Retribution (32 page)

CHAPTER 63

 

“D
o you want your Hoo-Ah bar?” Fury whispered to Moncrief.

Moncrief smiled at the dig.

“You know its proper name.”

The two were wedged in between a pair of boulders that formed a small shelter at the top of the ridgeline. Villegas was farther to the south, protecting their flank. The energy bar came with the first-strike ration. The portable meal carried several thousand calories under the rubric of one of a wildly mixed menu item, from pound cakes and barbecue pocket sandwiches to cheese tortillas. The FSRs were meant to fix a problem. The old combat meals were heavier. And when packing over a hundred pounds of water and ammunition, the Ranger would toss out that which he didn't like and didn't want to carry over a mountain range. Often he only kept what he wanted to eat and often what he kept didn't have many calories. So the FSR lightened the load and did its best to taste good.

The altitude carried a chill. They were well above any tree line, and the calories helped generate some warmth.

Each meal pack contained a nutrition bar. The bar was dual-labeled with the Marine yell of
Ooh-Rah
and the Army yell of
Hoo-Ah
.

“How about your Zapplesauce? Come on, Gunny, you don't need the calories!” Fury pointed to Moncrief's waist. Moncrief wasn't any heavier than Fury, but it didn't stop the harassment.

“Hell, this Zapplesauce?”

Moncrief opened the pouch without any intent of sharing it.

“I could hear you guys in Texas.” Villegas pulled in behind the rock. He leaned his Heckler & Koch 416 rifle up against the rock. The German manufacturer had especially made the black-steel weapon for Delta Force. This one had a can on the end to silence the SOST round, a special bullet that could rip through a car door like a laser beam. The 416 with the SOST round could punch through a window or a door or a mud wall and still pack the power to rip through a man's chest.

“Here.” The go pills had cut his appetite anyway. Moncrief handed Villegas the energy-boosted applesauce.

“Damn, Gunny, you are the man.” Villegas started sucking the plastic bag. “I worked my way over to the cliff just above their cave. It's about a mile away.”

“The captain's gonna cut your freakin' ding off,” said Fury. “He told you to stay put.”

“What did you see?” Moncrief asked.

“They have about fifteen in the cave. We could dust them, easy.”

“Yeah, you do realize just how fuckin' far away you are from anyone who would even look your way when they are cutting your throat?” Fury's anger was becoming more visible. He was right, however, as the closest friendly troop was on the other side of the mountain range. It would take most of an hour for a Blackhawk with reinforcements to cross over the Hindu Kush.

“I got something in my eye with all of this crap.” Villegas's right eye was tearing up and swollen.

“How are you going to shoot the Windrunner with only one headlight?” Fury kept pushing his partner. “Did you bring the olive oil?”

“What?” Moncrief hadn't heard of this one.

“Yeah. Hold on a second.” Fury starting searching through the small pack he had the night-vision optics in. “Here it is.”

He pulled out a small, clear plastic dropper with a green liquid inside.

“It's great for sewage work. If you have to wade through a slime pond, you put drops in your eyes and ears and it keeps the crap out.”

“Thanks, man.” Villegas put some drops in his eye.

Moncrief looked at the two Rangers huddled up below the rocks. They now had gone for most of twenty-four hours without sleep, but the two didn't seem fazed. Rather, they seemed in the game, focused, intent. Kevin Moncrief felt a familiar sense of being, of belonging. They had accepted him.

“It'll be dark soon.” Moncrief slowly lifted himself off the ground and peered over the rock. They were several hundred feet above the valley floor and had a view for several miles down both valleys. He scanned the skyline for several miles.

“Well, I think it's time to get to work.”

On the skyline several miles away, a dust cloud hovered over the desert road.

