CHAPTER 1
Hotel Barberini
Rome, Italy
April 21
The task of removing Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq fell on the shoulders of Mohammed Gordji and Ibrahim Majed. Stepping out of the rear of the Volvo sedan, the two assassins walked towards the hotel entrance. Gordji and Ibrahim were ex-members of the PLO. They had answered the call and gone to Iraq to fight against the Americans. The duo excelled in combat and were recruited by al Qaeda, taken off the field of battle, and sent to Pakistan to receive additional training.
Both men walked slowly down the marble stairs into the hotel lobby. They wore dress slacks, lightweight summer coats, which covered their shoulder holsters. Reaching the bottom of the staircase they turned left. They looked into the foyer bar. People were enjoying a leisurely breakfast and talking business. Walking further into the bar Gordji’s head turned from side to side scanning the room looking for their target. He spotted a table in the rear of the bar and motioned Ibrahim to join him. It took only a second for Majed to realize he found their target. Majed discretely nudged Ibrahim and pointed in the direction of the table.
"I'll cover you from the bar," Ibrahim said. They split up. Gordji made his way toward the table, and Ibrahim moved toward the bar.
Hotel Barberini
Rome, Italy
April 21
Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq had listened to his old friend from the camps' attribute the deaths and disappearance of senior members of al Qaeda. Zia-ul-Haq had been one of the first to leave Afghanistan long before the Americans attacked. Arriving in Rome, he went right to work building his network. This talk about his former comrades disturbed him deeply. Ul-Hag first thought the Americans had somehow found out about him and the others, but he knew that was impossible bin Laden had handpicked each man for his posting. Murad so engrossed telling his story paid no attention to the people coming into the bar. He missed the two assassins walking into the room.
"It is that bastard Hariri; he is out to kill all the old guard,” Hakim Murad said in a hushed tone.
"Why, what does he hope to gain?” Zia-ul-Hag tightened the grip on his water glass.
“He wants our networks,” Murad hissed through clenched teeth. It all made sense to ul-Hag now. Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq aka Dr. Mohammed Ahmad, Professor of History at the University of Rome felt a chill run down his spine. Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq’s mission while at the University was to identify Muslim students who excelled in engineering and nuclear sciences. Once, spotted the student would be put, on a watch list. It might take years, but al-Qaeda was willing to wait.
"What are we to do?” Zia-ul-Haq said with a hint of fear in his voice.“You have to get out of Rome as soon as possible,” Murad said.
"And go where, who can I trust,” Zia-ul-Haq’s eyes got wide, Murad knew his friend was on the verge of terror.
"Paris, Khatimi is the last of us still active in Europe and is loyal to al-Zawahiri.” Murad looked up and saw a well-dressed Arab man walking towards his table. He removed his right hand from the tabletop and grabbed the butt of his pistol in his waistband under the table.
Hotel Barberini
Rome, Italy
April 21
Gordji closed on the table, moving to his left to get a view of Zia-ul-Haq's face. First, the cheekbones came into view, then the nose. The assassin placed his hand under his jacket. Gordji’s eyes met the man seated across from Zia-ul-Haq. Both men drew their guns, but Gordji was too slow. The man pulled an automatic weapon from under the table. Gordji stepped into his partner's line of fire. "Run!" Murad yelled. Zia-ul-Haq stood up to run, and shots rang out. The first shot took Gordji in the upper part of his right chest; the following caught him under his right armpit as he fell backward. Zia-ul-Haq looked over his shoulder at the gunman as he ran, to the foyer. Panic gripped the people in the dining room started screaming and running for the exits. Zia-ul-Haq did not go far. From the bar, Ibrahim raised his own weapon and pulled the trigger. Three rounds erupted from his Czechoslovakian Vz 61 Skorpion machine pistol. All three-hit Zia-ul-Haq across his chest, throwing him back into Maud, the force of the impact knocked Maud to the restaurant floor. He hit the ground hard losing control of his weapon.
Ibrahim cursed his partner for blocking his view. In slow motion, Ibrahim watched Gordji try to draw his gun, but he was just too slow. Two shots rang out. His partner went down covered in blood. Ibrahim went for his own gun and fired. Racing away from the table, Zia-ul-Haq ran right into Ibrahim’s line of fire; three 7. 65mm rounds slammed into Zia-ul-Haq’s chest, sending him back into Murad. Zia-ul-Haq felt an intense, burning sensation cut, through his body. He found himself on the ground with blood pouring out his mouth. A shadow passed over him, and he looked up to see Ibrahim’s weapon pointed at his head. It was the last view he would have on Earth. Ibrahim pulled the trigger killing Zia-ul-Haq. Maud felt the hot blood from Zia-ul-Haq splatter against his cheek. Desperately he tried to get his gun just out of his reach. Maud felt the presence of the assassin above him.
“Why,” Maud said, looking up at his killer. Ibrahim did not answer. It was not his job to tell his target why he was to die. He pulled the trigger twice sending six rounds into Maud’s skull. Ibrahim holstered his weapon. It was time to get out of the hotel before the police arrived. He bent down and immediately went through Zia-ul-Haq’s pockets and found the zip drive. He placed it in his inside jacket pocket. He stood up, turned, and quickly walked towards the stairs that led out of the hotel.
.“Ibrahim,” he heard his name softly called out. Only one person, in the hotel, knew his name. He went over to his partner. Blood was coming out of Gordji’s mouth and nose. A profound sense of sadness engulfed Ibrahim. His colleague and friend for the last fifteen years lay, on the floor bleeding to death. Training told him to put a bullet into Gordji’s head, and get away from the hotel as soon as possible, but he could not do that to Gordji. Scooping Gordji up in one swift motion, Ibrahim raced toward the stairway.
“Leave me,” Gordji said weakly trying to push out of Ibrahim’s arms.
“Never,” Ibrahim answered. Ibrahim took the stairs two at a time as he rushed, to the Volvo sedan.
Islamic Republic of Iran Embassy
Communications Room
Rome, Italy
April 21
Second Secretary for Political Affairs Assad Homayoun knew an emergency when saw one and the shootout at the Hotel Barberini had the potential to turn into a monster scandal. Homayoun, the Head of Station for MOIS, the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security received written orders from Hamid Salihani Minister of Intelligence and Security to assist in the assassination of Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq.
Homayoun carried out those orders and when contacted by the cell from the IPAW he provided a safe house and money. That took place two days ago. Then this afternoon he received a panic call from the cell’s leader. They needed a doctor and away out of Italy fast. He explained what had happened at the hotel. Homayoun did his best to calm the man down. He told him a doctor would be at the safe house by nightfall, and he would have them out of Italy the next day. The panic in the man’s voice made Homayoun do something that he would later regret. Knowing how badly that Salihani wanted Zia-ul-Haq dead. Homayoun broke protocol and sent an un-code cable back to Salihani telling him of Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq demise.
Alexandra, Egypt
Al Qaeda Safe House
April 22
An evening breeze blew from the Mediterranean and onto the veranda overlooking the calm waters of Alexandra’s harbor; it had been a frightfully long time since Mustapha Youssef Hariri had enjoyed a quiet night at the sea. His mind flashed back to the day visits to the beach at Tyre, Lebanon. He and his brother learned to swim during those trips to the beach. Hariri’s mind snapped back to the present. Fadl Abu Ahmed, the leader of HAMAS’s military wing Al-Qassam, walked out onto the veranda. Following right behind Ahmed was Fazul Abdullah Mohammed the head of al Qaeda operations in North America.
