Sword of Allah (22 page)

The sun had set and night was coming down fast.

Wilkes allowed himself to be pushed to the front of the crowd gathered around the trestle tables. The fact that Baruch knew he was SAS rather than CIA relaxed him a little. He didn’t know how to behave like a CIA man – now
he could just be himself.

Wilkes looked around for Monroe to tell him his cover was blown, but Monroe was nowhere about. ‘Brilliant,’ he said to himself.

The portable tables were groaning with monitors, laptop computers and a spaghetti of electrical connection cords and other computer-related paraphernalia. A generator hummed five metres behind this command station, with a backup beside it. Three technicians in civilian clothes sat at the tables and fussed over the gear like mothers over their first-born. One of the grey monitors flashed into life and the knot of spectators pressed closer.

‘Sorry, can y’all please just move back a little and give us some air,’ drawled one of the technicians, irritated by the pressing crowd. He was a young black American man of around twenty who wore a red Sikorsky-branded baseball cap, a yellow Hawaiian shirt and jeans that looked as if someone had tried to pull them off him and nearly succeeded, the top half of his Calvin Klein underpants showing. Wilkes thought he looked like a rapper. The halfdozen soldiers of assorted rank politely did as they were asked and moved back a pace.

‘Okay,’ the technician said, nodding, relaxing slightly. ‘So what we have here is an update on your Combat Forces Digitisation Program, bringing its efficiencies to the difficult-to-manage urban combat zone. The heart of the system is the Dragon Warrior UAV. We’ve had one Dragon Warrior up for some time, giving us the overall picture, and it has now been joined by a second Dragon Warrior – the one you just saw taking off. That means we can orbit the target building using the first Dragon Warrior as a
relay platform, allowing us to obtain a wealth of information from the battlefield in real time. In short, we’ll know what’s going down as it’s happening, and be more able to deploy our forces where and when required.’

Dragon Warrior – pretty tough name for something that looked like a flying doughnut, thought Wilkes.

‘And the Dragon Warrior is not limited to urban conflicts either. It can be given an over-the-beach battlefield capability by simply attaching the winglets provided.’

‘Salesmen,’ said Baruch quietly in Wilkes’s ear.

‘The Dragon Warriors possess thermal imaging as well as infrared, refractive light and x-ray cameras, all with up to one thousand times magnification. Basically, from a thousand metres away, day or night, we can tell you whether the enemy have clipped their nose hairs. And we can relay that information to any other command set, be it a bunker, tank or hee-lo – anywhere on the battlefield,’ he said while he tapped several letters on the keyboard.

‘Although it beats me why the presence of nose hairs on the battlefield might be important,’ said one of the other technicians, sharing his observation with a snigger.

‘I don’t understand,’ said one of the Israeli officers.

The rapper continued with a grin. ‘Dragon Warrior is the missing link – integrating airborne assets with ground forces, improving overall operational capabilities and, of course, efficiencies. From this desk, we can provide situational awareness to nearly all manoeuvring components on the field of battle. We can also switch command centres as the battle develops. And for those of you who are not familiar with this form of battlefield management – an example. The two AH-1 Zefa gunships we have online are each
equipped with four tube launched, optically tracked, wireguided missiles – TOWs. An old-fashioned weapon, really. As you all know, the Achilles heel of the TOW is that the firer has to keep the targeting crosshairs on the intended bullseye, virtually to the point of impact. That can make the firer itself vulnerable to enemy attack. Dragon Warrior, however, allows you to designate one hee-lo the firer, and the other the command centre. The launch platform can then skedaddle and the command vehicle can, from a position of relative security, direct the missile to its target.

‘Now, of course, most of this isn’t new, but what Dragon Warrior brings to the picture is. It’s a remotely operated platform that can hover, getting its sensors into all those hard-to-get-at places, and make this information available to all friendly forces…’

Wilkes thought the technician’s pitch sounded like an advertisement for a cross between a new computer game and a toothbrush.

‘And all of it can be presented picture in picture.’ He tapped the appropriate keys and the view provided by one of the monitors split into four smaller frames each with a different image.

The pulse of the helicopters suddenly grew sharper. Wilkes realised that it had been reasonably quiet for a time while the aircraft were on the ground picking up Lieutenant Glukel’s assault team. Now the helos were inbound on the target building.

