“This is not just any martyrdom operation; it is a stake in the heart of Zion!” Khallida said fervently. “You now have a chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of your son, your family and to Allah. You have a chance to go down as one of the founding martyrs of the Caliphate, a name remembered through all history. Will you seize that chance?”
“I will; I must!” Abdullereda said forcefully.
“Excellent, then we may move forward on the operation?”
“Absolutely, I am eager to be of service,” he replied.
One of Khallida’s men laid an aeronautical chart on the table. It was of Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean. A small red circle had been drawn around Kuala Lumpur, Hussein’s home base. Another red circle was drawn around Beijing, China. “This is your normal route is it not?” Khallida asked. “You can fly this whenever you wish?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good, now, what other airports are within range with the fuel you carry, can you tell me?”
“Certainly,” Hussein said, taking the proffered pen. He drew an arc headed west and then south, stopping abeam Australia in the great southern ocean. “This is the range of the A380 with the fuel load we carry to Beijing. As you can see we can go anywhere within the circle, from Pakistan, the Chagos Archipelago in the Indian Ocean and south to Indonesia—anywhere.”
“You’re certain the aircraft can do that,” Khallida asked, shaking his scarred head. To emphasize his point he gestured with his burned right hand. “We need the aircraft to be seen turning west and then south. The assumed crash site must be in the deep south around Australia to throw the capitalists off the track.”
“Trust me the A380 can do it without thinking about it,” Abdullereda said fervently, nervously, as if applying for a job interview. In effect, he was. “The Westerners may be decadent but they build good airplanes. The A380 is a beautiful aircraft.”
“Are you certain you can do it?” Khallida said sternly, touching the man’s chest with his permanently frozen finger.
Abdullereda shuddered involuntarily. “Of course,” he gasped, glancing over at the Al Qaeda guerillas Khallida brought with him. “I’ve been doing this for twenty years.”
“That is not what I meant,” he said, the normal half of his face grimacing but the burned half staying flat and expressionless, which made Abdullereda even more uncomfortable. “I do not question whether you can fly the airplane. Abdullereda, you must understand that phase one of the operation involves hijacking this aircraft for our uses. That means you will pilot the aircraft and fly the profile; however, we cannot afford to take a chance that your Malaysian crew or the passengers will interfere.”
“What could they do? I will be locked on the flight deck. The passengers and flight attendants can do nothing but go where I take them.”
“Unfortunately, experience taught us otherwise. The harsh lessons of Nine-Eleven were clear: the passengers of Flight 93 interfering with the mission to destroy the American capital; and a single pilot, the CIA’s Crusader, killing our entire team and saving the American White House. Yes we have learned from those hard lessons. Allah does not accept arrogance or complacency. The passengers and crew must die.”
“I am a pilot; I am unfortunately not a fighter,” Abdullereda admitted humbly.
“Not to worry,” Khallida said with a grotesque grin. He took out a cigarette and lit it, looking over to one of his men. “You will have help. This is Muhammad. He has recently come from Iraq; he even has his own video,” Khallida chuckled, leaning toward the pilot and adding, “Muhammad was not the lackey standing behind the executioner yelling Allahu Akbar! No, he has blood on his hands and plenty of it.” Khallida looked at the pilot as if gauging his courage, taking a drag from his cigarette, before saying, “We will have three brothers there to help you—one is Muhammad, and the other two are Iranians.”
“Iranians—Shia?” Abdullereda said with surprise.
“This is a new era of cooperation,” Khallida told him, although his tone held reservations. “A new Caliphate is coming; a new age is coming. This is the first step in that new age. The Iranians are supplying more than muscle in this operation. We must be meant to work with them for we cannot achieve our goal without their aid. We are supplying the aircraft and pilot; they are supplying the cargo.”
“Very well. Will they be passengers; how do I make contact with them?”
“The Iranians will be passengers. Muhammad will be travelling as a replacement pilot to Beijing, you pilots have a special term for that, what’s the word?”
