by Dalton Fury
Nadal didn’t like to admit it, but Farooq had always been better with weapons. It was what had attracted the attention of those higher up in al Qaeda. Meeting Haji Mohammad Ghafour had been a dream come true for both of them. When he offered them the mission, it was a truly glorious day. And that was why Nadal strove for perfection. They would not get a second chance to strike the Western snake again. Not like this.
“I know, and it is also important to know the right address,” Nadal said, unable to help himself from getting in a small admonition.
Farooq raised his hands and rolled his eyes. “I do know. You forget, but it was I that chose these targets. Who remembers the brave warriors who attacked the American embassies in Tanzania and Kenya in 1998? Or those that bombed the USS Cole or the nightclub in Bali?” Those brothers of jihad were celebrated for only a short time, their names not important enough to cling to the sturdy fabric of history. People forgot quickly.
Nadal bristled. “I do not seek fame for myself.”
Farooq shook his head. “Fame is for the whores of Hollywood. I am talking about everlasting glory. Our nineteen brothers that attacked America on September eleventh are examples the world over. Their story is repeated in mosques everywhere. They are true martyrs and heroes of Islam. History has honored them with a glorious status. Do their names not reside now with those of the greatest Muslim heroes like Saladin?”
Nadal rolled his eyes. “We are no Saladins, my friend.”
Farooq did not smile. “No, we are more, for we go into battle knowing of our martyrdom and embracing it. We take the battle to the enemy on his land, not ours. What we will achieve will rival the defeat of the crusaders!”
Nadal knew there was no reasoning with Farooq when he began speaking of Saladin and the crusades.
“Our plan is ambitious, my brother, of that I grant you,” Nadal said. “But surely it is prudent to be … prudent. The American power plants are well guarded. We need far more than box cutters.”
Farooq pointed to the array of explosives, chemicals, and model airplanes spread out on the living room carpet inside their nondescript two-story flat in northern Yemen.
“And so we have,” Farooq said.
Nadal surveyed the disassembled microwaves, model airplane controllers, burlap straps, plastic ties, superglue, and other odds and ends that would be used to attach grenades to the bottom of the planes. Everything was neatly laid out to ensure accuracy and limit confusion.
“They are not full-size passenger jets, but these model planes will be like flying bombs,” Nadal said, admiring his work. “They will never detect them until it is too late, as long as we are careful.”
Farooq nodded. “You say so, brother, but I still believe your technique is too difficult, too many complicated steps, each strapping us with a vulnerability we may not be prepared for.”
“Details, Farooq, details,” Nadal said, putting on heavy-duty chemical-resistant gloves and picking up a cigar-sized test tube. He unstoppered it and began pouring the contents into a small glass beaker.
“But there can be too many details,” Farooq said.
Nadal sighed. “Farooq, you will do well to allow me to handle the engineering and science of this matter,” he said without looking up. “Please, put on your safety goggles.”
Farooq reached down to the clear plastic goggles that hung from around his neck and raised them to his eyes, reaching back to settle the elastic band on the center of his head.
“The brothers that drowned near New York, yes, their plan was too difficult,” Nadal said. “These flying bombs would have served them well, Inshallah.”
Farooq watched in silence as Nadal finished wrapping the black electrical tape around the model plane’s fuselage. It was clear to Nadal that Farooq still thought the planes were too difficult to use.
“To ease your mind, we will conduct a rehearsal,” Nadal said. “A quarter of the plastique that I plan to use should more than suffice.”
Farooq smiled. “I think that is wise.”
Nadal pulled at the fingered ends of his gloves, removing them and putting them on the counter as he stood. Without removing his safety goggles, he walked over to the kitchen area to the large concrete block sitting on top of an old folded Aztec calendar blanket.
“We must discuss our security measures once more,” Nadal said. “It is too important to preserving our mission and protecting ourselves and our tools.”
“Nadal, we have gone over this a dozen times,” Farooq said. “I am not dense, my brother. I do have some schooling, and I did help you build the device.”
