Intercept (54 page)

Neither the roads nor the airways were any place to travel in Pakistan these days; not without being armed to the teeth. And the ever-present danger, even for Air Force helicopters flying very high over the Hindu Kush, was the possibility of being hit with a missile fired by the Taliban.

Shakir Khan wished them all well before retiring to bed; he was not yet awake when they left for Chitral at six o’clock the following morning. Neither for that matter, was Kaiser Rashid.

It took them four hours to make the small airfield at Chitral, and the helicopter was waiting. They gathered up their weapons and ammunition and climbed aboard. There was a three-man crew, including the navigator, and his job was critical, for there are no roads or railways to guide a pilot up here; just deep valleys and towering peaks, up to twenty thousand feet. As a point of contrast, these peaks were more than ten times the height of Haystack Mountain.

The GPS numbers were vital because it was difficult to take a mark on the steep escarpments down below. It was essential to have a fast, armor-plated Kevlar aircraft to fly across this border, which is why Shakir Khan had chosen this Russian warhorse.

They lifted off the runway with the sun at their backs, silhouetting them to any enemy operating out to the west of them. But the pilot was highly trained, and he immediately climbed ten thousand feet, then fifteen thousand. They could still get hit, but the height and speed of the aircraft made it increasingly difficult. The Taliban rocket men could be somewhat efficient at low level, but they were not
that
good.

The journey took only a half hour, flying at 140 knots all the way, up near its service ceiling of twenty thousand feet. The pilot came down on GPS numbers, although Ibrahim and Yousaf could see the village clinging to the mountainside below the plateau.

They were asked to disembark as quickly as possible, carrying their weapons and bags. All five of them stood in the high pastures, a couple of hundred yards from a sizeable herd of goats, and they watched the helicopter take off straight up into the cloudless sky, before clattering away, back east to Pakistan.

The al-Qaeda men slung their ammunition belts diagonally across their chests, pulled their rifles onto their shoulders, and they headed down the steep grass slopes, straight toward Kushram’s main street, straight toward the home of Ibrahim’s parents, third house on the left.

 

 

BACK AT THE BAGRAM BASE
, Mack Bedford was preparing. He had made a rough estimation of the ETA of the terrorist’s flight from Europe, and another guesstimate of the time it would take them to reach Peshawar, where the first intercepted phone call had been made.

By now he was sure, that if he were correct, and they were indeed coming home, they would be there by now. In strictest confidence he had asked an old buddy, now working right here in INTEL, to stay alert for a new cell phone, probably belonging to the guy who had tried to blow the Connecticut school.

This was all routine for these INTEL guys. They had spies and moles everywhere, which was how the SEALs had long been so brilliantly successful at locating the worst terrorists and getting them sent to Guantanamo Bay. He checked every couple of hours for some indication that Ibrahim and Yousaf had arrived at last in Kushram.

Right here, Mack was dealing with déjà vu
all over again
, to quote the immortal Yogi. Six years ago, he’d gone through this very process, checking it out over and over, trying to get the go-ahead to take his SEAL Team
10 guys and nail these mountain bastards who’d killed fifteen marines and two of his SEAL brothers on the outskirts of Kabul.

And they’d achieved their objectives. And here he was again. Same mountains, same bastards, same mission. Except that this time he would be alone, and the unspoken fear that dwelt within him was that this Ibrahim fuckhead would recognize him.

Six years ago, they had stared into each other’s eyes. There had been pure hatred between them. Ibrahim had spat at him. In turn Mack had grabbed him by the balls and half-drowned him in the rain barrel.

If he screwed this up to even the slightest degree, he would be shown no mercy. He would be tortured, and then they would empty their rifles into his face so that no one would ever recognize him, even in death.

For a normal human being, such a possibility would be frightening beyond endurance. But for Mack Bedford it produced only a rising of what he called the “Hours of the Wolf,” a phrase he had borrowed from the Swedish film director, Ingemar Whatsisname. It was a phrase that, for him, described a personal feeling of such surging fury, such a blinding red mist of anger, there was no going back.

