Treason (18 page)

“Just so I am certain I understand this, you can't ask someone if they are religious. You can't ask them if they attend a mosque. You can't ask them if they believe in imposing Sharia law.”

“I had our human resources people discuss this with the Office of Personnel Management, which is responsible for establishing federal hiring guidelines. I'd like to read a synopsis of what I was told. ‘Any question direct or that an applicant could surmise is attempting to discover religious beliefs or affiliation are strictly prohibited. If a potential employer is shying away from hiring someone because they suspect their religious affiliation will require them to take certain days off, for instance, they could ask if an individual would be able to regularly and consistently meet the required work schedule for a specific position. But they would be in violation if they revealed that they were concerned about the potential employee missing work because of his religious beliefs.' The Equal Employment Opportunity Act severely limits such questioning. For example, federal hiring managers are prohibited from asking such rudimentary questions as where an applicant currently resides because that could be seen as being ‘discriminatory hiring' if they are refused a job and believe it was because of their residence.”

“Wait a second,” Stanton said, interrupting. “You can't even ask where a person lives because that might be discriminatory?”

“It sounds crazy, but if two applications are under consideration and the one lives in an affluent area and that person gets the job, the other one can claim discrimination.”

“Do those same rules apply to the CIA?”

“I'm not totally familiar with what the agency can and can't ask its potential employees. But I've been told that questions about an individual's religious beliefs cannot be asked during employment interviews or background checks. Cumar Samatar was a U.S. citizen, so his rights to privacy and his religious beliefs were protected, as are the rights of every Muslim who applies for a federal job. Questions about their religious beliefs cannot be asked.”

For another hour, Parker answered questions until the hearing ended. Afterward, Chairman Stanton walked from the chairman's seat to where Representative Rudy Adeogo was sitting and invited him into his private committee office.

“As you are aware,” Stanton said, “today's hearings were closed to everyone but committee members and you. How would you react as a member of Congress if I decided to conduct a series of public hearings about these same issues, excluding any mention of the Viper?”

“What specific issues would you include?” Adeogo asked. “Your committee covered many topics this morning.”

“I'm talking about holding public, televised hearings that would examine if and when our national security interests should override religious safeguards. Hearings that would investigate whether we are handcuffing federal law enforcement agencies by not allowing them to infiltrate mosques known to house radical Imams, such as Al-Kader. Hearings to determine if we should allow federal agencies to ask if a potential employee is a Muslim and, if so, if he or she believes in Sharia law or supports the creation of a caliphate.”

“It would be easy for those hearings to be viewed as an attack on the Muslim religion and its adherents.”

“I agree, and I don't wish to persecute Muslims or any other religious faith. But I do want to protect our nation against radical religious extremists who are using our own laws and political correctness to their advantage. Unfortunately, all of those extremists are Muslims, so where do we draw the line between protecting ourselves and protecting their rights to privacy?”

“Omar Nader and the OIN will
not
see this as a debate about political correctness. They will accuse you of being on a witch hunt.”

“Which is why I am asking if you would support me. Having the only Muslim in Congress stating in public that we need to take a serious look at these potentially explosive subjects would give the hearings objectivity and credibility.”

Adeogo spent a few moments quietly considering what Stanton was proposing. “Mr. Chairman, aren't you already planning on conducting public hearings about the embassy attack last year in Somalia?” he asked.

“Yes, up until this moment, that was a priority to me. I'm certain you've heard rumors that the CIA and possibly the White House knew an attack in Mogadishu at our embassy was imminent but didn't react.”

“You must understand, Mr. Chairman, at this moment, my priority is rescuing my daughter, Cassy, and freeing Jennifer Conner. I would prefer that the FBI and the CIA remain focused on working together to save both girls rather than being distracted by hearings that might require them to defend their actions in Africa. I'm also concerned about holding investigative hearings about possible incompetence when our president has been attacked, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff has been critically wounded, and my daughter and Jennifer Conner have been abducted. The American people might view an investigation into possible errors made in Somalia as giving comfort to our enemies.”

Stanton had not expected Adeogo to bring up the committee's intention to investigate the Somalia debacle.

“May I suggest that you postpone those committee hearings until a more appropriate time,” Adeogo said. “If you did that, I would be willing to support your new idea.”

“You would state publicly that we need to explore whether political correctness and laws about religious freedom are endangering our national security?” the Chairman asked.