“Deadheading,” Abdullereda said flatly.
“How appropriate,” Khallida nodded. He turned back to the map and continued. “The three brothers will help you take the aircraft.”
Abdullereda plucked up his courage, trying to be helpful, and pointed to a cross-hatched line over the ocean. “We transition between these Air Traffic Control Zones here, between Malaysia and Vietnam. Sometimes the High frequency radios are hard to understand. If we take the aircraft here, in the transition area, it will cause confusion and delay in Air Traffic Control.”
“Excellent; that will keep the Westerners from realizing that something is wrong with their beautiful aircraft.” Khallida pointed to the Indian Ocean. “We have given you the locations of multiple airfields; you will practice them. Specifically, you will ensure that your computer at home shows that you practiced them. It is part of our deception plan,” Khallida paused and shrugged. “We too have learned from the Americans. If you wish to strike them you must not look in that place; then you must give them a reason to look elsewhere.”
“Where do you want me to land?” Abdullereda said.
“Here!” Khallida circled an airport in Indonesia.
“But that’s a very busy airport,” Abdullereda argued. “We can’t avoid their radar, and even if we could enter their airspace undetected there is absolutely no chance we could land there without the controllers knowing about it!”
“Of course they’ll know,” Khallida smiled.
“You mean they are in on it?”
“No, that would put far too many people in the loop, so to speak,” Khallida chuckled dryly. “They don’t need to know the particulars, they simply must be told what to do. What you do not appreciate, Abdullereda, is that Indonesia is the largest Muslim nation in the world. It takes very little persuasion to get a few dozen people to ignore a single Malaysian A380 coming into the airport; we simply talk to them.”
“What do you say?” Abdullereda stammered.
Khallida shrugged, and said, “We offer them money of course, along with the opportunity to follow the will of Allah. For those who are still troubled we furnish them a helpful visit from some of our more zealous holy warriors; a visit that will affect their entire families. That way they understand where they fit in the scheme of things.”
“I understand,” Abdullereda swallowed, sweating at the thought that he too had a family and now, like it or not, they were inextricably bound by his choice.
“Good!” Khallida smiled, patting him on the back. “Don’t worry about the airport. The controllers will be expecting you. Be assured we will have our people in every facet of the Air Traffic Control System. The people you will be talking to will be our people; their schedules will be set up for the operation. Anyone else will have been spoken to already; they will not interfere. So play your video games and leave the rest to us.”
“When will the operation take place?” the captain said nervously.
“That you do not need to know,” the Al Qaeda boss replied firmly. “You will know when to implement the plan when Muhammad shows up for your flight.” He handed the captain an envelope. “Give yourself another two weeks of vacation before going back on duty. Here is the flight plan. You need not ask any questions. You simply need to be able to fly it, understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good, now I must leave Indonesia for a few days to attend a very important meeting. This operation will
encompass many of our active groups, not just Al Qaeda and Iran, but even the upstarts in Syria and Iraq, ISIS,” he said soberly. “All of our organizations are preparing the way for a greater entity; one that will wipe away the stain of Zion and Christianity throughout the world!”
“Allahu Akbar!”
CHAPTER 3: Another Day in the Office
A day after Hussein’s meeting with Khallida, Jeremiah Slade, now a Company veteran, flew low over the Iraqi desert in a rattling old OV-10 Bronco. Slade hadn’t changed, nor it seemed, had his companions. Over the interphone his friend Delta Force Captain Abe “Killer” Kincaid joked with his team.
“We’d like to thank the Delta Force for flying Spook Air! We hope you’ve enjoyed your flight into former Iraq; now the 7th century paradise named after the fetching Egyptian Goddess ISIS! There’s some irony for you!”
