Dead Shot, page 14
“So, young man, you will not become a martyr today,” added Osama bin Laden. “Praise be unto Allah, we have plenty of recruits ready to do that vital work. Yours is a special task that will require years to accomplish.”
Jeremy stared at the two leaders of the most violent sector of militant Islam. They wanted him!
Al-Zawahiri’s tone changed. No more polite chitchat or explanations, just a stream of orders. Jeremy was to become as English as he could be, join the British Army and become skilled in its ways, let the army give him as much specialized training as possible.
Osama bin Laden said, “You must shed any trace of Islam. Your present knowledge of the Koran must sustain you, for you must not read it again for many years, nor even have a copy. You will eat the flesh of the filthy animal, drink alcohol, walk without a beard, be profane, and fornicate with their women. At times, you may even have to fight against Muslims, and you will do so with your utmost ability, for there must be no question as to your loyalty. When the time is right, we will call you.”
“Turn away from Islam? I don’t know if I can do that, sir.”
“That is the answer we expected from you, Jeremy. To satisfy that disturbing thought, a council of holy men has granted a special absolution to excuse the many sins you must commit in the future.” Bin Laden leaned close. “Follow us, young man. We have heavy hearts in requiring someone to abandon the Prophet here on earth in order to sit with him in paradise. Sadly, you will pretend-and live-as if we are your enemies. The forces of the Prophet are already defeating the atheist Russians in Afghanistan, but we must plan ahead. Great wars will come against the Jews and Crusaders before our final victory. Will you help us protect Islam?”
“Yes. Of course I will,” Jeremy replied, and his father squeezed the shoulder of his sixteen-year-old son.
“Then we will give you a new name. To everyone else, you will continue to be Jeremy. But when we summon you, you will become Juba, named for a village created by fierce warriors many years ago along the White Nile in Africa. You will be our own fierce warrior.”
Jeremy graduated from school the very next year and joined the British Royal Marines. When the shooting instructors saw his skill with a rifle, he was sent to sniper school and then moved to advanced training for special operations, including workouts and instruction at the U.S. Marines Scout Sniper School at Camp Pendleton over in America. Every fitness report glowed with praise, and senior sergeants said they had never worked with anyone so dedicated. He rose in rank to color sergeant ahead of his peers and earned the badge of a master sniper, along with other gongs and citations.
Just a natural, said the other bootnecks. Best stalker and shooter in the game, and in a firefight, I want to see the green lid and Lovats of Color Osmand from 42 Commando at my side.
Early in the spring of 2001, Dr. al-Zawahiri sent the message: It was time for Juba. He resigned from the Royal Marines, dropped out of sight, and was in Peshawar on the first day of September.
It was there that he watched the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, which were shown continuously on television. Thousands of Muslims took to the streets in mad celebration. Enjoy it while you can, Juba thought. The Taliban was only a mob of thugs, not a real army, and had never even been able to defeat the ragtag Northern Alliance. He knew the oncoming international force of professionals would have no trouble rolling over them. You’re going to take it right up the bum, mates, and there’s really not a damned thing you can do about it.
He was standing ready, finely tuned and bred for battle, but he was dispatched instead to set up training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Volunteers were pouring in to fight the expected invasion, but there was going to be no time to train them. Anyway, they did not want to be trained: They just wanted to blow themselves up in the faces of their enemy and become martyrs. Juba tried to convince them they probably would never even get close enough to an American soldier to do that. No discipline, organization, tactics, or marksmanship, just the wild firing of bullets. He even killed several of the fools as punishment, but even that made no impression on the others. When he asked for new assignments elsewhere, he was ordered to do the job assigned to him.
The air campaign smashed in like a thunderstorm and slashed the Taliban with everything from superb man-hunting Apache helicopters to F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers to Daisy Cutter bombs that weighed seven and one-half tons to AC-130 gunships that spewed bullets in incredible swaths. Not a single plane was lost, but the Taliban front line peeled open like a tin can.
Incredibly, in the face of the disaster, a Taliban leader patiently explained to Juba that things were really going well. The strategy was just to draw in the American army and bleed it slowly over the years, not defeat it. Eventually, Washington would give up, just as they did in Vietnam and the Russians had done in Afghanistan.
Juba argued that it might not happen that way and pleaded to be allowed to create a special strike unit that could exploit the Americans’ vulnerabilities. He knew this enemy! He was ignored.
The Afghan capital of Kabul fell only two months after the 9/11 attacks, and the developing ground campaign then destroyed Taliban units all through the country, until they found safe refuge in the defensive positions of Tora Bora and the White Mountains along the Pakistan border.
Juba at last was allowed to form a guerrilla group to attack supply lines and targets of opportunity, but his small team was soon swept back into the overall force, and Juba found himself in charge of troops who had no stomach for real warfare and retreated under the slightest pressure. There were many caves in which they could hide.