He had not felt it once since that day at the bridge on the Euphrates when he’d shot down the twelve Iraqi terrorists who’d just wiped out half of his platoon.

But he felt it now, just at the memory of that day in Kushram when Ibrahim had spat in his face. He remembered, too, the pure hatred on the face of the Afghani, as SEAL Team 10 had arrested him. And he remembered also the intentions of these people toward the innocents of Canaan Academy.

The Hours of the Wolf were welling up inside him, but he fought down that old feeling of uncontrolled anger. Because that rising fury always signaled the moment when Mack felt he was indestructible, with the strength of ten men.

And that could lead to recklessness in the face of the enemy. And the former SEAL commander had a lot of reasons to avoid that, at all times.

 

 

THE FIVE HEAVILY ARMED
al-Qaeda field commanders walked down the hill in a kind of military formation—Ibrahim and Yousaf together in the lead, the Azzan brothers and Captain Amin right behind them in a line of three.

All five wore Afghan tribal dress, the
shalwar kameez
, the traditional tunic and baggy white trousers, the long
dupatta
scarf, and the small
pakol
hat. Between them the Azzans carried the box of RPGs.

By now the villagers had spotted them and had swarmed to the top of the one narrow through-street, which snaked down their mountain. Ibrahim and Yousaf led the homecoming. Everyone began to clap, and the children jumped up and down and yelled, “Welcome Home!” as they had been instructed.

Ibrahim’s father ran forward to greet the son he had believed he would never see again. Because news of the catastrophe in Connecticut had by now traveled far, all the way to the high peaks from the seething bazaars of Peshawar’s old city.

There was no resident of the Hindu Kush tribal lands who was unaware that ten al-Qaeda martyrs had perished in a distant land serving the cause of Allah. Everyone in Kushram had thought Ibrahim and Yousaf had died with the others.

Ibrahim’s father, his arms around both his son and Yousaf, wept with joy. The other three al-Qaeda warriors were swept up by the throng and half-carried into the main street, where the village arrived with green tea and the once-a-month luxury of sweet pastries, baked today, especially for this occasion. Everyone, it seemed, knew they were coming, despite the total absence of telephones, television, radio, or even electricity.

It took two hours for the excitement to die down and for the women to return to the two ovens in the village to begin preparations for the evening feast, which the elders had sanctioned. It took a tribal caucus for permission to slaughter three goats, because it was the milk from these farm herds that kept everyone alive throughout the year.

The feast would begin in the afternoon because when darkness fell up here, the mountain went pitch black, and everyone was compelled to retire to bed.

Meanwhile there was astonishing activity at Ibrahim’s home, where he had not set foot for six years, not since Mack Bedford had manhandled him across the threshold, kicking Yousaf hard in the ass for good measure.

No member of the family had ever forgotten the humiliation of that day. Ibrahim’s defiance and bravery, the terrible insult to Yousaf, the lady next door inconsolable after a SEAL had broken her son’s jaw for spitting at him. It was said that Ibrahim’s father had never spoken a word while his son was a prisoner of the Americans.

Today was a day not just of joy, but of remembrance for the lost heroes on the Connecticut school bus. Of celebration for the return of the village sons. The accompanying senior al-Qaeda commanders represented a confirmation of the high regard in which Ibrahim and Yousaf were held, probably even by bin Laden himself.

Way up here, ten thousand feet above sea level, and yet another ten thousand feet below the mountain peak, there was much for which to be thankful as the warriors mingled with the elders and the goat-herders, selecting sites for the armed sentries tonight.

Wherever al-Qaeda and their Taliban comrades were gathered together, it became an automatic military garrison. The mountains were silent, but that did not lessen the dangers to these renegade illegal combatants, implacably waging war against the Pakistani Army, the Afghan Government’s Army, and the United States. They could never drop their guard.

 

EVERY DAY AT BAGRAM
, busloads of Afghan workers poured into the American base. In addition to all the electronic surveillance being conducted here, it was from these gangs of laborers, carpenters, builders, painters, and concrete mixers that critical information was often gathered.

