ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES

by Richard Drummer

  Abu Dahl ducked his head as he stepped out onto the top rung of the stairway, squinting into the bright, hot Kandahar sun. He could not quite make out the faces of the men who had come to take him to his village, but it didn’t matter. A smile lit his face. This moment was just as he envisioned throughout the long years in prison. The deafening whine of the engines faded as he heard a beautiful flute melody that called to him, welcoming him back to the land of his fathers. It was the same song that played as he sat beside a crackling fire the night before his capture so long ago. He felt the memory rekindle from that distant past and embraced it with all his senses. A warm, gentle breeze brushed his cheek, and he imagined it to be the breath of Allah standing beside him with welcoming arms.

  He had returned! He defeated his captors by merely surviving his imprisonment and living for this day, ready to take up arms against them again. The price would be high for the years they kept him behind bars. Wasted years of life stolen with nothing to show for the time except the hatred that grew and festered. He would draw on that hate now as he brought them to their knees. Abu Dahl would exact his revenge on a world as it slept, unaware of the firestorm to come.

  No longer a prisoner, he was now the unbreakable warrior. He started down toward the open arms of his brothers, more emboldened, more cocksure with each step.

  He was halfway to the bottom when the stairway lurched forward beneath him. He staggered back and grabbed the handrail for balance, then turned and stared, disbelieving what he saw. The pilot and flight attendant were pushing the walkway clear of the plane. He watched in stunned disbelief as they scrambled back inside and pulled the cabin door shut. The jet engines began throttling up, and the giant rotors came closer, spinning ever faster. The ground crew rushed in to pull the walkway clear of the wing as the craft rolled forward. Abu Dahl regained his balance and jumped from the steps, glaring at the infidels that were making a mockery of his triumphant return. He screamed and punched at the air as the airliner rumbled past. The port engine blasted him with its jet wash, forcing him to retreat before being tossed like a leaf in a howling gale. Abu Dahl fell to his knees and watched as the craft rolled away, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug into flesh. It was not the homecoming he expected, but it was well deserved.

  The co-pilot taxied the plane past the scattering group on the tarmac, then turned and headed for the runway as the cabin door was pulled shut and secured. The captain scrambled back into his seat as they traveled the short distance to the runway, then did a full throttle-up. The plane lifted off the ground to the sound of hand-clapping and jubilant cheers from the relieved passengers. They were finally free of the nightmare they helped create and rid of the refuse that had come to plague the airliner.

  24

  “Useless bitch! Useless, defiant bitch! I will rip out your heart with my bare hands!” Abu Dahl trembled with anger, a searing rage overtaking every last shred of self-control. He scratched and punched at the turbulent jet wash as the airliner rolled away and gained speed. “I will kill you! Every one of you will die by my hands!” His screams were mere whispers above the whining engines as the airliner lifted off and gained altitude, blending into the bright afternoon sky. He stood staring up, his defiance crumbling into humiliation. His jaw clenched tightly as he blinked back tears.

  How could this have happened? He was a hero, a warrior, returning to his people after withstanding torture and imprisonment. All honor was stolen from his triumphant homecoming. He would pray for the death of everyone in that airplane who stared with disdain at him as he sat chained to a chair like an animal.

  The thundering exhaust crackled and faded into the distance, and he became aware of voices from behind. He turned to see two men yelling and waving.

  “Abu! You have returned!”

  They hurried over to him with arms held out, their gray and black robes blowing in the dry wind.

  “Abu, my brother, you have come back to us!” The taller of the two men embraced him in a tight bear hug, slapping him on the back. He moved away and made room for his companion to repeat the greeting, shaking him as he laughed.

  “The Americans were no match for you, my friend! Now you can help us defeat them once and for all. There is so much to show you. We are becoming stronger in our fight with every new day.”

  Abu Dahl’s anger receded as he recognized the two men sent to meet him. “Zaahir! Rifat! My brothers, how I have longed for this moment.”

