The Fourth War (25 page)

The runner looked nervous and his eyes moved left and right.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “We've got your buddies too. One bad move and they're dead. So be careful, comrade, and speak quickly.”

The runner didn't hesitate. “My master wants to see you,” he said.

“He knows how to contact me. We have agreements for such things.”

“No. He can't wait. He wants you to come to his camp.”

The American shook his head and looked around angrily. “Tell him I'll come when the rain breaks.”

“No, my
Sayid.
He begs that you see him this morning.”

“This morning?”

“Yes. Right now. He wants you to come with me.”

Peter hesitated and scowled. “I'll come when the rain breaks,” he repeated.

“No. He must see you right now.”

“Why?” Peter challenged. Something grew tight in his gut.

The messenger looked around, glancing anxiously over his shoulder again. A sudden gust of wind blew, pushing a sheet of rain before it and he wiped the cold water from his face before he turned back to Peter. “He has information,” he answered as he turned his head.

“About what?” Peter demanded.

The runner lowered his head. “Tirich Mir,” he muttered.

Peter's heart slammed in his chest.

“Tirich Mir,” the Afghani repeated as he started to turn. “Now come. It's important. My master said you would understand.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Peter Zembeic was in the Camp Cowboy command post, talking on the satellite phone to his superior at the CIA.

“Lashkar Gah's got something for me,” the agent said coolly into the satellite phone. He waited through the five-second delay as his message was encrypted, bounced from one satellite to another, then sent down to a reception center outside of D.C., where it was relayed to Thomas Washington's office at Langley. The electrical energy in the clouds broke the satellite reception with static and his earpiece constantly crackled as he waited for Washington to respond.

Washington's voice finally came back. “He actually said Tirich Mir?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

“You think Gah knows about the warheads?”

Peter thought a moment. “Doubt it,” he then replied. “But he'd have to be blind and stupid to not know that
something's
going on. Half the soldiers in Pakistan have been transported up there. Unless he's spent the last few days on the moon or circling Mars, he'd have to have heard something.”

The phone was silent as Washington thought. “This man, General Lashkar Gah, how long have you worked with him?”

“I don't know for certain. Since sometime last fall.”

“But you trust him?”

“As much as I trust anyone.”

“You don't trust him then.”

“Not particularly.”

Another moment of silence. “Alright,” Washington answered. “Call me after the meeting. I want to know what he's got.”

“Roger, boss,” Peter said, “Signing off now.”

“Wait,” Washington interrupted before Peter could break the connection. “Who are you taking with you?”

“No one,” Peter answered. “I'm going alone.”

“Don't,” Washington instructed.

Peter hesitated. “I can take care of myself, Thomas.”

“Take someone with you,” Washington repeated.

“I don't tell you how to schedule meetings or eat donuts, so please don't start now telling me how to do my job. Anyway, Gah wouldn't allow it. He never has. It's always been me and him, that's just the way that he works. He's kinda funny about U.S. troops in his camp; you know those tribal warlords, they are a skittish bunch. Besides, he and I have an agreement. I don't bring strangers to our meetings and he doesn't kill me while I'm there.”

Washington didn't answer for a moment and the satellite phone crackled as he thought. “Be careful, Peter, I'm nervous. Something doesn't feel right about this.”

“I'm nervous too. But I'm always nervous; that's why I'm still alive. And though I appreciate the thought, you've got bigger things to worry about than little ol' me.”

The White House
Washington, D.C.

The national security meeting took place in the president's private office on the residential floor, a small room with thick walls and a creaky hardwood floor. Only a small floral couch and two leather chairs provided seating. A single window looked out on the office towers north of the White House where lightning flashed, illuminating the tall buildings in strobes of white light.

The director of the CIA, the NSA, and the chairman of the joint chiefs entered quietly and sat, each of them formal and intense. Four stories below them, in the basement of the White House, there was panic in the air. Hundreds of staff members worked in the dim light of the Situation Room, where secure phones constantly chimed and chaos rang everywhere. At Andrews AFB, Air Force One had been placed on a STEPONE alert, the flight crews briefed, and the aircraft readied to go. The Homeland Security National Alert System had gone from yellow to orange and the military had increased its DEFCON to Two. Throughout the Middle East, U.S. embassies were on the highest alert.

The president sat in one of his favorite wingback leather chairs. His face was stricken, but calm, though his lips had turned dry from chewing on an old stick of gum. “Okay, why didn't the Stealth drop its weapons?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone.

