[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (31 page)

“No raid in Yemen,” the administration directed.

Which threatened to torpedo the whole project, until someone at the CIA came up with the notion that while “arresting” a bad guy would be bad publicity, “rescuing” an American would be the opposite. The plan was back on, as long as they could find an American to rescue.

Guess who.

“I was set up from the beginning?” I asked Chief.

There may have been a few other verbs and adjectives used, but that was the gist.

“Three weeks ago, someone started talking about you.”

“Magoo?”

“I heard it came from someone higher. But…”

“Higher” meant only one person to me—the admiral. His was exactly the sort of devious mind that would think nothing of putting an American citizen in a dangerous situation to save a few thousand lives.

I admired him for it. In his position I’m sure I would have done the same. I also wanted to kick his ass for not telling me what was going on.

Murphy, though, had thrown Six a curveball. The imam had left a while before and not returned, messing up their plans to assassinate him.

I mean, to coax him into freely surrendering and repenting the error of his ways.

Unsure where he was, they had hidden themselves in the house and outside the compound, waiting for him to return. The problem was, they couldn’t wait all night. They needed to be out of Yemen and on their rendezvous vessel within two hours, or there was a good chance they were going to swim home. SEALs do like to swim, but it was a bit much even for them.

“Lieutenant’s trying to get permission to move,” said Chief. “We’ve got it narrowed down to three places. But we had to drop off some personnel when we lost one of the helos coming in, so we can’t get to all three. We can get two. Murphy’s working overtime tonight.”

“I know where he went,” I said.

“You do?”

“He’s giving the Sermon on the Mount at a local mosque. He gave me a private preview.”

“No shit?”

“I wouldn’t shit you. You’re my favorite turd.”

Chief shook his head. “Such a mouth.”

“Let me talk to the lieutenant.”

“Yeah, all right. But listen. You might want to salute. He’s got a bit of a hard-on for you.”

That wasn’t meant as a compliment, let alone a reference to his sexual preferences. While Yours Truly is long gone from the active rolls, the legend lives on, and continues to piss off a decent percentage of the brass.

Mom would be so proud.

I didn’t salute. I did call him “Lieutenant.” He was equally pleasant.

“What the hell do you want, Mar-
chink
-o?” he said when I walked in the door. Was it a coincidence that he was standing in the same spot where al-Yasur had lectured me a few hours before?

In fact, now that I think about it, there was a bit of a resemblance.

“It’s pronounced ‘Marcinko,’ Lieutenant,” said Chief. “Soft c.”

“That’s not all that’s soft around here. What the hell do you want, Mar-
chink
-o?”

“I know where the imam went.”

The lieutenant’s mood changed instantly. Now I was his best friend.

Well, not quite.

“Damn it,” sputtered the lieutenant. “Are you going to diddle around all day, or you going to open up the flytrap you call a mouth and share your information?”

“He went to preach at a mosque. He left about two hours ago. He may still be talking. He’s pretty long-winded.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“You can’t find the mosque?”

“Oh, I have a pretty good guess which one it would be. It’s just off-limits.”

Chief explained that the mission had been approved by “the highest levels.” That approval—some might call it interference—included a long list of THOU SHALT NOTs.

At the top of the list was THOU SHALT NOT GO INTO A MOSQUE.

“I don’t think that’s much of a problem,” I said. “If you know where the mosque is.”

“Listen, Mar-
chink
-o.” The lieutenant’s tone suggested I was more than a little dense. “I don’t go around disobeying orders.”

“Who says you’re disobeying orders?”

“You’re suggesting we go into a mosque. My ass will be court-martialed faster than you can say Leavenworth.”

“You’re not going into the mosque. I am.”

(III)

The word “dubious” does not begin to describe the lieutenant’s attitude toward my proposal. He dismissed it, waving his hand at me and telling Chief to get me out of his sight. Chief escorted me from the building apologetically.

“We’ve been training on this one for a while,” he told me. “The lieutenant has been on the top team tracking al-Yasur. He was in Pakistan a while back, and we almost got him there. We were going after him in Africa, but at the last minute someone tipped him off. And a sandstorm screwed up another mission.”

“Nine lives, huh?”

“He’s got more than that.”

“Your lieutenant been in charge of every operation?” I asked.

“Every one. Unluckiest son of a bitch in the navy.” Chief rubbed his chin. He had a scar there that I recognized—he’d gotten it in a bar fight during his first leave. It was then that he knew he had made the right career choice, or so he claimed.

“Your ROEs are what screwed you,” I pointed out. “But we can fix that. Send me there, I’ll drag him out, and then you can do the rest. Or you can claim I was being held there. That was the original plan, right?”

“Not in a mosque. We were reasonably sure where you’d be. Place has been under surveillance for months. There’s only one other safe house along the route the truck takes. We trained on that one, too.”

“You know that, the lieutenant knows that, but nobody else does. And screw the mosque crap. They’re used by terrorists and crooks all the time. They have no right to sanctuary.”

“I’m with you, Dick. But it’s not my call.”

He walked me back to the building where I’d been kept prisoner.

“If I was in charge,” said Chief, taking a cigarette from his tac vest, “and I said you could go for it, what would you do?”

“Well, I’d go into the mosque,” I said in my best old-timer’s voice as I bent and held my back, “I’d go into the mosque to pray and make sure my prayers were answered.”

*   *   *

A half hour later, with their time on the ground already over an hour, the lieutenant concluded that the operation to arrest al-Yasur was a bust, and ordered a full evac of the premises. The helos were just taking off when a fresh call came in:

An American citizen was in deep shit nearby.

