Cloudburst (22 page)

To refuse his ‘duty’ would have meant death. Muhadesh Algar, the iron fist who could break a man’s arm, or leg, or neck with ease, and teach others how, had at one moment been weak, choosing life for himself.

Routine became his escape. Regimentation was his savior. Up at five for a run with a group of commandos stationed nearby. Work from eight to six, one patient/victim per hour. He gave himself only that much time, which motivated him to become even more effective. It usually took much less. The longest—a twelve-year-old boy—had taken an hour and a half. After work came another physical outlet as he ran obstacle courses with his commando friends. Eight o’clock— home. At ten came sleep. The routine repeated itself day after day for seven years. The lapse in the routine came in the form of Commander Salaam al-Dir.

Muhadesh Algar, the methodical doctor of pain, had come to the attention of the commando leader, al-Dir. His daily training with the men and his obvious competence—something not considered as a prerequisite to command—brought him the offer of a new position, one that would remove him from his present duties. It did not matter to him if it was mopping barracks, but that was not to be his job. He was to be al-Dir’s assistant, a position that would allow him to use his intellect, though not his medical training. A little more than seven years after Muhadesh began his military career as a man of medicine, his conscience was eased, but not cleansed, with his appointment as executive officer of the 3rd Training Battalion.

Now he worked with men, not animalistic excuses for them. Those that came through the battalion left eventually to join other units, ones specializing in the application of their learned skills. Other countries might have higher-profile special-warfare units with highly specialized weaponry, but few could boast of a more dedicated group of warriors. It was amazing that al-Dir was able to turn out truly talented soldiers of above-average intelligence in a country where fundamentalist ideologies had clouded most realist thought. Al-Dir, like Muhadesh, loved his country. The land. The people. It was a uniquely serene place which he vowed never to abandon, despite the disparities in beliefs. Finding his own way to contribute without compromising what he believed had been supremely difficult. The 3rd was his way.

For Muhadesh it was at last a way to seek his own peace, but one that would last a short three months. Commander al-Dir disappeared with a small group of commandos on what was rumored to be a cross-border operation into Egypt. The true circumstances would probably never be known. The only certainty was that al-Dir was gone, forever, and Muhadesh was the new commander of the 3rd.

Soon after assuming command, Muhadesh found his unit being restructured on the orders of Colonel Qaddafi and given a new mission: to train revolutionary freedom fighters in the craft of terror. The skilled, capable warriors whom he had been proud to serve with were taken from the 3rd, some being sent to other, conventional units, and others off on missions that did not officially exist. It was a waste of fine, devoted patriots, and it left him with little to assist him in his new orders.

Again, though now indirectly, Muhadesh would be charged with causing pain and suffering. The skills of commandoing, which he picked up voluntarily, and the craft of torture, would be the curriculum as he taught others the finer points of savagery. He knew that to refuse or hesitate in carrying out the orders would mean death, and again his weakness forced acceptance of the mandate.

He began turning out skilled killers, and as the ranks of his remaining training officers shrank with their transfers, Muhadesh became more closely involved with the instruction of his pupils. A retreat into routine was an attempt to manage his life as he once had, but it was increasingly difficult to get up each day, knowing what knowledge he would be imparting to others.

It was during a weapons-buying excursion to Rome that a remedy to his guilt presented itself, quite by accident and with no forethought. Muhadesh loved the city, Italy’s great capital, especially because of its sounds. He could walk for hours—for days even—without tiring of the constant chatter of the people, whose animated discussions were like staged performances. And the birds. Everywhere they were. Some said they were messy, a nuisance, and good only for shooting, or as food for the cats, but he saw them as armies of aerial beauty and grace. He marveled at their ability to fly, and turn, and dive as a single entity, when there might be hundreds of birds in the flock. The diving flock he was gazing at that day drew his attention to a building: the United States embassy.

Everything came to him very quickly. The thought surprised him at first, then it calmed him. He wouldn’t be betraying his country, after all. Really, he didn’t know what he would be doing.