“Sir, we don't know,” General Abram answered quietly. “We can speculate on several possibilities—targeting malfunction, hostiles in the area, the aircraft going down—but without more information we'd just be wasting your time. And why they didn't drop hardly matters right now; the fact is they didn't and the warheads are gone.”

“The warheads have been taken then?” POTUS demanded.

The CIA director nodded. “Yes, sir, they have.”

“What happens next, then?”

The director squared his shoulders. “Sir,” he began, “even as we speak, al Qaeda is dispersing the warheads throughout the region to protect them. We have counted as many as four dozen trucks moving through the area now. We suspect that most of the vehicles are only decoys, but some of them certainly have been loaded with bombs.”

The president shook his head and swore, his jaw drawing tight. “And there's nothing we can do.” It wasn't a question but a statement. He already knew.

Still General Abram answered. “Sir, as you know, we simply haven't had time to move any ground assets into the area. We are talking about, sir, what is unquestionably one of the most remote and inaccessible spots on this earth. It will take us days to get ground forces of any significant numbers into the area. By then, of course, it will be far too late. It's too late already. The warheads are gone. By morning they will be hundreds of miles from the area, and completely dispersed.”

“And then?” the president asked as he sunk back in his chair.

“They could show up anywhere. Our bases in Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Oman, or Kuwait. A city along the east coast. Anyplace, anywhere. These warheads are literally so small they could be packed in a box, labeled oil rig parts, picked up by a FedEx contractor in Morocco and shipped to an airport in the United States.”

The president turned to look through the large window behind him and the director saw him tremble as he stared at the back of his head. The president was silent for a long time, lost in his thoughts.

As the director watched, he tried to imagine what must be in the president's head. He thought of the venom spewed by their enemies, a constant and filthy river of hatred and rage. He thought of the attacks the United States had already endured, then the continual promises to destroy the United States.

The president turned around and the director diverted his eyes. Staring at his hands, he swallowed, then lifted his face to meet the president's stare. “There is not a doubt in my mind that one or more of those warheads will find its way to U.S. shores,” he said. “I defy you to find me anyone who doesn't believe that is true.”

“Then, short of invading and occupying the entire Middle East, how do you propose that we locate the weapons?!” the president demanded, his voice acid with rage.

The director pressed his lips. For the first time in his career he didn't have the answer. The truth was, he had no idea at all.

The president was silent, reading the fear in his advisor's eyes. “Okay,” he announced, his decision made. “You don't have a suggestion, so let me tell you what we're going to do.” He pushed himself up and placed his fist on the table, leaning angrily toward his staff. He looked each one in the eye, his face determined and proud. “From the first day I took office, I have felt in my gut that I would face this day. And I want you to know, I'm prepared for what I must do.

“The issue is clear. We have seen the work of radical Islam far too many times now; from the nightclubs in Bali to the schools in Beslan, from the U.S.S.
Cole
to our own soil. We see it every day. Every…single…day. Bombings and destruction of innocent lives. And now they have the potential to wreak the most evil carnage of all.

“So we can't wait. Our nation, our very existence hangs by a thread. I have a constitutional obligation to defend this country, and make no mistake, I will honor that pledge. And so, gentlemen, this is what we will do:

“First, I am immediately calling up every unit in the National Guard as well as activating the ready reserve. In addition, I am federalizing state militias, rescue assets, and emergency management organizations to help secure all of our borders. Until such time as we have found and destroyed these terrorist organizations and their nuclear weapons, I am ordering our military and civilian forces to seal our borders from all shipping and transport, whether by air, land, or sea. Now listen—I know—I realize the economic impact will be enormous, but when you look at the alternatives, what choice do we have?

“Second, it is time that we had some help. We have carried the burden of fighting terrorism far too long by ourselves. Too many of our allies stand on the sidelines, playing both sides of the fence. No more screwing around, it's time we found out who our friends are. I want to find those warheads and I want to find them right now. To do that we need help, and if our allies won't stand with us then they will stand out of our way.

“The First and Second World Wars were won and sealed with American blood. Then we defeated communism in the Cold War, the third war we fought. And now the fourth war is upon us and we will finish this task! So, listen to me when I say this, for this is my final word! And I want you to take this message to every country in the world.” The president turned slowly to his secretary of state. “You go to the Middle East and give them this message from me. If our enemy strikes us, then we
will
respond. If an American city is attacked, they will see a crushing blow. Give them that message, and make it perfectly clear. They
must
join in this search to find these nuclear warheads if they want to survive. They cannot sit back and watch as we are destroyed. An attack on U.S. soil will result in their destruction as well. One way or another, they are in this war too!”