Four Soviet 152mm artillery shells were embedded upside down in the concrete block. Red wires, attached to the initiator assemblies, in the center of the flat tail ends of the four shells, snaked their way halfway down on all four sides of the concrete block. Black Thuraya cell phones, embedded in the concrete just past their tiny buttons, only the upper screen and top showing, identified the end of the red wires.
“Farooq, patience, please, my brother,” Nadal said as he inspected the phones more closely, ensuring the red light on each was still active. “These are matters our brothers have sacrificed for in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
Farooq knew he was referring to the lessons their al Qaeda brothers in Iraq learned the hard way. During the war in Iraq, U.S. Special Operations forces had expertly moved themselves inside the terrorists’ decision-making process during the long hunt for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Zarqawi countered with setting traps for spec-ops troops that liked to pop in unexpectedly. They developed a standard procedure for all safe houses along the rat line from Syria to Ramadi, east toward Fallujah, and into Baghdad. Set a bomb in each house, one that ideally could be used to bait Americans inside and kill them. If not, a bomb that could at least make martyrs out of the brothers once Americans had stormed the house.
“Please, Nadal, I am skilled enough to make a cell phone call to activate the bomb receivers and detonate the artillery shells,” Farooq said, motioning away from the concrete block and back toward the prepared model airplane. “Can we conduct our test now?
Nadal hesitated for a moment, ensuring he had positively checked all four sides of the concrete block, reassuring himself that all four shells would detonate with a single phone call and that everything in the safe house would be destroyed. An attack on their safe house by local security forces would set their plans back significantly, but the evidence of their ever being there or even of their methods would go up in flames.
Nadal moved back to the airplane on the floor and bent over. He gently picked the plane up with both hands, having forgotten to place his safety gloves back on. Nadal placed his right hand under the belly of the plane and reached for the plane’s electric controller. With his left hand, he rotated his thumb to the top of the square black plastic control device and rested it on the red toggle switch that provided wireless power to the plane’s toy engine.
Nadal turned toward Farooq and looked him in the eye from across the room. He smiled. This was what attention to details got you. They had a sophisticated weapon that would soon strike at the very heart of the Western beast by easily flying over the defenses of every power plant in America. “Brother Nadal, by the power of Allah, the most gracious and merciful, this test marks the beginning of our journey to strike fear and discontent into the hearts of the American pigs.”
A millisecond after toggling the red switch, the plane in Nadal’s right hand exploded, sending plastic and tiny shards of aluminum in every direction.
TWELVE
JSOC Headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Making the early-morning drive from the Delta compound, east across Fort Bragg to the secure Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters that connected to Pope Army Airfield, Kolt wondered what the hell Admiral Mason wanted.
More like what the JSOC commander wanted to do to him.
Two days after Hawk’s unannounced visit, Colonel Webber had sent word to Kolt that the JSOC commanding general w
anted to see him. Admiral Mason had personally summoned Major Kolt Raynor for a 0900 hours meeting in his office, and at 0852 hours on a very sunny Monday morning, Kolt worried that he might be casually late.
Kolt knew it wasn’t to pin a medal on him or even shake his hand for accomplishing the mission in the Goshai Valley three weeks ago. No. Kolt had blown off the admiral’s order to abort that mission, and even though the admiral couldn’t be one-hundred-percent certain that Kolt had heard the abort call before leaving the back of the hovering aircraft, he was certain of Kolt’s refusal to move to the alternative landing zone to be picked up by the helicopter. All things considered, Kolt figured the meeting could go either way.
Kolt leaned over to check his hair in the rearview mirror, or what hair he still had. Even with a fresh high-and-tight cut yesterday for his DA photo, somehow he figured the commanding general wouldn’t be all that impressed. Kolt also knew that leaving the goatee on his face until the last minute before his DA photo probably wouldn’t impress the admiral either.
At the moment, he silently cursed his inherited thinning hair. For someone who was unflappable about the important things—things on the battlefield in particular—his internal vanity was a slow bleed that frustrated him. It was a bloodletting that he had no control over to stop. The hair in the shower every morning reminded him.
