Full Assault Mode (16 page)

“Yeah, I lived. But, to tell you the truth, I kinda wish I had an alibi fire.”

“What happened?” Kolt asked.

“I lost it, Kolt.”

“Couldn’t have been that bad. You knew it was just training, didn’t you?”

“I figured that out. But after three days of sitting in my own shit and piss, they broke me.”

“Three days—that’s messed up,” Kolt said, surprised at the length of Hawk’s stay in the box. But Kolt didn’t know about Black Ice yet. He figured she went through the same twenty-four-hour program that he and the others often had to deal with unexpectedly during training exercises.

“Hey, full assault mode, right?” Kolt said, staying positive. “You stayed dialed in, right?”

“They said some pretty mean things to me, Kolt. I snapped. Colonel Webber’s pilot program has been scuttled. I’m out of the training cell, been moved to the NBC shop and pending PCS orders.”

Cindy looked away as Kolt was staring at her. She imagined he could see the pain and humiliation she felt.

“Well, that’s bullshit, Hawk!” Kolt said. “You want me to talk to Colonel Webber?”

“No, Kolt,” Hawk said as she abruptly stood and headed to the trailer’s screen door. It was a nice gesture, but it would likely only irritate Webber. “I couldn’t keep it together. I know Colonel Webber is only doing what he has to do for the good of the Unit. It’s nothing personal.”

“Our loss, Hawk.”

ELEVEN

AQ safe house, Sana’a, Yemen

“Are you sure, brother Abdul?” Nadal asked. “You must be sure you have not created a circumstance for us.”

“Yes, yes, I am certain,” Abdul replied.

The tone of his voice made Nadal suspicious that he wasn’t certain at all.

“How can you be so certain?” Nadal asked.

“Because it is the one our friend Timothy, I mean Patrick Henry, provided.”

Nadal gritted his teeth. The fool had mentioned Timothy’s real name instead of the code name they had given him.

Silence reigned on the phone. The connection was so clear that Nadal could hear Abdul breathing all the way in the United States.

“Did you learn the American mail system sufficiently? Did you execute the rehearsals as we discussed?” Nadal asked, ignoring Abdul’s breach of security.

“I did,” Abdul said.

“I want to go over this again,” Nadal said, breaking down Abdul’s part step by step.

Abdul confirmed every step of the procedure. Sulayk Nadal went over it twice, his faith in Abdul shaken. He had provided Abdul the address to mail the package to. It was the address obtained by Timothy Reston, the security trainer from the Cherokee plant in South Carolina. He’d also issued Abdul strict orders to mail half a dozen packages to him addressed to a post office box he was to have set up. The PO boxes were to have been established in three different post offices around the city.

“Confirm this, please,” Nadal said. It was critical the markings were known and that the packages would be returned to sender so they could learn the process before sending the hunting phones to Timothy’s plant.

“Yes, yes, brother Nadal,” Abdul said. “Everything is in order. Allah has seen to it.”

“Ma’aasalaama,”
Nadal said before killing the red
CALL
button.

Nadal sat back in his chair and said a silent prayer. The scrape of a stool made him turn. Omer Farooq slid his stool away from the small table and stood. He walked several steps over to the narrow freestanding space heater near the small kitchen and turned the temperature knob to the right.

“What are you doing, Farooq?” Nadal demanded.

“Relax, my friend, but we should not have to work in such frigid conditions,” Farooq replied.

“It is important to maintain room temperature when shaping the plastique,” Nadal said. “Do you not remember that from your studies?”

“I remember,” Farooq said.

They had known each other for years and had become like blood brothers, but more like cats and dogs than the same species. Nadal knew that he could be curt, but no detail was too small in this war against the infidels. Friendship would always take second place.

Nadal had met Farooq at Balochistan University of Engineering and Technology in Quetta, Pakistan. Nadal, a foreigner from Romania, had been a fish out of water. Farooq, a far more gregarious and wild student, had gathered Nadal up into his small group, and their friendship blossomed. They hit it off early, confirming opposites do attract. Nadal was clearly more intelligent and religiously pious than Farooq, but Farooq was more radicalized and always spoke of becoming a mujahideen to defend Islam against the Western infidels.

