When Saddam quietly asked if the weapon was ready, Saladin knew his life rode on the dictator’s reaction to the answer. Not quite, replied the commander of the United States Battalion. Perhaps one more year of research and development would be required. Maybe even two years. Uday and Qusay exchanged glances and grinned. Saddam tapped his cigar ash and nodded his head, as if in understanding of the difficulties involved.
A burly bodyguard stepped forward without a sound and crushed a long iron bar onto the right shoulder of Saladin’s superior officer, who crumpled in agony when the bone broke. Two more bodyguards joined in the pounding as Saladin struggled to remain at rigid attention while his friend and colleague was beaten to death by his side. He could still recall the crunching of the bones, the spreading pool of blood, and the screams, with the uncaring eyes of Saddam Hussein watching him, not the man being beaten to death. When it was done, Saddam leaned forward and said, “You are now a full colonel and the new commander of the United States Battalion of Unit 999. You have three months to finish the work. You may go.”
Saladin saluted, turned on his heel and marched out of the palace, found a quiet place, and threw up.
Saddam Hussein was crazy, the plan was crazy, and if he stayed in this job, he was crazy, too.
The new colonel was required to stay around Baghdad for a while to help transfer much of the technology and equipment comprising the Iraqi stock of weapons of mass destruction onto railroad cars and refitted Boeing planes to shift the components out of Iraq. He consigned some of it to go to America, through a front company in Jordan.
It had been at dinner in a quiet Baghdad cafe one night during that time that he was introduced to a unique young warrior called Juba, who, it was said, had been waging a one-man sniper campaign in Afghanistan and was a superb killer of infidels. The man was quiet, with a sense of spiritual loneliness, and Saladin, who was a scholar as well as a soldier, decided to exploit that missing piece. This could be his way out of the disaster that was surely coming toward Saddam Hussein’s army.
At nights and in the mosques, he guided his new friend deeper into the Book, behind the words of the Koran and into the concepts of what it truly meant to be a Muslim. He steered the conversations easily toward the approaching war, and Juba agreed totally that Iraq would lose.
Since Juba was so bitter about his experiences in Afghanistan, it was not difficult to convince him that Muslims needed a goal higher than squandering their lives to achieve another round of fourteenth-century squalor.
“There will never be a rebirth of any united nation of Islam, unbound by colonialist borders and not ruled by worthless kings,” he said. “But that does not mean the struggle should cease.”
Juba snorted and sipped some tea. “We will lose. Iraq is doomed.”
“What would you say, my friend, if I told you there is a better way that you and I can serve the Prophet?”
“I’ve heard that promise before, and it was worthless.”
There were only the two of them in the room, studying the Koran. Saladin spread his fingers and laid his hand on the Book. “I tell you now, and take an oath on the Book, that we can carry on the battle no matter what happens to Saddam Hussein. I am building a weapon that will make the Crusaders weep for their children,” Saladin said. “I need a strong man I can trust, you, to protect me while I finish the work.”
“So we will not change the world?” the warrior asked.
“No. That is impossible,” the scholar said. “While Saddam will be defeated, we will continue our work in secret. The project will belong to us then, and together we will unleash Allah’s vengeance and fury upon the infidels’ own homelands.”
Then the Iraqi colonel inducted Juba into the secrets of Unit 999 and chose to assume a secret identity of his own, the name of the famous warrior-king of ancient times-Saladin.
10
CAMP DOHA
KUWAIT
AFTER THE DEBRIEF, KYLE Swanson dropped by the hospital to check on Double-Oh, who was still in surgery, then went over to the private quarters maintained for special operations, checked in, and took a shower. The television set in the small room was reporting on the London attack, and he punched up some pillows and lay back on the bunk to watch for a while, then catch some sleep. A pounding on the door ended the brief period of relaxation.
Captain Rick Newman and Sergeant Travis Hughes were there, still dressed in their cammies and covered with dirt from the mission. As they described the odd interrogation of Dalara Tabrizi, Kyle realized that by sharing her idea for another cross-border operation with the intelligence officers, she had unintentionally kicked down the first of a long row of dominoes.
The intel pukes would report up their chain of command, then planners would be brought in to examine the possibilities and would kick it to Washington for debate and approval, and then somebody would have to make a decision to send a U.S. patrol deep into Iran because some woman wanted to find her brother. Since the first raid had turned up so little in the way of hard evidence that a chemical device was being built, there would be great reluctance among the higher pay grades to sign off on a risky new mission on the word of a stranger. If any Americans were caught, the international repercussions would be severe. With every hour that passed, the attack in the UK was going to be viewed more as an investigative matter for police, and the military would be sidelined. Maybe a satellite could take pictures of the suspected site, or perhaps a spy plane could do some flyovers, but without having to put boots on the ground. Was it worth the risk?
“What’s your opinion, Trav?” asked Kyle.
“She’s telling the truth,” he answered. “Every minute she was being questioned, she just kept getting stronger. Rawls is with her right now over at the mess hall, and she is cool and focused.”
Swanson looked at Rick Newman. “I doubt if another mission will be authorized,” the young captain said. “Too much potential fallout.”
Kyle was already putting on his uniform, his mind whirring with possibilities while they watched the latest horrific televised report from London. “We have to do it, even if there is only an outside chance to get to the bottom of this whole thing. So I am thinking that my authorization for the original mission into Iran is still in force and we returned to Doha just to drop off our wounded man. We have to get out of here because this place is just too damned big and has too many competing interests.”
Travis Hughes gnawed a fingernail. “The village she mentioned is in the west of Iran, about halfway up the border with Iraq and out where the agriculture gives way to the mountains. We could stage out of Camp Baharia, which is on about the same level in Iraq.”
“Good,” said Swanson. “Once we are among just Marines, things will get easier. Rick, you get us a plane to take the team up to Fallujah and run the support side of the show from Baharia. I’ll get Captain Summers over here, and we can slide it out of the military chain of command entirely and put it under Trident and General Middleton. By the time Sybelle lands, we want to have this thing already moving. If we keep the momentum going, the paper- shufflers will never catch up.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Sybelle Summers arrived for work at six o’clock in the morning. Like thousands of other commuters, she rode the Washington Metro to the Pentagon station, patiently took the long escalator ride up to the main entrance, and signed in. As she walked the wide, polished hallway, the place seemed like a giant tomb, and there was an overwhelming feeling of barely restrained excitement as the men and women of the United States military services were preparing to face what quite possibly was a new attack against the homeland. She went directly to the Trident offices
Major General Middleton and Lieutenant Commander Freedman were watching television, with the general switching from channel to channel as each network devoted its entire programming to the news from England. No cheery and smiling wake-up morning show hosts today, just macabre news reports.
“How is Double-Oh?” she asked.
