Warriors of God

by William Christie

  The captain nodded sullenly.

  "Very good. I warn you that my men are all experienced with ships, so do not attempt any stupid tricks with us. We are serious people."

  "No one will interfere with you," the captain said.

  "Excellent." Khabir led the captain over to the chart board, where he had placed a map with a course already marked. "Then your first task is to bring us to this point."

  "Then what?" asked the captain.

  "Then I will tell you."

  They reached the position in the early afternoon. The captain was instructed to drop anchor, let down the ladder, and prepare a crane to handle cargo. The captain, unused to being anything other than the master of his ship, chain-smoked and relentlessly paced the bridge. The Iranian sailor manning the radar reported one contact at forty kilometers.

  The radio broke squelch. A voice called out in English: "Alcazar, this is Blackpool. Come in please. Over."

  Khabir took up the handset. "Blackpool, this is Alcazar. We read you loud and clear. Over."

  "Roger, Alcazar. May we pass you the DVD's you wanted?"

  "Sorry, no," Khabir answered. "We simply can't fit it into our schedule."

  "Very well, hope we see you in Sydney. Blackpool out."

  "Alcazar out."

  The authentications completed, Khabir leaned out the hatch and called to the lookouts on the observation deck in Farsi. "Do you have them in sight?" The Italians gave no indication of recognizing the language.

  "I think so," came the answer.

  "I want to know when you are sure," Khabir snapped. "And I want to know quickly."

  The second lookout saved his friend. "Sir, I have her in sight, bearing 180 degrees, fifteen kilometers."

  "That is the way to do it," Khabir said approvingly.

  Half an hour later the freighter Arada moved to within five hundred meters of the Voltumo and dropped anchor. The Arada had been running cargo between Iran and the Far East for the past six years. The ship had a somewhat seedy reputation and nameless owners who retained their anonymity behind a firm of lawyers and a postal box in Panama. The owners did not care to inquire closely about the type of cargo they carried—only the price. For this reason it would not be going any closer to the United States.

  The Arada dropped a launch, which motored over and discharged its passengers onto the Voltumo's stairs. Khabir was waiting at the gangway to greet the first man up, whom he embraced.

  "You are still a magician," said Lt. Col. Ali Khurbasi. "Now let me go and allow my men up the stairs."

  Khabir laughed and released him. "It was perfect," he exclaimed. "No problems whatsoever. In fact, it went so smoothly that I worried even more, as if something bad was destined to happen."

  "Your reputation is intact," said Ali. "Any problems with the Italians?"

  Khabir snorted. "They have more than lived up to their reputation as formidable warriors. So they must indeed be fantastic lovers."

  Ali clapped him on the shoulder. "Are you ready for us?"

  "Of course, just follow my men. You must be tired."

  While the radars of both ships kept watch for any other vessels or aircraft, the launch brought over two boatloads of men, twenty-seven in all. Their equipment was winched directly aboard the Volturno. When the launch returned, the Arada weighed anchor and left the area, its blinker light invoking the blessings of God upon them and their task.

  Khabir brought Ali to the bridge as the first stop on a tour of the ship.

  "I have brought more friends aboard," Khabir told Captain Allessandro jovially. "Do not worry, they will be no trouble."

  The captain just stared at them. "Where will you take my ship now?" he asked.

  "Your planned course to your planned destination," said Khabir. "America."

  CHAPTER 11

  The Treccano Volturno sailed into a tropical storm the day after the Revolutionary Guards came on board. Ali waited until the seas were calm to begin his briefings. By then all his men were over their seasickness and able to eat something other than dry crackers and water.

  Even after the five months of intense training in the Iranian desert, the endless live-fire rehearsals on a mock-up building with all distinctive architectural details carefully removed, none of the men had any idea of the mission objective. There had been the usual incessant gossip and rumors soldiers love to indulge in. The fact that they all spoke English and had been fitted with American wardrobes made the guesses very accurate, but the secret had been kept.