“I cannot ignore an American citizen in danger,” declared the lieutenant. “Turn these helos around.”

That was the way the press eventually reported it. Events on the ground may have been slightly different.

(IV)

0155, on the ground in northern Yemen

A stranger pauses to remove his shoes outside the mosque in the small city of Te’h’run. The mosque is nearly as old as the city itself, which was a trading post in the hills before the Ottoman Empire conquered the known world. It is a good-sized building, with a large, open area where the men pray. Women are not allowed into the prayer area proper, and must content themselves with one of the porches, which are closed to the elements but open to the main hall via an arched wall.

Lit by candle, the place is filled with more shadows than light. But this doesn’t bother the speaker, who has been talking now for more than two hours, and looks as if he can talk for several more.

The mosque is attached to a school, which has played a key role in the continuing struggle of the faithful as they seek to undo the horrible injustices imposed by the Infidel West and its audaciously evil plan to poison Islam. The preacher notes all of this, meeting with nods of approval from the crowd. About three dozen men sit or kneel on the floor nearby. A few have eyes nearly closed, but most of the rest are at absolute, rapt attention.

The stranger, an old man whose body is worn with the fatigue of age, proceeds to the door. The guard looks at him suspiciously, then points to his ear. The old man pulls out the hearing aid and shows it to the guard. It is an old device and does not work well. The guard inspects it, then finally hands it back to the man, who shambles in to join the others.

0205, on the ground in Yemen

The old man moves to the back of the small crowd, walking uneasily. His breath failing, he clutches at his chest and stumbles across the open space of the large room toward a row of benches. They are near the entrance to the reception area and a small kitchen and classrooms. If any of the other congregants see him, none make a move to help.

The imam’s voice rises as his denouncement of the Americans continues. This has been a long day for him, but his speech invigorates him. He knows he could speak forever if he wishes. It is very late, however. The local imam hosting him insisted on his meeting some promising students before giving his talk. And then there was a long reception in the outer room before he could begin.

Outside, the stars are shining brightly, their light pushing away the occasional thin wisps of clouds. The air in the low mountains is crisp but not unpleasant.

0209, on the ground in Yemen

Strength restored and no longer wheezing, the old man rises and walks slowly toward the rest of the congregation. A few members of the audience glance in his direction. Some of the younger members suppress giggles; they have seen scores of these old-timers struggling in at odd hours, nodding and mumbling to themselves, more crazy than inspired. A few others look on in admiration, hoping that the one true creator of the universe, praise be his unmentioned name, might grant them similar strength and faith when they reach such an advanced age.

The old man catches the imam’s eye. The gray beard looks very familiar to the teacher. Very, very familiar. Change it to black, take away some of the creases, subtract a decade or two, perhaps three, and the man would look very much like the Italian prisoner the brothers had taken earlier.

A coincidence surely.

The imam turns his gaze elsewhere, his fervor increasing.

0210, on the ground in Yemen

Someone at the side of the audience smells smoke. He turns around just in time to see flames bursting from the door of the kitchen.

“Fire!” yells the man in Arabic.

The others turn and stare. The imam continues speaking for a few moments more. Then he realizes what is going on.

“We must leave quickly,” he tells them all calmly. “My men will deal with it. Everyone else, follow me.”

His words calm the rising sense of panic. The audience rises and begins moving toward the door. The guards, meanwhile, rush toward the fire, even as fresh flares shoot from the doorway. A chemical smell begins to permeate the large hall. Smoke curls out the back. What begins as a light mist of gray quickly mushrooms into something far more sinister—a blanket of black rolls from the rear of the hall as the fire begins to rage.

The imam urges his followers to come with him. He stops at the door and waves them on like a flagger at a NASCAR race. The old man, tottering unsteadily, grabs his arm for balance.

The imam pats it, then helps him to the door. The old man mumbles incoherently, but nods his head fervently, bowed low toward the ground.

0213, on the ground in Yemen

The back room of the mosque explodes, sending flames and smoke cascading outward. The imam, worried now, tries to push off the old man and run ahead. But the old man’s fingers are like pliers, firmly gripping the imam.

“We will get outside the gate,” says the imam, perhaps recognizing that he has little choice—in his panic, the old man has gained energy and is literally dragging him along toward the gate, twenty yards away.

The wrought-iron bars loom on both sides of the walk. The imam reaches for the gate on the left side as they approach, wanting to steady himself as he lets go of the old man.

But the old man doesn’t let go. The imam feels himself being pulled forward, then flying through the air, landing in a tumble on the rock staircase.

The old man collapses on him as he hits the ground. The old man laughs.

“Move, cockbreath, and I’ll have the pleasure of killing you with my bare hands.”

Not particularly poetic, but I’d had a long day.

*   *   *

At about the time I was pouncing on al-Yasur, four or five flash-bangs exploded at the wall behind me—just
outside
the mosque precincts.

People started to run. There was confusion. Disorder. Gunshots. I grabbed the imam by the hand and strolled with him down to the road. His hand happened to be behind his back. Very possibly he was screaming at this point, though surely not in pain. It was a very pleasurable stroll.

I would be very happy to report that he suffered an accident, that a bullet fired by one of his guards struck him in the temple and took him down, or that he tripped over an untied shoelace and fell headlong into a very sharp and perfectly placed rock.

Alas, Chief and two other SEAL Team Six members stepped from the shadows and grabbed the imam before any of that could happen. Ten minutes later, we were aboard a helo, en route to the Indian Ocean.