'You've been sailing around in these waters for weeks,' Mike said. 'Didn't you notice it was hot?'
'The deck we did not come out on when it was hot,' she said. 'I think better it is if back to the yacht we go where the air conditioner runs.'
'What about your friend Franciska? Don't you want to avenge her murder?'
'Maybe not,' Hildegard said, shrugging. 'Franciska was a
'Silly or not,' Mike said, 'we're not going back to that fucking yacht.'
'But, Mike, out here we will die!'
He grinned without humor, speaking to himself under his breath. 'That's one thing you're probably right about.'
Chapter 17.
CAMP TALATA, PAKISTAN
28 OCTOBER
0500 HOURS LOCAL
KUMANDAN, the field commander of al-Mimkhalif, stood in the empty field of what had once been a thriving terrorist camp. Orders had come to destroy any equipment, ammunition, weapons, and other material that could not be carried away. The task had kept the entire group busy for a full two days of round-the- clock labor. When the job was finally finished, the mujahideen were divided up into three groups and sent by separate routes to the coast for pickup by the dhow
The last column sent out was now wending its way down the mountain to the lowlands before turning west toward the Arabian Sea. In spite of their optimism and trust in their leader, the mujahideen stood no chance of making it safely to the objective. Kumandan had carefully mapped out the routes of the withdrawal so that the men were certain to run into military and police posts where death or capture would result. In actuality, he was using the operation as a way to rid of himself of the less desirable elements of his command. The only people left with him were the dozen members of his immediate staff. The unfortunates now heading out would be the decoys to draw the Pakistani authorities away from the trails he and his entourage would be following while making their own escape. The twelve men who accompanied him were his best and brightest. They had to be saved if al-Mimkhalif s field campaign was going to reestablish its jihad.
The last few weeks had been especially difficult for the terrorist group. The supplies of arms and weaponry had dried up to the point that they were unable to conduct meaningful operations. Rather than raid police and army outposts, the mujahideen of al-Mimkhalif had been reduced to no more than reconnaissance activities to keep track of their enemies. A shortage of food that had at first been no more than an inconvenience quickly became critical to the point that many of the men were visibly weakening from malnourishment. By then, all outside activities had been canceled and the camp routine was reduced to the most basic guard and sanitation duties to keep the weakening men from wasting away. It was expected that at least a quarter of them would not be able to make it all the way to the coast even if they were not harassed by the authorities. Kumandan and his chosen elite, however, were in fine fettle. They had hidden away rations for their own escape, and were strong and fit for the ordeal ahead.
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KUMANDAN'S real name was Azam Marbuk. This leader of mujahideen had the slim muscularity of a naturally good physique, and intelligent dark eyes that betrayed a superior intellect. His beard was trimmed neatly and his hair wasn't overly longish, giving him a decidedly conventional appearance. He had been an officer in the Royal Jordanian Army with a bright future back in the early 1990s. He was the first of his military academy class to make the rank of captain, and he seemed destined for command and staff responsibilities at the highest echelons of King Hussein's army. His many career successes had made the young officer a bold and headstrong braggart; reticence was not a part of his personality. He was not hesitant about giving his opinions, and considered anything he had to say not only interesting to others, but most enlightening as well. It never occurred to him that anyone would disagree with his views.
One evening in the regimental officers' mess, Marbuk's inflated ego got the best of him. He stated that King Hussein's expulsion of the Palestinians from Jordan was unwise and against the best interests of Arabs. By turning against the fighters for Palestine liberation, the king was helping to maintain the state of Israel. That was bad enough to say in the company of six other officers, but things got worse when he also opined that it was a shame that the king's wife, Queen Noor, was an American. 'She may be of Arab ancestry,' the brash captain said, 'but only a woman bom and raised in the Middle East has the right to be the queen in an Arab monarchy.' Then he brazenly added, 'I do not consider her any more cultured and refined than a fishwife shopping for food in the markets.'
This treasonous conduct was dully reported by a couple of other junior officers jealous of Marbuk's quick rise within the commissioned cadre. The regimental commander hated to lose an excellent officer, but unless he took drastic steps against Marbuk, he would be guilty by association. This could not only end his career, but possibly his life. He went directly to the brigadier, who went to the chief of staff.
In less than a week Captain Marbuk had been broken in rank and tossed out of the Army. To add more shame to the dishonor, he was also exiled after being stripped of all his property. Even his family suffered when some lucrative government contracts with his father's shoe factory were abruptly canceled.
The ex-captain, bitter and infuriated, turned to the lodge in his hometown's mosque for help. They too had been unhappy with the king. The best they could do under the circumstances was arrange for Marbuk to go to Syria, where another chapter of their religious brotherhood was located in the city of Hims. The Syrians and Jordanians had been on opposite sides of several issues due to King Hussein's policy of minimal commitment to Arab causes, and the Syrian brothers were happy to welcome Marbuk into their midst.
The lodge was filled with activists who hated Israel and the West with a zealous fervor. Several members of the chapter were well placed in the Syrian government and were most effective in directing those passions. The membership had developed close ties with a burgeoning terrorist organization called al-Mimkhalif that was in the midst of organizing a fighting force to strike against the foes of Islam. When the well-trained, proficient officer with command and staff experience settled in, he was contacted by an operative named Hafez Sabah, who was an agent of al-Mimkhalif. The two became fast friends, and it was Sabah who recruited Marbuk into the group. They went directly to Mikhbayi to meet with Sheikh Omar Jambarah aka Husan, who assigned the Jordanian officer as his field commander. It was at that time that the Jordanian adopted the nom de guerre Kumandan. He was dispatched to set up a training and operation camp in Pakistan. Marbuk and Sabah worked well together, organizing training, logistics, and combat missions. Most of their operations were successful, the one big exception the disastrous raid on the police border guard station. No one had been able to figure out how the Pakistanis learned of the planned attack.
Other operations, while minor, were all successful, and with the arms smuggling running smoothly, the future of al-Mimkhalif's field campaign looked bright. Then things began to fall apart after the defeat of the Zauba Squadron, and the situation rolled back to square one.
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NOW Kumandan checked his watch, then turned to the twelve men gathered around him. 'It is time to go, brothers,' he said. 'I do not want you to think of this as a defeat. It is no more than a setback that can be put right.'
One of the men shouted, '
'That is true,' Kumandan said emotionally. 'Al-Sahara-- the Great Provider and Sustainer--shall guide us through this difficult time all the way to the golden victory that awaits Islam.' He picked up his rucksack and slung it on his back, then grabbed his AK-47. 'Let us go, brothers!'
They formed into a single column, walking toward the trail that would take them down to the lowlands.
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WHALER BOAT
INDIAN OCEAN
