The air campaign smashed in like a thunderstorm and slashed the Taliban with everything from superb man-hunting Apache helicopters to F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers to Daisy Cutter bombs that weighed seven and one-half tons to AC-130 gunships that spewed bullets in incredible swaths. Not a single plane was lost, but the Taliban front line peeled open like a tin can.
Incredibly, in the face of the disaster, a Taliban leader patiently explained to Juba that things were really going well. The strategy was just to draw in the American army and bleed it slowly over the years, not defeat it. Eventually, Washington would give up, just as they did in Vietnam and the Russians had done in Afghanistan.
Juba argued that it might not happen that way and pleaded to be allowed to create a special strike unit that could exploit the Americans’ vulnerabilities. He knew this enemy! He was ignored.
The Afghan capital of Kabul fell only two months after the 9/11 attacks, and the developing ground campaign then destroyed Taliban units all through the country, until they found safe refuge in the defensive positions of Tora Bora and the White Mountains along the Pakistan border.
Juba at last was allowed to form a guerrilla group to attack supply lines and targets of opportunity, but his small team was soon swept back into the overall force, and Juba found himself in charge of troops who had no stomach for real warfare and retreated under the slightest pressure. There were many caves in which they could hide.
In frustration, Juba cursed the day he had met Osama bin Laden and Dr. al-Zawahiri. Their whole grand plan was a bust. He believed there should have been an entire series of attacks and responses ready to follow up on September 11, while the United States was almost totally unprotected, unsure, and reeling. Why weren’t bombs going off in cities across America and around the world to keep the enemy off balance? Attack! They should never have allowed the U.S. military to catch its breath. Lies. Al Qaeda had fed him lies. He believed in continuing violence to accomplish military goals, while bin Laden and al-Zawahiri believed in…what?
He had no desire to spend a bitter Afghan winter holed up in some freezing Tora Bora cave, waiting for a cruise missile to fall on his head. The war had evolved into a gigantic game of hide-and-shoot, and that was something that ex-Color Sergeant Jeremy Osmand, a master sniper of the Royal Marines, could do better by himself. He did not want, nor need, to be around this mob. He decided to carve a personal, ruthless, and bloody path into the heart of the enemy.
After the disaster at the biochem site in Iran, Juba spent two days luxuriating at the Four Seasons in Qatar, pampering himself and letting the fear of the deadly gel recede from the forefront of his consciousness. To his surprise, he did not die.
He booked a Lufthansa flight to Paris, with a brief layover in Frankfurt, Germany, and took a cab straight to the house in the Nineteenth Arrondissement.
Saladin was concerned the moment he laid eyes on Juba. He looked like a man who was crawling out of a pit of despair. “Talk to me, my son,” he said. “What has happened?”
Juba handed over the briefcase. “The experiment was successful, and I confess it was difficult to watch. Afterward, we were attacked and the canisters of the gas exploded. I barely made it out alive.”
“Who did this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some politicals trying to free some of the test subjects.” He rubbed his palms over his eyes. “No one survived except me and the helicopter pilot. It was too dangerous to allow him to live.”
Saladin walked to the windows and looked out. It was a bright and pleasant day. “Can you continue?”
“Of course,” Juba said. “I was just shaken by the thought that the gas had gotten to me. I am ready.”
Saladin opened the briefcase. “This is everything about the formula?”
Juba nodded. “Yes. The site was almost empty, and the rest of the computers and paperwork were destroyed during the attack. We should go ahead and transmit this data to the facility in Mexico. Prepare enough of the gas for the demonstration.”
“And you are certain that you will be able to continue on schedule?”
“Without a doubt,” Juba replied. “I can be in the United States by the end of the week.”
That brought a smile to Saladin. His man was still strong. Anyone can stumble at some time. “There is no urgency about that, so I would like for you to stay here for a while. We will study and talk and let you prepare for the mission ahead. I will send the formula today, but our lab in Mexico will still need some time to produce the gas and transport it.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“And you look as if you could use some good news, my son, so let me give you some: We already have six entries for the auction. That’s sixty million dollars before the real bidding even begins, and I expect more.”
“They will all come after us.”
“They can try.” Saladin laughed. “They can certainly try, but with you running our security, they will certainly fail. We will leave this house together and return to America in a few days, so if our enemies want us, they will have to first enter the U.S., which will be on very high alert. Then, after we collect the money, you and I shall just disappear.”
15
CAMP BAHARIA
IRAQ
ON ARRIVAL BACK AT the Marine base outside of Fallujah, Swanson turned over the captured material to an intelligence officer who had been awaiting the helicopter. Sybelle Summers was also at the pad, wearing a dark green sweater and black jeans, a small pistol tucked into a black leather waist holster. She looked over the Marines as they hopped from the bird. They seemed okay. Her first look at Delara Tabrizi made her smile, for the small woman seemed like a child among the heavily armed special ops team, but her walk was steady and confident. For a woman who had been a civilian schoolteacher only a few hours ago, and had since endured two major raids and had seen her friend and her brother slain, she had done okay, Sybelle decided. A sister.
Swanson, Tipp, and Hughes brought Delara over, and Sybelle led them to a small office she had used in supporting the mission. “Not that I care, but the brass is raising hell about this unauthorized job,” she said, plopping into the chair behind the desk and putting her boots on the top. “We didn’t get enough papers stamped and authorized and all that bullshit.”
Kyle dropped his gear on the floor. “Doesn’t matter. What we found and brought back will more than shut up the critics. Loads of recordings of voices, papers and records, some computer disks, pictures. And eyewitness accounts of how this new poison gas works.”
“Can Tipp and Travis do the debrief by themselves?”
“Sure. They saw everything I did, and Trav took the pictures.”
“Good,” said Sybelle, “because you and I are out of here.”
Kyle agreed. He needed to keep his cover intact, and that would be hard on a base filled with Marines. “Then I want to take Miss Tabrizi along with us. I don’t want her falling into the system. Once she is debriefed, the intel pukes will hand her to the political types, and God only knows where she will end up. She helped us a lot. We owe her.”
Delara was seated, watching the exchange. The woman was obviously an important person and spoke to the Marine like an equal, but they were talking about her fate. “I cannot return to Iran!” she said. “I want to kill these people who made this poison!”
Sybelle laughed quietly and looked over at Kyle. “So let’s take her out to the boat with us and let Jeff figure it out. He has a ton of diplomatic contacts and is good at that sort of thing.”