Right. In my former business, that’s a clue that somebody wants to kill you, and you know they’ll try again. Same with the February 1993 truck bombing at the World Trade Center. A cop on the street can see the pattern, but the geniuses in Washington were whistling in the dark through the graveyard with their heads up their asses. Well, we all woke up after we lost three thousand people on 9/11. But that wasn’t going to bring back the dead.
Chet continued, “The enemy are not the brightest bulbs in the room, but they only have to get it right once. We have to get it right every time.”
Chet lit another cigarette and looked toward Aden. “See that brown apartment building on the hill? Five Al Qaeda operatives were in there on the morning of the attack and they were supposed to get over to the Al-Tawahi clock tower and videotape the explosion.”
I looked at the clock tower, a tall Victorian structure built by the British over a hundred years ago. I’d been in the top of the tower, and from there you had a good view of the harbor. But the videotape guys never saw that view.
Chet continued, “Unfortunately, the idiots were asleep in the apartment and missed the whole show.” He commented, “Total fuckups. But even fuckups get lucky once in a while.”
I’d also been in that apartment, which had been sealed off as a crime scene when I was here and maybe it still was. Hard to believe that five jihadists had slept through the big moment. I mean, total assholes. They were probably sleeping off a big khat chew. But as Chet said, even fuckups get lucky, and the two guys in the boat got very lucky that day-if lucky is the right word for blowing yourself up-helped a bit by the Pentagon.
We were drifting with the outgoing tide and a small land breeze had come up and was pushing us farther out into the open gulf. Around us were a few dozen fishing boats, and like most men in Yemen, including fishermen, the guys on board were probably packing AK-47s. I mean, I wasn’t concerned per se, but I don’t like to get myself in exposed situations for no good reason. Chet, however, seemed unconcerned or unaware, so maybe he had some backup out here on the water. Or he was, as I suspected, crazy. Maybe arrogant, too.
Chet said to us, “The place on the hull where the jihadists detonated the explosives was the ship’s galley where crew members were lining up for lunch, which is why there were seventeen dead and thirty-nine injured.” He thought a moment and continued, “So it would seem that Al Qaeda knew the location of the galley and knew it was the first lunch shift.”
I thought about that. A hundred or more crew members clustered in the galley for lunch. And right on the other side of the armored hull was a boat filled with maybe seven hundred pounds of explosives. The question was, Did Al Qaeda know-or did The Panther know-where and when to detonate those explosives? Or, like most of their successes, was it just dumb luck?
Chet concluded his briefing, “The crew fought the flooding and had the damage under control by nightfall. Divers on board inspected the hull and reported that the keel was not damaged, so the billion-dollar ship was salvageable.” He continued, “Because we have no military base in this part of the world, the Cole was on its own for a while. But there was a Royal Navy frigate in the area, the HMS Marlborough, that proceeded at top speed and provided medical and other assistance. Eleven of the most injured sailors were flown by medevac to the French military hospital in Djibouti for surgery before being flown to the U.S. military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. The rest of the injured-and the dead-were flown directly to Landstuhl.” He added, “Fortunately, none of the thirty-nine injured died, but many are disabled for life.”
No one had anything to say, but then Chet surprised us by suggesting, “Let’s say a silent prayer for the dead and injured.” He bowed his head, so we all did the same and said a silent prayer.
I’m not good at this, but I did pray that the two suicide bombers were burning in hell with their dicks blown off and not getting any wine or sex in Paradise. Amen.
“Amen,” said Chet, then he started the engine and we headed back.
I looked at Chet Morgan, who was staring off into space with those glassy blue eyes. This guy was either very good at what he did, or very nuts. Maybe both. In any case, he needed close watching.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Chet opened the throttle, and we were making good time around the peninsula and back toward Elephant Rock.
There were a lot of big dorsal fins gliding around close to the boat, and if Kate and I had been alone now with Chet and his Glock, I might have been a little concerned. But then I remembered that we were here to be Panther bait, not shark bait.
Chet said to his captive audience, “If you recall, we weren’t certain that Al Qaeda was responsible for the Cole attack. This was pre-9/11 and Al Qaeda was only one of many terrorist groups that were causing us problems.”
Right. And Al Qaeda never claimed responsibility for the attack. But on the Arab street, the word was out that Al Qaeda was behind the Cole attack, and Al Qaeda recruitment went way up, just as it did after 9/11.
Chet continued, “By August 2001, right before 9/11-about the time Mr. Corey was here-we identified Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, as one of the three main plotters. That’s when a lot of this started to make sense.” He asked rhetorically, “Who else could have thought of this, organized it, and executed it so perfectly? It had to be an American.” He reminded us, “Most of these so-called jihadists are too stupid to even think of something like this, and too inept to pull it off.”
I partly agreed, but I said to him, “Some of the top guys are very smart and very sophisticated.”
“True,” replied Chet, “but I see a Western-educated head behind this attack. Not someone like bin Laden who’s really a country bumpkin and a clueless fundamentalist and two-bit philosopher who has his head in the clouds when it’s not up his ass.”
Interesting, and maybe true. At least the CIA thought so.
Chet continued, “No, it was someone who understood us. Someone who had knowledge about our idiotic Rules of Engagement, and someone who may have had some knowledge of the Cole’s layout and the time and date that the Cole would put into Aden Harbor, and the time of the refueling and the first lunch shift. Also someone who understood the psychological impact of an attack on an American warship that caused the death of so many American sailors.” He added, “This bastard, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, has a big hate toward America and this attack was a manifestation of that hate-a humiliating kick in our balls.”
No argument there, and I’d add that Chet Morgan had a big hate, too. I guess we all did, but Chet seemed to be taking it more personally than most of us. I mean, we’re not supposed to get into the hate game, which can screw up your judgment and your performance. You need to be cool, and most people in this business are cool to the point of cold-blooded. Hot is not cool.
But Chet had been here a long time, and he was probably frustrated and under pressure to get results. Plus he had more info than we did about The Panther, including the asshole’s psychological profile. As sometimes happens in a long investigation, the case officer starts to obsess on the fugitive and begins to see him as the cause of all his problems. It’s kind of complex, but I’ve been there. The other thing that struck me was that Chet, who had initially come across as a bit burned out, was now very animated, like a switch had been turned on. Or maybe the khat had kicked in. Or the hate.
Chet continued, “This attack has not been fully avenged. But it will be. These bastards, including Mr. al-Darwish, have to learn that there is a price to pay.”
“They know that,” Kate assured him, “and they are ready to pay it.”