by Dalton Fury
Then, as if someone pulled the power from their conversation, they both smiled widely and reached down to help Kolt to his feet.
TWENTY-FOUR
It had reached the hotter part of the day with the sun directly above their heads by the time they finished digging the twelve shallow graves for the dead terrorists. Kolt and Joma knelt in prayer with the nomads as the caravan’s elder recited several verses from the Koran. They had tried without luck to repair the white pickup after pulling the dead brothers from the front seat and the man Kolt had strangled to death the night before from the backseat.
Kolt did his best not to watch. He’d smeared blood all over the man’s neck to hide the bruising from being strangled, but he was still worried.
“Praise Allah, we are blessed to be alive, my brother,” Joma said, patting Kolt on the shoulder.
“He is to be praised,” Kolt said, nodding sadly toward the graves of the others. Kolt knew he was being watched and did his best to play the role of grieving jihadist.
“And now we must go,” Joma said. “Mercifully, our journey is not yet over.”
After several hours of walking the road, Kolt wondered if Joma still felt that way. They were heading northeast, but it could have been straight up. Every muscle in Kolt’s body was in agony. His head pounded and his thigh burned. When the caravan was intercepted by a convoy of jingle trucks and several yellow and white taxi cabs, Kolt found himself muttering a small prayer of thanks to Allah. The occupants of the vehicles weren’t militants but businessmen running supplies across the region. They agreed to take control of Kolt and Joma and, after another hour or so, had brought them to a joint Taliban–al Qaeda training camp several miles northeast of Quetta.
Kolt knew this was where the shit would hit the fan. He was in the heart of the enemy, and there weren’t any U.S. Marines to guard him now.
“Will they kill me, brother?” Kolt asked.
Joma shook his head. “I will not let them. You are a true jihadi. You have fought the enemy well and on his own land. I will make sure they understand.”
Kolt wanted to be reassured, but putting his life in Joma’s hands was harrowing. “Will they understand, these brave mujahideen?”
Joma smiled at Kolt. “I will make them. They are like us, warriors. Many fought at Tora Bora, others at Shahi Khot. One of gray-bearded elders had fought the Soviets. But only you and I can claim to have hurt the Western beast where he lives.”
Surprisingly, Kolt felt better. “You are a true friend.”
“As are you,” Joma said.
The next two days were a series of interrogations by ever more senior al Qaeda leaders. Kolt found himself retelling the events of the night at Cherokee station so many times he began to believe the lies he’d inserted as part of his cover. Even then, Kolt was certain he would have been executed if not for the widespread media coverage of the attack.
Explaining Gitmo was harder, but luckily he and Joma weren’t the first returnees from Cuba. Their disorientation was believable and their wounds, while not life threatening, were serious enough to sell the story. Kolt’s desire to seek revenge against the Mercs that cut his head and shot him faded away. Still, if he was fortunate enough to run into them again one day, he’d haul off and break their noses before apologizing and then buying them a beer.
* * *
It was early afternoon in the foothills of Balochistan Province and Kolt had just completed midday prayers with the others. He stretched his back and rolled his head. The sun was still bright, high in the sky, and keeping the temperature a comfortable seventy-eight degrees. He rocked back on his knees and labored to his feet. He bent over and picked his prayer blanket up by the two closest corners before folding it delicately and placing it under his arm. He slipped his bare feet into his worn, toeless sandals and started to feel a few hunger pains.
It had been just under two weeks since he and Joma had been delivered to the training camp, and as far as Kolt could tell, the camp cadre was still uncertain whether they were Western spies. Yes, they had been as convincing as they could, at least enough for them to be placed into the ranks of terrorist trainees, but their fate was far from certain.
As he walked with Joma and a few others to the washbasin to clean his hands and feet before the midday meal, Kolt thought about Carlos and the folks back at Tungsten. Still nursing his ass wound, cleaning it with fresh water each day, he wondered if they had forgotten about him entirely by now. After all, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since his insertion. Had they moved on to another mission? Is Carlos handling another embed by now? Kolt suddenly felt very lonely.
