Retribution (21 page)

CHAPTER 37

 

Y
ousef rolled off the rug just before the first break of light. The trip from Sarai Naurang had taken most of the night, with their two-vehicle convoy cutting far to the east several times to avoid Pakistani patrols. The cramped quarters of the truck were more of a problem than the lack of sleep. The cold had started to harden the muscles in his back. His knees popped and creaked as he tried to stand.

A true soldier needs no more than two hours' sleep.
Napoleon Bonaparte. When in combat, Yousef taught himself to go days without sleep. Exhaustion was simply a frame of mind that he told his younger jihadis “allowed the stronger warrior to survive on the battlefield.” It was another weapon over the weak.

Yousef 's bed consisted of a prayer rug that he'd been given by his grandfather, the gardener. It came from his great-grandmother's village in northern Iran, where craftsmen had woven such rugs for more than five hundred years. Yousef 's oldest son would inherit the rug. It was no less a part of his family than his sons, his daughters, or his wife.

As the first light started to break through the window of the small mud-brick house, Yousef carried his rug out into the garden, laid it out pointing to the west, and prepared for his morning prayer. The others, his guards and Umarov, joined him for the dawn ritual.

The wall of purple mountains to his west was rising out of the darkness.

Yousef looked at the others as he thought of the home of his religion. An imaginary compass line pointed to Mecca from his valley. It followed a point just south of the largest peak on the western wall of rocks. He checked it once on Google Earth and was surprised to see that the computer's extended line crossed the path he had envisioned—from the valley, west, over the tall peak, and then continued on for fifteen hundred miles to Mecca.

They will never see it.
The thought struck him as he looked at the men bent, on knees, next to him. They would never see the white pillars of Mecca or touch al-Hajar al-Aswad, the Black Stone.

Yousef al-Qadi had traveled regularly to the city during his youth. His family drove through the desert, across much of Saudi Arabia, to the hajj every year. Yousef 's memory as a child was the crush of people. Strange people from different lands with mixtures of languages and strange looks, most he could not understand. His stepsister would hold his hand tightly, cutting off the circulation, and scold him when he would wander off. His stepmother would yell at him at the first signs of a runny nose or cough. The crush of people carried the risk of illness, and the stepmother would always blame the child of the gardener's daughter as the reason her other children became ill.

But the hajj also gave him an early sense of the power of his faith. Millions would travel to Mecca, but hundreds of millions believed. Most would never be able to travel to the center and source of their religion, but still they believed. Many would give their lives because it was Allah's will, because they believed.

A true Muslim state. This was Yousef 's dream for his people.

Saudi Arabia was not the true Muslim state. Its leaders were false prophets.

He looked up to the mountains that formed the little valley that surrounded his small apple orchard. The Americans waited on the other side of the mountain range. Those same mountains went to the south as far as he could see and, for over a thousand miles, to the north as well. The mountains to the north had been given silly Western names by the infidels: K2, Everest, and others.

As Pakistan had torn itself away from India, it was now his mission to pull these people away from Pakistan. Yousef carried with him a small map of his dream. It had a black outline that went well beyond Afghanistan, east into the Waziristans, both north and south, and the tribal areas north of the Khyber Pass. It extended down to the south, beyond Quetta. It went west into Iran. The West had created many of the countries of this world. Certain tribes that held the power had created many. But it was the original land that he sought.

Yousef smiled at the thought.

Hasbun Allah wa ni'am al-wakil. He will be my guardian. The challenge will not be the Americans. They will go away. The challenge will be the tribes.
Yousef knew that only a bold warrior could unite the people. It would take an evangelical fervor. It would take credibility. He had to be known. The name Yousef would be carried on the lips of both the young and the old. He would be the one.

“How is the plan?” Umarov asked.

Yousef looked around for a moment and then, deciding it was safe, pulled Umarov close to him, watching carefully for the others.

“The Chicago cell is in place and is just waiting to be activated. The Canadian cell is activated. They just need the nuclear core. And our little pilot is on her way.” Yousef smiled.