The meeting would be the last in a series of gatherings between al-Qaeda and HAMAS. Each participant had something that the other wanted. HAMAS needed money and weapons. Al Qaeda needed suicide volunteers, and no other terrorist organization could raise and train a large number of suicide bombers better than HAMAS.
The safe house was located in an affluent neighborhood on Alexandria’s Mediterranean coast. It was a three-story villa in between the homes of Egypt’s Prime Minister and Vice President. The leadership of HAMAS felt quite safe that the Israelis would not attack the house. The owner of the house was a well-to-do Egyptian actor who secretly supported al Qaeda.
Ahmed wore a loose-fitting beige suit with black loafers. Hariri could see the gun grip bulging from the front right side of Ahmed’s pants. Hariri knew Ahmed never went anywhere without a weapon. Ahmed was a medium-sized man weighing just about one-hundred and seventy pounds with curly sable hair, brown eyes, and an olive complexion. You could not see it, but under his shirt, Ahmed had a zigzag scar across the top of his chest from an Israeli bullet.
It amazed Hariri how Mohammed looked more-American, each time he saw him. Mohammed wore dark loafers with blue jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a tan lightweight jacket. His black hair was slicked back like the American actor Steven Segal. A Marlboro cigarette was in between his index and middle finger of his left hand.
Hariri stood up and walked over to Ahmed. “Brother, happy to see you again,” Hariri hugged Ahmed and gave him a kiss on each cheek.
“It is good to see Mustapha,” Ahmed said as they broke their embrace. Mohammed moved his cigarette to his left hand and the two shook hands as Americans did.
“And I hope your trip was a good one Fazul,” Hariri said.
“Very, good brother,” Mohammed answered. Hariri showed the two over to their seats. The three sat down Mohammed dropped his cigarette into the ashtray.
“You both know why we are here,” Hariri said, looking at both men who nodded their acknowledgment.
“Fazul, the first shipment of your warriors, has left for America. Once they arrive eight-hundred thousand dollars will be deposited, into your account,” Hariri said he could see the shock in Ahmed’s eyes that he had not expected that much money. He looked at a loss for what to say. “My organization wants to make sure that the families of these holy warriors are well rewarded for their sacrifice,” Hariri said.
“Brother, this is far beyond what they could have hoped for,” Ahmed said his voice full of admiration.
“Well, they are giving up their sons for the cause, and this should compensate them for their loss.”
“Oh, this well,” Ahmed said grinning. I am sure you will receive your own cut from the money. Hariri thought as he looked at the face of greed that Fadl Abu Ahmed now showed him.
“Fazul,” Mohammed said, “Out of the fifty men you sent us only ten could speak and understand English well enough to operate inside of North America. I hope in your next group that you provide at least double that amount.” Hariri could tell that Ahmed took offense by Mohammed’s statement. For a brief second Hariri, and Fazul locked eyes, it was clear to Fazul that he had just made Hariri mad.
Ahmed stood up and walked back into the house. Hariri threw a disapproving look at Mohammed, jumped up from his seat, and followed Ahmed into the Villa. Hariri caught up to Ahmed in the foyer and a few seconds later. Mohammed joined them.
“Please brother, do not be offended by Fazul, he has spent too much time in America and has forgotten his manners.”
“Forgive me brother; my years in America have ruined my manners. Please excuse me,” said Mohammed. No matter, how many times Hariri witnessed Mohammed in action; he could never get over the fact that the man was the ultimate con man. Only after years of dealing with Mohammed, Hariri could see that the apology had not been sincere. Hariri led the group from the foyer into the Library. The three sat down at a circular glass whose legs were made of elephant tusks.
“I only met to say that when you recruit these people they should have a working knowledge of English. Our people do not have the time to teach English once they reach the camp,” Mohammed said quickly knowing how valuable, good relations between HAMAS and al-Qaeda meant to Hariri.
“It is very hard for us to find warriors who have the ability to speak English in Gaza, but my people tell me, we’ve had better luck in the West Bank,” Ahmed said. “And we have been able to locate a few women.”
“Excellent,” said Mohammed. “They will not expect women to become holy warriors.” Hariri could see that Mohammed was excited, at the possibility of using women as weapons against America.
“You’ve done well Fadl, and your cooperation will not be forgotten,” Hariri said as he stood up. Ahmed also stood, knowing it was time to leave. Mohammed stayed, at the table as Hariri led Ahmed back out of the library. A few minutes he returned and joined Mohammed at the table.
“Are all your pieces set for this operation?” Hariri asked as he sat down.
“Yes, all, that is left, is to move the teams from Mexico and Canada to the States, and the operations can begin,” Mohammed answered.
“Do you need to go back?” Hariri questioned. Puzzled by the questions Mohammed’s mouth hung open.
“I want to go back and lead the operations,” Mohammed said.
“No, the illegal will handle the operations from this point on.” Hariri could see the look of disappointment spread across Mohammed’s face.
“What did I do wrong?” Mohammed asked, sounding panicky, Mohammed knew that those who did not live up to their potential with Hariri usually disappeared.
“You have done nothing wrong Fazul that is why I need you in Africa.”
“Africa, I thought Msalam headed up operations in Africa?” There was palpable relief in Mohammed’s voice now.
“He was, but not anymore Msalam is about to lose control, of the situation, and I cannot allow that. He has let the Ethiopians gain a foothold in Mogadishu, and the Americans are expanding their operations in the Horn. Msalam is a skilled fighter, but not the best of our thinkers. That is where you come in. You fought the American in Iraq and gave them a bloody nose. I want you to do the same in Africa.”
Mohammed’s face showed his displeasure at the new development. He worked carefully formulating the attack against New York City. He felt slighted not allowed to carry out the operation. “There is a meeting set for the twenty-fourth with the leadership of al-Shabaab.”
CHAPTER 2
Mogadishu, Republic of Somalia
The Old WFP Warehouse
The Docks
April 24Lieutenant Tucker Rapley United States Navy SEAL leaned against, the wall, his eyes slowly moving back, and forth scanning the street for any sign of danger. Rapley dressed in a loose fitting dark pants, a large Nike black, and white T-shirt, running shoes. The shirt, help hide his two Glock 19 automatic pistols resting on his left, and right hip. Rapley’s ebony skin glistened as the last rays of the sun beat down on Mogadishu. He also wore a large red keffiyeh around his neck and head, concealing his wraparound throat microphone and ear plug.
Since 2009, Somalia’s Transitional Federal Government along with the use of Ethiopians and African Union peacekeepers had restored order to the war-torn Mogadishu. The days of armed militia controlling, the streets had ended, or so they thought. Until the emergence, of al-Shabaab, Mogadishu was once again a dangerous city.
Staff Sergeant Oscar Garcia, being Hispanic and deeply tanned helped him blend into the surroundings. Garcia sat across the street from Lieutenant Rapley; Garcia pretended to chew on the local narcotic weed known as khat that most men chewed on to past the time. Garcia wore a faded pair of French combat pants and boots, an oversized brown T-shirt helped hide his Heckler & Koch MP5KA1 submachine gun.
Garcia wore a red keffiyeh around his neck and face to hide his wraparound throat microphone and ear plug. Garcia’s primary purpose was to protect Rapley, and if anything went wrong, his job was to a lay down a heavy base of fire to aid in Rapley’s escape.
