book

by Unknown

  He smiled, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes.

  "For the sake of clarity, I'll keep the science to a bare minimum. No need to confuse you with a bunch of complex formulas when all you need are the basics. Thirty years ago the Chinese developed a procedure where they isolated a specific emotion in a test subject and elevated it through chemicals and verbal reinforcement."

  Payne spoke into the camera. "You mean brainwashing."

  "Not actual brainwashing. They weren't able to take a peasant girl and turn her into a crazed assassin. However, l hey were able to take most subjects with a predisposed opinion—let's say a hatred of peas—and raise that hatred lo an unhealthy level. If, for instance, the subject ever saw a pea again, she'd be willing to kill someone to get it away from her."

  Jones whispered, "I feel the same way about broccoli."

  "From humble beginnings comes cutting-edge science," Sheldon pronounced. "During the past three decades, the scientific community has built upon these experiments, step by step, finally reaching a point where we can corral I hat undisciplined rage and focus it on a precise task. Different countries have different names for it, but we like to call it induction."

  "Induction?" Payne asked. "Can you give us an example? One that doesn't involve peas."

  Sheldon smiled again. "Of course I can. In fact, why don't we talk specifics? Let's discuss the reason we're all here."

  Payne glanced at Jones, neither of them liking where this was going.

  "If ever there was a candidate for induction, it was Trevor Schmidt. He was filled with so much anger and guilt from ihe terrorist attack that killed his squad, not to mention his missed opportunity to stop it."

  Payne turned toward Harrington. "What opportunity?"

  Harrington answered, "The day of the bombing, Schmidt had gathered his squad's families and driven them to the hospital himself. On their way inside they passed a number of Muslims who were praying. This is Saudi Arabia, after all, so that was pretty damn common. What wasn't common was the time of day. This wasn't one of their normal prayer sessions. These men were praying on their own, asking for courage to complete their mission."

  Jones understood. "He walked right past the bombers."

  "Exactly," Harrington said. "Ninety-nine point nine percent of the population would've missed the significance of the prayer, but Schmidt blamed himself for not being in the point one percent. He felt it was his job to spot things like that. His duty."

  "From that point on," Sheldon said, "he was an emotional wreck. He hit the bottle. He turned to drugs. He got in several fights. He was on the verge of being kicked out of the military."

  Harrington agreed. "Schmidt had just been arrested for another assault, and the MPs were sick of dealing with his shit. So I contacted Dr. Sheldon. I knew he specialized in behavior modification, and in my mind, that was a much better alternative than prison."

  "Better for whom?" Payne asked.

  "Better for Schmidt. You know damn well that he loved the military, and it was pretty obvious to everyone involved that we needed to do something drastic or he was going to piss that all away. I figured this program would give him a fighting chance."

  Payne wasn't sure if Harrington believed that, but this wasn't the time or the place to argue with the man. There were more important things to worry about.

  Sheldon continued. "As I mentioned, Trevor was filled with anger and guilt, yet was missing a productive outlet for either. The same could be said about the rest of his crew. These men were elite soldiers, trained to do amazing tilings, but their emotions were getting in the way of their performance. My program, a combination of pharmaceuticals and subliminal suggestions, helped redirect their rage. It gave them a specific focus."

  Payne asked, "Which was?"

  "Islamic terrorists." Sheldon smiled, proud of his work. "Keep in mind, I didn't plant their hatred. It was already in there, imprinted in their brains from the moment the bomb went off at the hospital. I simply focused it. I gave it direction."

  Harrington chimed in. "And the results were amazing, liom the moment they left the program, they were perfect soldiers. I'd give them a mission and they'd get it done. No questions asked. And all that other nonsense—the drinking, fighting, and drugs—stopped immediately."

  Jones cracked, "Maybe that's because they were brainwashed."

  "Not brainwashed," Sheldon argued. "They were—"

  "Doc," Payne interrupted, "it's just semantics. It doesn't matter what you call it. The point is we have to stop it. As far as I can tell, you've created the perfect storm. Men who have elite skills, capable of doing some truly horrific things, ycl no conscience to counteract it. I realize that wasn't your plan in the beginning, but that's the reality of the situation. Therefore, if you don't mind, I need to ask you a simple question: is there an off-button?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Let me rephrase. If I find Schmidt and talk to him, one on one, is there some way for me to get through to him? Some tactic that you'd recommend?"

  "That's a difficult question."

  "But I need an easy answer. Can I convince him to stop?"

  Sheldon frowned, a look of defeat on his face. "Honestly? The odds are pretty slim. If Trevor truly believes that altacking Mecca is the best way to kill terrorists, then that's what he's going to do."

  "Even though Americans might be killed?"

  "But that's the thing. He won't view them as Americans. He'll view them as Muslims. And in his mind, that's more important."

  When the videoconference ended, Payne and Jones focused on the task at hand. They didn't have days or weeks to plan the mission. They had hours. And some of that time had to be spent on the road. Taif was an hour away from Mecca. Throw in the checkpoints and the foot traffic from the hajj, and they had no time to waste. They needed to start their journey immediately.