‘It’s showtime,’ said the technician theatrically, glancing over the top of the monitors at the surrounding darkness, but there was nothing to see. The helos were coming in blacked out.

The technician’s associates began to work furiously over their keyboards.

‘This screen here will monitor the heart rates of the soldiers on the hee-lo and this one, those of the ground force,’ said the technician tapping each screen in turn. ‘This information is picked up by a wristband transmitter worn by each soldier and relayed to us via the Dragon Warriors. Twenty-four heart rates in all for the soldiers going in. The wristband also transmits a signal that the command centre here displays as a small, bright red sphere, replacing our soldiers’ heat signatures. We can thus differentiate between friend or foe on screen.’

In a quiet aside to Wilkes, Baruch outlined the attack. ‘There are twelve soldiers coming in on the rooftop, and another twelve providing a blocking force on the ground. At the appropriate moment, we cut the power to the building and –’ He finished the sentence by grinding his fist into the palm of his hand.

We hope, thought Wilkes.

‘On this other screen, we have the HUDs of the two accompanying Zefa attack helicopters, showing their fire control systems, plus a light-augmented view of the target building provided by the inbound Blackhawk. And, of course, we are in constant communication with every soldier in the battle through their tac radios. The only aspect of the battle we can’t give you is a view of the op from the ground. Unfortunately, the Humvees are not yet looped into the CFDP.’

‘Ideally, we’d have brought a couple of battle tanks in to support the operation,’ Baruch said quietly, ‘but the streets here are too narrow for the MBTs to manoeuvre effectively.’

Wilkes nodded. He’d never been involved in an action at this level of command. It was like watching a video game.

‘And over here, presented in glorious plasma screen colour,’ the technician said, absently tapping keystrokes, ‘we’ve got the target building itself. Watch this.’ The building housing the terrorists switched from being presented in the green glow of light-accentuated mode to that of bright technicolour. ‘Thermal imaging overlaid with x-ray.’ The external brick and plaster of the building was revealed and, beneath it, various joists, beams, electrical wiring and plumbing. There were also red, yellow and green blobs moving about. ‘Those are people,’ said the technician, pointing to the moving blobs. ‘Dragon Warrior is extremely sensitive. See those occasional fireflies of red with yellow outlines? They’re cigarettes moving from ashtray to mouth to ashtray.’ The technician was obviously proud of his baby. ‘Okay, so let’s switch to the tactical radio frequency and see how the troops are doing. Colonel?’ He turned and looked about for Baruch. ‘Here, sir, have some headphones.’ There were a couple of spare sets on the bench. He gave the one set with a boom mic to Baruch. Wilkes helped himself to the other pair.

Wilkes ignored the continuing sales pitch and looked at the tactical situation presented by the remarkable technology. Inside the four-storey building he counted twenty-four contacts. The enemy and the Israelis were evenly matched in numbers. Three of those enemy were on the roof; thirteen were strategically placed at window and door openings. Sentries. On the second floor, there were eight men seated. This was no lodge meeting. The technology was great, but Wilkes wondered whether the
Israelis had enough of a force to overwhelm the enemy. Sure, the Israelis had surprise on their side, but that would be given away with the first shot fired. From the positioning of people in the building, it appeared to him that the enemy was prepared for the worst.

The Saudi smiled at Kadar and gave him a nod. It was risky for him to have come all the way from Asia for this meeting with Hamas and Hezbollah command, but it was a further demonstration of the man’s commitment and loyalty. The atmosphere in the room was jovial. Things appeared to be swinging their way. At last.

The Palestinian clapped a Syrian comrade on the back and the room roared with laughter. Comparing Americans to chickens running about the coop as the farmer’s wife chopped their heads off one by one was a wonderful punchline, and a worthy image.

‘I have one,’ said Kadar.

‘Tell us,’ said the Palestinian, eagerly leaning forward. It had been so long since he’d had anything to laugh about, but Kadar’s bombing of the US Embassy had lightened his heart.

‘An American couple comes to the Holy Land to see the sights. They’re having dinner and suddenly the wife gets something stuck in her throat. He slaps her on the back, trying to dislodge it. The waiter is called and he too begins to slap the woman on the back, but alas, she chokes and dies.