Rapley and his four-man team inserted into Mogadishu as part of a joint ISA-CIA operation code named SEASONED CAPRICORN. The NSA passed information to the CIA about Fazul Abdullah Mohammed. A Saudi national heading to Mogadishu to attend a meeting with al-Shabaab. The Islamic tribesmen associated with al Qaeda. Rapley and his team staked out the area of the docks where the meeting would be taking place. The office building was located three blocks west of the docks in an enclosed complex of warehouses and commercial buildings. The gates to the compound had two heavily armed men standing guard checking everyone who entered or left. Rapley and his team had two objectives to complete. The first was to make sure that Fazul Abdullah Mohammed was at the meeting, and the second to be the ground element of the attack.
In a garage, two blocks away from Rapley and Garcia sat Staff Sergeants Peter Washington and George Taylor. Both were black and ex-members of the 3rd Special Forces Group. Washington sat behind the wheel of the beat up British Land Rover with a German made.45 H&K UMP submachine gun resting in his lap. Taylor sat in the back of the Land Rover with an M4A1 5.56mm carbine across his lap. Between his legs and resting on the floor stood AM/PSC-5 (V) “Shadowfire” multi-band, multi-mission communications terminal. Capable of satellite communications the PSC-5 kept Rapley and his team in contact with the ISA forward operating base (FOB) at Camp Lemonier, Djibouti.
The CIA had identified Fazul Abdullah Mohammed, as one of the hundreds of Saudis fighting for al Qaeda considered highly intelligent and capable. Mohammed’s arrival in Somalia was a signal to local Muslim tribesmen that al Qaeda was serious about removing the Ethiopian troops that they had been battling. The only problem was the agency did not have anyone to send into Somalia. Since the company considered Somalia a war zone, they turned to ISA for help.
Both Washington and Taylor wore wraparound microphones and earplugs. On the seat, next to Taylor was the handset that kept him in connection with the FOB. Taylor relayed information from Rapley to the FOB. Rapley and his team were just the ground element of the operation. Flying at 10,000 feet north and south of Mogadishu were two Predator MQ-1 armed reconnaissance drones. Both drones armed with two Thunderflash missiles. Instead of 14 pounds of high explosive, they contained 14lb of Magdex Starflash explosive.
Circling 30,000 feet above Mogadishu as an ancient predator was an RQ-4A Global Hawk unmanned surveillance drone. The drone’s electro-optical sensors focused on the southeast corner of Mogadishu, where the meeting was taking place. Beaming its pictures back to the White House Situation Room, the Pentagon’s War Room and the CIAs recently finished Strategic Operation Center.
If one thing drove, Rapley crazy was to have the Monday morning quarterbacks in Washington watching over his shoulder as he worked, but he knew that this operation was a test bed. The CIA-ISA had never conducted and joint operation of this type before. The eyes of the President’s national security leadership were focused on Rapley and his team. Rapley raised his head as the gates to the compound open, and three white Toyota Land Cruisers raced out into the street heading his way. The first Land Cruiser rushed by Rapley. He counted seven armed men. The second SUV sped past Rapley. He counted only four people and then the last Land Cruiser flashed by with six guards inside. Rapley waited until they were out of sight before contacting Taylor.
“The rabbit has left the hole,” Rapley said into his throat microphone. He stood up and began to walk towards Staff Sergeant Garcia, who stood up and started to walk towards the garage where the rest of the team waited.
Above the city, the Global Hawk watched the small convoy as it headed southwest out of the city.
Staff Sergeant Peter Washington pulled the garage doors open and hopped back into the Land Rover, put it in gear, and took off to pick up Rapley and Garcia. Two quick turns and he saw his boss and his partner walking down the street. Washington brought the Land Rover to a halt and Rapley, and Garcia jumped in.
“They are heading southwest out of the city,” Taylor said quickly. Washington put the Land Rover in gear and shot down the road heading southwest out of Mogadishu.
“The boss wants to talk to you,” Taylor said, handing the handset to Rapley. Rapley took the handset from Taylor looking annoyed.
“Go,” Rapley, said as he put the receiver up to his ear.
“They are about five miles ahead of you heading southwest,” Lieutenant Colonel Tyler Becket said, Chief of Operations for the Intelligence Support Activity. Becket stood behind the pilot of one the Predators watching the bird track the small convoy. Lieutenant Colonel Tyler Becket, United States Army, wore a black eye patch over his left eye. Six foot two, two hundred and fifteen pounds, dark hair, one blue eye Becket could have been the poster boy for the army, except for the eye patch. For the past twenty-five years, Tyler Becket had worked every dirty corner of the world for the Department of Defense. He spoke French, Arabic, and Spanish. If the Secretary of Defense needed information from any hot spot on the globe, Becket got the call.
“The birds are lifting off the Tarawa and will be on station in 15 minutes,” Becket said. The birds were two MH-22 Osprey vertical takeoff, and landing aircraft, belonging to the newly formed 4th Special Operations Aviation Battalion of the 160th Special Aviation Operations Regiment. The plane was cable of taking off like a helicopter then shifting to fly like a plane.
“Roger,” Rapley said, into the microphone handing it back to Taylor. Right now, he did not feel like having a conversation with Becket. Besides, he knew Becket would not be micromanaging him. Now the pricks in Washington were another story. Rapley had warned Becket once he and his team hit the ground. He did not want some damn armchair QB questioning his decisions.
“Okay, let’s get ready,” Rapley said. In the back, Taylor turned around, leaned over the seat, retrieved a camouflage bulletproof combat vest, and gave it to Garcia, who sat next to him. Garcia put the vest on making sure it fitted snugly around his waist. Taylor passed one up to Rapley, who took the wheel while Washington put his own vest. Next Taylor passed up Rapley’s combat harness and primary weapon. A silenced Heckler & Koch UMP45. The combat vest held extra magazines and grenades and the Kevlar plates that protected Rapley’s chest and back,
They just were clearing the edge of Mogadishu when a call came in from Becket. Taylor gave Rapley the handset.
“Your outbound birds are in their holding position,” Becket said.
“Copy,” Rapley answered.
“Vulture 1 has acquired targets and is ready to launch,” Becket said, watching the small convoy as it moved along the desert coast road. Looking at his team, Rapley knew they were set to go.
“Viper team is ready,” Rapley said.
“Wait, one,” Becket said. Becket picked up the phone that connected him to the White House Situation Room.
“All units, in positions,” Becket said.
The White House
Situation Room
The President’s Briefing Room
Washington, District of Columbia
April 24
Watching the plasma screen nervously Director of National Intelligence Avery Woodworth saw the first Predator drone begin to circle. Thin, balding, and dressing like a college professor, Avery Woodworth had the weird talent to balance his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He also had the uncanny ability to forge compromises. His aptitude to broker agreements had gotten his current job.
It was a clear and moonless night in Africa. Woodworth could see the following Predator just enter the top of the screen. So far, so good, hot damn here they come. Woodworth saw the lights of the convoy enter the screen. Since first reading Winchester’s proposal for this program, Avery Woodworth had been fighting against both the DOD and the CIA. The DOD did not trust the CIA, and the CIA thought the DOD was too quick to pull the trigger.
For close to seventeen years, the CIA and the DOD had been in a war against militant Islamic fanatics. As soon as one leader was killed, another would take his place. Winchester’s plan simplistic as it sounded was nearly impossible to carry out unless certain parameters were in place to implement the operation. Woodworth’s memory faded back to the working dinner that he and Winchester shared when she first mentioned her idea.
