Joint Task Force #2: America (12 page)

“They are preparing themselves for the final battle.”

Ibrahim pulled out a chair, swung it around, and straddled it. His chin level with the back top, he leaned forward. “What I will do is start the shots today. It will take a few days for the medicine to work.”

“What does this medicine do?” Tamursheki asked.

“Didn’t Abu Alhaul tell you?”

Tamursheki shook his head. “No, he said that you would ensure we were in the best of health to take the battle to those who have offended Allah. He said the days at sea would take its toll on his warriors, and that is why you are here. But, in the ten days we have been at sea, you have yet to see one of my men.”

Ibrahim shook his head. “Not true. I have been seeing Fakhiri nearly every day.”

“Now, there’s a man with a stomach for the sea,” Captain Alrajool added sarcastically. “He has seen more of the side of the ship than anyone else on board.”

“He hasn’t been the only one, as our dear friend Said Tamursheki has pointed out. The truth is, he is the only one who has come to see me.” Ibrahim looked over his glasses at Tamursheki. “Instead of telling me how I have failed to take care of your martyrs, tell them to come see me when they’re feeling bad. For Fakhiri, I gave him pills to control the nausea. He’s getting where he can keep some soup down.”

“Maybe you’re right, Doctor,” Tamursheki admitted. “He was rotund and cheerful in the ways of the Koran when we started. Today, he looks as if he hasn’t eaten in months. He is growing gaunt and irritable.”

“He is growing thinner, which is a good thing for a man his age. If you can’t keep the fat off now while young, imagine how it will be when you reach my age and discover that you and your fat have grown quite fond
of each other. He will get over it when we reach our destination and he puts his feet back on solid earth.”

Tamursheki disappeared below the edge of the table, kneeling on the discolored carpet to pick up the papers Ibrahim had brushed onto the deck. “We must go over the plan again.”

Both men groaned.

“I think we know it by heart by now,” Alrajool objected.

“Let’s do it another time.”

Tamursheki pulled a bulging folder to him and untied the black cord keeping the opening closed. He pulled out a bunch of tickets. “I will send Fakhiri with the first group. His heaving and vomiting is causing concern with the others. They believe it is a sign of failure—a sign of weakness. Give him the medicine to protect us in America.”

Alrajool laughed. “It’s a sign of weakness—a weak stomach for the rocking and rolling, up and down, sideways to sideways, that a ship at sea endures minute by minute, hour by hour, continuously through the day; through the voyage. Even tied to a pier tides reach out to keep the movement going, as if to remind those who go to sea that the seas are the masters of the world. Complicating this normal rhythm at sea is the fact that a weather warning has been issued for this part of the Atlantic. Right now, we are running in front of a tropical storm that will give birth to a hurricane.”

Tamursheki ignored the Captain’s comment as he shuffled through the papers. Ibrahim recognized the bundle as the various airline, train, and bus tickets purchased in Mobile, Alabama, by one of Abu Alhaul’s operatives. Federal Express had delivered the tickets to Tamursheki, and he had brought them to the ship. He figured since the tickets were to various destinations within the United States, once the men were ashore they would split up and head to wherever their ticket took them. He was glad that he had the highest honor for this job. Once the last martyr departed the ship, Tamursheki would set the timer on the
device. He would ride with the ship into the harbor, and while they offloaded the device, he would disappear into the vast wilderness of America with his ticket.

“There,” Tamursheki said, holding aloft four tickets. “Badr will lead the first group ashore and to the nearest city, where they will disperse to their assigned cities and locations. Fakhiri will go with him. His departure will relieve some of the tension from the others. Hisham, who has relatives in Chicago and has prayed to Allah to be in the first group; and, Jabir, the cook who has been told to take a job with one of America’s fast-food places so he can be in place when the order to martyr himself comes.”

Ibrahim stood up, glancing over at Captain Alrajool. “You need to find out where our final destination is going to be. Once this fool and the others are off the ship, then we have our own job to do, and that doesn’t include killing ourselves for some—”

He saw Tamursheki’s head whip around and realized he might be pushing the envelope. “—thing we haven’t been told to do.” He stared at Tamursheki, who with an unwavering stare narrowed his eyes at Ibrahim. For that fraction of a moment, Ibrahim saw the fate this man desired for him. For Tamursheki, the fanatic, death was an honor to share with others. Ibrahim had little doubt the man would consider killing him before the terrorist left the ship. He nearly grinned when he thought to himself that this lean, angry religious nutter had to receive the same medicine as the others. Abu Alhaul wouldn’t be happy if Tamursheki did anything to him while the ship remained in transit. Come to think of it, Ibrahim wouldn’t be happy either.