The president paused and took a breath and a cold chill settled over the room.

Was the president really serious? Would he retaliate? Looking in his face, there was no doubt in their minds.

The president finished speaking, the passion cracking his voice. Then, turning to his CIA director, he held his eyes. “You have twenty-four hours, Rich, not one second more. You have twenty-four hours to bring me a plan to go after those warheads. I'm telling you, Rich, to tear the world apart! You have my authority. You are free to bust heads. There is no law or regulation that would preclude any action you take. You
will
locate those warheads. Now, do you understand?”

The director nodded. It was perfectly clear.

The NSA cleared her throat. “Mr. President, there are a few other things that you need to decide,” she said. He looked at her anxiously and she went on. “We have the primary target list where we want to begin the search. But we need your approval before we can execute the—”

“Give me the top three.”

“Es Suweida, south of Damascus, Aqaba, and Tehran.”

“Are our forces in place?”

“Sufficient. Not optimal, but we can start on the job.”

The president waved his hand. “Get at it,” he said.

The NSA nodded expectantly. “But sir, the Saudis. The French. The others on the list?”

“Put the screws to them! Hammer them to the wall!”

“Mr. President, are you then authorizing—”

“Yes! Yes! I'm authorizing any action. Have I not made myself clear?”

The NSA scribbled quickly on a legal pad, then glanced over to the CIA director. The operation they were going to order would require both of their signatures and she needed to confirm that he understood the president's instruction. The director hunched uncertainly and the NSA pressed. “Mr. President, forgive me, but I need you to be very specific. Are you authorizing our in-country agents to move against the Saudi King?”

“Do it!” the president answered.

The NSA nodded and the room fell silent again. “What else?” the president demanded, but no one replied. “Okay,” he said, “let's get to work then.”

The group stood as one, each of them breathless, and silently filed out of the room.

South of Camp Cowboy
Northern Afghanistan

Peter followed General Lashkar Gah's runner down the muddy trail. The rain had broken for the moment, but the heavy clouds behind him promised more would soon come. Lashkar Gah had moved his camp down by the river, which was swollen and roaring from the morning rains, the water running cold and clear over the boulders and rocks. At the edge of the clearing, on the side of the camp, the runner came to a stop and stepped out of the way to let Peter pass by. He pointed to a single canvas tent and grunted. Peter understood.

The warlord's clan normally lived down in the valley, twenty kilometers east, nearer to the Pakistan border, but this prewinter romp through the mountains was something they did every fall. By summer's end, the valley grasses had been grazed away, and so the herdsmen that supported the chieftain drove their herds to higher ground, where the animals could forage among the grasses that grew along the steeper terrain. But the heavy rains were precursors to the snows that would come, and the clan would soon be driven to the valley again.

Two dozen tents had been pitched in a circle around a community fire on a sandy bank along the river. Peter could hear the tribal goats and sheep bleating on the grassy foothills behind him, and he smelled the tangy smoke of the smoldering fire. The camp seemed to be empty. He knew the children had been tucked away inside their canvas tents while the warriors and herdsman were in the rough shelters in the trees, from where they could keep their eyes on the camp while grazing their animals.

Peter approached the tent carefully and stopped until he heard the warlord say. “Come! I am here.” Peter pulled the flap back.

Three men were waiting, the warlord and two strangers. He waited at the tent flap, dripping wet, until the warlord stood up and gestured him in. Shaking off the rain, Peter stepped inside. Gah grunted and pointed to his poncho and Peter took it off, folded it carefully before placing it on the floor. A black leather holster was strapped over his shoulder and around his waist. Seeing three other handguns in their holsters placed by the tent door, Peter unstrapped his weapon and placed it beside his poncho. Standing, the warlord twirled his finger and Peter lifted his arms and turned, showing there was no weapon at his side or tucked behind his shirt. Satisfied, Gah nodded and sat down heavily on the floor.

The tent was warm and comfortable from a small propane heater that vented through a slit in the tent wall. The canvas floor was well swept and clean, and it was surprisingly large. Wool blankets had been piled along one wall, with foodstuffs and a low folding table along the other. The men sat facing each other, their legs crossed, eyeing each across the floor.