Sir, I believe we have an opportunity to deliver a demoralizing blow to al Qaeda’s leadership. Since the death of UBL, their leadership has been in free-fall. The material that we captured from UBL has enabled us to dismantle a number of elements within al Qaeda. We are now seeing a younger generation of al Qaeda leadership take the field, and I think I have an idea on how we can destabilize this new command and control structure. . . Winchester went on and laid out her plan to Woodworth for the next two hours. In the end, he told her to put it down on paper and sent it to him.
The target had to be in an isolated setting. Assets had to be ready to take advantage of the targets' Window of Vulnerability or WOV.
Tonight, those conditions were right. The target's route of travel was known; the target was a tier one level, meaning he had to be an operational planner, strategic planner or a financial manager. These types of men were not willing to give, their lives in Martyrdom operations. These three types did not intend to give up their lives for the cause. They wanted to be in charge of the new world. And that made them susceptible to harsh interrogation methods. Tonight Fazul Abdullah Mohammed met all the criteria. Woodworth knew that Director Carter did not intend to put any of his people inside of Somalia. Mogadishu was still just too dangerous. No matter, how much he pushed, D/CIA Carter would not budge. Woodworth knew this was a rare opportunity, and he knew that the community had to take advantage of it. He turned to the Intelligence Support Activity and its commander, Colonel Gus Hart. Hart was more than willing to go along as long as the CIA was not in operational control of his team.
As per Winchester’s proposal, the CIA would handle the intelligence and logistics, and ISA would provide the muscle. “Director Woodworth, Lt. Colonel Becket is waiting,” Bobby Maxwell, chief of the Clandestine Service for the CIA said.
“Mr. President, this is a good as it’s going to get,” said Woodworth. President Eric Baxter turned his head away from the screen and looked at his DNI. President Baxter had liked the idea that DNI Woodworth had presented to him just after his election to the office. During the election, Baxter had promised the American people that his administration would never back down from a terrorist threat.
“Go ahead Avery,” President Baxter said.
“Operation Excalibur has a green light,” Woodworth said, looking at Bobby Maxwell
“Go,” Maxwell, said into the phone. Avery Woodworth turned his head and watched as the first Predator made a slow turn to port. Woodworth saw the second Predator move into position. This is going to work; I can feel it in my bones. “The first missile has been released,” C/CS Maxwell said.
South West Coast Road
Outside Mogadishu, Somalia
April 24
“First missile has been released,” Staff Sergeant Taylor said, relaying the information from the White House.
“Lock and load people,” Rapley said. Rapley could just barely make out the rear lights of the last Toyota in the convoy about a mile ahead of him. It was pitch-black out now. Washington drove using a pair of night-vision goggles.
“Pullover,” Rapley said. Washington glided off the road and removed his night-vision goggles. He did not want his vision ruined when the missiles hit. They would wait here for the detonation before they closed the distance to claim their prize. Once the warheads exploded Rapley, and his team would close in grab the disorientated Fazul Abdullah Mohammed. Then race away to the pickup area fifteen miles down the coast where the Osprey’s would be waiting to take them back to Djibouti. After months of training Rapley, knew his team was ready. Rapley felt no remorse for what he was about to do. The person he was going after was the worst of the worse. He checked is magazine one last time.
Combined Joint Task Force-Horn of Africa
Intelligence Support Activity Compound
Forward Operating Base
Camp Lemonier, Djibouti
April 24
First Lieutenant Dorothy Hamilton United States Air Force sat at her control station and kept the laser designator aimed at the side of the road. She had practiced this move over twenty times at White Sands, New Mexico, but this was the real thing. She knew people’s lives depend on her hitting her mark. Standing behind her Lt. Colonel Tyler Becket watched too as the two Thunderflash missiles raced towards its target. Hamilton made small corrections as the missile tracked. She heard others in the room whispering for a good hit. She pushed their voices out of her mind and concentrated on her job.
Lt. Colonel Becket laid his right hand, on Hamilton’s shoulder. “Stay with it Lieutenant,” he said in his best confidence-building voice. Even with his one healthy eye, Lt. Colonel Becket could see that Hamilton had the missile on target. Come on baby come on, we need this one. Standing to the right of Lt. Colonel Becket was Dana Winchester with her Boston Red Sox cap turned around. The top of her right thumb knuckle rested in her mouth as she watched the display screen. The missile landed twenty feet in front of the first Land Cruiser. A blinding flash filled the screen. Becket barely had time to see the lead Land Rover roll over when the second explosion went off.
South West Coast Road
Outside of Mogadishu, Somalia
April 24
The soft glow of Fazul Abdullah Mohammed’s Toshiba laptop pierced the dark in the Toyota Land Cruiser. The meeting in Mogadishu had gone better than he had anticipated. The leadership would be pleased. Although this had not been his original assignment, Fazul had come to accept his role against America and her allies. Mohammed figured it would take six months to drive out the Ethiopians and the other African peacekeepers once the main bulk of his fighters arrived in Somalia.
Mohammed stood only at five feet five inches, weighed no more than one-hundred and forty-five pounds, he had a dark complexion and spoke French, Swahili, Arabic, and English. He was remarkably skilled with computers and had no problem with killing in the name of God. Mohammed gazed at his computer screen and asked God for guidance and strength. So he could complete his mission in Africa. Mohammed wished that he was allowed to finish his North American operation. He understood that al Qaeda had to solidify its position in Somalia was paramount for future operations in Africa, besides, he was sure the opportunity to kill Americans would rise again. The thought of killing more Americans gave Mohammed a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. His journey to paradise would be paved with the lives of thousands of unbelievers.
Looking up from his screen, Mohammed thought of a world united under Muslim rule. Just then, the night turned into day an immense flash lit up the sky. Mohammed lost his vision and felt the car turning on its side. The second blast lifted the Toyota off the ground throwing it thirty feet. Mohammed lost consciousness smashing his head against the roof of the Land Cruiser. The first missile detonated twenty feet from the first vehicle blinding the driver, and before he could blink the concussion wave hit the Toyota flipping it over on its side.
South West Coast Road
Outside of Mogadishu, Somalia
April 24
“Move,” Rapley shouted as night lit up. Washington, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the British Land Rover ripped down the road.
“Phone,” Rapley said, and Taylor gave him the handset.
“Blinder one and two have impacted the target area. Going to pick up the prize,” Rapley said. He flicked his UMP45 safety off as Washington flew down the dirt track. By the time, they reached a small rise in the road the night had returned. Washington brought the Land Rover to a stop. Rapley dropped his night-vision goggles over his eyes and dashed out the door. Rapley moved along the right side of the road with Taylor slightly behind him and further to his right. Washington and Garcia ran down the left side in the same formation.
In the eerie green light, Rapley saw movement in the last SUV and dropped to one knee and let loose with a six round burst into the back of the SUV. Washington moved closer to the SUVs and fell to the ground covering Rapley as he rushed the bomb site. From Rapley’s left Washington fired off a burst from his German-made 45 H&K UMP submachine gun, into the left side of the rear Toyota. Garcia kept going staying parallel to Rapley. The two Thunderflash missiles had done their job perfectly. Two of the Toyotas lay on their sides, and one rested on its roof. The front driver's door to the first Land Cruiser flew open, and one guard tried to climb out. Garcia dropped to one knee aimed a fired a three-round burst into the man’s chest, and he fell face-first into the dirt. Running up to the last SUV, Rapley pulled off a Soviet-made RPD-10 fragmentation grenade from his combat harness and tossed it into the Land Cruiser. “Frag out!” Rapley shouted. Not waiting for the desired results Rapley headed for the SUV that held their target. The explosion of his grenade blew the doors off and killed the remaining guards.