In frustration, Juba cursed the day he had met Osama bin Laden and Dr. al-Zawahiri. Their whole grand plan was a bust. He believed there should have been an entire series of attacks and responses ready to follow up on September 11, while the United States was almost totally unprotected, unsure, and reeling. Why weren’t bombs going off in cities across America and around the world to keep the enemy off balance? Attack! They should never have allowed the U.S. military to catch its breath. Lies. Al Qaeda had fed him lies. He believed in continuing violence to accomplish military goals, while bin Laden and al-Zawahiri believed in…what?
He had no desire to spend a bitter Afghan winter holed up in some freezing Tora Bora cave, waiting for a cruise missile to fall on his head. The war had evolved into a gigantic game of hide-and-shoot, and that was something that ex-Color Sergeant Jeremy Osmand, a master sniper of the Royal Marines, could do better by himself. He did not want, nor need, to be around this mob. He decided to carve a personal, ruthless, and bloody path into the heart of the enemy.
After the disaster at the biochem site in Iran, Juba spent two days luxuriating at the Four Seasons in Qatar, pampering himself and letting the fear of the deadly gel recede from the forefront of his consciousness. To his surprise, he did not die.
He booked a Lufthansa flight to Paris, with a brief layover in Frankfurt, Germany, and took a cab straight to the house in the Nineteenth Arrondissement.
Saladin was concerned the moment he laid eyes on Juba. He looked like a man who was crawling out of a pit of despair. “Talk to me, my son,” he said. “What has happened?”
Juba handed over the briefcase. “The experiment was successful, and I confess it was difficult to watch. Afterward, we were attacked and the canisters of the gas exploded. I barely made it out alive.”
“Who did this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some politicals trying to free some of the test subjects.” He rubbed his palms over his eyes. “No one survived except me and the helicopter pilot. It was too dangerous to allow him to live.”
Saladin walked to the windows and looked out. It was a bright and pleasant day. “Can you continue?”
“Of course,” Juba said. “I was just shaken by the thought that the gas had gotten to me. I am ready.”
Saladin opened the briefcase. “This is everything about the formula?”
Juba nodded. “Yes. The site was almost empty, and the rest of the computers and paperwork were destroyed during the attack. We should go ahead and transmit this data to the facility in Mexico. Prepare enough of the gas for the demonstration.”
“And you are certain that you will be able to continue on schedule?”
“Without a doubt,” Juba replied. “I can be in the United States by the end of the week.”
That brought a smile to Saladin. His man was still strong. Anyone can stumble at some time. “There is no urgency about that, so I would like for you to stay here for a while. We will study and talk and let you prepare for the mission ahead. I will send the formula today, but our lab in Mexico will still need some time to produce the gas and transport it.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“And you look as if you could use some good news, my son, so let me give you some: We already have six entries for the auction. That’s sixty million dollars before the real bidding even begins, and I expect more.”
“They will all come after us.”
“They can try.” Saladin laughed. “They can certainly try, but with you running our security, they will certainly fail. We will leave this house together and return to America in a few days, so if our enemies want us, they will have to first enter the U.S., which will be on very high alert. Then, after we collect the money, you and I shall just disappear.”
15
CAMP BAHARIA
IRAQ
O N ARRIVAL BACK AT the Marine base outside of Fallujah, Swanson turned over the captured material to an intelligence officer who had been awaiting the helicopter. Sybelle Summers was also at the pad, wearing a dark green sweater and black jeans, a small pistol tucked into a black leather waist holster. She looked over the Marines as they hopped from the bird. They seemed okay. Her first look at Delara Tabrizi made her smile, for the small woman seemed like a child among the heavily armed special ops team, but her walk was steady and confident. For a woman who had been a civilian schoolteacher only a few hours ago, and had since endured two major raids and had seen her friend and her brother slain, she had done okay, Sybelle decided. A sister.
Swanson, Tipp, and Hughes brought Delara over, and Sybelle led them to a small office she had used in supporting the mission. “Not that I care, but the brass is raising hell about this unauthorized job,” she said, plopping into the chair behind the desk and putting her boots on the top. “We didn’t get enough papers stamped and authorized and all that bullshit.”
Kyle dropped his gear on the floor. “Doesn’t matter. What we found and brought back will more than shut up the critics. Loads of recordings of voices, papers and records, some computer disks, pictures. And eyewitness accounts of how this new poison gas works.”
“Can Tipp and Travis do the debrief by themselves?”
“Sure. They saw everything I did, and Trav took the pictures.”
“Good,” said Sybelle, “because you and I are out of here.”
Kyle agreed. He needed to keep his cover intact, and that would be hard on a base filled with Marines. “Then I want to take Miss Tabrizi along with us. I don’t want her falling into the system. Once she is debriefed, the intel pukes will hand her to the political types, and God only knows where she will end up. She helped us a lot. We owe her.”
Delara was seated, watching the exchange. The woman was obviously an important person and spoke to the Marine like an equal, but they were talking about her fate. “I cannot return to Iran!” she said. “I want to kill these people who made this poison!”
Sybelle laughed quietly and looked over at Kyle. “So let’s take her out to the boat with us and let Jeff figure it out. He has a ton of diplomatic contacts and is good at that sort of thing.”
“Who is this Jeff?” Delara asked. “What are you going to do with me?”