 

 

William Parker woke up from his drug-induced sleep in the backseat of the Toyota and stared out the SUV's window off to the mountain range in the distance. It was hot and the truck smelled. The cloth seats were torn, with the yellow foam bulging out. His sense of smell seemed to have changed. It was different. The truck had a sharp, sickening smell, like someone had become ill. More important, he realized that he was feeling the beginnings of a fever.

The checkered black-and-white shawl that the editor at
Al-Quds
had given him was damp with sweat. It wasn't the full illness. His throat tasted like sand. The chill of a low-grade fever made him shiver in the warm morning sun, but the worst had yet to come. When the disease started to cross over the blood barrier, then the headaches would come, the photophobia, and the rash. He was nearing the window when he would be contagious.

Initially, he would not be contagious.

When the pounding came he would be a danger to touch. And then the full-blown disease. Thereafter, without the specific antibiotic, there would be the brain swelling that would lead to a coma and, after the coma, a slow, horrific, painful death. In twenty-four hours it wouldn't matter what they gave him.

“Our passenger is awake.”

Liaquat Anis leaned back over the front passenger seat.

“I am sorry about the drug.” Liaquat, the physician, was speaking. “You can imagine that we must make sure, for your own safety, that you don't know where we are.”

“I understand. It makes sense.” Silently, Parker thanked the doctor for the drugging. It would help account—in their minds—for his pale skin and cold, clammy appearance.

“You don't look good, my friend.”

“I said I understand. I'll be fine.” Parker continued staring out the window. Between Umarov, who was driving, and Parker sat Liaquat. In the back cargo space, two mujahideens were crammed with their AK-47s. One slept in a contorted ball with the rifle between his legs.

The Toyota passed a sign, rusted and hanging on a tilt, near several mud huts. The Arabic writing said
DURBA KHEL.
Shortly after passing it, the Toyota turned west, heading for the mountains.

The peaks were dressed in a white coat, but the valley looked starkly different, a moonscape painted in khaki browns and rust and dotted with rocks everywhere. The land seemed a place that no one could live in nor should want to. The road led west toward the left side of a massive finger of rock.

Parker remembered the glimpse of the satellite picture.

“You didn't tell me,” Umarov growled at Liaquat while he drove.

“What?”

“You were supposed to meet up with my brother in London.”

“He didn't show up. I tried the hotel in the East End where you told me to go. They said he was still checked in. But he never came to our meeting place.”

Parker listened quietly, thirsting for a drink, any drink.

“That's not at all like Knez.”

Liaquat nodded, his remorse evident. For his part, Parker tried to appear impassive, disinterested. Fortunately, Umarov said nothing more, staring ahead while he drove, never realizing that the man who'd cut his brother's throat sat inches away.

CHAPTER 64

 

T
he man standing in front of the mud hut didn't seem capable of being the mass killer he had spent his lifetime becoming. Yousef al-Qadi smiled, watching Parker get out of the truck, but behind him stood a group of bearded, gaunt men with distrustful eyes. Some appeared old and some very young versions of the older ones, but all wore the same expression in their eyes.

“
As sala'amu alaikum,
good brother!”

Parker consciously forced himself to smile at the killer as he responded to the greeting.

“Walaikum as sala'am
.
”

The two men touched each other's cheek from one side to another. Parker felt the man's much smaller frame in his hands, caught the beginnings of gray in Yousef 's beard. He squeezed the terrorist tightly, thinking,
This is one of the killers of my mother and father
.

“I have known about you for some time,” Yousef said.

“And I about you.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Parker stood motionless for a moment. He allowed the thought of Zabara's dead wife and adopted daughter to sink in fully, which in turn enabled his eyes to convey an honest, emotional reaction.

“Yes, yes.” He paused. “Yes.”

“The Jew-bastard Mossad.”

Parker nodded and looked away, hoping his body language relayed the proper reaction to Yousef 's statement.

“They will pay, my friend. They and their sponsors will pay heavily. For your family and mine.” He took Parker's arm. “Come meet my brothers and my family. Come meet the warriors who will avenge you.”