Fifteen feet from the Land Cruiser Rapley saw movement from the front of the Land Cruiser. One of the guards held in place by his seat belt began to move about. Rapley dropped prone sighted his target and sent a single bullet into the head of the guard. From the back, he heard machine-gun fire coming from both Washington and Taylor. From over his shoulder, a burst of automatic fire slashed at the night. Rapley turned his head to see Garcia kneeling firing at the first SUV. In a swift move, Garcia dropped his empty magazine and quickly changed to a fresh one.
“Got your back boss,” Garcia said scanning the area for any threats. Rapley took out an Asp collapsible baton from his combat vest and smashed the rear passenger window. Hanging upside down and unconscious Fazul Abdullah Mohammed looked like a piece of beef in a slaughterhouse. Rapley bent down and crawled into the back of the Land Cruiser. Using his combat knife, he cut Mohammed out of his seat belt and dragged him clear of the Land Cruiser. Garcia raced up, yanked out a pair of flex cuffs while Rapley turned Mohammed on his stomach searching him. Staff Sergeant Taylor moved into the area, retrieving the spent cartridges fired by his fellow teammates.
“He’s clean,” Rapley said. Garcia put the flex cuffs on Mohammed and a black hood. Washington joined the group and helped throw Mohammed over Garcia’s shoulder. Rapley ducked back into the back of the Land Cruiser and grabbed a laptop lying on the ceiling.
“Rabbit is in the bag,” Rapley said, knowing that his communications were instantly transmitted back to the White House. Washington handed Rapley three-two-pound blocks of Semtex each with a timer. “Get going, I’ll finish up,” Rapley said. Garcia had Mohammed in a ‘firefighters’ carry. He turned and headed back toward their vehicle with Washington guarding him. Rapley jogged over to the first SUV and set the timer for seven minutes tossed it in the back of the Land Cruiser. He repeated the process two more times and joined the others in the Land Rover. The second Rapley shut the door Washington had the SUV racing toward the rendezvous fifteen miles further south. Rapley sat in the back of the Land Rover and thanked God that he had not lost any of his teammates.
“Boss, Becket’s on the phone for you,” Taylor said handing him the headset. Rapley took the headset.
“Outstanding job Tucker,” Becket said. Rapley would not share in his enthusiasm until he was back at the FOB.
“Save it Tyler, we are not home yet,” Rapley answered. Rapley and his team raced away from the ambush site. Six minutes later, the Semtex went off. A brilliant fireball lit up the sky. Ninety seconds after the last Semtex block exploded two regular Hellfire missiles slammed into the ambush site. Two days later, AFRICOM press officer, released a statement that a Predator drone had killed Mohammed and his escort.
CHAPTER 3
George Bush Center for Intelligence
New Headquarters Building
Office of Terrorism Analysis
McLean, Virginia
April 25
Tracy Young walked over to her coat tree and hung her raincoat up. Even inside the new headquarters building, she could still hear the rumble of thunder as the storm drenched the Virginia countryside with rain. Tracy Young head of the CIA’s, Office of Terrorism Analysis walked over to her desk and sat down. As always, she went straight for the overnight cables from CIA stations and bases. After about five minutes of reading, Young got up and walked over to her small coffee table where she had a coffee maker and microwave. Thirty-four years, old Young had the distinct honor of being the youngest, Head of Office at the agency. Young had a compact figure; she stood just five feet five inches tall with red hair and blue eyes. People said Young looked like the comedian Kathy Griffin. Today Young wore a light blue skirt, white blouse and pearl earrings and a pair of black flats.
Young went back to her desk and turned on her computer. She leaned back in her chair just as the video conference window popped up. Dana Winchester Deputy Director for Intelligence for the Central Intelligence Agency appeared on the screen.
“Morning Tracy,” Winchester said, from the computer screen. Young looked at her boss and noticed her usually neat appearance was not up to her typical standards. Then she remembered that Winchester had gone overseas for a top-secret operation. Now Young recalled that Winchester was at Camp Lemonier, Djibouti.
“Morning, boss,” Young said as she sipped her coffee. Winchester’s standard pageboy black hair cut was now tucked underneath a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Her usual attire had been replaced by a khaki shirt right out of the Banana Republic catalog. She wore a small silver necklace and two pearls, shaped earrings. Since meeting, Winchester, three years ago Young had always considered her beautiful. She had high cheekbones and forehead, a slender neck and piercing hazel eyes. Winchester was a forty-one-year-old woman who ran the CIA’s analytical shop.
“How are the girls?” Winchester asked Young glanced at the picture of her three daughters on her desk.
“They are doing great Kathy is going to apply to the Naval Academy next year. Susan and Sally are playing the leads in their class play.”
“That’s great news Tracy,” Winchester said.
“Well, I know you didn’t call to talk about the kids so what’s new?” Young asked Dana Winchester smiled; she enjoyed her time with Young. She liked Young’s directness and no-nonsense attitude.
“What do you know about Fazul Abdullah Mohammed?” Winchester asked. Young leaned back in her chair. Winchester could see Young’s mind working.
“Fazul Abdullah Mohammed born August 25, 1972 went to high school in Jidda, Saudi Arabia. His father was a construction worker from the Comoros Islands, and his mother was a nurse in Jidda. At the age of seventeen, Mohammed joins the local mosque 1999. By 2000, he is in one of al Qaeda’s training camps in Afghanistan. Mohammed is a bright lad speaks five languages. Al Qaeda’s chief of Intelligence Abu Luqman arranged Mohammed to go to Pakistan to receive training from the ISI. Mohammed learned how to conduct intelligence operations, agent handling, sabotage techniques, surveillance, and counter-surveillance procedures. By 2003, Fazul Abdullah Mohammed is a well-rounded terrorist.” I was right to push you to head this office. I do not care what that prick Mills says about Young being too inexperienced to head this office.
“Do you know where he is now?” Winchester asked, looking directly into Young’s eyes.
“We think he’s in either Pakistan or Yemen,” answered Young. Young saw the cat swallowed the Canary look spread across Winchester’s face.
“A special mission team captured him late last night in Somalia. He’s been moved to a secure location.”
“Outstanding,” Young voiced, her eyes had come alive with the thought of the information that Fazul Abdullah Mohammed would provide. Winchester knew that Young was drooling to see the material Mohammed would provide once he broke.
“It’s going to be a while before they break Mohammed,” Winchester said, instantly seeing the disappointed look run across Young’s face.
“I thought you’d feel cheated, so I am sending you a gift,” Winchester said. She held up a laptop.
“This was Mohammed’s laptop.” Young’s hand hit her intercom. “Gail, get Talbot from computer support. . .”
“Slow down speedy,” Winchester said, holding up her hand. “Chen is going out to Andrews to meet the plane bringing the laptop to the states. I want you there with him.” Chen was Reggie Chen, Deputy Director for Science & Technology for the Central Intelligence Agency.
“I told him to expect your call later today. I need whatever was on the laptop yesterday Tracy,” Winchester said.
“You can count on me boss,” Young said.
“Never doubted that Tracy,” Winchester said and her image faded from Young’s computer screen.