And then he laughed out loud.

“The little girl.” Yousef spoke the words as he looked to the mountains beyond. He had seen her trying to play soccer in Danish Abad with a ball made of socks and plastic bags. He knew she was perfect after her brother had introduced her. No one had connected her to Samullah. She was driven. She would not fail. She would go to Canada. She would tell them she was there for help with her leg. She would pass through customs without question. The limp would distract. But she now she had been trained. She was a quick learner. Despite her leg, a frozen knee torn apart by a fall from a bridge in Danish Abad to the rocks below, she was a natural athlete with perfect hand-and-eye coordination. She was the perfect pilot. They never would have suspected that she could fly anything.

“How about the technician?”

“He will help us build our own bombs.”

“We are ready.” Umarov stood above Yousef.

“Yes.” Yousef stayed on his knees, rolling up his rug. Despite its journey with him, the rug still seemed to hold its bright reds and blacks and blues. “All we need are the nuclear pits.”

The fifteen kilograms of highly enriched uranium would look like a shiny, metallic tennis ball. It would be the core in a larger ball of gelignite explosive. The end product would look like an oversized basketball wrapped in rolls of tape with small wires coming out from under the tape. The explosion would compress the neutrons of the nuclear tennis ball with such force that a most brilliant flash would follow. Even if it didn't reach the level of a chain reaction, the debris would be deadly for a hundred years.

“We need to move.” Umarov did his job well. Survival meant never staying too long, never stopping in the same place twice. That had been bin Laden's mistake.

“The newspaper man will be coming soon.” Yousef looked at the mountain range as he spoke.

Umarov's scowl telegraphed his thoughts. He feared bringing in a stranger. A stranger always bore risks. Yousef understood this.

“The trucks are ready?”

Umarov nodded. “I will get them.”

Yousef knew that his wife and sons would be ready. She obeyed well. He stepped into the mud-brick house, its thick walls keeping the night chill inside. During the blistering heat of the summer, it provided relief. But at this hour the rooms were frigid.

“Come, now.”

“We have something to eat.” She handed him a wheat pancake.

“You are a good woman.” He didn't compliment her often. He never said it in front of others.

She also had the two boys with their backpacks and rugs rolled up. Both were chewing on their pancakes. The little girl was sound asleep.

“You will travel in the second truck.”

“
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'um
.” She praised Allah during this difficult time.

Yousef 's wife had never been a particularly attractive woman. He had picked her out of the group of sisters because she had the reputation of being the most obedient. But, more important, she had brought him two healthy boys and a daughter. As a consequence, he took no other wives. It gave her a special status. She was the only wife of Yousef, the warrior, and she believed in his dream of an Islamic state.

I will take more wives when this war is over,
Yousef told himself. Like his brothers, who each had three or four. But no matter, she would remain Yousef al-Qadi's first wife and the mother of his oldest son.

“We are traveling well to the north.”

Yousef had been to the valley before. It was well protected, with a deep cave on the far southern end. The road to Peshawar was just over the mountain. The Konar River passed nearby. It was well within the Pakistani border, but that seemed to matter less and less as the Americans became more aggressive. Most important of all, the valley was well protected by the Pakistani Taliban. The TTP had a network of villages that surrounded the southern end of the valley. It was one place that the Pakistan Army would not venture into.

“Patoo can ride in the truck with me.”

The small boy showed a wide, toothy grin, brown eyes saucer-wide.

I hope he remembers.
Yousef knew that the child would have a great responsibility one day. This would be the last trip with his father for some time. The family would be moving to Yemen soon. He'd had his brother buy a house near the beach, in Al Hudaydah. It looked out on the Red Sea. There, the boys would be protected and she would be respected.

But Yousef would survive and they would be together again. He constantly reminded his brothers and sisters that they had endured the worst that Russia and America had to offer without harm. The Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan would have new borders extending well into western Pakistan, sharia would rule the land, history would know its founder as Yousef al-Qadi, and it would be protected by nuclear weapons. And the family of Yousef al-Qadi would be strong and live long.