Yousef led Parker around as if he were a child, going from man to man, introducing each by name and explaining in detail the man's family and his heroics on the battlefield.

“This is Muhammad Kundi. He has served since the Russians. He is a true jihadist, once wounded by an American Hellfire missile. But he survived.”

The nearly toothless man smiled and nodded.

“And this is Amir Parvez.” No smile here.

Yousef continued down the line, coming to a young teen with pimples on his face. “In his village he is useless, unemployed. He is an embarrassment to his family. He brings shame on his house. But here, he fights to protect the two holy places. Here, he fights for Riyad al-Jannah. Here, the world listens when he speaks!”

The teenager's eyes shone with pride.

Yousef repeated the same message in different ways, accusing the Americans of occupying the land of the two holy places, stealing the oil of Saudi Arabia, and slaughtering the children of Palestine.

“There is another warrior I want you to meet.”

Yousef led Parker into the dim light of the cave.

“Get up, Patoo.”

A small boy struggled to stand up. Like Parker's, his face was red and flushed. But unlike Parker, Patoo had a more advanced fever, his small, frail body soaked in sweat.

“This is my son, Patoo.”

“
As sala'amu alaikum.
” The boy's voice was barely a whisper.

Parker hesitated.

Hugging the boy would guarantee his death.

Parker kept some distance away from the boy. He didn't bend down to kiss the child's cheeks.

“I hope he feels well soon.” Despite having the boy's illness as an excuse for keeping his distance, Parker saw in Yousef 's eyes disappointment at the less-than-warm greeting.

“Come this way for some chai.” Yousef led him to a fire pit in the shell of a mud house ringed by red-and-black and yellow prayer rugs.

“Have a seat, my brother.” Yousef crossed his legs and sat next to a smoldering fire. “Bring us some chai. Peshawar's best! Have you had some?”

An old woman, permanently bent over with a round hump of a back, turned away and went back into the cave.

“You have fought a long and successful fight. You are our Sa'd Ibn Abi Waqqaas.” Parker used the name of one of the earliest companions of Muhammad. Abi Waqqaas had been the first to shed blood for the new faith. At the time other nonbelievers were setting upon Muhammad, but Abi Waqqaas stopped them with the jawbone of a camel. He beat one nonbeliever to a bloody pulp. And with this fight, violence became a remedy for all time.

“Have some.”

Yousef poured a cup of the tea and mixed sugar into it. It was a large metal cup shared by many in this dusty, dry mud hut. He gave the cup first to Parker, who drank from it.

Parker found that it had an odd lemon-ginger taste, but he welcomed any liquid in his quickly weakening state. He sipped the drink and then sipped it again, slightly turning the cup in his hand. His lips touched the cup again.

“This is good.”

Parker handed the cup back to Yousef, who held it on his lap.

Yousef didn't drink, shifting the cup to one hand, using the other to stroke his beard.

“I have something for you.”

Yousef pointed to one of the younger ones. The boy brought their leader a brown manila envelope, which Yousef handed to Parker. Parker could feel a thick packet of paper inside.

“This is my fatwa.”

Parker showed surprise.

“You are giving it to me?”

“Of course. I have chosen you to begin it all.”

“And
Al-Quds Al-Arabi
?”

“Yes, I think it is fitting. Don't you?”

Less than two decades earlier, the same newspaper had published the fatwa of another terrorist. The world had not heard of Osama bin Laden in August of 1996, when he wrote “Declaration of War against the Americans Occupying the Land of the Two Holy Places.”

“Yes, indeed I do. Excuse me, but last night they took my PDA.”

“Yes?”

“I record my interviews on my cell phone, but it was lost.” Parker was playing the part of journalist as best he could. “I have nothing even to write with.”

“Oh, yes.” Yousef signaled to Liaquat Anis to come over to the fire pit. “We have been rude to our guest.”

Liaquat frowned at the comment.