The door to the compartment burst open. Qasim, the huge Iraqi Shiite bodyguard and enforcer, blocked the doorway. “My friend,” Qasim said, his deep bass voice filling the wardroom. He held the door open with one massive hand on the doorknob while the other held down the edges of his beard. “There is an aircraft approaching.”

“Quick, get the men out of sight and off the deck!”

“Yes, Said. I have already ordered it done.”

Tamursheki pushed against Qasim’s chest. The Shiite stepped back into the passageway, opening just enough space in the hatchway for Tamursheki to run out.

“Come on!” Tamursheki shouted at Qasim as he sped toward the ladder at the end of the passageway.

Qasim followed. Captain Alrajool was only a few steps behind them. Tamursheki took the ladder two rungs at a time, heading up to the bridge. Alrajool’s anxiety grew as Qasim blocked the ladder with his slower pace. The hatch leading to the bridge swung shut behind Tamursheki as Qasim reached the top.

Captain Alrajool pushed past the huge Shiite to rush to the starboard bridge wing just as the gigantic P-3C reconnaissance aircraft filled his vision. Tamursheki stood to his right, watching the American aircraft pass down the side of the ship. From the cockpit, he saw the pilot’s head turned toward him. The sun visor on the helmet was down, blocking the pilot’s face. Tamursheki’s eyes traveled along the white fuselage to the two small windows near the exit door located about ten feet from the edge of the wing. The flash of a camera from the forward window drew his attention. Filling it was what appeared to be a giant lens.

He shut his eyes and lowered his head.
They’ve found us.
So much planning. He turned to Qasim, who stood just inside the door to the bridge wing. “Run! Get the missile!” he shouted, motioning frantically at the man.

The aircraft passed the bow of the ship and continued on its current course.
It must turn around,
Tamursheki prayed.
It must turn around.

“Come to course zero-zero-zero!” Captain Alrajool said, poking his head inside the bridge. “Keep your speed twelve knots.”

As if hearing Tamursheki’s command, two Jihadists emerged out of the starboard side of the forecastle, onto the deck immediately below the bridge wing. He shouted, “Get up here! Now!”

The two men scrambled up the outside ladder leading
to the signal bridge above the bridge wing. Ahead of the ship, the P-3C turned left, crossing the bow of the merchant vessel five miles ahead of it. The American aircraft steadied upon a return course that would carry it down the port side. By the time the two men reached the signal bridge, the American aircraft was approaching the ship on the port side, off its bow.

Tamursheki ran from the starboard bridge wing to the port bridge wing, pushing a crewman, who was standing in the hatchway watching the approaching aircraft, out of the way. He stopped his forward rush with both hands grabbing the top link of the safety chain running along the port walkway. The roar of the four turbo engines flew across the ship, riding the wind blowing from that direction. He shouted instructions to the two warriors above him, and then realized they couldn’t hear him. He climbed the ladder leading up to the open signal bridge and ran to where they squatted beneath a canvas awning.

“What are you doing?” he screamed.

“We are waiting for your orders!”

“I told you,
shoot it down!
”

They looked at each other curiously, turned their eyes up at Tamursheki, and nodded. He reached down and grabbed the nearest man to him—Boulas, the Yemeni camel herder. Why did incompetents surround him? Why did he have to make every decision? Did it take even a man with a little bit of schooling to make a decision to shoot down the infidel?

Qasim appeared at the top of the ladder. “It is turning again, Ya Affendi.”

Tamursheki, still holding Boulas by the top of the white aba, turned and looked at Qasim.

Qasim made a circling motion with his right index finger. “It is coming back. Coming back down the right side,” he explained in his deep voice.

Tamursheki pushed Boulas. “Quick. You and Dabir, get over there!” He pushed the man toward the starboard side of the signal bridge, forcing him from beneath the
small canvas erected to protect the signal bridge from the hot sun.