  Ali called a meeting in the sweltering heat of the cargo hold. As he walked forward to address the men, Ali could feel the familiar queasiness in his stomach. For security the moment had been postponed until they were aboard ship, but this only increased his anxiety. What would their reaction be? Though he'd told them how dangerous the mission was, perhaps they thought he was only trying to frighten them. It was one thing to swear that you were willing to give your life for the Islamic revolution, another thing to actually confront the impending reality of that. The previous night he had lain awake in his bunk, pondering what to do if any refused to go. There was no way you could force men on a mission like this—everyone had to be completely willing if they were to pull it off. Ali prayed that all the emphasis he had put on discipline and teamwork would pay off, and none would even think of letting the others down. But not one to take unnecessary chances, he arranged with Lieutenant Commander Khabir to have some of his men lounging outside the cargo hold—armed, of course.

  There were twenty-seven men sitting before him, twenty-seven chosen out of the seventy candidates Amir had provided. Among them were newly promoted Captain Karim Radji and Sergeant Major Musa Sa'ed. The rest were strangers. At the end of training in Iran, Ali had sponsored a celebration, at Musa's suggestion. The Sergeant Major had been curious when Ali failed to show much enthusiasm. "Why not get to know the men, now the selection is over?" he asked.

  "I do not want to know them," Ali said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I have buried too many friends. To me they are a group of good men, strangers, and I wish it to remain that way. Especially for this mission." The Sergeant Major had only nodded. It was something a soldier could understand.

  It was so quiet in the empty hold that the sound of the Revolutionary Guards' breathing echoed off the walls. Ali stood before them and began: "We will land on the East Coast of the United States and be met by a team of our intelligence agents. Then we will assault the White House in Washington and kill the President of the United States."

  There was complete silence, broken only by sharp gasps of inhaled breath. The silence continued, and Ali did not move. Then the Sergeant Major rose from his chair and began to clap his hands. In the span of five seconds, every man was on his feet, applauding wildly and shrieking war cries. Outside the hold Khabir broke into an enormous smile and invited his men down to the galley for a cold drink. The screaming and applause went on for five minutes, as the Guards danced about the cargo deck. Ali heard one of the men shout "God be praised I did not miss this!" His face strained with suppressed emotion, Ali looked over to the Sergeant Major and could only nod gratefully.

  * * *

  The freighter was not capable of great speed, so the voyage progressed slowly. Ali worried that the Guards would slide into inactivity during the voyage. They held prayers as a unit in the cargo hold, with a compass to point the way to Mecca. They exercised on deck at sunrise and sunset, except when other ships and planes were nearby. During the day the various teams went over their tasks in small groups, studying the maps and photographs Ali had brought aboard. The entire force assembled periodically to go over the details of the mission.

  In addition to the Guards, there were four other Iranians who Ali ordered included in all activities. He made it clear that any who did not treat them properly would answer to him.

  It had not taken the Guards long to discover that the four had volunteered to be martyrs. There was a long history of suicide troops amo
ng the Persian Shia, but their later history began when Saddam Hussein's invaded Iran in 1980 to take advantage of the chaos that ensued after the overthrow of the Shah. Early in the war with Iraq the Baseej e-Mustazaftn, or Mobilization of the Deprived, been formed by mullahs as unarmed volunteers, under age twenty-one and fervently religious, who performed fetch-and-carry tasks behind the front lines for the Pasdaran. Later the Baseej picked up weapons and participated in battles, led by their mullahs. Operation Ramadan al-Mubarak in 1982 was the first time they were openly used to clear minefields with their bodies in front of the Pasdaran assault units.

  In 1982, on the occasion of the Iranian New Year, the Ayatollah Khomeini announced that, "as a special favor" schoolboys between the ages of twelve and eighteen would be allowed to join the Baseej and fight on the battlefields. Their admission papers to the organization were known as Passports to Paradise, and some units were issued cheap plastic keys. These, they were told by the mullahs, would unlock the gates of Heaven unto them.