The entire Afghani workforce was seeded with U.S. INTEL, listening for the whispered word, the off-guard moment, the accidental betrayal. Waiting for the Afghani who had something to sell.

Unsurprisingly, it took about ten minutes that morning for rumor to sweep through Bagram that two known al-Qaeda terrorists had arrived back in their village from the United States.

Mackenzie Bedford was ready to act. He went immediately to the CO and announced he was going in tonight. He needed to get kitted out, and required a ride in a helo for the insert. He wanted to land around four miles north of his target zone, and then walk in through the pitch dark of the mountain, with his map, compass, GPS, and night glasses.

He understood that on no account could he take with him a bodyguard, since the American military still had no business pursuing Ibrahim and Yousaf. The State Police of Maine could make a case, but not the Pentagon, where the generals and admirals could never be seen riding roughshod over the rule of law in the United States of America. Ibrahim and Yousaf were free men until some terrorist act could be
proven
against them.

Mack’s activities in Northwest Connecticut would remain forever a secret. Now two of his former colleagues brought his gear over to his
quarters. He needed his battle harness with extra magazines, and two hand grenades. He would take a trusted M-4 light automatic rifle, a SIG-Sauer 9mm pistol, and a combat knife. He took a couple of MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—consisting of beef jerky, energy bars, and peanuts.

At 2130 a young SEAL from Team 10 arrived to tell him a Black Hawk UH-6O was running about a hundred yards away on the runway. Around his head Mack was now wearing a camouflage bandana, what SEALs call their “drive-on rags,” and his face was blacked out with cammy cream.

He wore combat boots with his rugged woodland pants and top. Thick leather gloves were jammed in his pockets in case the helo could not land and he needed to fast-rope to the ground.

Bagram never sleeps, but it was quiet outside the block where Mack was staying. The young SEAL messenger led the way, and the former commander shouldered his machine gun, and stepped out, in full combat gear, face unrecognizable in the dark. All SEAL teams look like this when they’re “going in.” The difference here was that Mackenzie Bedford was unseen by either his colleagues or his commanders. He was all alone.

He strode across the black-top and boarded the Black Hawk, the U.S. Army’s frontline utility helicopter, with its sixteen laser-guided hellfire missiles, ready at all times. Especially here.

The doors slammed shut and they took off, the rotors screaming as they climbed quickly to five thousand feet, then clattered away to the northeast. Forty minutes later the landing controller called back, “Sir, we’re in the drop zone. But it’s heavy woodland on this side of the mountain, and we can’t land.”

“Fix the rope,” said Mack, “and take it with you.”

The ramp went down. The rope snaked down. The pilot hovered about thirty feet above the ground. Mack pulled on the gloves and grabbed the line, testing it for weight.

“Okay, sir.
LET’S GO!
”

Grasping the rope, Mack swung out and slid down as fast as he could go, as there is nowhere quite as vulnerable as halfway down a drop-rope, perhaps already in the sights of a Taliban marksman.

He hit the ground, just a tad harder than normal, and crawled silently into the undergrowth, listening as the helo’s engines increased and watching as it rapidly gained height, before rocketing away over the trees.

Mack didn’t move or make a sound for fifteen very long, accurately timed minutes; standard SEAL procedure after a drop behind enemy lines.

He kept his back hard to a tree trunk, not wishing to emulate even one of those dozens of young Russian conscripts whose throats had been cut by the Mujahadeen twenty years ago, right here in these same lawless mountains.

Eventually he stood and shoved the gloves in his pocket. He checked his GPS and compass. He had a long walk ahead of him, a good hour down a straight black-top road, but probably five hours from here, in uncharted woodland, in which he needed to check his every step. His gear weighed thirty pounds and the terrain was rough, hilly, and sometimes slippery on gravel or mud. He was an armed packhorse, trying to walk as delicately as a ballet dancer, through a black forest.

He set the compass to 180 degrees and began walking due south. The terrain was overgrown, and he eased back on each forward step to avoid breaking a twig or crushing a small bush. The mountain men have ears like sonar beams, and the slightest sound would betray his position.