Suddenly, the distinct sound of AK-47 gunfire was heard from the high ridgeline. Kolt looked skyward and observed the green tracers arcing toward the sky, cutting center mass through the sun before tracer burnout. It was the standard signal, as they had been briefed, that important visitors were approaching the camp.
“Hurry, hurry, line up, line up!” the cadre yelled.
That’s a little uncommon, Kolt thought. Since he had been at the camp, they had only lined up for instruction but not for a visitor yet.
“What’s going on?” Kolt whispered to the cadre member nearby, named Qatir.
“I don’t know,” whispered Qatir slowly. “We’ve only lined up for one visitor in the past. For Amir al-Mu’minin Mullah Muhammad Omar.”
“Must be someone important,” Kolt replied a little too loud as he turned his head to see a single white late-model SUV come into the area. Gone were the days when al Qaeda leaders traveled in large convoys with truckloads of armed fighters. That signature always attracted the attention of the seemingly persistent eye in the sky, the Predator drones that patrolled the skies above eastern Afghanistan and western Pakistan. And if the drone was armed, Hellfire rockets soon followed. If not, the convoy had about thirty minutes before a pair of American fighter jets would be overhead stalking their prey.
“Silent!” the cadre member yelled toward the ranks as the visitors started exiting the SUV.
Kolt stood tall in the afternoon sun. He squinted to get a close look at the visitors as they stepped from the vehicle out onto Pakistani soil. Then he recognized him. Everyone recognized him. He contrasted greatly with the camouflage-clad security detail that surrounded him as he slowly approached. The large white turban propped high on his forehead seemed noticeably too big for the man’s small head. It was the Egyptian doctor. It was Kolt’s primary Tungsten target. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He felt like he had just won the lottery. He never expected it to be this easy.
Ayman al-Zawahiri stood only a few feet in front of the first rank of trainees. From roughly the center of the third rank, Kolt shifted his weight slightly to see around the others. Kolt squinted as he watched the doctor pontificate while waving his arms in wide circles and injecting lengthy Koranic phrases. Kolt was surprisingly awestruck.
Few Americans had ever been this close to Ayman al-Zawahiri. Certainly nobody harboring an intent to cut his throat. Certainly no American special operator. But as the al Qaeda leader spoke, Kolt felt himself just as attentive as any of the other trainees. Kolt was amazed at how well-spoken the doctor was and how distinguished he looked, even though Kolt only understood a few of the Arabic words the top terrorist spoke.
Several times, Kolt raised his left hand to wipe the sweat out of his eyes as he strained to look Zawahiri in the eye. And although his adrenaline pumped through his heart like a locomotive, he knew it was time to act. It was hard to restrain himself; he knew this might be his only chance. Not jumping on this opportunity would be a failure of epic proportions. Yet, deep down, the natural instinct to survive, to live, quickly crept into his consciousness while he assessed his chances. Kolt hadn’t anticipated the feeling, but he couldn’t ignore its powerful hold. But before he could right his thought process and make his move, the move Carlos and the rest of Tungsten expected him to make, the doctor’s next comment dropped Kolt’s jaw to the hard-packed sand.
&
nbsp; “Mujahid Joma, Mujahid Timothy, peace be upon you.”
Kolt was stunned. Did Zawahiri just say my name? Did he just single me out from the two dozen terrorists in these ranks?
“Please, little brothers,” Zawahiri continued, “join me here.”
Nobody moved in the ranks. Certainly not Kolt, since he was stunned by the personal attention. Kolt didn’t sense Joma stirring either.
Two camp cadre quickly moved into the ranks and grabbed them both by the arm.
“Come with me, brother; it is an honor,” the cadre member whispered to Kolt as he escorted him to the front of the formation and directly in front of Zawahiri.