CHAPTER 38

 

“E
asy.”

The rhythm of the blades' rotation could be felt through the stretcher as William Parker started to come out of the fog.

“Take it easy.” A medic was taping an IV feed to his left arm. The medic wore a bright orange flight suit with a white flight helmet that concealed his face, but he was a sturdy, short, and well-built man. Parker tried to move, realizing suddenly that straps held him firmly to the stretcher.

“Don't try to move. We're less than two minutes out from the hospital.” The medic was shouting his words over the sounds of the jet engine.

“Where?”

“We are diverting to RLH.”

“What?” Parker voiced the words but could barely hear his own voice. A familiar smell emanated from the medic leaning over him.
What was the smell
?

“Royal London Hospital.”

Parker stared at the ceiling of the helicopter with its padded insulation.
God, get these straps off. What did he mean by “diverted?” What the hell happened?
His memory started to come back, like a computer warming up after being rebooted.

“What about the woman? The child?”

“I don't know. Just got you.”

Parker knew that he had to force himself to relax. If Navy SEAL training had taught him anything, it was to not resist that which was impossible to resist. A fight against an ocean or a flooding compartment was a waste of energy. He was the only Marine Recon officer in the class, and the senior chief petty officer made it clear on day one that Parker would not make it. Being a Marine and wearing the silver bar of a first lieutenant put two targets on Parker's back. But Parker's 13:58 three-mile had swayed the chief.

It was the dive chamber that pushed the limit. They were sealed in this massive chamber that quickly filled with frigid water. The water rose to the point that the only remaining pocket of air was no more than a small box of matches in width, a very small box of matches. The chamber was totally dark. And the airspace was so small, the only way to breathe was to place the end of the tube into the airspace, remaining submerged the entire time. Claustrophobia quickly set in. Many candidates were dragged screaming out of the chamber just before drowning, washed out of the program. Parker had learned an invaluable lesson when the chief advised him not to fight it.

He felt the helicopter's skids settle on the ground; the gurney started to move, but Parker's head remained braced in a fixed position. He could tell that they hadn't given him anything for pain, since he now felt the sting of the straps on the cut on his forehead.

Good,
he thought.
Treating me for a concussion means no narcotics. I'll be clearheaded, at least.

Another man had joined the medic, pushing the gurney from behind Parker's head. He sensed this new person was not a part of the medical staff. They passed through several hallways. The fluorescent lights went by, one after another. And then he felt the wheels of the gurney bounce.

“Thanks, lads, we've got it from here.”

Parker recognized the voice.

One man was cutting the tape that held his head in the frame. Another was loosening the body straps.

“Well, Parker, that was a close one.” James Scott pulled the last strap from Parker's chest.

“Two in one day is pushing it.” Kevin Moncrief, now with the medic's flight helmet removed, came around to the foot end of the gurney, loosening the rest of the straps.

“Who did it?” Parker started to lean up on his elbows when a ringing started in his ears.

“Hold on a minute.” Scott put his hand on Parker's shoulder, pushing him back down into the stretcher.

The elevator doors opened behind his head to a hallway with little lighting. They rolled the gurney down the short hallway with Scott on one side and Moncrief on the other. Parker heard a click of a door behind his head and felt the wheels roll over another divider. He slid up on his side to see a solid metal door swing back, closing behind them as they went into another hallway deep below the hospital above. Scott turned the gurney down another hallway and then into a well-lit hospital room.

“Where are we?”

The room had all of the equipment necessary for any medical procedure. A doctor in his white coat was waiting for the new patient.

“This is our own private little hospital, Parker.” Scott was cutting the remainder of the tape holding him down.

The doctor started to flash a light in Parker's eyes and began examining him.

“How do you feel?” The physician was starting his own mental checklist.

“Fine. How about Sadik's wife and her child?”