Dana Winchester, the Deputy Director of Intelligence for the Central Intelligence Agency was a striking beauty with raven hair, tan skin, hazel eyes, and shapely legs. Winchester spent ten years in the Operations Directorate as an operations officer. Winchester had recruited agents, cleared and loaded dead drops, installed electronic listening devices and gone toe to toe with hostile intelligence services and terrorists and had come out on top. Only a handful of CIA officers not part of Special Activities Divison had fired a gun in anger or self-defense. Winchester had the honor or as some people thought the misfortune to be the single woman in that club. Locked away in her safe in a black metal case was her decoration for that action, Dana Winchester had been awarded the Intelligence Star for defending the code room.
Beirut, Lebanon
Party of God Complex
April 25
Mustapha Youssef Hariri looked at the report of his agent in Somalia and smashed his fist against his desk. Murdered by the dam, Americans, those words sent a chill down Hariri’s spine, someone, and somewhere must have talked, and now a true warrior of God has died. Hariri said a prayer for his fallen comrade. I am going to have to find a replacement for Mohammad. I picked him to replace Msalam because Msalam had let the situation in Somalia get out of control. All plans for the operation in America were made. The last piece of the puzzle would be arriving in America later today. The first, of the attacks, would begin in a few days. Hariri got up from his desk and walked over to his wall safe located behind the picture of Grand Ayatollah Ali Akbar Yazdi. He swung the picture out, opened his safe, and removed his little black book.
He sat back down at his desk and opened his book. In the book were the names of all the warriors who would be taking part in this operation. Each man’s family would receive twenty-five thousand dollars from the United Islamic People’s Charity, a front company for al Qaeda. Once the United States forced al-Zawahiri underground, Hariri went to work to take control of certain al Qaeda assets that he would need to bring the war to America.
Second Secretary for Political Affairs at Algerian Embassy, in Paris, France, Hassan Jabal, was secretly the senior al Qaeda operative, in Western Europe, also an Iranian intelligence asset. Jabal was the linchpin of moving men in North America. Jabal’s contacts with the Canadian network ensured the swift entry of the suicide bombers into America. Soon, the Americans would know the terror that the Israelis, English, and Spanish had felt. The thought of Americans screaming and running in panic brought a large smile to Hariri. The more he thought about it, the more aroused he became. Not wanting to waste his erection Hariri quickly locked his office door and began to pleasure himself.
George Bush Center for Intelligence
New Headquarters Building
Office of Terrorism Analysis
McLean, Virginia
April 25
Tracy Young took a sip of her coffee and leaned back in her chair since getting a copy of the material on Fazul Abdullah Mohammed’s laptop Young had not left her desk. Mohammed’s journal stunned her. According to his diary, Fazul Abdullah Mohammed’s real name was Tooraj Qashqai a captain in the Iranian Army, who had been picked to infiltrate Al Qaeda. Mohammed/Qashqai went into considerable detail recounting his recruitment and training. What astonished Young was Mohammed/Qashqai’s boast that the majority of al Qaeda’s leadership was made up of Iranian intelligence officers and agents. Young knew immediately that Mohammed/Qashqai’s information was a bombshell. She was not about to let this piece of information out without talking to Winchester. Until then, she knew there was one thing she could do, so she picked up her phone and made a call.
“Andy I want you and Jill in my office on the double,” she said into her phone.
“Yes, I know it’s almost six, but you signed on for this, so I want you both in my office now!” Young sounded a bit harsh, but she had the utmost respect for her two young analysts. A few seconds later, there was a knock-on Young’s door.
“Come in,” she shouted. Andy Barron and Jill Purcell stepped into her office. Young pointed to the two chairs in front of her desk.
“Take a seat you two I have a special project for you,” Young said, her voice relayed the seriousness of her order.
A pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses hung down around her neck. Purcell dropped into her usual seat.
“I want you two go back over the past ten years and account for the leadership of al Qaeda. I want the background information on every known leader of al Qaeda.”
“What’s up boss?” Barron asked Young thought for a second about telling them about Mohammed/Qashqai diary, but then decided that she needed to hash that out with Winchester. Something hit her. The ISA ground element had turned over the computer to the agency once they had gotten back to the FOB at Camp Lemonier, what if they had copied it.
“Okay, you two have your marching orders get back to me when you are done.” Young waved them out of her office, picked up her phone, and dialed the Office of Communications. She needed to talk to Winchester, and she needed to speak to her now. If, the information, from Mohammed’s laptop, if correct meant Iran was engaged in a covert war against the United States using al Qaeda as its proxy force.
Combined Joint Task Force-Horn of Africa
Central Intelligence Agency Compound
Private Quarters for Dana Winchester
Forward Operating Base
Camp Lemonier, Djibouti
April 25
Winchester rolled over on her cot and reached for her cell phone. Only a few people had a number for her private, secure mobile phone. Winchester pulled the cell phone off the night table and saw Young’s name on the LED display. She reached up and turned on the lamp on her night table.
“Tracy what the hell do you ever sleep.. .” Before, Winchester could finish her sentence Young spat out what she had been reading from Mohammed’s diary. Winchester told Young to slow down and repeat what she had just told her. This time Young slowly informed Winchester of the material, she had read from Mohammed’s laptop.
Winchester’s mind went into overdrive if the information from Mohammed’s laptop proved to be true. The fundamental perception on al Qaeda would change.
“Dana, I’ve assigned the ‘Wonder Twins’ to check the makeup of al Qaeda’s leadership to see if they can spot any ill-regulates.”
“Good thinking Tracy, don’t tell them about Mohammed’s laptop,” Winchester, quickly add.
“Right boss,” Young answered, and continued to talk, “Boss one more thing; part of Mohammed’s hard drive was damaged in the crash. Chen's people, recovered a portion; it looks as if al-Qaeda is preparing to launch an attack on New York City code named Vengeance Strike.”
“Does he give any details?” Winchester asked, sounding terribly concerned.
“If he did it’s on the part of the hard drive that was destroyed in the crash. All right, this is what I am going to do. After I am done talking with you, I will call Maxwell and tell him about the information on the possible attack against New York. You are going to brief him in person since I cannot.”
“Right boss,” Young said.
“Tracy I want you to send me a copy Mohammed’s diary to me right away.” Winchester threw her legs over the side of the cot and looked around for clothes. She had to get to the SCIF over on the other side of the compound. Before, she placed her feet in her sandals; Winchester looked to make sure; no creepy crawlers had snuck into them taking up residence. Seeing nothing there, Winchester put her feet on the ground and went to her closet for a new set of khaki shorts and shirt.
“The information you want, will be waiting for you Dana,” Young said. Winchester heard the sound of relief in Young’s voice. Young was a first-rate analyst Winchester’s only concern was sometimes she acted too timidly.
Combined Joint Task Force-Horn of Africa
Central Intelligence Agency Compound
Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility
Forward Operating Base
Camp Lemonier, Djibouti
April 25
The SCIF was two specially designed trailer's situated side-by-side heavy guard, surrounded by barbed wire and high-intensity lights. After reading the information sent by Young, Winchester called Bob Maxwell, Chief of Clandestine Service, and Peter Brent Director of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center.
“What do you have for me Dana?” Maxwell asked he saw Winchester had her game face on whatever she called about he knew it was important.
“Bobby I’ve been going over the material from Mohammed’s laptop and according to the information. Mohammed arrived in Somalia, to replace Msalam as the field commander for operations in East Africa, but there are numbered of references to an Operation code named Vengeance Strike to take place inside New York City.”
“Yes, I know Young just finished briefing me. How sure are you about this?”