Farooq had failed his final tests after his third year in the Engineering and Science Department and was forced to drop out. The university’s vice chancellor scolded him in front of several students, accusing Farooq of substituting hard work and determination with complacency and lethargy, something that the competitive modern world frowned upon.

Nadal pitied Farooq and had taken him under his wing. He knew Farooq would go to the ends of the earth to redeem himself, and that was the kind of man Nadal needed. It helped that Farooq was also an artist. His skill was put to great use, first in learning to forge Pakistani bank notes and rupees, doctors’ and marriage licenses, and later in undertaking far more challenging documents, including passports and entry/exit and tourist visas. Unlike the traditional cards and invitations, these documents demanded a heavier fee, tripling, even quadrupling, their income at times.

Their lives would have continued down the road of simple larceny except for the events of 2 May 2011 in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The shock, sorrow, and humiliation they felt when the greatest living Islamic hero, Osama bin Laden, had been killed, would quickly transform into abiding rage.

On that day, Nadal and Farooq vowed to give their knowledge to Islam and join the jihad.

“I know you do,” Nadal said, offering his brother a small affection. “You were always a quick study. You were the first to master the RPG in the training camps.”

“It is important to know which end to point toward the enemy,” Farooq said, smiling.

Nadal didn’t like to admit it, but Farooq had always been better with weapons. It was what had attracted the attention of those higher up in al Qaeda. Meeting Haji Mohammad Ghafour had been a dream come true for both of them. When he offered them the mission, it was a truly glorious day. And that was why Nadal strove for perfection. They would not get a second chance to strike the Western snake again. Not like this.

“I know, and it is also important to know the right address,” Nadal said, unable to help himself from getting in a small admonition.

Farooq raised his hands and rolled his eyes. “I do know. You forget, but it was I that chose these targets. Who remembers the brave warriors who attacked the American embassies in Tanzania and Kenya in 1998? Or those that bombed the USS
Cole
or the nightclub in Bali?” Those brothers of jihad were celebrated for only a short time, their names not important enough to cling to the sturdy fabric of history. People forgot quickly.

Nadal bristled. “I do not seek fame for myself.”

Farooq shook his head. “Fame is for the whores of Hollywood. I am talking about everlasting glory. Our nineteen brothers that attacked America on September eleventh are examples the world over. Their story is repeated in mosques everywhere. They are true martyrs and heroes of Islam. History has honored them with a glorious status. Do their names not reside now with those of the greatest Muslim heroes like Saladin?”

Nadal rolled his eyes. “We are no Saladins, my friend.”

Farooq did not smile. “No, we are more, for we go into battle knowing of our martyrdom and embracing it. We take the battle to the enemy on his land, not ours. What we will achieve will rival the defeat of the crusaders!”

Nadal knew there was no reasoning with Farooq when he began speaking of Saladin and the crusades.

“Our plan is ambitious, my brother, of that I grant you,” Nadal said. “But surely it is prudent to be … prudent. The American power plants are well guarded. We need far more than box cutters.”

Farooq pointed to the array of explosives, chemicals, and model airplanes spread out on the living room carpet inside their nondescript two-story flat in northern Yemen.

“And so we have,” Farooq said.

Nadal surveyed the disassembled microwaves, model airplane controllers, burlap straps, plastic ties, superglue, and other odds and ends that would be used to attach grenades to the bottom of the planes. Everything was neatly laid out to ensure accuracy and limit confusion.

“They are not full-size passenger jets, but these model planes will be like flying bombs,” Nadal said, admiring his work. “They will never detect them until it is too late, as long as we are careful.”

Farooq nodded. “You say so, brother, but I still believe your technique is too difficult, too many complicated steps, each strapping us with a vulnerability we may not be prepared for.”

“Details, Farooq, details,” Nadal said, putting on heavy-duty chemical-resistant gloves and picking up a cigar-sized test tube. He unstoppered it and began pouring the contents into a small glass beaker.