  Thoughts of his ruined arrival gave way to happiness as he embraced his two oldest friends. They grew up together, battling side by side, first against the Russians and now the western infidels. War was all they knew for the better part of their lives, and they forged an unbreakable bond fighting together for the promise of paradise.

  “Come, Abu, many others are awaiting your return.” Zaahir slapped his shoulder and pointed to an old, rusting Chinese all-terrain vehicle.

  “I must speak to Sirhan,” Abu answered. “I must tell him all that I have learned of our enemy.”

  “He awaits you, my friend,” Zaahir assured him. “We will take you there now.”

  Abu Dahl followed as the two soldiers of OASIS led the way to an old truck. He climbed onto the ripped brown canvas passenger seat and asked, “How long is the journey to meet with Sirhan?”

  Rifat dropped into the driver’s seat, pushed the ignition button, and waited as the engine first did nothing, then spun, choked, and sputtered to life. He looked over with a grin, gripping the wheel with both hands as though grateful for the old machine’s cooperation one more time.

  “We will travel to a village up in the hills and spend the night. He will meet us there.”

  Rifat reached over and shook Abu’s shoulder. “We will have time to share some news, and you can tell us of winning your freedom from the famous prison of the infidel. For tonight we celebrate! Our brother has returned!”

  Abu Dahl smiled back and relaxed into the old seat, settling in for the long, rough drive. He was home now and would be received as a hero. The abrupt and terrible landing, the offensive exit from the plane would soon be forgotten. Only these two men and a handful of others were witnesses, and they were his brothers in arms. They could be trusted to keep this to themselves. They shared much darker secrets from the past, some of which still made his skin crawl.

  These men were capable of terrifying acts of cruelty. He saw them at their worst. He remembered their sadistic expressions as they took the wives of men suspected of helping the enemy. They raped, tortured, and pummeled these women to death in front of their shackled husbands as they screamed and pleaded, helpless to do anything but bear witness. He then watched as Zaahir and Rifat slit the throats of these men and stood over them as they drowned in their own blood. They considered it equal retribution for their complicity in aiding the enemy.

  Abu Dahl’s mind raced from image to image. It seemed that the smell and sights of this familiar countryside were putting his brain into a fixed state of replay, all streaming before him, coming faster and faster. He was deluged with memories of running free through these mountains as a child, becoming a boy with a rifle, becoming a man with a vengeance.

  And then she came back into his thoughts. That actress bitch who flew him to this place. He regretted being interrupted before he could defile her. He remembered the warmth of her flesh in his hands as he held her against him from behind. How she struggled so! It was the most pleasurable experience of his life. He would meet her again on his own terms. The next time, however, there would be no question who was in command. She would know to give herself to him, but she would die regardless. Abu would enjoy killing her as much as entering her. He imagined the tip of his knife blade breaking through the thin flesh of her throat, penetrating deeper, deeper, slicing through her windpipe as she looked at him with sorrowful, pleading eyes. Yes, you will plead, he thought, you will beg for death to take you before you have satisfied me.

  The thought shifted, and he was back sitting in the jet n
ext to that fat, egotistical senator as he fed his pig face while pretending to be important. His death was inconsequential. He would let someone else take that life. And that little bitch who attacked and choked him from behind? Few men ever bested him, and never a woman. It was clear to him that she was trained as an American assassin and was on that plane to guard against him. It would never happen again, and if they met in another place, he would take great pleasure in her slow, torturous death.

  The sun was dancing low along the peaks of a distant mountain range before Abu Dahl realized he’d been daydreaming the entire trip. He looked over to Rifat, who was engrossed in piloting the ancient, clangy vehicle along the rough terrain. He was about to ask about their progress when a satellite phone chirped from behind inside Zaahir’s backpack. Zaahir retrieved it, pushed the call button, and listened. After a moment, his gaze fell. He nodded his head. “It will be done,” he said, then ended the call.