  Thankfully, Harrington was one step ahead of them. His staff had arranged transportation, weapons, intel, and everything else they required, including four soldiers who were willing to risk their lives to stop this tragedy.

  The biggest problem, as they saw it, was figuring out how Schmidt and his crew would attack Mecca, since thousands of Saudi security guards were positioned along the hajj route. Not only on the ground, but also in the air. Dozens of armed helicopters monitored the pilgrims' progress, literally herding them through bottlenecks that occurred in certain stretches along the way. In addition, a unit of elite soldiers was assigned to protect the Great Mosque at all times, a duty that took on added importance after November 20, 1979, when armed Islamic fundamentalists seized control of the site, an incident ending in nearly three hundred deaths and seven hundred injuries.

  Eventually, Payne and Jones approached things from a different angle. Instead of planning a counterassault, one where they had to guess where Schmidt was and what he was going to do, they opted to plan an assault of their own, asking themselves how they would attack the mosque if that was their given task. With enough time, they would have set up shop close to the site, giving them somewhere to horde weapons and a chance to survey the immediate area. Jones studied a map of the old city, the district that surrounded the Mosque, and realized most of the homes had recently been demolished, making way for commercial projects that weren't listed on his map.

  However, as it turned out, the old map provided them with a lucky break—the type that was needed on hastily planned missions like this one. When Harrington's staff searched property records for recent developments, one name jumped out at them: Omar Abdul-Khaliq. Not only did he own a large chunk of land down the street from the Mosque, but he also was rumored to have close financial ties with the Soldiers of Allah.

  In fact, according to U.S. intelligence, he was their biggest supporter.

  * * *

  40

  The planning had been easier than expected. With enough time and money, he knew anyone could be bought and anything could be accomplished. Yet as Hakeem Salaam watched the hajj proceedings on Saudi te
levision, he still fretted over the details.

  Like a coach who was watching the big game from afar.

  In some ways, this was like every other terrorist attack he had orchestrated in the past ten years. He handled the preparations, Omar Abdul-Khaliq provided the money, and his dedicated soldiers carried out the missions, often sacrificing their lives to better his cause. Normally their target was the United States, the country he blamed for most of the world's problems. The morning of an attack he would get on his knees and pray to Allah, asking for His blessing as they carried out their duty. Hoping for the negligence of all Americans, whether it was the police, the citizens, or the military—anyone who could disrupt his precise plans.

  But today was different. Today was unlike any other mission he had ever planned.

  Today he was praying for the Americans. Counting on l heir skills as murderers.

  Realizing the more damage they did, the easier it would lie to unite Islam.

  The concept had come to Salaam shortly after watching I he events of 9/11. He went to the desert to meditate and realized the best way to connect all Muslims was with a common enemy. The obvious choice was the one he hated l he most. If he could somehow lure them into committing an unspeakable act in Islam's most sacred city, he knew he could sway his people to stand as one. The infighting that occurred among Sunnis, Shiites, and all other Islamic groups would suddenly disappear, replaced by a unified hatred of the United States.

  But how to get them to cooperate?

  And how to prove they were responsible?

  Those were the issues he had to solve if he was going to make this work.

  In his mind, the best way to accomplish the first task was through inside involvement, a technique with a proven track record. Ali Mohamed, the Al Qaeda operative who was charged with bombing U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, was an Egyptian soldier who became a U.S. citizen in the mid-1980s after marrying an American woman from California. From there, he joined the U.S. Army, where he eventually became a drill instructor at Fort Bragg. Later he was hired to teach courses on Arabic culture at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center, a school that trains personnel for Army Special Operations forces. Meanwhile, he was also training terrorists on the side, including some of the men who were responsible for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.

  How foolish could the Americans be!

  Salaam knew many men like Mohamed—Islamic operatives who were still inside the system they were trying to defeat. Any of them would be honored to help. At the same time, he realized that none of these men could be directly involved in the attack on Mecca. Otherwise the news media would spotlight their involvement, claiming Muslims were just as responsible as the United States. In his mind, that was something he couldn't afford.

  His message had to be pure. Unambiguous.

  Sure, he could use Islamic operatives to feed him information; they had been doing that for years. But the attack itself needed to be committed by an American.

  Someone who couldn't be confused as a foreigner. Someone the United States couldn't deny. That was the only way this was going to work.

  But the question was, who?

  The answer was fed to him by one of his sources in the Middle East, an Arab who worked with the U.S. Military Training Mission (USMTM) in Riyadh. He had heard rumors about a new program where Americans were being hypnotized to fight terrorists, a concept that sounded like science fiction until he received clarification from one of his contacts at Fort Huachuca, who verified that induced soldiers were already in the field and producing amazing results. Behind the scenes, they'd even been given a nickname. These soldiers, who fought like Rambo and were pinpointing Islamic terrorists, were jokingly called "Is-lambos."