  The Guards called their four shaheed. The classic definition of the word was "witness," but it had come to mean a martyr for the faith.

  Twice a week Ali inspected the condition of the weapons and equipment and the storage of the ammunition. Every day the Sergeant Major checked that the men had shaved and bathed, and once a week supervised clothes washing and haircuts. He permitted no facial hair. "By God, do you not want to look to the Americans like harmless clean-cut young gentlemen?" he asked them, to loud laughter. When he was not supervising the Guards, Musa occupied himself with the pile of books he had brought along in his duffel. Karim liked to tease him, saying that intellectual sergeants major gave an army a bad name. Musa ignored him.

  During the transit of the Panama Canal, the Italian seamen were locked below deck under heavy guard, their places taken by Khabir's men. The Guards also remained out of sight until the ship was well into the Caribbean. The Volturno steered a course through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti, and the men could soon tell they were heading north from the early March chill and rougher seas.

  Once they were out into the Atlantic, Ali had the Zodiac boats uncrated and taken on practice runs around the ship. He was relieved to see that the Guards were still sharp, though the men Khabir had provided as boat coxswains were not as skilled as he would have liked. But with only five days before they reached the coast of North Carolina, he decided against any more drills.

  Each day now the Guards were grilled unceasingly on the mission plans. Ali insisted that everything be committed to memory. In the privacy of the captain's stateroom, Karim had sifted through the briefing books with an expression of despair. "I believe we have a contingency for everything."

  Ali's nerves were taut, and he did not appreciate the humor. "I have a superstition about planning," he said. "If you plan for everything that can possibly go wrong, then in my experience nothing does. But if you neglect anything or are not thorough in your preparation, then for sure something will go wrong."

  "I was only making a joke," Karim said quickly.

  "I know," Ali said. "But there is a proper time for everything. I am trying to teach you. Remember the saying: Trust in God—but make sure you tie your camel, too."

  On the day of the landing, after sunset prayers, Ali assembled the entire force on the cargo deck for a final inspection. The Guards were wearing casual civilian clothing: jeans, sport or polo shirts, sweaters, and light jackets. All of it was American, down to the underwear and socks. Laid out on the deck before each man was his equipment. All but four Guards would be armed with AKM assault rifles. Extra magazines and grenades were carried in a Chinese webbing harness worn on the chest. These would remain under the jackets.

  Musa, Karim, and two other Guards were armed with Israeli Uzi submachineguns whose barrels had been tapped to accept screw-on sound suppressors. Uzis were standard Iranian Army issue, dating back to the Shah's regime. Israel had sold them more during the Iran-Iraq war, under the theory that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Temporarily, at least.

  All carried the Russian PSS silenced pistol. Very compact, with a 6-round magazine, the ammunition was designed so that all the exposing gunpowder and flash were retained within the case by a piston. So the pistol was as quiet as an air gun.

  Each had a U.S. Resident Alien Identification Card, the so-called green card. The cards listed countries of origin other than Iran. These documents would account for accented English and were far easier for Amir to provide than twenty-nine untraceable passports. The men had driver's licenses from a number of states, social security cards, and a thousand dollars cash as emergency money. Ali made sure they had memorized the fake names and addresses on the documents.

  Each man carried extra clothing in a small backpack, the kind used to carry school books. Demolition gear was broken down into small individual loads to be carried in the bags.

  All the other equipment—the Russian PKM machineguns, the RPG-26 single-shot antitank rockets in disposable fiberglass launcher tubes, 60mm mortars, grenades, extra magazines, the various types of ammunition, and the mass of the explosives—were packed in waterproof fiberglass containers to be carried in the rubber boats.

  As he walked through on his inspection, Ali asked each man questions. He knew they had all the information memorized, but he wanted to show that he was calm and confident—and to communicate that they should be too.

  When the inspection was completed and the gear packed away, Ali motioned for them all to gather around him.

