“ ‘Second, despite the immense destruction inflicted on the Iraqi people at the hands of the Crusader-Jewish alliance, and in spite of the appalling number of dead, now exceeding a million, the Americans — never satisfied — nevertheless tried to continue and repeat the dreadful slaughter against Iraq and now spread their death to other countries in the region.
“ ‘Third, while the purposes of the Americans in these wars are religious and economic, they also serve the petty state of the Jews, to divert attention from their occupation of Jerusalem and their killing of Muslims in it.
“ ‘These crimes amount to a clear declaration of war by the Americans against God, his Prophet, and the Muslims. This condition calls for Jihad, according to the Ulema and the Sharia.” Sami glanced at his listeners, explaining, “This is the fatwa — the ruling. It holds that: ‘It is the duty of every Muslim to kill Americans and their allies, both civil and military. It is an individual duty of every Muslim who is able, in any country where this is possible, until the Aqsa Mosque’ — that’s in Jerusalem,” he said, looking up at the now horrified faces of the task force members, “ ‘and the Haram Mosque’ — in Mecca — ‘are freed from their grip and until their armies, shattered and broken-winged, depart from all the lands of Islam, incapable of threatening any Muslim.’ ”
Sami, chilled by the language before him, forced himself to keep reading. “He cites some Quranic verses, then continues: ‘By God’s leave, we call on every Muslim who believes in God and hopes for reward to obey God’s command to kill the Americans and plunder their possessions wherever he finds them and whenever he can. Likewise we call on the Muslim Ulema and leaders and youth and soldiers to launch attacks against the armies of the American devils and against those who are allied with them from among the helpers of Satan… ’ And he goes on with more quotations from Muslim scripture.
“That’s about it. I could explain most of the Quran references if you want. He’s extreme, but I’ve got to say his beliefs are not that unusual in much of the Islamic world.”
“Who does this guy think he is?” Kinkaid whispered furiously. “How the hell can he declare war on the United States?”
“He must buy that Syrian bit about the U.S. Navy going into Lebanon with Israel. That was more effective than we expected.”
“How could he believe that? As if we’re going to send a couple of airplanes with the Israelis. We have never operated with them! What would we accomplish? Some people will believe anything. So,” he said to Sami, “what do you make of it?”
“Pretty simple. He wants a war with the United States.”
Kinkaid gritted his teeth. “Maybe we should give him one.”
Bark sat at the console in a small room on the Washington that controlled the PLAT cameras. It also had a station to replay tapes from previous landings since LSO’s occasionally reviewed the tapes. Once in a while the Air Boss came down and watched a tape. Whenever there was an accident the station got quite a workout. But this was the first time any of the Petty Officers had seen a Squadron Commander watch a normal landing of one of his squadron’s planes over and over again. Especially a three wire. They glanced at each other and shrugged. If a commander wanted to sit there all day and look at landings, it was fine with them.
Bark rolled the tape backward and forward. Regular speed, slow speed, stop action, every way he could. Woods’s plane was coming back from the first hop after they’d pulled out of Haifa. Bark leaned forward, easing the cramp in his lower back from the metal chair he had been sitting on for too long. The missile inventory had gone fine. There wasn’t one missile missing. That should have ended it. But Bark wanted to check everything. He had a feeling. Woods and Big had come back awfully sweaty.
He studied the images of Woods’s F-14 coming aboard the ship again. Suddenly he slapped a large button on the console and froze the image on the screen. He studied it. There was a dark area, perhaps a shadow, perhaps carbon, on the Sidewinder missile rail on the left side of the airplane. But the missile was still there. They couldn’t have shot any missiles, Bark thought to himself. Even if the Gunner has faked the missile records, that wouldn’t explain how Woods had missiles on his airplane when he landed. Can’t reload in the air. They sure weren’t reloaded on deck. He could see them. He slapped the button again and the film continued. He stood and stretched, checking his watch. Not time for chow yet. He debated inspecting Woods’s airplane. Might as well. “Thanks,” he said to the Petty Officers as he stepped out of the small room and headed to the hangar deck.
Commander Whip Sawyer had enjoyed his first month as the Naval attaché at the U.S. embassy in Paris, one of the choicest jobs in the entire world. There wasn’t a lot of intelligence gathering or analysis, but there was the opportunity to live in Paris. Sawyer had brought his entire family along with him on this choice assignment. His children, however, ages seven, nine, and eleven, had been nervous about the change. They had spent the last five years in Coronado, California, where Sawyer had been an Intelligence Officer on the staff of a SEAL team, and then for SPECWARCOM, Special Warfare Command. He spoke passable French, and had placed his children in French school. The children had come home teary-eyed for the first two weeks, but were now getting used to it. His wife was still unsure, but overall his family was settling in. They had found a wonderful small apartment in the fourth arrondisement, not too far from Notre Dame.
Sawyer was content. He had already discovered what he considered to be one of the best jogging paths in the world — from his apartment, down to the Seine riverbank, then along the river toward the Eiffel Tower. He could run along the Seine as far as he wanted, sometimes on the sidewalk above, where artists sold paintings and booksellers sold used books, sometimes down the stairs on the cobblestone quays along the river where the barges pulled up. It was quieter there, less traffic, and no intersections.
Sawyer had been starting his run earlier each morning so that he was now beginning in the semidarkness, although he could see well enough to keep from tripping. He dashed across the street onto the sidewalk that paralleled the river, keeping his running pace consistent, a moderate pace that would allow him to go five miles or so without overdoing it. Today he decided on the lower route and turned down one of the stone stairways to the cobblestones below. He took the stairs rapidly and headed toward the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to get in a good long run.
The Seine was beautiful in its quickly flowing darkness. Sawyer had been surprised at how clean the city was, and how few homeless people there were. He wondered how France had solved the homeless problem. But there were a few pathetic homeless winos who populated the underbelly of Paris by the river, usually under the bridges. It was one of the unfortunate realities of running on the quay.
Sawyer approached the second of many bridges. It was one of the prettier ones, although some thought it gaudy. It had gilded nudes on the side with Roman-looking soldiers beside them. There were black figures and gold ones, emphasizing the contrast, and the city obviously kept the bridge in good condition. It was a wide bridge and provided cover for several people beneath. Sawyer recognized all of them, except one. The person looked like a puddle of humanity in large clothes full of dust and leaves. An old woman’s head stuck out the top of the puddle of clothing, her arm protruding at an odd angle holding a cup out to him. Her witch-like voice called to him for money. As he got closer he glanced at her again. The woman was a big lump with no obvious spine, and seemed to have no legs at all. Sawyer tried not to show his revulsion. As he reached her, he accelerated just slightly. He never saw the leg come out from under the dark mass of clothing, the strong leg of a man. Timed perfectly, it caught him in the shins as momentum carried him forward. Sawyer slammed to the cobblestones, instinctively putting his hands out in front to catch himself but he was falling too hard. He smashed his cheekbone on one of the cobblestones, lights shooting through his head as he groaned and tried to get back up. The young man who had been hidden under the pile of clothes threw off the black cape and the woman’s face and jumped on Sawyer, still lying on the stones. He pulled out a knife, jerked Sawyer’s head back, and cut his throat. As the blood spurted onto the cobblestones, the man rolled Sawyer’s body into the Seine.