Kyle touched her shoulder, and she immediately relaxed. “Jeff is a good friend, and by the time he finishes working his magic, you will pretty much have anything you want. A new country and a new future. A new you.”
Sybelle was on her feet. “Joe and Travis, we’ll leave you here. Good job, guys. Thanks for the help.”
“Sure, Captain,” said Tipp. “Anytime.”
“Y’all take good care of our girl Delara,” called Travis Hughes. “I already taught her how to say Semper Fi!”
A Humvee was parked outside, and the three of them got into it, with Sybelle at the wheel. “I didn’t want to mention it in there, but there’s another reason we have to get back on board the Vagabond.” She glanced back at Delara, whose eyes were already closed.
“The Lizard has flown out from Washington to meet us there. You have a Green Light package.”
“I would like to get some sleep first.”
“And I would like to be thinner,” Sybelle said. “Neither is likely.”
T HE L IZARD HAD EVERYTHING ready when Swanson, Sybelle, and Delara flew out to the Vagabond. Delara was turned over to Lady Pat for the time being, while Sybelle and Kyle met in Sir Jeff’s private office with Lieutenant Commander Freedman. A big pile of documents was at the Lizard’s side, and his computer was already running on secure circuits.
“This is the voice of Ahmad Hikmat Aseer, a known al Qaeda operative, in conversation with another al Qaeda leader. The NSA Big Ears picked it up. The caller is so furious that he ignored normal security precautions and made contact from his home telephone.” The Lizard tapped his keyboard and turned up the volume. A torrent of French sprang from the speakers in an angry and threatening tone, so fast that Kyle could not follow the words. It sounded like the guy was spitting on himself in his rage.
The Lizard handed transcripts to Sybelle and Kyle. “It seems that Ahmad had a brother named Youcef, who happened to be the head of al Qaeda operations in France. Youcef’s body was found floating in a Paris canal several days ago. That’s when Ahmad made this call.”
Kyle read carefully. Ahmad said that his brother was last seen alive before an important meeting at his home in Paris with the outcasts Saladin and his bodyguard Juba. “They killed him and his own guards in his own house!” Ahmad Hikmat Aseer sputtered. “Not only that, the arrogant pigs have confiscated the house as their own!”
He demanded revenge, insisting that al Qaeda send in an execution team, and that was when the other man realized the danger of the call and challenged Ahmad about making it. He hung up.
“By then it was too late; the Big Ears had it. NSA gave it to the CIA, and they turned up an address in Paris for the deceased Youcef Aseer.”
“So why give us a Green Light? Let the CIA handle it.” Sybelle skimmed the transcript again.
“I don’t know that. Too far above my pay grade. I could guess that if the CIA mucks up the arrest of Saladin, there would be an embarrassing trail back to Washington. Anyway, General Middleton gave me the assignment to brief you and get you on your way. I have a military jet standing by on shore. You’re going to Paris.”
“What about me?” asked Sybelle.
“We go, but to a support point in a separate location. Kyle comes back there when he finishes.”
“When do we leave?” “Now,” the Lizard said.
PARIS
The Lizard had reserved him a businessman’s suite at a nondescript and out-of-the-way hotel that catered to executives of companies that did not allow lavish expense accounts. Paris on the cheap. Kyle checked in without any problem. He called down to room service for a steak and salad and a bottle of water. The sun would be setting soon and he could move. Then he stripped down and got under a shower, alternating hot and cold water.
He let it cascade over him for five minutes. Drying off afterward, Swanson stared into the brightly lit bathroom mirror and did not particularly like the man he saw looking back. Bleary-eyed, tired, the mouth a grim line, and blue-gray eyes as hard as stones. The tanned body was nicked with scars and the puckered skin of healed bullet holes. His hair had returned to its normal shade of brown from streaky surfer blond. He splashed more water on his face and went back to bed, with the Glock 17 pistol handy on the night table. Are the weapons still just tools, an extension of me, or have I become an extension of them and what the fuck kind of question is that, anyway? He laced his fingers behind his head on the fluffy pillow. A psychiatrist would have said he was undergoing severe depression. Swanson believed this was deeper than any shrink’s diagnosis. I think I am about one step away from going nuts. One small step for man, one giant leap for me.
There was a knock on the door, and he put on a robe, picked up his Glock, and answered. A waiter pushed in the food cart. Kyle unwrapped his hand from around the Glock in the pocket of the robe and signed the check with a generous tip. He pushed the plastic DO NOT DISTURB card into the exterior electronic key slot and closed the door.
He surfed the television channels while he ate the steak, watching British newscasters, CNN and Fox, and American sitcoms translated into French. Nothing. Kyle pushed away the food cart, washed his hands again, and then smoothed a white towel over the tufted bedspread. He spread out his personal weapons, which he had been able to keep in his possession because they had come in on a military flight and did not have to go through customs.
Glock, Ruger, Gerber. Marine armorers had given both pistols Limited Technical and Procedural Firing Inspections before he had left for the Middle East, but they needed a good cleaning after the raids into Iran. He opened a small gun-cleaning kit and arranged the toothbrush, the bore brush, cotton swabs, the vial of oil, and a soft rag.