“Yes, I would be willing to support hearings that would examine issues about religious freedom. My goal is the same as yours—to find better ways to identify and root out homegrown extremists. You must understand that no one is more offended than the Muslim community by what these radical Islamists are doing.”

Stanton took a moment to consider Adeogo's recommendation. Something in his gut was troubling him. He knew the CIA opposed hearings about the embassy attack because Director Grainger didn't want the public to discover that the NSA had warned his agency that an attack was imminent, yet it did nothing to prevent it. The Chairman also had heard whispers that Mallory Harper and the White House didn't want his committee investigating the Somalia hostage crisis because of a possible embarrassing payoff scandal. There were rumors on the Internet that President Allworth had agreed to secretly pay Al-Shabaab a multimillion-dollar ransom even though it was U.S. policy not to negotiate with terrorists. What Stanton didn't know was if Adeogo also had an undisclosed ulterior motive for not wanting those hearings to be held.
What secret could he be hiding? Did he have some personal reason for not wanting the committee to investigate the events in Somalia?

“I will not abandon my decision to hold public hearings about the events that occurred in Mogadishu,” Stanton said. “However, I believe the points you've raised about timing are valid. So I will put those hearings on hold for the moment and instead have this committee conduct hearings on whether our intelligence community and law enforcement need more freedom to investigate religious leaders and groups that are clearly hostile to our government. Is that good enough for you?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman, I can support those hearings, but please understand that I will not issue any statements about these issues until after my daughter is rescued. I can't risk saying or doing anything in public that might put my child's life in greater jeopardy.”

“Understood,” Stanton replied. “I don't need you to speak out immediately, but knowing you will eventually be at my side will be useful when the OIN and its attack dog, Omar Nader, start demanding my head.”

En route to El Wak

Eastern Kenya, border with Somalia

S
he didn't cheat on
me
,” Ironman insisted. “It was some dude I met in a bar.”

Walks Many Miles was listening to Ironman through an earpiece inside a helicopter carrying their six-member SAD team to a drop-off point near the El Wak home of African billionaire Umoja Owiti. Israeli intelligence had notified Langley that the Falcon was about to visit there again, and the agency wanted “eyes on the ground.”

Miles, who was known inside the team as “the Chief,” was sitting between two soldiers nicknamed Ironman and Pyro. They were facing Reaper, Merc, and Ghost inside the Mi-8TV ZS-RUB helicopter, a Soviet-built twin-turbine aircraft popular in Africa and much less likely than a U.S. helicopter to draw fire from Al-Shabaab or Boko Haram extremists.

“Okay, Ironman, tell us what happened to your
friend
?” Merc said, making it clear from his pronunciation of “friend” that he still believed Ironman was talking about himself.

“This guy gets engaged to a real looker,” Ironman said.

“Hooker?” Merc asked, interrupting. “Because if she was a hooker, then this story definitely is about you.” Thrusting his hips upward from his seat, he broke into a falsetto: “Oh, Ironman! Oh, baby, oh, baby. What? But it's only been five seconds!”

Everyone but Ironman laughed.

“You want to hear my story or not?” Ironman demanded.

“Your story?” Pyro declared. “So it is about a girl who dumped you.”

“No, it was a friend,” Ironman declared, clearly frustrated. “Now shut up and listen. This guy gets engaged, right, and the bride's parents are so happy they mortgage their house to pay for their little girl's wedding. Everything goes well, until the reception. After the best man gives his toast, the groom stands and thanks everyone, especially his in-laws for taking out a second mortgage so their little princess can have a dream wedding. Then the groom announces that his new bride cheated with his best man on the night before the wedding.”

“That's cold,” Merc said, interrupting again.

“So the groom tosses his champagne toast into his bride's face and files for an annulment the next morning. He got his revenge by totally humiliating her in front of all their friends and by sticking her parents with a huge bill.”

“Serves her right,” Pyro said.

“Great story,” Walks Many Miles said, joining their conversation for the first time. “Too bad none of it's true. It's an urban legend.”

“No way,” Ironman said. “I heard this directly from the guy it happened to.”

“A guy you met in a bar. A guy who probably got you to pay for a couple of drinks out of sympathy and in return for him telling you that story. You're an idiot for believing him. Go ahead and Google it,” Miles replied. “You'll find versions where the groom puts photographs under all of the chairs at the reception of his bride and the best man having sex for people to see. It never happened.”