  “I have received new instructions from Sirhan. We are to take you to the Angrat village ahead. There, you will be met by Crico Dreas. He will take you the rest of the way.” Zaahir slipped the phone back into his pack and made eye contact with Rifat in the rearview mirror. Silent signals were exchanged. Rifat nodded his understanding and drove on toward the new destination.

  Abu Dahl understood the need for secrecy to keep the whereabouts of Sirhan Abbas protected. There could be drone planes flying overhead right now, and they would only know by the nearly imperceptible sound of their small motors. He expected them to change vehicles soon and follow along a diversionary route to obscure their final destination.

  The three rode the rest of the way in silence before arriving at a tiny cluster of rough stone structures encircling an ancient spring-fed well. Beside it lay an enormous flat-topped boulder. Rifat pulled up to the well, shut off the engine, and climbed out.

  Further down the road sat an American Humvee. It had been left behind after the troops pulled out of Iraq years earlier and was now re-utilized.

  The passenger door opened, and a man wearing a tan military uniform stepped out into the road. He paused, making careful observations of all he saw, then began walking toward them. Abu Dahl assumed this was the man who would take him to meet Sirhan Abbas. He climbed out of the vehicle to greet him.

  The uniformed man held out his hands. “Abu Dahl, your people welcome you back from the belly of the beast.” He was a plain-looking man, with no single feature that could be noted or remembered. It was a face that could disappear into any crowd.

  Abu took his hand and gripped it firmly. “The pleasure is mine. I am elated to be home in the land of my fathers and brothers.” He smiled with joy, feeling one step closer to meeting with the supreme leader. His confidence returned in abundance. “Are you Crico Dreas?” he asked.

  “I am known in many places, by many names. Crico Dreas is one of them. Come, let us sit and talk for a moment.” He pointed to the huge flat rock. Both men walked to it and sat down side by side. Zaahir and Rifat came over and stood near them.

  “My friend,” Crico Dreas said, “you have done many things to show Sirhan Abbas and all of your people that you are indeed a great man.”

  Abu Dahl felt himself inflate with the flattery.

  “Sirhan extends his apologies that he could not be here to meet you himself. He thanks you for your loyalty and your faith in our cause.”

  Abu Dahl looked down and smiled humbly. After all the years of imprisonment, he had not been forgotten. Abbas himself was guiding the plan to bring the two of them together, to fight side by side. It was a moment of total elation, the fitting reward for his steadfast loyalty. Eight years of life passed him by as he sat in the cell of the American prison. Eight years separated from those he loved, from the country of his birth, and from the fight he believed in so fiercely. Now he could taste this place, inhale its fragrance, behold the sounds and sights. He was home. And he would fight with every last drop of his blood to repel the enemy. This was his battle. It was his time to lead the charge to push all things western out of his country and into the sea.

  He always expected to be elevated to a distinctive rank when he returned. He knew that moment was fast approaching. The once youthful and spirited foot soldier had returned, matured, driven, ready to lead his brothers in the noble fight. He stood prepared to take the battle to the doorstep of that cursed enemy with a rank worthy of his past deeds. Yes, he could see himself as a General within OASIS. He had proven himself time after time before being captured. He personally put to death every weak and unworthy soul he found supporting the invaders. These ungrateful, spineless creatures did not deserve to share this sacred place. The fire still blazed hot and deep within him. With every fiber of his being, he was ready to march to the death for their great and holy war. He looked into Crico’s eyes and reaffirmed his conviction.

  “I live only for the glory of Allah.”

  “Yes, I know this,” Crico Dreas answered. “That is why my task today is so difficult.”

  Abu Dahl’s expression changed from one of confidence to confusion. He searched the man’s eyes for an explanation. Suddenly his hands were pulled from behind by Zaahir. A pair of handcuffs were ratcheted tightly around his wrists by Rifat. Zaahir stepped out in front and leveled a Makarov pistol at Abu Dahl’s head.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” Crico said, “but you have been used by the very enemy that you escaped from.”

  “What? What is this, you say?”

  “They have made you into a weapon, my friend. A weapon that leads them directly to our leader, Sirhan Abbas.”