“But there can be too many details,” Farooq said.

Nadal sighed. “Farooq, you will do well to allow me to handle the engineering and science of this matter,” he said without looking up. “Please, put on your safety goggles.”

Farooq reached down to the clear plastic goggles that hung from around his neck and raised them to his eyes, reaching back to settle the elastic band on the center of his head.

“The brothers that drowned near New York, yes, their plan was too difficult,” Nadal said. “These flying bombs would have served them well, Inshallah.”

Farooq watched in silence as Nadal finished wrapping the black electrical tape around the model plane’s fuselage. It was clear to Nadal that Farooq still thought the planes were too difficult to use.

“To ease your mind, we will conduct a rehearsal,” Nadal said. “A quarter of the plastique that I plan to use should more than suffice.”

Farooq smiled. “I think that is wise.”

Nadal pulled at the fingered ends of his gloves, removing them and putting them on the counter as he stood. Without removing his safety goggles, he walked over to the kitchen area to the large concrete block sitting on top of an old folded Aztec calendar blanket.

“We must discuss our security measures once more,” Nadal said. “It is too important to preserving our mission and protecting ourselves and our tools.”

“Nadal, we have gone over this a dozen times,” Farooq said. “I am not dense, my brother. I do have some schooling, and I did help you build the device.”

Four Soviet 152mm artillery shells were embedded upside down in the concrete block. Red wires, attached to the initiator assemblies, in the center of the flat tail ends of the four shells, snaked their way halfway down on all four sides of the concrete block. Black Thuraya cell phones, embedded in the concrete just past their tiny buttons, only the upper screen and top showing, identified the end of the red wires.

“Farooq, patience, please, my brother,” Nadal said as he inspected the phones more closely, ensuring the red light on each was still active. “These are matters our brothers have sacrificed for in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Farooq knew he was referring to the lessons their al Qaeda brothers in Iraq learned the hard way. During the war in Iraq, U.S. Special Operations forces had expertly moved themselves inside the terrorists’ decision-making process during the long hunt for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Zarqawi countered with setting traps for spec-ops troops that liked to pop in unexpectedly. They developed a standard procedure for all safe houses along the rat line from Syria to Ramadi, east toward Fallujah, and into Baghdad. Set a bomb in each house, one that ideally could be used to bait Americans inside and kill them. If not, a bomb that could at least make martyrs out of the brothers once Americans had stormed the house.

“Please, Nadal, I am skilled enough to make a cell phone call to activate the bomb receivers and detonate the artillery shells,” Farooq said, motioning away from the concrete block and back toward the prepared model airplane. “Can we conduct our test now?

Nadal hesitated for a moment, ensuring he had positively checked all four sides of the concrete block, reassuring himself that all four shells would detonate with a single phone call and that everything in the safe house would be destroyed. An attack on their safe house by local security forces would set their plans back significantly, but the evidence of their ever being there or even of their methods would go up in flames.

Nadal moved back to the airplane on the floor and bent over. He gently picked the plane up with both hands, having forgotten to place his safety gloves back on. Nadal placed his right hand under the belly of the plane and reached for the plane’s electric controller. With his left hand, he rotated his thumb to the top of the square black plastic control device and rested it on the red toggle switch that provided wireless power to the plane’s toy engine.

Nadal turned toward Farooq and looked him in the eye from across the room. He smiled. This was what attention to details got you. They had a sophisticated weapon that would soon strike at the very heart of the Western beast by easily flying over the defenses of every power plant in America. “Brother Nadal, by the power of Allah, the most gracious and merciful, this test marks the beginning of our journey to strike fear and discontent into the hearts of the American pigs.”

A millisecond after toggling the red switch, the plane in Nadal’s right hand exploded, sending plastic and tiny shards of aluminum in every direction.

TWELVE

JSOC Headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Making the early-morning drive from the Delta compound, east across Fort Bragg to the secure Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters that connected to Pope Army Airfield, Kolt wondered what the hell Admiral Mason wanted.

More like what the JSOC commander wanted to do to him.