“The Chief is right. It's got to be fake,” Pyro said, “because a Marine would never cheat with another Marine's fiancée the night before their wedding.
Ooh rah.
Bros before hoes.”

“Okay, I remember now,” Ironman said, grinning. “The guy who told me this—he was in the Army.”

“Then it's probably true,” Merc declared, “because a grunt will sleep with anything.”

Walks Many Miles was still chuckling when a brilliant flash blinded him. The explosion slammed the back of his skull against the helicopter's fuselage. That initial concussive blast was followed microseconds later by air being sucked backward to fill the atmospheric void the explosion had created. Miles's body snapped forward against the safety harness holding him. The air in his lungs was sucked out. As Miles watched helplessly, Ironman's safety straps broke and his body flew from his seat at the same instance the end of the helicopter came apart. Ironman disappeared out the opening into the morning air as the main body of the aircraft began spinning downward out of control.

In the moment before he blacked out, Miles had two thoughts. The helicopter's tail boom had been hit by an RPG.

And he was going to die.

Miles wasn't certain how long he'd been unconscious when he awoke. Helicopter parts were littered around him. He was still secured to his jump seat, which was attached to a section of the helicopter's fuselage. It had busted loose from the main cabin, catapulting him free from the crash, much like a jet pilot ejecting in his seat from a cockpit. Freeing himself, he tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he toppled face-first onto the sand. Miles steadied himself and surveyed his surroundings. The first body he saw was Pyro, who had been thrown from the aircraft. Miles crawled to him. Pyro's neck was broken. He was dead. Managing to stand, Miles checked the rest of the team. He found Ghost, Reaper, and Merc dead inside what was left of the helicopter. The aircraft's two pilots, who were still buckled in their harnesses in the cockpit, also were dead. Ironman was nowhere in sight. In what clearly was a fluke, Miles was the lone survivor.

Most likely the throbbing pain in his right side was from cracked ribs. He wasn't certain how many were broken, but that seemed to be the extent of his injuries.
Now what?

Whoever had shot down the helicopter would be coming. He needed a plan. None of the SAD team members was wearing a dog tag, but the two pilots were, so Miles took them. He also collected Pyro's P226 Sig Sauer handgun from its holster as a backup weapon and retrieved additional ammunition and two canteens. He looked for a rifle but couldn't find any of the team's other weapons.

He would not be able to outrun the terrorists who would be coming like vultures eager to pick over the remains. He looked for a place to hide. The terrain was flat and sandy with only ubiquitous
Acacia karroo
thornbushes for cover. He chose a bush about fifty yards away and used his shirt to sweep over his tracks as he walked to it. A piece of metal from the helicopter's underbelly had landed against the bush. It was rectangular and large, approximately six feet by four feet. With adrenaline fueling him, Miles tugged and pushed until he'd positioned it against the bush much like a lean-to shelter. He left enough room between the ground and the metal covering for him to slide between them on his stomach. His cracked ribs made him grimace but he had no choice but to lie on his chest. He needed to look from his hiding spot at the crash site and he couldn't have done that on his back. He shoved sand in front of the opening near his face, leaving only enough space so that he could peer out from under the lean-to covering. He drew Pyro's Sig Sauer.

Miles didn't wait long. The first sound was the noise of approaching vehicles. Two Land Rovers arrived, but the five men who emerged from them were not Islamic terrorists. They were wearing uniforms with insignias that identified them as being security guards for Umoja Owiti Enterprises. Four of them went directly to check on the dead Americans while the fifth spoke into a satellite phone.

The guards stripped the bodies of their handguns and holsters and rifled through their pockets, taking whatever valuables they could find. They tossed the holstered pistols on the ground at the feet of their supervisor at the same moment he completed his phone call.

Miles watched him bend down, examine the pistols, and suddenly bolt upright. In an excited voice, he began barking orders as his men unslung their AK-47 assault rifles.

Miles realized he had made a mistake by taking Pyro's pistol. All of the holsters had snaps over the guns' hammers securing them in place. Counting the two pilots, there were six bodies at the crash site and each man had been wearing a holster, but there were only five handguns. There could be only two explanations. Either one man had unsnapped his weapon and it had been lost during the crash or someone had survived and removed the weapon before Owiti's guards had arrived.