Boulas grabbed Dabir, and the two men ran to the safety lines along the edge of the signal bridge. Tamursheki was directly behind them. He looked aft and saw the nose of the aircraft growing in size as the American aircraft approached for another pass. Near him, Dabir knelt on one knee. A mast jutting out from the deck masked him from the eyes of the pilots. Tamursheki reached out and pulled Boulas back slightly, positioning the Jihadist behind the mast.

“Ready?

Boulas looked at Dabir who nodded. “Yes, we are ready. God willing.”

“Shoot it down when you have a clear shot.”

They nodded. He noticed both were grinning. It is nice to enjoy one’s work.

Qasim bumped into him as the big man joined them on the signal bridge. Tamursheki turned and shoved him away. Stupid giant!

The ship turned slightly to port as Captain Alrajool changed direction again.
What is he thinking?
Tamursheki thought. It wasn’t as if they were going to lose the aircraft. It was there. Eventually other American aircraft would rush to join it. He may be unable to stop the others, but he would take at least one American aircraft with them.

Dabir stood and stepped closer to the deck edge of the signal bridge, turning so he could aim the missile launcher at the aircraft.

The engines of the aircraft suddenly increased in power, and as Tamursheki watched, it turned right, away from the ship, its tilt so sharp that it appeared to be standing on its wing.
They’ve seen the missile.

The blast of the missile singed the right side of his face as it blasted out of its canister. A white contrail twisted behind the missile as it headed toward the aircraft. The aircraft righted itself. It was heading down, closer to the sea. The missile looked as if it was going to fly past the
tail before it sharply corrected its flight path toward the aircraft. It must have locked on one of the right engines because it tried to fly through the tail of the aircraft toward it. A huge explosion rocked across the ship.

Boulas and Dabir started a round of “Allah Akbar” cheers. Dabir dropped the useless canister. The two men hugged and kissed each other on the cheeks before turning back to watch the wounded aircraft fight to stay in the sky. A huge gaping hole was visible beneath the tail of the aircraft.

A dark plume of smoke trailed from the hole, along with boxes and debris from inside the fuselage of the aircraft. A couple of bodies tumbled into the sea. The P-3C pulled left, bringing itself parallel with the course of the freighter. “Shoot it again,” he ordered.

The two men looked at him. “Affendi, that is the only one we have.”

“We have more,” he said.

“Yes, but they’re below. By the time we get them, the aircraft will either have crashed or flown away.”

Everything; he must think of everything. Incompetent—the lot of them.

The aircraft was losing altitude. It could not be more than fifty feet from an ocean where increasing winds whipped the waves higher. It wouldn’t recover, he told himself. It was too low. Suddenly, flames shot out of the hole, engulfing the tail section of the aircraft. The engine noise began to sputter and cough.

Five miles ahead of the merchant vessel, the engines quit. They watched, mesmerized as the aircraft slammed onto the surface of the ocean and bounced back into the air. The tail dropped next, dragging for a few seconds before pulling the fuselage into the water. The cockpit was the last portion of the aircraft to hit the ocean surface. Spray rose around the aircraft, blocking the view for several seconds. When it cleared, the aircraft rocked on top, sinking. Smoke curled around the tail section.

Tamursheki ran across the signal bridge, down the
ladder, to the bridge. “Quick, head toward the aircraft,” he ordered Captain Alrajool.

The Captain’s bushy eyebrows bunched. “Why would I want to do that? They are soldiers. They will have guns and they will endanger my ship.”

“They are not soldiers. They are pilots. And pilots won’t have anything more than pistols.” He stepped onto the starboard bridge wing, looking forward at the P-3C, assuring himself the aircraft was still afloat. A bright orange package tumbled out of the escape hatch over the left wing, quickly blossoming into a huge life raft. People scurried out of the hatch, sliding down the wing into the water near the life raft. Tamursheki saw the bow of the ship shift as it lined up with the aircraft. Those who had crawled into the life raft were helping others into it.

A blast of wind caught him in the face as the ship changed direction, causing him to shut his eyes. He thought he saw another life raft on the other side, but the waves blocked his view when he opened his eyes again. He grabbed a pair of nearby binoculars but couldn’t see a second life raft, although with the seas rolling up onto themselves and breaking, a raft on the other side of the slowly sinking aircraft could be hidden. He tossed the binoculars back onto the nearby shelf, drawing an objection from the Captain about not breaking his glasses. They will make good hostages when the Americans show up.