“Not now,” Scott said. “This is someone we trust, but no one needs to be in any conversation beyond his own responsibility.”

The doctor moved Parker's head and neck.

“Any wounds other than that cut on your head?”

“No.”

“Your man is good to go. A slight concussion, probably a pretty good headache tomorrow, and maybe a stitch or two in that laceration. Otherwise, nothing.”

“Can you use some of this on the laceration?” Scott handed the doctor a small tube. “We don't need evidence of a lot of medical care.”

“Yes.” The doctor understood. “It is just inside of his hairline. In twenty-four hours no one will know the better.”

“Thanks, Doctor.”

Parker could feel the cold, sticky substance on his forehead and the pressure as the doctor pushed on the wound.

“There you go.”

The doctor left the room without saying more.

Scott waited for the door at the end of the hallway to click and then swing closed.

“What about the woman and child?” Parker repeated the question again.

“Dead.”

The word was simple, unemotional, and to the point. Scott said it in a matter-of-fact manner.

Parker wasn't feeling so calm. “She saved my life.”

He remembered her holding the child, shielding him from the blast, whether purposefully or not. Parker looked down at his hands.

“We saved your jacket.” Scott held up the raincoat. “More importantly, what was in it.” Scott handed him the envelope with the tickets. “And this.” The small blue pack of chewing gum.

Parker was sitting on the side of the gurney as Scott laid both the envelope and packet next to him. He didn't touch either.

“I know how you feel.” Scott's voice changed. For the first time his tone expressed the faint hint of concern. Moncrief stood quietly in the background.

“Who? It doesn't make sense that Yousef would do this.”

“It wasn't Yousef.” Scott leaned against the wall as he spoke. “Someone wanted this mission stopped.”

“From the inside?”

“Bloody well.” Scott paused. “But not in the usual way. Not just sending a message saying stop.”

“Well, if the inside, why not cancel the flights? Cancel the operation.”

“No, it's like they want it to fail, not just stop.”

“I don't know about this.” Parker grabbed the side of the bed. Things were becoming too unpredictable, unacceptable.

“It's understandable to feel confused after a—”

“No,” said Parker. “I mean about the mission. Going forward with it.”

“If Yousef wins, there will be a lot more dead women and children.” Scott's voice sounded like it had gained some grit.

The ticket in the envelope lying next to William Parker would have him in the air in mere hours. Of course he wanted to stop Yousef. But could the mission succeed now? Could Parker himself carry it forward successfully?

“What was the child's name?” Parker looked directly at James Scott.

“What?”

“Their child. The child that Sadik and Zdravo Zabara adopted.”

Scott had no response.

“Amirah was her name. The daughter of Zdravo's sister, who died at eighteen.”

“Amirah.”

“Yeah.” The name reminded him as to why he was here. He lifted the envelope with the airplane ticket in it. A decision had been made.

“There is something else.” Scott said the words slowly.

“What?”

“Hernandez never made his flight.” Scott paused. “And we have picked up on a conversation. Something is going on in Canada.”

“So stop it.”

“We don't know enough yet. We can guess it is connected, but don't know more than that.”

Parker stared at Scott, then looked to Moncrief, who nodded.

The ringing had begun in Parker's ears again.

“Enrico would never miss that flight.” Moncrief said what Parker was thinking.

“I didn't need him to even be here.” Parker had asked Hernandez to carry the meningitis package to London because he trusted Enrico. But anyone could have done that. Now a little girl was at risk of being without a father. Meanwhile, a father had already lost his wife and child.

“We have to play out these cards. Our best chance to find E. is by you making that flight.” Moncrief always said what William Parker had already thought.

Parker looked up to his gunny.

“Heraclitus?” Moncrief asked the question. “Remember Heraclitus.”

“Yeah.” Parker had quoted the ancient Greek often to his men. Now, he was being quoted back to him. Since Heraclitus of Ephesus said it over twenty-five hundred years ago, Parker lived it.

“Will,” said his old friend. “You were not made for defeat.”