  "As you all know, in the Battle of Badr the Prophet and only three hundred and nineteen of the faithful defeated a thousand Meccans. It is written that, "One was fighting for God; the other was a host of unbelievers. God revealed His will to the angels, saying: "I shall be with you. Give courage to the believers. I shall cast terror into the hearts of the infidels. Strike off their heads, strike off the very tips of their fingers!"" Ali's favorite verses from the Koran, learned in childhood, came rushing back. The Eighth Sura, The Spoils. The Guards were nodding their heads in remembrance.

  "We few have been chosen to wield the sword of the righteous against the greatest evil in the world, and we dare not fail. "Believers, do not betray God and the Apostle, nor knowingly violate your trust. Prophet!'" Ali shouted, the sound of his voice echoing through the steel deck. ""Rouse the faithful to arms. God has now lightened your burden, for He knows that you are weak. If there are a hundred steadfast men among you, they shall vanquish two hundred; and if there are a thousand, they shall, by God's will, defeat two thousand. God is with those that are steadfast." Remember! He is with us! We are the Warriors of God, and together we will shake the world! Allah ma 'ana! God is with us!"

  "Allah ma'ana" the Guards screamed back, their faces rapturous. "Allahu akbar! . . . Allahu akbar! . . . Allahu akbar!"

  * * *

  If the wind from the ocean hadn't been so strong, Hafiz Ghalib would have been almost comfortable wrapped in warm clothing and seated on top of the line of sand dunes that stretched down the beach at Topsail Island, North Carolina.

  He was not pleased with the landing site—only one road in and out and not many more escape routes beyond that. But the whole rotten coastline was the same. At least this stretch of beach was deserted at night this time of year. At least it was close enough to the Marine base at Camp Lejeune that the rubber boats would be passed off as U.S. Marine craft if they were noticed. And it was between the ports of Wilmington and Morehead City, so the ship would blend in with the ocean traffic.

  Hafiz took a starlight scope from his carrying bag. It was an old model formerly used by the American military, the AN/PVS-4, purchased by mail order. He couldn't see the ship yet, but it was time. He set up and activated an infrared-filtered strobe light, looking at it through the scope to be sure it was working. There was nothing to do now but wait.

  * * *

  The four black Zodiac inflatable boats were tied to the platform stretching down from the freighter. The boats bounced in th
e heavy waves, even though the ship had turned against the wind to give them some shelter for the launch.

  On the deck above, the Guards were preparing to file down the ladder. They waddled uncomfortably in the loose rubber jumpsuits they wore over their civilian clothes. Their backpacks were sheathed in plastic. Khabir stood at the top of the ladder, waiting to see Ali off. They both smiled in the darkness as the Sergeant Major told the Guards in his deep voice, "As you well know, something is bound not to go according to plan, so be flexible."

  A messenger from the bridge ran up to Khabir. "We've spotted the signal," he said, out of breath.

  "Very good," said Khabir. "Tell them just enough power to hold the ship steady." The messenger ran off.

  Ali looked at his watch; it was 12:50 in the morning. "Begin loading," he called over his shoulder. "I will be last." The Guards filed by.

  Ali and Khabir looked at each other for a moment, and then Khabir embraced Ali. "God go with you," Khabir said emotionally, "and grant you success."

  Ali returned the embrace. "And may He see you safely home. Thank you for everything." He turned and walked down the stairs to the boats.

  The Atlantic was much rougher than the Caspian, where the coxswains had been trained, and they were having trouble. From the bow of the lead Zodiac, Ali angrily passed orders to signal the other boats to move closer. The outboards were having trouble beating the strong current—the boats had to move almost parallel to the shoreline to stay even with the marker light.

  Every time they crossed the peak of a wave, a spray of water would pour over them. Ali cinched the hood of his rubber jumpsuit tighter as icy seawater began to trickle in. His face was already raw from the wind-whipped salt spray. The wind was roaring in his ears, but he could clearly hear someone vomiting over the side. He had no intention of looking back to see who it was. Instead he concentrated on the view of the marker light through his night goggles.