The simplicity of making contact amazed him. He just entered the embassy and asked to speak to an American intelligence officer, something the Marine guards had become accustomed to. Someone always wanted to sell something. Not Muhadesh. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Even the thought that he could be killed for his bold move didn’t occur to him immediately. In fact, it really wasn’t that dangerous, considering the ineffectiveness of Libyan counterintelligence.

An unimpressed CIA station chief, after seeing the military ID and hearing of his position in the Libyan army, gave Muhadesh a phone number. It was that of an electronic component supply company in Rome. He was told to call it on a certain day, at a specific time, and when asked, he was to place an order for some equipment. At the time he didn’t know it, but that simple order would cause his call to be transferred to the embassy.

At first he was tested. Only simple information was requested, more to verify his authority than for true intelligence needs. It was ‘safe’ stuff, which had a low probability of compromising him. Muhadesh’s position and viability were confirmed to the extent that it was possible to use him as a low-risk source, but to exploit his use the Agency had to take a chance. On a second visit some months later a simple code system was agreed upon, and a contract was signed for the delivery of a security system for the camp, complete with video surveillance equipment. The Agency front company in Rome provided and installed the system—with all of its secondary features.

The brilliance of the ongoing operation was in its simplicity, which came from Muhadesh and his insistence on order and routine for his students. At 9:00 each morning they would line up abreast, facing east, their feet planted square in yellow-painted footprints pointing at the camp’s small armory. Atop the building one of the surveillance cameras would do its repetitive 120-degree sweep of the assembly area, displaying the image in the security center. There a single guard monitored it on one of the eight wall-mounted video monitors. On the twelfth day of each month at precisely 9:05 A.M. Captain Muhadesh Algar would address his students as they stood at attention. At the same instant a one minute portion of the image would be recorded on a special device in the captain’s office, where a single, selectable monitor was installed. The sixty seconds were then condensed into a short-burst signal and transmitted the same evening at 10:00 via a low-power signal from an antenna hidden within a camera perch. A U.S. submarine in the Gulf of Sidra, waiting just below the surface with only its ESM mast breaking the water, would receive the signal. From there it was bounced twenty-two thousand miles up to a satellite and back down to the NPIC at Fort Belvoir. The pictures were enhanced and used to identify terrorists before they became dangerous. It wouldn’t stop the terror movement, but it would help in the battle. Later a fax machine was installed in his office, allowing direct, same-day contact with his case officer via the bogus company, and relieving reliance on the UV ink messages on invoices and reliability assessments sent to Rome.

And so his life as a traitor began. When he was lying in his bed the reality of it seemed alien and far away. The camp was quiet and dark, dark because of jitters the air defense officers in Benghazi were feeling. American planes had come before, and very well could come again. More killing.

But Muhadesh knew that his guilt would soon end. Innocents would never die at his hands or because of his instruction again. His life would no longer be tied to a success measured in blood.

Absolution for his sins would not come automatically with his washing the blood from his hands, though. Tomorrow, he would begin to atone.

Benina

Allah will admit those who embrace the true faith and do good works to gardens watered by running streams. The unbelievers take their fill of pleasure and eat as the beasts eat: But Hell shall be their home.

Hadad let the passage repeat in his mind over and over before closing the book. The cover was still smooth from lack of use. Yes, he was devout, though that had not always been the case. The newer Koran he held was a gift from the colonel. In a way he was ashamed to think that at a time now past in his life he had been an infidel. Not in belief, but in fervor. Now his heart and soul were one with the wisdom of Allah.

There was still pain, though: the colonel. How was he now? Hadad wondered. In the solitude of the upper-deck lounge he tried to contemplate the pain his friend must be suffering, and the sacrifices that had been made. Hadad knew that their motives were different, and in a way, that was better. They were each driven by a desire for vengeance. Each had been wronged, their lives changed, and in a sense, ended by the deeds of the Americans.

