“I will create a new Islamic state out of this desert. And like Abi Waqqaas, from this we will wage war on the Zionist-Crusader alliance. I have an army of youths who love death more than the Americans love life.” Yousef ’s eyes burned and his voice rose as he gestured wildly with his free hand.
Parker continued to write. “You began this years ago, correct? Some say as far back as Pan Am Flight 103?” Parker couldn’t help it. He wanted to hear the words directly from the man’s mouth.
“You are a good reporter, Zabara!” It was as if someone had asked Jonas Salk whether he had cured polio. “Yes, I was a young lieutenant in the ANO. Nidal was like a father to me.”
Nidal was known for his recruitment of the best and the brightest. Parker decided to provoke Yousef subtly once more. “Some say he was paranoid.”
“You have heard the stories?”
“Yes.”
“They are lies. He was strong; it was others who were afraid.”
“You attended Harvard in America.”
“It was there that I learned to truly hate the Zionists. I remember one professor said I could only attend the school because of oil. The police?” Yousef hissed angrily. “They harassed anyone of color. What was it that Du Bois said? ‘I was in Harvard, but not of it.’ But I did learn how to make money. As I saw the increasing bloodshed in Palestine, I was ashamed for having done so little in my life.”
“What was Flight 103 meant to achieve?”
“It achieved what it was supposed to achieve.”
“I don’t understand.”
Yousef warmed a hand over the fire, still holding the teacup with the other.
“The Muslim nations are all controlled by governments that do not allow a voice to be heard. In Saudi Arabia, the Al Hayat and Al Jazeera write only what the king wishes them to write. In the UAE, the Al Bayan does the same. So how do we get the message out? Pan Am Flight 103 showed the world that the Americans could suffer. The Beirut bombing of the Marines caused the Americans to leave Aden in less than twenty-four hours. In Somalia, when a dozen soldiers were killed in a minor battle and a pilot was dragged through the streets, the Americans left. And these victories were all on CNN, and then they eventually had to be on the front page of Al Jazeera and Al Bayan. It encouraged a thousand other young warriors to join.”
“I can see the short-term effects,” said Parker. “What do such acts do for the mills that grind slowly?”
“Ah, yes. Longfellow. ‘Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceedingly small’?” Yousef knew the verse. “The long-term message is that retribution is not solely for the Americans.”
Parker kept scribbling and nodded. Then he looked up. “The tea?” Parker pointed to the cup.
“Yes.” Yousef took a sip and then handed him the cup.
“I am sorry. It is the travel. I have a headache coming on.”
“The tea helps.” Yousef smiled. “Drink some more.”
Parker smiled as he took the cup and another sip.
CHAPTER 65
James Scott hurried back to a second desk that he’d staked out in the operations center — this one in the rear of the bridge near the AO cell. The air operations cell controlled the air in the northeastern quarter of Afghanistan, where Scott’s team perched on their hilltop.
Five large flat screens covered the one wall of the bridge and, like other operations centers, the desks and computers rose like stadium seats on platforms facing the displays. A large air-ground map shone in the center flat screen. Scott could see on the map Kabul to the south, down the valley, and the several mountain ranges that encircled Bagram. The airfield’s single runway was at just less than five thousand feet above sea level, but the mountains to the north, east, and west all climbed up to fifteen thousand feet in less than a few miles. It made for an elevator-like descent when landing.
“What’s the weather looking like for the next twenty-four hours?” Scott asked one of the staffers. He had just returned from his conference call with Tranthan.
The young, freckle-faced man, a Kansas native, Scott had learned, frowned. “Frankly, sir, not good. There’s a sandstorm blowing in from the northwest.”
“How soon before it arrives?”
“Hold on, sir.” The airman turned to his computer terminal to pull up the weather report. The picture of a dark-haired girl in a bright white-and-red cheerleader’s uniform was taped to the terminal. “Here it is. Winds expected up to sixty miles an hour in the next six to twelve.”
“What will that do to air?”
“It will shut down the Blackhawks.”
Just as Scott had feared. Exfiltrating Parker and his team had just become immeasurably more complicated and uncertain.
“Can you raise the team?”
“Yes, sir.”
Scott had tried to keep the communications down to a minimum, but Furlong needed to know his options.
Scott took the headset.
“Slashing talon six, this is checkmate six, over.”
The six meant that the commanding officer was talking to another commanding officer. five would be the second in command and one through four might be the different platoon commanders.
“Checkmate six, this is slashing talon six.”
“Severe weather expected your position from twenty-one-hundred zulu to oh-three-hundred zulu. No air. Do you copy?”
“I copy, twenty-one-hundred zulu to oh-three-hundred zulu.”
Zulu time provided a uniform reference point— Greenwich Mean Time. Translated, a storm was going to hit at three in the morning and stay there until well after sunrise.
The conversation with Furlong didn’t last much longer than a few seconds. Scott imagined the captain tucked in behind a pile of rocks looking out over the valley with his thermal night-vision binoculars. The optics would pick up anything with a heartbeat or a body temperature above the cold rocks. Furlong would be lying in the dirt, camouflaged, marking the locations of his men and feeling the tickle of an occasional scorpion crawling up his sleeve.
“What are they doing down there?”
A group of servicemen had grown quickly below them, at the lowest level of the bridge.
“Sir, if you don’t mind, I might check this out. I’ve been wondering myself.”
“Yeah, please do.”
Scott watched the five screens as he sat in his chair, sipping a cup of black coffee that had a stale taste to it. He looked into the cup, seeing the stain on the ceramic above the liquid lines from past cups. The mug was borrowed from the mess and well used.
The airman came climbing back up the steps quickly, a stunned look on his face.
“What is it?”
“Sir, they’re watching CNN International on the terminal.”
“And?”
“They’re reporting that the Pakistani weapons complex at Kamra was attacked an hour ago. Two nuke cores are gone.”
CHAPTER 66
His temperature was rising.
Parker leaned back on the prayer rug and touched his hand to his forehead, then ran it through his hair. The skin was cold and wet, and the hair was matted with sweat from the fever. Parker’s neck felt stiff, almost as if welded in place; as he tried to turn it, pain shot through his shoulders. His head was starting to pound. Even staying still, he felt as if a large wooden mallet had struck him in the rear of his skull.
Parker squeezed his fist, once, twice, and then a third time, suppressing the pain and trying to focus. “It is time for prayers.”