“One-hundred and ten percent Bobby,” Winchester said. Bobby Maxwell was one of the last of the ‘Old Guard’ who had survived the Halloween Massacre during the Directorship of Stanfield Turner. Maxwell had just joined the Operations Directorate that summer and was gearing up for his first overseas posting when then Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Standfield Turner fired over eight-hundred members of the Operations Directorate. Maxwell dialed the Director’s private number.
Sixty-three years' old, Maxwell worked his entire adult life in the CIA+ Operations Directorate, which was now called the National Clandestine Service. From Bangkok to Cairo Maxwell did it all for the agency and the United States. He had lost two wives, and countless hours of sleep working to ensure the safety of the United States, and he had the gray hair to prove it. He had thick white, bushy eyebrows, blue eyes, and a small scar under his right eye. He walked with a limp from a piece of shrapnel in his left leg curtsey of the Hezbollah. Maxwell was part of the Beirut station during the second embassy bombing attack. For the last few years, Maxwell fought to revitalize the agency HUMINT capability, but Executive Director of the Central Intelligence Agency Brad Mills had blocked most of his attempts.
Mills, the third ranking officer in the CIA, did not believe that the agency could successfully penetrate terrorist organization with CIA officers. In fact, he and a few other senior intelligence community officers wanted to remove the clandestine service entirely from the agency and move it to the Defense Department.
“Bobby, that information the ISA team brought back leads me to believe a significant terrorist attack is going to take place in the United States,” Winchester said. Maxwell reached for a notepad on his desk. He pulled out a pen from his breast pocket, wrote three letters on the pad FBI, and showed it to Peter Brent. Brent shook his head up and down, acknowledging that the FBI had to be brought in.
“Dana I need everything you’ve got on this. Who can go with me to brief, the FBI?”
“Young, is up to speed on all the information she’ll go with you.” Winchester felt a little guilty knowing that Young hated dealing with the FBI, but if she were going to move up the ladder, she would have to be able to push through her own fears. I am going to have to tell Avery about the other material from Mohammad’s laptop.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Headquarters
The J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, District of Columbia
April 25
Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation John Goldstone sat cross-legged on his couch as the visitors from the CIA filed into his office. Goldstone, 55, a tough-talking former United States Attorney, came into the Bureau with one goal in mind. To streamline the Bureau and make it more efficient. To his credit, Goldstone removed layers of bureaucracy, allowing the individual SACs to be more flexible in dealing with threats to their cities and territories. Executive Director for the Central Intelligence Agency Brad “Buzz” Mills led the trio into Goldstone’s office. Following him was Bobby Maxwell, Chief of the agency’s Clandestine Service, and Tracy Young head of the agency’s Office of Terrorism Analysis.
“What is so urgent that you had to come right over Brad?” Director Goldstone asked. Goldstone saw the frown form on Mills’ face the second he asked his question.
“It seems that Maxwell’s people have stumbled across an al Qaeda operation,” Mills answered, his voice clearly portraying his own doubts about the information. Goldstone could not help and notice the lack of confidence in Mills' voice and the fact he called them ‘Maxwell’s people.’ He also noticed that C/CNS Maxwell and Tracy Young had taken seats on his couch together while Mills sat in front of his desk.
“Bobby what do you have for me?” Director Goldstone asked. Maxwell cleared his throat.
“Four days ago the agency received a tip from one of our agents in Africa that a meeting of senior members of al-Qaeda and al-Shabaab would be held in Mogadishu, Somalia. The operative provided us with the location and time of the meeting, and we planted an electronic listening device in the office where the meeting took place. Some of the details you are not cleared for, but the bottom line is al-Qaeda has an operation called Vengeance Strike. Based on that information; we believe that al-Qaeda or one of its associate’s plans to strike at New York City. We at the agency consider this an extremely credible threat.”
“How reliable, Bobby and who was at this meeting?” Director Goldstone asked, Maxwell turned his head and looked at Young. She nodded her head in an affirmative matter.
“Fazul Abdullah Mohammed, the new head of operations for al-Qaeda in East Africa,” Young said. Director Goldstone recognized the name. He saw it in a brief a few days ago. Mohammed was killed in a CIA drone strike a few days earlier
“This is the guy you took out a few days ago,” Goldstone said, looking and Maxwell.
“Yes,” he answered, “So you see why we considered this an extremely credible threat.” Director Goldstone reached for his phone and punched in a number.
“Carl could you come to my office on the double,” Goldstone said, into his phone. EXDIR Mills cleared his throat, trying to get Goldstone’s attention. Director Goldstone looked toward EXDIR Mills.
“Do you want something Brad?” he asked.
“This information is coming from one source, which I consider highly, suspicious. I checked with NSA, and they have not picked up any additional chatter about any immediate threats to us.” Director Goldstone knew that EXDIR Mills had no faith in his own agency’s ability to run agents inside of terrorist organizations.
“And your point is Brad?”
“I think that we might be jumping the gun,” Instantly, Director Goldstone saw C\CNS Maxwell, glare at EXDIR Mills.
“Brad, Fazul Abdullah Mohammed is one of the most dangerous men in al-Qaeda today. The information we obtained literally came from Mohammed’s own mouth,” Maxwell snarled. Mills turned to look at Maxwell, and in an extremely condescending voice said.
“Come on, now, Bobby all you’ve got on this guy is a recording of him bragging to al Shabaab about his alleged involvement in some half-baked plot to attack New York City. I find it highly dubious that al Qaeda could carry out any terrorist attack without us picking up any chatter.”
Young sat quietly listening to Maxwell effortlessly lie to the others who were not cleared for the CAPRICORN PROGRAM, but she was stunned, by, Mills’ effort to play down the danger of Maxwell’s warning.
Young had heard, of Mill's reluctance to believe the agency's ability to penetrate terrorist organizations, but to see it firsthand she was just stunned. Maxwell’s face got bright red, and he was about to defend his position when Tracy Young cut in.
“Excuse me Director Mills, but I would have to disagree with your assessment of the threat posed by Fazul. He is an extremely capable terrorist trained in al Qaeda’s camps by veterans of the Afghan war with the Russians and us. The Southern District Court of New York has indicted him for the attempted attack against our embassy in Oslo, and the assassination of Colonel Steve Bishop, chief of the military mission in Kenya. We know he has been in Iraq, and Afghanistan conducting combat operations. The only reason that he is not in the States right now is the original man heading the operation in Somalia lacked combat experience.”
Tracy Young had decided long ago that she would not let anyone try to intimidate her. Young locked eyes with Mills and would not look away. She knew the facts support her and no matter what that jerk Mills’ thought. The material from Fazul’s laptop has to be taken extremely seriously. Maxwell looked at Young, and a smile appeared on his face. Winchester had told him a few months ago that she had the making of a great analyst. Bobby, Young, sticks to the facts and is intensely passionate about what we are doing.
Director Goldstone could see the veins in Mills' neck bulged and pulsate. Before Mills could reply the door to his office open and in walked Executive Assistant Director for Counterterrorism, Carl Brady the flamboyant leader of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division swept into his bosses’ office. Dressed in red linen pants held up with powder blue suspenders and a Gerry Garcia pastel tie. Brady blew by Mills and went to the couch where Maxwell and Young sat.
“Move over Bobby, stop, hogging this beautiful young woman all for yourself,” Brady said in his Texas slow drawl. That brought a smile to Maxwell; he moved over to allow Brady to sit down. Brady turned his head and winked at Young.
“So what’s up?” Brady leaned back against the couch and spread his arms across the top.
“Hey, Buzz how are they hanging?" Brady asked Young watched, as Mills’ eyes seem to blink uncontrollably for a second then he quickly recovered his composure.