  Immediately, Salaam realized that these were the type of men he could exploit. If, in fact, these soldiers were subliminally trained to attack a specific group, it wouldn't be difficult to convince them that their biggest threat was in Mecca—especially since that was accurate. For years, Islamic groups have used the sanctity of the holy city as a backdrop for their recruiting process. The most dedicated pilgrims flocked to the Great Mosque year after year, their way of purifying their spirit and staying close to Muhammad's righteous path. Events such as the hajj were used to locate potential members, men who were willing to give up their lives in the name of Allah. Salaam figured if the right people whispered this information in the right ears, word would eventually spread to these special soldiers and they would take care of the rest.

  An Arab who worked as a snitch for the U.S. military aided Salaam along the way, feeding the Americans false information whenever he was asked. At the same time, he gathered intel from his real sources and sold it to Salaam for top dollar.

  In the world of terrorism, the best information could always be bought.

  Six months after Salaam launched his plan, an American soldier named Bender, a Special Forces operative who used to run missions out of Taif before most of his squad was killed in a terrorist attack, was spotted surveying the Cireat Mosque. A background check revealed the names of his entire unit, a group led by Trevor Schmidt. Deeper research showed that Schmidt was born in Ohio, trained as a MANIAC, and was a certified war hero. Not a hint of Middle Eastern blood in his family tree. Or in any other members of his crew.

  To Salaam, these men would be the perfect scapegoats.

  Now all he had to do was make sure they succeeded.

  The guards had been gone all night. When they returned, they carried an assortment of tools.

  Shari Shasmeen heard them as they clanked down the tunnel, metal banging on metal, their voices echoing in the darkness. They were speaking in Arabic, chattering on and on about timetables, delivery points, and all the money they were going to make for this job. None of it made much sense to her until she saw them coming her way.

  As she focused on their pickaxes and crowbars, dread filled her heart.

  They were coming to rob the site.

  The click of their key as it turned in the lock felt like a death sentence. They guards were highly trained and accustomed to violence. Her only weapon was the small canister of pepper spray she clutched in her hand. They blocked the only way out.

  At that point, she realized she had no choice; she had to hide. So she crouched in the back shadows, hoping they didn't spot her, praying they just dropped their tools and went outside for additional supplies. If so, she could slip into the maintenance shaft that branched from the main tunnel near the bottom of the front incline. Then she could wait in silence until they returned through the metal gate and locked the door. If she was lucky, it would give her enough time to sprint up the ramp and call for help.

  Then again, whom could she call?

  The mutaween were just as likely to arrest her for being in public without a chaperone. Her colleagues were several blocks away, back at the hotel, and less accustomed to violence than she was. She knew she could always call Omar Abdul-Khaliq, but he had hired these guards to begin with. The one who told to her to get away for a couple of days while these men protected the site. Either that was a tremendous error on his part, or this was all his doing.

  Shari wasn't sure which.

  Of course, that was something she could debate later. If she escaped.

  The odds of that diminished when they entered the chamber and locked the gate. There were four of them, and they weren't going anywhere. The lead guard ordered his men to get started while he set up some piece of equipment she couldn't see, since her view was obstructed by her position on the floor. The biggest of the guards walked over first, putting his hand on the rocks, trying to decide where he should strike for the maximum amount of damage. He found a spot along the front edge and raised the pickax above his head.

  In her mind, it was now or never.

  She leaped from her crouch and sprayed the pepper spray directly into his eyes. He let out a loud yelp as he dropped the pickax to the floor. Before anyone could react, she grabbed its wooden handle and sw
ung it at the next guard, a vicious blow that sunk into his left side and stuck there like a lawn dart. He twisted to the ground in a writhing heap of agony, generating so much force that it pulled the weapon from her grasp.

  Suddenly she was unarmed and trapped.

  Now it was just a matter of time.

  Enraged, the lead guard charged forward, a combination of power and brutality. She raised her hands and tried to defend herself, but he was too strong—like a bull busting through the tiny red cape and finding the matador behind. But instead of gouging her with horns, he swung his right elbow, smashing it into the bridge of her nose with so much fury that she was knocked unconscious on impact.

  * * *

  41

  On this day alone, more than four hundred thousand animals were slain in Mecca to celebrate Eid ul-Adha, the Festival of the Sacrifice, commemorating Abraham's readiness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. After the ritualistic slaughter, Muslims distributed some of the meat to family and friends, but most of it was donated to the poor, symbolizing their willingness to give up something of value.

  Charity was one of the five pillars of Islam, so generosity was expected.

  Thousands of refrigerated trucks were driven into the city to pick up the animals, a variety of lambs, cows, camels, and goats. But not all of these trucks were alike. Two were designed with a different purpose in mind: dropping off was more important than picking up.

  Payne and Jones sat in the back of one of these trucks, hidden behind a fake panel and several cardboard boxes that were filled with perishable food items and large bags of ice. It wasn't the best camouflage in the world, but it was the best that Colonel Harrington could come up with on short notice.

  Two bulbs lit their secret compartment, giving them time to study maps, memorize the dossiers of Schmidt's crew, and formulate a plan of attack. Four other soldiers were joining them—two in the back of another truck and the two drivers, both Arab Americans with perfectly forged paperwork. Without it, none of them would be getting into Mecca.