Mentally shaking his head, Slade concentrated on maneuvering the twin turboprop Bronco low through the nighttime desert. The Bronco was a Special Forces mule. That meant there was nothing in the aircraft that wasn’t required; no creature comforts whatsoever. The Bronco was so loud the two men in the cockpit and the four men in the back couldn’t hear a thing over the roaring, rattling, shaking machine unless it was over the interphone. Looking like a cross between a pregnant P-38 and a monstrous insect it was perfect for these sorts of missions and Slade had a few thousand hours in it—all combat time.
That’s how the Company normally used Slade, having him fly SEALS or Delta Force troops into hot spots and picking them up. However, over the past years the Company found Slade was more than just a pilot; he could be a useful and deadly field agent. Slade turned out to be a very instinctive and accomplished killer.
Today was a case-in-point. This was a “Cobra” mission; so named because their job was to hunt down leadership and remove them; cutting the proverbial head off the snake. The CIA, unlike Slade, was not averse to some black humor. His tasking read, “The mission is to interdict a meeting between ISIS, Al Qaeda and the Iranians. You and your partner Barret will be uninvited participants.”
Barret was Slade’s Barret ‘Light-Fifty’ sniper rifle. The Company had excavated hidden talents Slade never imagined he had. This was one of them. Slade was likely one of the top three shots on the planet and he never knew it.
“We should have been doing this a year ago before they ever ventured out of their stinkholes in Syria!” Killer commented.
“We’re here now,” Slade replied coolly.
Twenty minutes later the GPS told him they were approaching their insertion point: an abandoned village six miles from the target area. He picked out the silhouettes of his landmark hills through his night vision goggles, commonly called NVG’s.
“Prepare for landing,” Slade told the Delta Force team. “Strap in tight, it looks kind of rough.”
“The new management doesn’t fix potholes!”
Banking between the two hills and lining up on a relatively straight stretch of desert, a dirt road that led into the village, Slade prepared to land in what was now the first Islamic Caliphate since the Ottoman Empire.
“Hold onto your butt’s guys!” Killer warned his team from the observer’s seat in the Bronco. “You know how these Air Force guys land!”
“That’s the Navy!” Slade corrected, pounding the desert into submission with the five ton Bronco and throwing the props into reverse. A cloud of dust and sand swirled in front of the machine, effectively hiding them.
He taxied down the narrow street and then around a ruined building. Slade eased the aircraft between that building and another, parking it in the sandy, rocky alley between them with the nose pointing back toward the street. He shut the engines down and switched off the multiple glass displays that the Bronco used for flight controls, navigation and weapons delivery.
With the systems powered down, the props stopped spinning and the aircraft grew silent except for the inevitable knocking of metal parts as they started to cool. The Deltas in back were already out of the plane, dragging a camouflage net up onto the roof of the abandoned mud and brick dwelling. They slung the net over top the Bronco, obscuring the aircraft from unfriendly eyes.
In five minutes the Deltas were ready. Killer asked Slade, “So how does it feels to be back in Iraq?”
“You’re the one who got shot,” the grim faced Slade reminded Killer.
“Are you sure, I thought that was Columbia?” Kincaid recalled with a shake of the head. “Damn, I’m losing track. I must be getting old.”
“You’re twenty-eight Killer,” Slade growled, hefting the Barret over his shoulder. The “Light-Fifty” was anything but light, weighing in at almost a pound for each one of Jeremiah’s years. He grunted perceptibly.
“You’re coming up on forty grandpa; do you want someone to carry that schwein-stucker for you?”
The four Delta grunts chuckled.
“I didn’t hear you complain when I hauled your ass out of country over my shoulder!” Slade retorted.
“Course not, I was unconscious!” Killer said dryly. Turning to his men he saw that they were ready and waiting for his word. His expression settled into the serious nature of their mission. People were about to die and they were in a hostile country. There would be no extraction. Their only expectation would be having their heads slowly sawed off by trench knives; all the gruesome details would be available to their loved ones on video.
“Okay ladies it’s ten klicks to meet our contact. Let’s go!” Killer waved them forward. They fanned out in a ragged patrol line, searching the hills and horizon with their NVG’s; weapons carried comfortably ready at ready.