“Our journalist has nothing to write with. Bring him some paper and a pencil.” Yousef paused. “Tell me, brother, it is most important, but will you return to London?”

Parker hadn't even given the idea any thought. Scott's cover story had the newspapers of London quoting Scotland Yard as looking for the missing suspect.

“Given what has happened, I don't know.”

Yousef looked at him strangely. The man had just been given his declaration of war.

“I do know this,” said Parker. “I will continue to write until I die. And
Al-Quds
will gladly print this story.”

Yousef smiled, then turned to shout at his men. “Where is his paper? Where is his pencil? Get it now!”

Liaquat scrambled back to the truck, yelling at others as they searched through the cab.

“And your fatwa?” Parker turned the conversation back to Yousef.

“Bin Laden became a house cat. He no longer knew how to hunt the rats. He became an easy kill.”

“And you do know how to hunt the rats?”

Yousef frowned at the comment.

“Yes, brother, I do.” Yousef paused. “In ways far greater than bin Laden.”

Liaquat brought back a pen with a small yellow pad with the edges rolled up in the corners.

“Yes, this will do.” Parker started to write. “So how
do
you begin to ‘hunt the rats' in this day and age?”

Umarov sat down next to Yousef with his AK-47 lying on his lap.

“I will create a new Islamic state out of this desert. And like Abi Waqqaas, from this we will wage war on the Zionist-Crusader alliance. I have an army of youths who love death more than the Americans love life.” Yousef 's eyes burned and his voice rose as he gestured wildly with his free hand.

Parker continued to write. “You began this years ago, correct? Some say as far back as Pan Am Flight 103?” Parker couldn't help it. He wanted to hear the words directly from the man's mouth.

“You are a good reporter, Zabara!” It was as if someone had asked Jonas Salk whether he had cured polio. “Yes, I was a young lieutenant in the ANO. Nidal was like a father to me.”

Nidal was known for his recruitment of the best and the brightest. Parker decided to provoke Yousef subtly once more. “Some say he was paranoid.”

“You have heard the stories?”

“Yes.”

“They are lies. He was strong; it was others who were afraid.”

“You attended Harvard in America.”

“It was there that I learned to truly hate the Zionists. I remember one professor said I could only attend the school because of oil. The police?” Yousef hissed angrily. “They harassed anyone of color. What was it that Du Bois said? ‘I was in Harvard, but not of it.' But I
did
learn how to make money. As I saw the increasing bloodshed in Palestine, I was ashamed for having done so little in my life.”

“What was Flight 103 meant to achieve?”

“It achieved what it was supposed to achieve.”

“I don't understand.”

Yousef warmed a hand over the fire, still holding the teacup with the other.

“The Muslim nations are all controlled by governments that do not allow a voice to be heard. In Saudi Arabia, the
Al Hayat
and
Al Jazeera
write only what the king wishes them to write. In the UAE, the
Al Bayan
does the same. So how do we get the message out? Pan Am Flight 103 showed the world that the Americans could suffer. The Beirut bombing of the Marines caused the Americans to leave Aden in less than twenty-four hours. In Somalia, when a dozen soldiers were killed in a minor battle and a pilot was dragged through the streets, the Americans left. And these victories were all on CNN, and then they eventually had to be on the front page of
Al Jazeera
and
Al Bayan.
It encouraged a thousand other young warriors to join.”

“I can see the short-term effects,” said Parker. “What do such acts do for the mills that grind slowly?”

“Ah, yes. Longfellow. ‘Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceedingly small'?” Yousef knew the verse. “The long-term message is that retribution is not solely for the Americans.”

Parker kept scribbling and nodded. Then he looked up. “The tea?” Parker pointed to the cup.

“Yes.” Yousef took a sip and then handed him the cup.

“I am sorry. It is the travel. I have a headache coming on.”

“The tea helps.” Yousef smiled. “Drink some more.”

Parker smiled as he took the cup and another sip.