Delta operators have a certain look. At least Kolt thought they did. The image in his mind of the poster-boy operator was always of a lean but muscled warrior with thick flowing hair and the sort of good looks that were the envy of most of society. The kind of warrior typically found in ancient times that lived off meat and nuts and grain. The type of man ninety-five percent of the men in the world aspired to be. The type of operator Kolt had been before 9/11 and before the physical beating he had taken on the battlefield since the war on terror started.
Of course, if pressed, Kolt would argue that the best Delta operator was the guy who looked as normal as the next guy on the street corner. A guy that could blend in like a chameleon arguably could accomplish so much more in the realm of counterterrorism. Blending in, or hiding in plain sight, mitigated the risk of compromise significantly. Such an operator just wasn’t as soothing to the eye.
But, privately, the receding hairline just sucked. The only thing that sucked more when it came to Kolt’s appearance was the embarrassing love handles he carried. The same ones he struggled to reduce a little during his recent five-month deployment to Afghanistan. But whereas the male-pattern baldness was inherited, the love handles were courtesy of a few too many frozen yogurt stops in nearby Southern Pines.
With the irritating bright sun in his eyes blocking his vision, Kolt squinted as he pulled his black 1991 Chevy Silverado pickup through the heavily guarded checkpoint. He powered his window down, greeted the two patriotic Vietnam veterans proudly holding down a retirement gig as security guards, and flashed his unit-access picture badge. The guard checked his name against the visitors’ roster, verified facial recognition in the database, and traded his Unit badge for a visitors’ badge before raising the security barrier and waving him through.
The Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters was always a busy place. Like most compounds that spring up out of necessity, little attention was given to world events that might soon highlight the scarcity of parking spots. After a couple of trips around the main parking lot hoping for an open spot to appear, Kolt saw one in the next lane over. Out of pure habit, he combat parked, backing into the spot.
He thumbed his unit-issued Droid one more time before sticking it in the glove box and grabbed his tan beret. In Delta, berets were about as scarce as were dress uniforms, and very rarely required or worn within the compound. There were only two times when a Delta operator had to dig deep into his wall locker to locate his colored beret. Neither time was all that common, but in both instances it was typically a sign that something bad had just happened.
The most common time was when visiting higher headquarters. A tan beret marked a Delta operator as a former Ranger. Green, of course, let everyone know he was a product of the Special Forces A-Teams. Guys from Airborne outfits wore the maroon beret. Berets weren’t necessarily a bad thing. They just weren’t exactly the most appealing hat for operators with relaxed grooming standards and facial hair. The longer it remained atop long, thick hair, the more it seemed to rise on the head, giving you the feeling such operators were wearing the floppy hat favored by the eccentric Lady Gaga.
Besides visiting the head sheds at JSOC or the U.S. Army Special Operations Command, USASOC, a few miles south near main post, berets along with full dress uniforms went on after a teammate had fallen in training or battle. In those instances, which had been fairly often since the World Trade Center towers had collapsed in 2001, the fallen operator had plenty of teammates standing over him as he was lowered into the grave with dignity and full honors.
* * *
Kolt walked the hundred feet from his truck to the five-story command building. He passed several young troops that very smartly snapped a hand salute and offered the greeting of the day. It surprised him.
“Good Morning, sir!” they said in unison.
“Uh, morning, guys,” Kolt responded as he tried to render a suitable hand salute in return. The Delta compound was a no-salute area just as any combat base overseas was. Kolt was out of practice.
Kolt approached the tinted double glass doors and reached for his visitors’ badge. He flashed it in front of the proximity card reader and listened for the door lock to disengage.
He stepped inside and took an immediate right into the open elevator door. He pressed the number 3 button, and as the door closed he checked to ensure the buttons on his cargo pockets were still buttoned. He was inside the Joint Special Operations compound, and unlike the Delta compound, they still were sticklers for maintaining a sharp and properly worn uniform—even in a combat zone, a ridiculous and impractical standard Admiral Mason brought with him from the Pentagon. As the elevator came to a slow stop, Kolt looked down at his boots to check his spit-shine job.