The sterile ceiling he stared at from the reclined seat danced with images and faces. Places flashed; scenes of his home, that simple stone house in the land that always appeared desert like in photographs, but was lush and rich in heritage. Palestine. He had not truly lived there with his family for many years, but it was home. The Jews and their American protectors had usurped the land from its owners, citing biblical right and the need for a Zionist homeland. Of course their money and power gave them the right to do this…in this life.

Hadad felt himself smile. They would all be surprised. The Americans could not, and would not, try to understand the power of Allah. It would have to be shown to them.
You take and take and take!
Such arrogance they were capable of, believing that the little ones of the world would never strike back. If he had learned one thing, it was that the small, weak people could become one in the will of one strong protector. To the West it would seem a grandiose, wishful notion harbored by a man spurned by the world and evicted from the land of his birth. That might be enough to move some men to action, but not him. His reason was both personal and painful.

A cough came through the open cockpit door. The pilots slept, or tried to. Hadad listened for a moment before letting his head fall back in relaxation. He, too, should probably sleep, but it was impossible. Not while they sat here, waiting. The safety of their location reassured him that no one would touch them, or try to. America’s hapless Delta Force would not even try anything while they were on the ground under the protection of Colonel Qaddafi. But, still, he could not rest. There was too much stored energy. He wanted to be on with the mission and leave the waiting behind.

In Paris he had tried to put thoughts of impatience aside and concentrate on what was ahead. Now that things had begun, he wanted to finish it all. The climax was the reason for all the preparations. The purpose was salvation, and vengeance, and an offering to Allah.

The pages opened once again as Hadad brought his seat upright. If he could not sleep, he could find peace in the words and wisdom that he would take with him to his grave, along with so many unbelievers.

Pope AFB

They were rested, if three hours could do that. All had slept the full one-eighty, as they called their standard three- hour nap. Some genius behaviorist somewhere had probably spent a hefty grant to figure the minimum optimum amount of sleep for the SOF.

Captain Graber was the first out of the makeshift bunk room. From ground level the 747 was a huge, winged leviathan that filled the hangar.

“Whadya think, Cap?” Buxton asked, slapping his squad leader’s Kevlar-covered back.

Sean cocked his head. “I think we’ve got a bitch of a takedown ahead of us.”

“If we go.”

True
. Sean wouldn’t voice his realism.

McAffee appeared from the office, with Colonel Cadler and a guest. A civilian?

“Captain, get the team out here,” Blackjack ordered.

“Fall in!” Graber shouted over his shoulder, bringing the remainder of the troops out and around him in a loose half oval.

Dear God
. Joe Anderson thought the major, dressed in his ninja suit, had looked strange. But these guys… They looked like killers.

“Colonel.”

“Thank you, Major. Men, this is Mr. Anderson. He’s got some old fly-boy blood in him, so show him a little respect.” Cadler glanced at the civilian.
You reciprocate
, his eyes said. “It turns out that we may have a slight problem with a nuclear weapon on board, but that’s not your concern. Mr. Anderson is the specialist there.” The colonel paused, seeing the exchange of looks. “You will, however, wear these.”

McAffee took the bag from Cadler and gave each man, himself and Anderson included, one of the olive drab wristwatches.

“Death watches,” Antonelli said as he received his.

Joe scoffed inwardly.
Dramatics.

“Dosimeters,” Cadler corrected the lieutenant. “If there is a nuke on that bird it’s probably gonna be a crude one, which Mr. Anderson says means it would be dirty…very dirty. These’ll tell us if you get a bad dose.”

As opposed to a good dose.
Joe concealed his comments. He hoped these guys could get him access to the device.

“Under your cuffs,” McAffee directed. “Captain, warm everybody up. Aisle sprints, up and back. I want everybody loose by twenty-three-thirty for the final planning session.”

“Yes, sir,” Graber replied. He pulled on his helmet and respirator, as did the others, and led them into the sister ship of the Atlantic Maiden.