“Can we stick to the topic, please,” Mills said in a high nasal voice indicating disapproval of Brady’s question.
“Carl, have you heard of Fazul Abdullah Mohammed?” Maxwell asked.
“Yes, he the prick the agency blew away a few days ago. Before that he was wanted in connection with the attempted bombing of our embassy in Oslo and the murder of Colonel Bishop; I heard that AFRICON waxed his ass with a drone strike.” Brady gave an exaggerated wink to Maxwell letting him know he knew it was the agency that had killed Mohammed.
“We picked up rumors. He was running al-Qaeda operations in the states,” Brady said.
“The company has obtained information that Mohammed planned to launch an attack on New York City,” Director Goldstone said.
“And let me guess, Buzz you have a problem with what your own people have come up with,” Brady said. Maxwell cleared his throat loudly, and Tracy Young covered her mouth with her right hand to hide the smile that eased on her face.
“What is the problem this time Brad no ELINIT to back up some good old-fashioned human intelligence,” Brady said with just a hint of hostility in his voice.
“Ms. Young what don’t you go with Mr. Brady down to his office and brief him on the details,” Director Goldstone said. Young looked at Maxwell, he nodded his head. Brady got up and reached out with his hand to help Young off the couch.
“Come with me Ms. Young, you can tell me all about this mess,” Brady said. Young, not sure what to make of Brady gave him her arm and looked back at Bobby Maxwell for guidance.
“Do not worry Tracy, Carl is one of the good guys,” Maxwell said with a playful smile on his face. Young looked at Brady, who winked at her and smiled. He led them out of Director Goldstone’s office. Once they were out in the hall, heading for Brady’s office, he said something that caught her off guard.
“So you are Dana’s protégé. I’ve heard exceptionally admirable things about you.” Young stunned, did not know what to say. Brady laughed, looking at the perplexed gaze on Young’s face.
“Come on Ms. Young you know Tom Ladd,” Brady said. It hit Young like a freight train Tom Ladd. The number two man at the CTC was an FBI agent assigned to the center.
“He speaks very highly of you; in fact, he thinks you should be working over here.”
Halifax, Canada
April 25
The container ship World Sprit arrived early in the day. The containers stacked four high on the deck of the vessel. She sailed from the German port city of Hamburg. Most of the containers held BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes Benz for car dealerships in Montreal, Canada. Abound Yasin stood on the pier with his umbrella and watched, as containers for his BMW dealership were unloaded. Yasin had been a naturalized Canadian citizen for fifteen years now. With the money supplied by al Qaeda, Yasin had built a hugely successful life in Canada. Today would be his first operational mission. For a year now, Yasin visited the docks checking on his arriving cars. For the last year, customs officials paid extremely close attention to Yasin when he arrived to inspect his imported cars, his presence on the docks had come to be expected when his cars came. Yasin had a jolly attitude about him, a short man with a full oval face and pot belly, large dark, friendly eyes. Even the hard-nosed French-Canadian dockworkers fell under his spell. It also helped that he tipped them generously to get his cars off the ship as soon as possible.
Even so, down in his soul Abound Yasin believed in Jihad. He knew his actions today would lead to the deaths of the infidels in America. His sins against Islam would be forgiven once he reached paradise. The BMWs that arrived today were specially designed for Yasin dealership. Five brand new black 2017 BMWs X5s had been stripped down, and rebuilt adding a secret compartment that allowed two medium-sized teenage boys to lie side by side. However, that was not Yasin’s primary concern, he worried if the boys had been able to get rid of their waste. The week passage through the North Atlantic the boys would have to store their waste inside large zip-lock plastic bags, which on a rolling ship would be exceedingly difficult. For that reason, Yasin came armed with a Browning Hi-powered 9mm. If the warriors were discovered Yasin would be, prepare to shoot his way out of the dock area.
Customs Inspector Paul Lacoste and Yasin waited for the last of the Yasin’s containers at the container bridge. They watched as the last of his containers was lowered down on the flatbed. Yasin handed a fresh cup of hot coffee to Inspector Lacoste. After coming here for a year, he knew how Inspector Lacoste liked his coffee. As the driver began to lock down the container, Inspector Lacoste and Yasin walked over to the first flatbed and broke the seal. Inspector Lacoste handed his coffee to Yasin. Yasin switched the coffee to his left hand while he held his umbrella over Lacoste’s head as he looked at the container. Lacoste hopped up and into the back of the semi-trailer and turned on his flashlight. Lacoste went to the middle of the container looking, for the BMWs vehicle; identification numbers to see if it matched what he had on his manifest.
“The VIN, match Mr. Yasin,” Inspector Lacoste said, turning, his head to look at Yasin.
“Just always like Paul,” Yasin said, standing in the rain with his umbrella open. Today Inspector Lacoste’s mood had crossed over into the black since his early-morning fight with his bitch of a wife. This bastard is always cheerful and damn happy. Why the fuck is he, so pleasant Arab bastard? I should hold his shipment upon the general principle! Always smiling like that offering to help, it dawned on Lacoste that Yasin was invariably cheerful and never had asked for a break or even offered him a bribe. He was just an honest businessman.
“Today is your lucky day Mr. Yasin,” Inspector Lacoste said as he walked back to the entrance of the trailer.
“Make sure all your paperwork is in order take it over to the customs, and I’ll make sure you can get your vehicles in and hour.
Ministry of Intelligence and Security
Office of Minster of Intelligence and Security
Tehran, Islamic Republic of Iran
April 25
Mohammad Saeedi sat uncomfortably in front of Hamid Salihani’s desk. Saeedi, a short man with a neatly trimmed beard and black hair, had been in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for a year now. This would be his first overseas posting. Seated across from Saeedi sat one of the most feared men in Iran, Hamid Salihani, Minister or Intelligence and Security.
“Do you know why you are here?” Salihani asked in a cold and unfriendly voice.
Saeedi’s mouth became parched as he choked his reply out.
“No.” Salihani got up from behind his desk and went to his small kitchenette.
“Would you care for some tea?” Saeedi shook his head no. Salihani pulled a teapot down from the cabinet. “Mohammad, I find that tea is soothing to one's nerves.” Salihani walked over to his sink and turned on the faucet. “Mohammad you are here because you are on your way to America tomorrow, and I need your help with something.” Salihani stepped over to his small electric burner, turned it on, and put the teapot on it.
“Mohammad your country has need of your services,” Salihani said
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Texte: Victor G. Davis 2011
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 12.04.2015
ISBN: 978-3-7368-8916-3
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Widmung:
The Capricorn Program, SEAL Lieutenant Tucker Rapley, and his squad of special operation personnel are hunting terrorists in the Horn of Africa. Rapley and his team are members of a highly secret unit that captures only EHVTs (Extremely High-Value Targets). The mission profile is to leave enough evidence to convince people the EHVT has been killed during the attack. In reality, the EHVT is captured alive, and he or she is shipped off to a secret CIA location to undergo interrogation. Their first mission is to capture the head of al Qaeda in East Africa Fazul Abdullah Mohammed. The operation is successful during the operation Rapley recovers Mohammed’s laptop. They turn over the laptop to the CIA action officer to the mission, Deputy Director of Intelligence Dana Winchester. Winchester sends the laptop back to Langley, where Winchester’s protégé Tracy Young, discovers that Fazul Abdullah Mohammed is actually an Iranian intelligence officer sent to infiltrate al Qaeda, he is not alone.