Peter bowed to Gah, then turned to the other men. The nearest one was large and middle-aged, with downturned lips and a cold stare. The rough hands, worn boots, and dirty combat jacket with cluttered pockets betrayed him as a man who lived on the move. And there were only two reasons men moved around in this place. Running or chasing. Peter wondered which one it was. Then he glanced to the other. Hardly more than a kid, he stared quiet and wide-eyed. Peter saw the resemblance and realized he was the older man's son.

The two strangers watched him carefully, then shot a subtle glance to each other. Their eyes darted nervously. This was, after all, the
Apostle of the Night,
the American horseman, the prince of the darkness who seemed to know everything. He was well known in the mountains. Everyone—thieves, terrorists, drug smugglers, tribal chieftains, jihadist, and thugs—everyone had heard stories of the
Apostle
and the men he had killed. Still, the older man almost smiled. It was three against one. They were armed and he wasn't. And they were ready. He was unprepared. It shouldn't be difficult to kill him, the legend of his prowess aside.

Camp Doha
Qatar

It was dark, the wind blew, and sunrise was an hour away. The sky was black and rolling, a thick ugly blanket hiding a dull yellow moon. As the rain crashed in thick sheets, the thunder rolled in from the seas. The wind howled violently across the open water, creating whitecaps tall as buildings, walls of frothing white that crashed in on themselves.

Two U.S. Army MH-60 combat helicopters sat at the far end of the runway. Their cabin doors were open, exposing two .50-caliber guns mounted on the floors, lethal out to two miles, and multiple bundles of equipment and ammunition stashed under the main cabin seats. The choppers were unmanned and their rotor blades were tied down, but they had been preflighted and cocked for combat alert.

Inside a small building, the crews huddled around the operations officer, the second in command, a brand-new lieutenant colonel who had been deployed to Qatar for more than three hundred days. The boss pulled on his nonregulation-length moustache as he studied the satellite charts. The weather was lousy. No, the weather was foul. But the mission wouldn't wait; they had good intel, a window of opportunity, and, more, a go-ahead from the boss. The pilots and soldiers would have flown their choppers though a hurricane to get to this guy.

The ops officer glanced out the window and watched the lightning flash in the predawn sky. “Fifty miles south of here, the weather turns to deep Sierra,” he began. “Eighty-mile-an-hour winds. Lightening. Hail. Wind shear. The works. It's going to be a thrill setting down on that boat. So, be careful, men. We all want this guy, but I don't want any of you dead.”

The mission commander, a crusty captain who had spent eight years as an enlisted soldier before gracing the officer's ranks, nodded as he studied the weather chart with his boss. He felt his gut crunch. This was what he lived for, and no lousy weather was going to keep him down.

“Once you get to the Straits,” the colonel continued, “there is a sudden break in the weather, then another line of storms another thirty or forty miles to the east. A little luck, a little prayer, and it might be clear when you get to the target.”

The captain nodded. Pushing the weather charts aside, he picked up a satellite picture, then a dark silhouette outline of the target, memorizing the ship's features that would confirm the ID. The
Jablah
was a small freighter, old and rusted, with double smokestacks, black and red paint, and a squat bridge over a cluttered deck. It flew under a Syrian flag and carried a Syrian crew, but the United States didn't care, at least not any more.

“How many crew members?” the mission commander asked.

“Twenty, maybe twenty-four.”

“Will they be armed?”

“Count on it, buddy. They're supposed to be civilians, but some of them are Syrian SSQ forces. Either way, it doesn't matter, the ROE is the same; dead or alive, we want this guy.”

“What about the cargo?”

“Don't know, don't care. If you determine the ship is carrying contraband, disable the engine and the navy will move in and impound it after you're gone. But weapons or diapers, the cargo isn't the point.”

“But intel has a good bead on the target?”

“Looks like they do. He was spotted boarding the
Jablah
before it left the port in Iran. Looks like he wants to disappear while things are jumping over there. The ship is bound for Syria and will be rounding the Strait of Hormuz by the time you get in the air.”

The captain nodded, then glanced to his team leaders. “Anything else?” he asked. All of them stared at him. “Alright then, let's go. I want this scumbag on one of our choppers before the sun shines.”

U.S.S.
George H. W. Bush
South of Oman

A navy Grumman Hawkeye was also assigned to the mission.