Substandard. I’m out of practice with my boots, too.
The hallway leading to Admiral Mason’s secret corner of the world was lined with framed posters of various motivational phrases. One in particular caught Kolt’s eye. It read, PARARESCUE—BECAUSE EVEN SEALS, GREEN BERETS, AND RECON MARINES NEED TO CALL 911.
Kolt smiled slightly. Yeah, Delta needs you guys too.
“Hello, Major Raynor, great to see you,” Mary said with a genuinely wide smile.
“Hey, Mary, how are you?” Kolt answered quickly. This wasn’t the first time he had been called on the carpet in front of the JSOC commanding general, just the first time with Admiral Mason. Addressing the admiral’s secretary by name was a pretty good indicator that he had spent way too much time at his higher command.
“That was a real nice article in Newsweek about the airplane rescue in India,” Mary said with raised eyebrows and a slight tilt of her head. “The U.S. ambassador to India is one of the special operation community’s biggest fans now.”
“Really?” Kolt asked with interest. “Haven’t seen it.”
“Well, go on in Kolt. The admiral will be right with you,” Mary said with a warm smile as she looked over her reading glasses and motioned to the office door.
Kolt marveled at the museumlike atmosphere inside the admiral’s office. Covering the walls were framed photos in various sizes, sporadically separated by award certificates and other memorable correspondence. One was taken with the president in front of the White House. Another was with the Secretary of Defense, taken in front of the Tokyo Sky Tree, the 2,080-foot tower with bicyclists and a passing rickshaw in the background. Above and behind the large cherry desk, the most prominent item on display was the oversize and gaudy framed Naval Academy graduation certificate, made all the more ridiculous by the hand-rubbed antique-brass-finished vanity light hanging over it.
The admiral’s entering the room startle
d Kolt. He turned abruptly to face him.
“Good morning, sir,” Kolt offered, attempting his best impression of standing at a rigid position of attention with his beret gripped in his left hand. He expected the admiral to ask him to take a seat.
Sipping his coffee as he rounded the desk, the admiral nodded slightly in silence before taking a seat.
It was clear that Admiral Mason was in no mood for niceties. He reached into the top desk drawer and retrieved an unmarked manila envelope.
“Take a close look, Major,” he said. He was very formal as he handed it to Kolt.
“Yes, sir!” Kolt answered as he opened the envelope. He pulled out a packet of paper, about twenty sheets in all, stapled together in the top left-hand corner. The cover page was military formal in every way. It was an army-regulation 15-6 investigation.
Raynor leafed through the pages, seeing numerous handwritten, sworn statements from individuals familiar with the raid into Pakistan that nabbed Mohammad Ghafour a few weeks earlier. One from Bill “Smitty” Smith, the air mission commander from 1/160th Special Ops Aviation Regiment. Another from Master Sergeants Jason “Slapshot” Holcomb and Peter “Digger” Chamblis.
“I’m under investigation, sir?” Kolt asked, somewhat surprised.
“Informally at this time, Major. Yes.”
“May I ask why, sir?”
Mason paused before speaking.
“Major, I have initiated a 15-6 to determine the circumstances around the mission in the Goshai Valley to capture Mohammad Ghafour,” Mason said. He was clearly trying to keep his emotions in check and not doing a great job at it.
“Sir, I was only doing my duty,” Kolt said.
“Your duty, Major? More like your desire to do whatever the hell you want and ignore the chain of command.”
Kolt understood now. Despite the success of the mission, Mason was pissed because he didn’t get to control how it went down. “Sir, we had a compromised operator on the ground and the intel for capturing Ghafour was solid,” Kolt answered. In fact, at the time he ignored the admiral’s abort call and roped onto the target anyway, he hadn’t known about Shaft’s being compromised. He didn’t learn that until they were back at J-bad during the hot wash.