Kolt and Joma greeted Zawahiri with a soft bow and placed their right hands over their chests momentarily. Kolt adjusted his AK-47 sling slightly as he stared through the Egyptian’s wire-rimmed glasses and deep into his dark brown, deep-seated eyes, all the while wondering if he should be taking a knee in front of the al Qaeda leader. Kolt hesitated, deciding it would be better if he just took his cues from Joma.
Zawahiri stepped closer to Joma and Kolt. Kolt realized the AQ leader’s beard had completely grayed, practically matching the shade of his white turban and long kameez over matching white salwar. The beard was much lighter than the most recent CIA targeting pictures he was shown at Tungsten. But if he harbored any doubts that the man in front of him could be anyone but the most wanted man in the world, the large birthmark splotch over his left eye put that to rest.
I’ll be damned!
“With Allah as my witness, the crusaders will reap the wrath again,” he said with an odd mix of humility and vigor. “The planes operation of September will be but an afterthought soon.”
Kolt was stunned. He tried to listen while resisting the urge to quickly remove his AK-47 from his shoulder and kill the doctor.
Too many people here. I’ll never get a shot off before they are all over me.
Kolt changed gears. Maybe he could simply jump him and strangle him to death, similar to the man in the white pickup truck. Or simply break his neck. Did he have time to even do that?
Before Kolt could decide, Zawahiri shared the important details with the group.
“The American infidels will experience the same pain and anguish as our sons and daughters across the Middle East,” he said. “Your brothers here, Joma and Timothy, made the initial blow against our enemies. Several others martyred themselves in an attack on a nuclear building in America. Brothers Farooq and Abdul, peace be upon them. The details are complete. Praise be to Allah!”
Kolt ignored the thought of not being able to complete his mission, quickly putting it in the back of his mind as he tried to absorb Zawahiri’s every word. But the thought of failure, the thought of not executing, was still clinging to Kolt’s conscience, no matter how much he tried to suppress it.
Kolt had already come to grips with his decision to sacrifice himself in order to neutralize the most wanted man in the world. That’s what the Tungsten program required, and Kolt certainly hadn’t forgotten that part. But this golden opportunity just wasn’t clean enough. Too many things could go wrong. Kolt wasn’t scared. He was just too professional to blow it. And the fucking doctor had thrown him a definite curveball.
“We have brothers in place across the ocean. Brother Nadal al-Romani has departed as well. They are readying to strike another blow into the hearts of the American dogs. Allah willing, we shall receive good news shortly,” Zawahiri said as he turned from the two and walked back toward his vehicle, surrounded by a half dozen camouflaged and armed mujahideen.
“Peace be upon you, brothers.”
Kolt couldn’t believe it. He was there to complete a mission, and before he could carry it out, he was given a different mission. Not by his handler, Carlos, of Tungsten, but, amazingly, by the same man he was sent to neutralize.
First, Joma revealed the second nuke-plot mission, the one to be carried out by Nadal the Romanian, the same Nadal that Kolt had ridden the bus with in Yemen before the three SEALs had walked into a trap. Now, the leader of al Qaeda all but confirmed exactly what Joma had said. Nadal al-Romani was en route to America, and there would be a second attack on a nuclear power plant.
Kolt knew that passing on the opportunity to kill Zawahiri on that hot late-spring afternoon would raise a stink about his commitment. It was only natural of an organization like Tungsten. They demanded results and frowned on gut-feeling hesitation or outright changes. But in Kolt’s book it wasn’t a question about commitment. It was a matter of sizing up the situation and executing tactical patience.
Kolt had no choice. He had to get out of the camp and back to the United States.
* * *
“Wake up, brother Timothy,” Joma said as he shook Kolt awake. “You were having a bad dream.”
“I was?” Kolt asked, still half asleep and covered in sweat.
“You’ll wake the others,” he said. “Who is Hawk?”
Kolt froze. His heart pounded. Sweat poured from his forehead. His nightmare came rushing back to him. He saw it as vividly as if it were yesterday. The sound of a dying man’s last breath. The sound of a man pleading for help from a fellow man in the middle of nowhere. The feeling of pressing his two thumbs forcefully on his larynx until he stopped breathing. The cold-blooded killing of another man who had asked for his help. Kolt could describe these events in detail to Joma simply from his nightmares, but he couldn’t explain why he was dreaming of Hawk.