The aircraft was heavily loaded with fuel and sat low on her struts, the thick pistons compressed almost full to their stops. The engines whined and the props howled, sending a wash of air over the wings. It was raining hard, and the darkest clouds were still moving in as the enormous carrier, all eighty-nine thousand tons, was turned into the wind. Twenty-foot waves crashed at the bow, sending a cold ocean spray over both sides of the deck, but the carrier rolled with the punches. It pitched up and then down; one hundred eighty million pounds of steel, gas, bombs, airplanes, and men, bobbing and bouncing like a roller-coaster ride.

It was pitch black when the Hawkeye was wedged against the catapult hook. The pilot set his eyes on the horizon and studied the weather, watching the clouds flash with lightning that danced to the water, then he turned to the markings on the flight deck. Steam rose from the catapult engines and was swept back by the wind in contrails that flowed across the grated steel. The cat was set for a forty-five-thousand-pound launch, and the launch officer checked the settings, then gave a thumbs up. The pilot brought up full power and held on the brakes as the two-engine aircraft strained against the cat. He sat back in his seat and advised his crew of launch, then dropped his feet from the brakes and waited for the shot.

Two seconds later the catapult slammed the aircraft forward, sending the turbo-prop-driven aircraft over the bow. It dipped slightly toward the ocean as it cleared the deck, the engines sucking in gulps of cold water that were thrown up in front of the bow, then began to climb gingerly into the dark sky. As the airplane accelerated through one hundred twenty knots, the aircraft commander called, “flaps,” and the copilot lifted a small lever near the two throttle controls. The flaps recessed into the wings and the aircraft dipped twenty feet, then continued to climb toward the dark clouds ahead.

The navigator called directions from the back. “Heading 355, Cap'n. The weather scope is showing the worst cells are off our right. If we fly north, I think we can come in from the rear and set up a search pattern behind the first line of storms.”

The pilot didn't answer as he turned the aircraft to heading, his weather scope a solid wall of dark green and red. As his aircraft bounced in the wind, the radios were drowned in static from the lightning that flashed off his nose, momentarily blinding him. He hated this. He really did. He knew the danger of flying near such powerful storms. He had a wife and two daughters, and he wanted a son.

His wife would be bitter for a decade if he bought the farm, his government-issued life insurance notwithstanding. But still he turned the aircraft and leveled off at ten thousand feet.

For the next fifteen minutes the crew maneuvered, turning constantly to slide in between the worst cells. Though the sun rose on the horizon somewhere above the clouds, it seemed to get darker as they flew into the heart of the storm. The wind buffeted the aircraft, bobbing it like a cork on the sea, lifting and dropping it with sickening force, and the pilot turned to his copilot, who was looking very green.

“You okay there, Porky?” he asked.

The copilot gulped and swallowed. “Fine, Cap'n, fine.”

“Got a hole in the weather up ahead,” the navigator said from the back. “Once we get past that, looks like there's a break. I should be able to find the target if we can circle in that.”

The pilot pushed up the power and climbed, the altimeter jumping between thirteen and sixteen thousand feet. Five minutes later, the clouds suddenly cleared. “Alright,” he said, “take a look around and see what we've got.”

The backseater cast his radar down, taking a picture of each ship that was steaming through the Gulf and enlarging it on his screen. Ten minutes later he found it; double smokestacks, eighty meters, cruising east through the Straits of Hormuz. Had to be the
Jablah.
He let the pilot know.

The pilot nodded, then got on the radio and gave the combat choppers a good vector toward the target, which was now almost directly below.

The sky had turned from deep black to dark gray as the choppers approached the
Jablah,
flying ten feet over the water and approaching from aft of the ship. The pilots could barely make out the silhouette of the freighter as it steamed around the tip of Oman. Four miles from the target, the second chopper split off, turning forty-five degrees to the right. Glancing over his shoulder, the mission commander checked the ten-man team in the back. All of their faces were determined, though a couple of men smiled.

They were going after Fayesa Amin. It didn't get any better than this!

The second chopper flew to a position sixty degrees off the freighter's right side, then turned toward the target, getting a good broadside look. The two pilots studied the freighter as they drew near; one even pulled out a picture and held it up to the windscreen, comparing the two. “That's our baby,” he said.

The second pilot nodded, then got on the radio. “Bull's eye,” he said.

The mission commander clicked twice. Confirmation of target. The mission was a go.

He turned again to his troops in the back of the chopper. “Two has visual confirmation of the target,” he announced over the intercom, and the soldiers stirred anxiously. The pilot glanced at the time-to-target countdown. “Two minutes!” he said.