

  A guard left his assigned surveillance circuit and came to a tree in front of Sheep Dog to take a leak. He died with his throat cut and a gurgling sound that carried no more than a few feet. A pair of guards walked the same circuit going in opposite directions and each man was dropped by a throwing knife that imbedded in his exposed throat. Sheep Dog crawled over to the men and dragged them under the trees. The way was now clear for him to stand among the trees looking at the front door of the house and not be seen for a few minutes, which was all he needed. He could hear the soft murmur of voices wafting from the door and the windows which were open to alleviate some of the oppressive desert heat.

  Inside, Hamza Ali Saleh al Dhayani, the prime suspect in the September 17, 2008 suicide attack on the U.S. Embassy in Yemen sat in the seat of prominence at the head of a long, beautifully polished cherry-wood conference table. Around the table were freedom fighters from Saudi Arabia [Abdulkhaleq Abdel-Karim al-Wahishi and Saeed Shuaib ud-Din—al Qaeda top and second leaders in the kingdom], Yemen [Zacharias el-Faisal, Sheik Abdullah Moussaouie, and Imam Shuaib Mahmoud ud-Din, all hand picked leaders operating under al Dhayani], Iran [Mahdi Ali al-Dabbagy, Muhammad Amin-Rashti (“Baba”) from Rasht, and Alaeddin Baktiari, Hamas commander in Gaza, and a fiery assassin and teacher of suicide bombers, Fatima Khoshjamal], Somalia [Ali Hassan Nasser], and Jordan [Abu Musab Judeh and Mohammed al-Zarqawi, brother of the chief lieutenant of Usama bin Laden], and their lieutenants and executive officers—twenty-three in all. Prayers and praises for the Allah, the All-Wise, All-Powerful, and All-Merciful and for his Prophet, may Allah’s praise ever be upon him, had been given; but it was not yet time to get down to the planning of jihad attacks for which they had gathered from far and wide in the Muslim world.

  They sipped thick bitter coffee from Egyptian demitasses as they shuffled their papers. It was the privilege of the leader and caller of the meeting, Hamza Ali Saleh al Dhayani, to open the speaking, and he took his time collecting his thoughts.

  Sheep Dog stood erect and aimed the shotgun. He tensed himself, put the firing mechanism on automatic, and squeezed the trigger. Explosion, fire, and death leapt from the weapon’s hot barrel. Sheep Dog coolly moved the point of the barrel from the door to each window and back again. Occasionally he deviated to take out a hapless guard who was foolish enough or brave enough to show himself to do his duty. Those men evaporated. The building began to collapse from the weakening of the superstructure caused by the HE rounds and became a total fireball from the incendiary shells. A head rolled out of the front door and spun around on the concrete driveway. No more guards appeared.

  Sheep Dog turned his gun on the five helicopters sitting north of the house and destroyed them all in a minute of devastating fire. The barrel of the AA-12 was glowing red and smoking but continued to fire with incredible accuracy. The noise was deafening; the smoke suffocating; and the heat unbearable. Sheep Dog backed up and moved north to protect himself from it. Two guards ran screaming as they burned from flames that had jumped out of windows. Sheep Dog mercifully dispatched them with his Taurus. He ran around the house in search of any survivors and found only one man, who was hiding behind the privy. Sheep Dog killed him with a Mozambique trio of 9 mm shots—two in the chest and one in the head. Seeing no more combatants, he stopped shooting. The only sound now came from the crackling of the flames and the crumbling of damaged walls and roof.

  For a moment, he was spell bound by what he had done and what he was seeing. He had made 35 or so people not only be dead but essentially disappear and had reduced to ruin a building as effectively as an earthquake. It was awesome. He was too excited, too revved up to have moral qualms or misgivings about what he had done. He returned to his operational mind set and concentrated on getting out of that place as fast as possible. He was thirsty—very, very thirsty—and his mind now fixated on getting something to drink as soon as possible.

  He hurriedly gathered his gear into his cases and set off at a steady hard lope along the dry stream bed reversing the route by which he had arrived. At intervals along the way, he took a look over the banks of the dry stream to see if emergency crews, police, or military units were on the way; but he was able to run all the way to the western road without seeing anyone and was confident that no one saw him. The return trip took less than 15 minutes. Now, he had only to get himself to the fire station in Ad Dummam and Selah’s truck; and then he would have water.

  He moved as quickly as his stamina would allow down the long road into Ad Dummam. His luck was holding; no vehicles were in sight and, as yet, no air traffic. He saw farmers dressed in beige colored woolen salwar kameez over rubber sandals and sleeveless jerkins, despite the oppressive heat. Salwar are loose pajama-like trousers. The legs are wide at the top, and narrow at the ankle. The kameez is a long shirt or tunic. The side seams [known as the chaak], left open below the waist-line, give the wearer greater freedom of movement for farming and fighting. The men worked with donkeys or tractors in their fields and the occasional woman or young child was occupied with outdoor work, but he did not attract their attention.


  He was comforted by the fact that he was not seeing any electrical or phone lines. About half way in, he saw a set of about twenty farm houses around which were clustered farm vehicles and old trucks. He looked around carefully—saw no one—then made a bee-line for the nearest old truck. His luck was holding. He was weakening from dehydration, but the vintage truck’s key was in the ignition. It started, sputtered, and jerked off down the path to the main road. Its maximum speed was no more than twenty miles per hour; but he was elated that he remained safe; and water was no more than ten or fifteen minutes away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  As he pulled into the town square of Ad Dummam, Sheep Dog edged down in the seat of the old truck. Two police cars rolled out of the police station followed by the town’s only fire truck. Overhead, an army helicopter was heading west.

  “Well, it has hit the fan,” Sheep Dog said to himself.

  He need not have worried about being seen since all interest by security forces was now obviously on points west; and besides, the windshield of the truck was so coated with dust and grease that someone with curiosity would have had to press his nose against the glass to see the occupant of the cab. He was parked directly in front of the fire station which emptied of occupants during the next five minutes. Sheep Dog looked around the entire square for Selah or his truck and could not see other. It was not like the little truck driver to be surreptitious, since there was no good reason for him to suspect Sheep Dog of being anything except who he appeared to be—an elderly European geologist.

  The wait became annoying after fifteen minutes. Sheep Dog scrutinized the side streets as far as he could see. No Selah. After thirty minutes of anxious waiting, he decided to venture out. He checked his 9 mm to be sure it was fully loaded and accessible. He chambered a round, opened the door of the truck and got out, looking in every direction—even up at the second story windows. Seeing nothing of concern, he took a casual walk around a four block area, the only portion of the town that was on a gridiron plan. He counted five cars parked on the sides of the streets and side walks, but no Selah and no Jabal an-Nabi Shu’ayb Mountain Transport Service truck. He passed two restaurants and half a dozen street vendors, but Selah was not taking a lunch break with any of them.