Two hours later they arrived at a house on the outskirts of a small village. The house was identified by a small infrared reflector mounted at the angle of the roof. It was invisible to the naked eye, which was the only safe way to mark a house in this very unsafe country. Still, they approached the house with care. Killer set up his two teams to provide covering fire in case he and Slade had to beat a hasty retreat.
“Our contact is a local named Sulla. He’s a Sunni, so he’s as safe as you can get and still be an Iraqi,” Jake whispered. “He used to be very high up in Saddam’s world. Now he’s nobody again.” They’d stopped at the ramshackle shed across from what served as a back door. The back windows were open. One of the curtains was drawn up. There was a light on. That was the signal.
Slade was wary. “He’s got no reason to love us. We ruined his world.”
“Maybe, but we got his two sons out of a Shia prison and we pay him ten thousand a year. He was set before ISIS came out of Syria. You think we put a crimp in things, these ISIS boys have the locals terrified. Sulla contacted us about this meeting between ISIS, Al Qaeda and the Iranians.”
“What’s he get in exchange?” Slade said.
“We’ve already got a new coalition Shia-Sunni government forming. Sulla is going to get his old job back and his family gets to move back to Bagdad,” he said, blowing a silent whistle. “That’s how things work out here.”
Killer keyed his mike. “Okay, we’re moving into the house.”
They made their way quietly through the yard and into the house through the back door. The back room was a kitchen. The sound of a TV could be heard coming from the front room. There were two other ways into the kitchen beside the back door, the living room entrance and a dark hall leading to the bedrooms. Killer turned off the single light. Now the only illumination was from the room up front, the living room.
As Slade covered the back hall, Kincaid went to the window and gave a thumbs up signal. “Fox in the henhouse.”
The Delta team covering the back of the house acknowledged. “Bravo copies; fox in the henhouse.”
“Alpha has the front of the house. There’s no activity.”
“Fox is making contact,” Kincaid informed them.
Slade still had his Barret slung over his shoulder but he had a KRISS Super-V for anything that required up close and personal combat. The .
45 caliber Bullpup packed a big punch at close range. He checked the dark hall with his flip down NVG’s—nothing. He gave Killer a thumbs up.
The Delta Force commander nodded and stepped up to the living room entry. For a moment there was no sound but the TV. Then Killer said quietly, “Salaam Sulla!”
There was an excited gasp from the living room. Slade noted a woman’s voice as well as at least one child, probably a girl. Words were exchanged and Killer backed into the kitchen. He motioned for Slade to join him. He did, positioning himself so that his back was to the kitchen counter and he was facing the hallway.
Sulla turned the light on and came into the kitchen with his hands held out, showing that he held no weapons. He was not a tall man, but he was stoutly built. By the looks of him, Sulla could handle himself. He was not some desk hugging bureaucrat.
To Slade’s surprise, Sulla came in with his family. Joining him were his wife, two young men and a little girl. Slade swallowed hard, confiding his anger to some deep, dark place. The mother and the little girl, maybe twelve, were both horribly burned on their faces by what could only be acid.
Killer had filled him in previously, but seeing it caused a visceral reaction—rage. Sulla’s wife was a school teacher in a girl’s school. Her daughter was her pupil. Then came ISIS. It was the fundamentalist answer to women’s rights in the wonderful world of Sharia. Slade couldn’t help but think, “So much for glass ceilings, reproductive rights and the “War on Women.””
Sulla smiled. “Hello Captain Kincaid! You see, I bring my loved ones so that you may know that you are safe here in my home.”
“We appreciate that,” Killer told him. By bringing his family Sulla put them in the crossfire of any treachery. It was a big chunk of collateral.
Sulla sat down heavily. His youngest girl clutched his arm. Her skin might be burned but her eyes were alive; she was both frightened and curious. Slade didn’t know if she was frightened of them or something else, probably both.
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 3