The men formed a circle around the crashed aircraft and methodically began marching out from that epicenter. One of them was aimed directly toward the bush and metal debris under which Miles was hiding. If the approaching security guard bent down and peeked underneath the metal covering, Miles would have no choice but to shoot him in his face. But that pistol shot would reveal his position and he would be trapped. The sheet metal hiding him was too heavy for Miles to throw off. He would have to crawl from beneath it after shooting the guard, and that would make him an easy target.

In what he believed might be the last moments of his life, Miles thought about Brooke Grant and the love that he felt for her and Jennifer. He had never planned on dying in an African desert, but how many men plan their deaths or see them coming? Only a short time ago, he had been laughing with his teammates. Now they were dead and he faced their fate. He tightened his grip on the trigger.

As Miles had anticipated, the approaching Owiti guard stopped when he reached the metal lean-to and bush. The man's black-laced boots were mere inches from Miles's face and pistol. Miles readied himself mentally for what was to come. That's when he heard a splashing noise. It took him a second to understand what was happening. Rather than bending down to check under the metal, the security guard had unzipped his trousers and was urinating on the debris. When he finished, he stepped around it and continued walking away from the crash. Miles was safe. At least for the moment.

As he continued to look out from under his make-do hiding place, Miles heard the sound of additional vehicles approaching the crash site. Three pickup trucks arrived. The men disembarking from them wore kaffiyehs on their heads. Miles wasn't certain if they were from Boko Haram or Al-Shabaab, but he knew they were Islamic terrorists because the trucks were decorated with the black flag of jihadism, a black banner with a white
shahada
(Islamic creed) printed on it. As he watched, the security guard in charge pointed into the air where the helicopter had been traveling when it was hit and then pointed in the direction of Umoja Owiti's compound. Miles understood what was being said even though he couldn't understand the dialect they were speaking. It had been the billionaire's security guards who had fired the fatal RPG downing the helicopter, not the Islamic terrorists whom the guard had called to the crash site.

The security guard in charge hollered to his men, who returned to the crash site and boarded the Land Rovers. As those vehicles were driving away, the newly arrived terrorists scooped up the pistols and holsters from the ground and began stripping the dead soldiers and anything useful from the wreckage. They carried the six corpses out onto the sand where they lined them up in front of the cockpit for photographs. One fighter held his rifle above his head as he planted his boot on Ghost's chest. Miles felt the anger building up inside him, but knew there was nothing he could do but watch. Satisfied with their souvenirs, the terrorists tossed the bodies into the back of a pickup truck. Even dead, they would be worth ransoming.

One of them lifted binoculars to his eyes and turned in a circle studying the desert. He skipped over the lean-to hiding Miles. Having not seen anyone running from the wreckage, the terrorists left one man behind while the others boarded their trucks and drove southwest. They were traveling in the direction that the helicopter had come from and Miles assumed they were retracing that flight path on the assumption that the missing American would be retracing the route to wherever the flight had originated.

Miles studied the lone sentry as he took cover in a shaded area at the base of the helicopter's cockpit. Squatting down, the man rested his AK-47 across his thighs and pulled a white packet from his clothing. Miles couldn't see what his enemy was removing from it but when he raised his fingers to his lips, Miles understood. The sentry was chewing khat, the amphetamine-like buds and leaves of the drought-tolerant
Catha edulis
evergreen shrub. Everyone's favorite Somali high.

March in Kenya was one of its hottest months and Miles's metal hiding spot quickly began to make him feel as if he were inside an oven. His broken ribs made every breath painful. While Miles could see the squatting sentry, firing the pistol at him with any accuracy would be difficult from his prone vantage point. Miles couldn't risk shooting and missing. Digging the toes of his boots into the sand, he propelled himself forward, head first, from under the lean-to shelter.

The security guard spotted him. Perhaps it was because he was startled. Perhaps it was the numbing effect of the khat. No matter. By the time the terrorist stood and aimed his assault rifle, Miles had slipped far enough out from under the metal covering to rise up onto his knees. He aimed the Sig Sauer handgun.

Now panicked, the terrorist began firing without taking aim, a common mistake with a weapon capable of firing bursts of rounds. Miles didn't duck or flinch. Seemingly oblivious to the slugs ripping the air, bush, and sand near him, he focused on his target, paused his breathing when his lungs were full of oxygen, and squeezed the trigger.
Pop. Pop.
Two rounds. Check the target. Re-aim. Fire two more. His training had taken charge over his emotions.

The terrorist stumbled backward still firing his rifle. He hit the ground on his back and didn't move.