  “This cannot be so! I have said nothing! In all my years being held in that evil place, I gave them nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing!”

  “That is what troubles me most. It was not what you revealed, my friend. It is what you carried back with you. Or should I say, within you?”

  Rifat held tight to the cuffs as Crico Dreas extracted a long bayonet from a sheath in his belt.

  “I believe the only way for you to understand is to be shown.” He held the knife in his right fist and brought the blade up to Abu’s face. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt terribly.” Crico Dreas stuck the sharp knife tip into the bridge of Abu Dahl’s nose and pulled down, opening the entire left side. Abu Dahl screamed in agony as Crico Dreas sliced his face open, then dug around with the blade inside his left sinus. He did not find what he was looking for.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “wrong side.” He moved the knife tip to the other side of Abu Dahl’s nose.

  “No, please, I beg you! I don’t—”

  Crico Dreas sliced deep into the right side now, cutting more aggressively. He split Abu Dahl’s face in two, exposing the sinus flesh as the man let out a loud, high scream. The pain was excruciating, the worst Abu Dahl ever experienced. Blood pulsed and gushed and mixed with tears streaming down the open wounds. His nose now hung loose on his face, attached only by thin membranes of skin at the bridge and base. A small, shiny capsule glistened as it shifted from its hiding spot and slid downward in the massive tide of blood. Crico Dreas caught the tiny device on his knife blade and offered it up for Abu Dahl to see.

  “I am quite sure this should not have been inside of you, my friend.”

  It took every bit of strength for Abu Dahl to hold himself up, let alone attempt to grasp what was happening. He looked down at the blood-covered capsule

  “No!” he pleaded, choking back the hot, thick liquid as it streamed down his throat. “This cannot be! I would never. . .allow this! With Allah. . .as my witness I swear. . . I do not know what this is!”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. Yet it seems everyone in the world knows there was a tracking device inside your head…everyone except you.”

  The pain was coming in unendurable waves. Dark spots began obscuring his vision, growing larger and blotting out the sunlight. Consciousness was slipping away, but he clung to it despite the terrible reality.

  “Zaahir, Rifat,” he sobbed through the dripping
blood, “both of you know me!” His head rocked forward and back, eyelids flickering. “You know. . . I would never allow them. . .to put this inside of me. Please, you must. . .stop him!”

  The reply from his childhood friend came cold and direct. “It is war, Abu. You have become a tool of the enemy. Now you must become an example.”

  Crico Dreas extracted a long machete and said, “Sirhan Abbas sends this message. ‘Your people are grateful for your loyalty. We all give what is required of us. Now, you must offer one last sacrifice. Abu Dahl, Sirhan Abbas commands you to give your life.’”

  The two other men stepped away as Crico Dreas swung the blade with all his might at the back of Abu Dahl’s neck. The weapon cut precisely and clean. The head toppled off, hitting the ground with a muffled thud and rolling over, coming to rest face down in the dirt. His lifeless body remained upright for a moment, spurting blood from the stump of his neck before dropping over and sliding off the giant stone.

  “Leave his body where it lies,” Crico Dreas commanded.

  “Place his head with this device on the rock.”

  “Should I destroy the device so the enemy cannot use it?” said Rifat.

  “No, we want them to find it. Let them see there is nothing to show for their efforts but failure and death. Let them see that we will always know what they are plotting. There are no secrets anymore. There is only the word of Allah.”

  25

  Washington, DC

  Jordan awoke from a fitful sleep to the sound of unfamiliar voices. It took another moment to comprehend what she was hearing. The television audio, seldom heard in the condo, was blaring from the living room. She could make out her mother’s voice as well, sounding like the color commentator for the television’s narrative. She must be on the phone, Jordan surmised, talking to someone about what was being broadcast. She now recognized the newscaster’s voice. Burt Ledger repeated the phrase, ‘breaking news,’ again and again as he talked animatedly. Jordan caught other keywords; Afghanistan, murder, Guantanamo Bay. She slid out of bed and headed downstairs.