“My wife, Joma.” Kolt lied—as Timothy, but as Kolt, he wondered if it was more than a slip of the tongue. “I call her Hawk. She loves birds.”
“I see, brother Timothy. I understand. I’m sure Nadal will let her go free as a payment for your help with the attack,” Joma said, reassuring Kolt.
“I pray she is OK, brother Joma,” Kolt said before he turned over to return to sleep.
Kolt knew he was about to leave soon. He kicked himself for falling asleep in the first place and having the nightmare. Maybe it only woke Joma and not the others. His escape from the camp would require everyone to be sound asleep. If one person questioned him, he would have trouble leaving tonight.
Kolt knew the pressure was starting to cloud his thinking and he took a few breaths. He needed to retrieve his materials first, stash them outside the camp, then consider how best to make his escape.
Kolt waited at least forty-five minutes, to be absolutely sure that Joma was in deep REM sleep. The terrorist had stopped tossing and turning and had rolled onto his right side, facing away from Kolt. Kolt quietly reached for his AK-47 next to his bedding and slowly slipped out through the tent flap. It was wicked dark, since the moon had not yet risen, giving Kolt the concealment he needed to move away from the tent area. He held his rifle low and waited a few minutes to allow his night vision to adjust before moving around the side of their canvas tent. Hugging the tall wall until he reached several pickup trucks parked in the corner of the compound, Kolt gently laid his rifle on the ground before quietly lifting a two-gallon container of gasoline from the middle truck bed. He secured his rifle and, with both hands full, left the cover of the vehicles and hugged the wall again until he reached the back gate. Kolt took a knee, set the jug down, and carefully checked the gate latch and chain to make sure he could open it quickly but, more importantly, quietly. Kolt knew he had two more important things to take care of before he bolted. First, he needed to grab his water canister, knowing dehydration would set in quickly as he moved across the desert, irritated that he forgot it when he first left the tent. Second, he needed to make a decision about Joma.
Leaving his rifle with the jug, Kolt backtracked to his tent at a crouch, keeping the tent between the sentry sitting in the corner guard tower and him. Only a few yards from the tent flap, Kolt froze. He had picked up on a second sentry patrolling the inner compound at thirty meters’ distance. Kolt slowly slipped closer to the side of the tent and took a knee in the shadow. He quickly assessed the situation, running the two options through h
is brain housing group while keeping an eye on both camp sentries.
Joma was an enemy of the state, for sure, and he certainly needed to be terminated with prejudice. Hell, that went for every terrorist in the camp. Kolt weighed the pros and cons, and, given the circumstances, he realized he had no good options. He knew that if Mujahid Timothy left without anyone’s knowledge and left a bigger-than-shit dead Joma behind, then the chance of locating Nadal the Romanian or interdicting the second nuke-plot cell inside the United States was shot. Even if he made it a clean kill, one with no blood, no sounds, no struggle, the larger, more important mission would be compromised. With only one of them gone, however, the mission for Joma still might go. Especially if they thought Timothy had simply gotten cold feet.
Yes, Joma had to live for the time being.
For the second time in a day, Kolt gave up the chance to kill an enemy of America. It was starting to piss him off, but he knew in each case it was the right thing to do.
It pained Kolt to leave Joma alive, but he didn’t see a way around it. Accepting it, he turned to penning a quick suicide note. He kept it short, but made it emotional and referenced Allah a few times for good measure. The crowning touch was his regret that he was too weak to see the great missions of the mujahideen fulfilled.
Kolt placed his note on his bed and slipped out of the tent. He paused and looked around the camp. He knew the senior leadership was in the collection of three small houses in the compound to the east. He desperately wanted to call in an air strike and take the whole place out, but, again, the risk was too great that it would tip off the terrorists that their nuke plot had been discovered.