‘Well, the next day, the husband is with his wife’s body at the embalmer’s, discussing costs. “How much to bury her here?” asks the American.

‘ “Only a hundred dollars,” says the embalmer.

‘Next, he goes to the US Embassy. He explains the situation and asks how much it will cost to fly his wife’s body home for burial there. “A lot,” says the embassy. “At least ten thousand dollars.”

‘ “Okay, that’s fine,” says the husband. “I’ll put her on the first plane out.”

‘ “But why don’t you bury her here, in the Holy Land?” says the embassy man, puzzled. “It won’t cost you much at all.”

‘ “That’s true, only a hundred bucks,” he says. “But once upon a time a man was buried here and several days later he came back to life!”

‘ “Well?” says the embassy man, not getting the point.

‘ “So,” continues the widower,“now I’ve finally got rid of her, there’s no way I’m going to risk putting her in the earth here!”’

The men grouped around the table, and even a couple of the soldiers standing guard, burst into laughter when the penny finally dropped. Tears rolled down the Palestinian’s cheeks. He put his cigarette down, got up and walked around to where Kadar Al-Jahani was sitting. Kadar stood and the two embraced. ‘Thank you, my brother, for bringing us new hope…as well as a few good jokes.’ They all laughed again. Kadar welcomed the affection from the Palestinian – it was certainly a refreshing change from the outright negativity and scepticism that he’d shown in the past. Since the loss of his son, The Cause had become a personal vendetta for the man – the taking of individual lives superseding the desire to establish a homeland. How many deaths would even the scales
for the man, balancing the loss of his son? Twenty? One hundred?

‘And so, my friend,’ said the Saudi, ‘how did you manage to outwit the Americans in Jakarta? The whole world is talking about it.’

‘We had God guiding our hands,’ said Kadar.

‘Ah, the man has trade secrets he doesn’t wish to divulge,’ the Yemeni said.

‘Tell us about Indonesia,’ said the Syrian. ‘What is the reaction there?’

‘You’ve seen the television reports. Demonstrations, effigies and flags burned…other western embassies, consulates and businesses under siege…’ the Palestinian said, lending his support openly to Kadar Al-Jahani for the first time.

‘Yes, but…the feeling on the ground?’ the Syrian insisted.

‘My friends, Indonesia is ready,’ Kadar said, nodding slowly, seriously.

The three men smiled at Kadar Al-Jahani. Duat would be pleased, he thought. As he had promised, the bombing had been a risk worth taking.

Dogs began to bark in the street below and one of the Hamas bodyguards closest to the window leaned out to investigate. At that moment, a corpse dropping from the rooftop sped past him and thudded onto the street below, the dead man’s rifle clattering on the road and cartwheeling away.

The guard blinked as his brain attempted to catch up to real time. He watched as Humvees rounded the corner a block away and sped towards the building while,
overhead, the air filled with the deafening roar of a large helicopter.

‘Fuck,’ said Kadar as the bodyguard at the window suddenly spun backwards into the room with no head on top of his shredded neck, spraying the wall with blood.

And then the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.

The Blackhawk roared low over the observation building. The reflected glow from the town below provided enough light for Wilkes to see it bank sharply to the right, inbound for a landing on the target building’s rooftop. Everyone then switched their attention from the night sky back to the computer monitors.

Suddenly, two of the three coloured blobs, men on the rooftop, were propelled rapidly backwards. The third body scribed a small arc then accelerated down the side of the building until it hit the street. Another blob on the second storey sunk to the floor, taken out. Thus, in a matter of seconds, the main sentries had all been sniped.

Another monitor presented a second, more distant view of the building in the green of night vision. He watched the Blackhawk flare and counted thirteen soldiers rappelling from the aircraft onto the flat rooftop. He also counted the individual vital signs of the airborne force – there were thirteen – and noted that the individual heart rates had soared. There are twelve soldiers coming in on th
e
rooftop
,
and another twelve providing a blocking force on th
e
ground
.
That’s what Baruch had said. The name of a trooper was provided under each heart rate, all except for
one. Number thirteen. That had to be Atticus Monroe. Jesus! Wilkes wasn’t superstitious, but that didn’t stop him having an ugly premonition.