by Chase Austin
Yasin said to Shahrukh, “You are my pride, my Simba. Ask for anything?”
“You have shown us the right path, what else can I ask for?” Shahrukh was sincere and completely in awe of his master. By the end of the sentence, his voice choked with emotions. Yasin patted his right shoulder and smiled.
He took a step back from the cadets. “May Allah be with you all,” he wished them loudly.
“Allah is always with us,” his boys responded.
One by one Yasin met the rest, looked them in the eye, and wished them success.
Some of them turned emotional. How could they ever repay him?
They had to make Yasin proud of their sacrifices.
Chapter 7
“It’s time,” Yasin said, glancing at his watch. On his command, the squad walked to the helis. The pilots were alert and the gates of the Bells already open. The men gazed at Yasin one last time and started boarding. Twenty-four men in three teams of eight boarded the three Bells. Taha, Habib, Sultan, Rahim, and Aslam stayed back with Yasin.
Yasin signaled the pilots once the three teams were on board, and the birds took off. Once the last Bell left the ground, Yasin gazed with pride at the special five men with him. “Allah loves you more than your brothers,” he said. “That’s why he has chosen you for this unique mission.”
“Allah is kind.” They all spoke in unison.
Yasin, looking at the five of them, felt extremely proud of his creations. He gestured at the three Cessnas. Taha and Habib walked towards the first one, Sultan and Aslam towards the second, and Rahim went for the last one. The pilots were already at their seats. Once the three Cessna were airborne, Yasin turned and walked towards his private room. In the room, he shifted the wooden wall using a lever. There was a small 3X5 steel locker. He keyed in the passcode to open it. Inside there was a satellite phone. Taking out the satellite phone, he plugged in the numbers from memory. The phone on the other side was picked on the fourth ring.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum, Janaab,” Yasin greeted the receiver.
“Alaykum as-salām, Yasin.” The receiver was the Great Cleric, whose somber voice was reassuring.
“The birds are in motion and will reach their destination before the sun rises today.”
“Eamal jayid.”
“Shukriya, Janaab.”
“Goodbye, Yasin.”
“Good…” the line was disconnected even before Yasin could finish his goodbye, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. It was time for him to vanish because he needed to live to find more sacrificial lambs for this war because this war wasn’t over yet.
Irfan-Ul-Haq AKA Great Cleric turned to watch the silhouette on the screen.
“So, we are on time.” The silhouette spoke in a measured tone. His modulated computerized voice echoed in the room through two tiny speakers.
“Yes, sir,” the Cleric responded with respect clothed in fear. He had no idea who the other man was or even what he looked like. All he had was a name, ‘Professor’, which was probably a facade too. The only thing that interested him was that the man seemed to have unlimited resources at his disposal, which Irfan eyed. Even though the Cleric was getting a good deal of money once this mission was done, there remained a sense of unease still. The noose around his neck could be tightened any minute if the Professor decided, and the Cleric could do nothing. He was beset with insecurities he could not define.
On the other hand, there was nothing about the Great Cleric that wasn’t known to the Professor. He knew all about his illegal bank accounts, his dealings with the Pakistan’s Inter-Service Intelligence (ISI) and the Taliban, even his human trafficking business.
The Professor spoke in measured tones, “You know what you have to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will not disturb you and your men now. Your money will be in your account once we cross the forty-eight-hour timeline from the time the mission starts.”
“Thank you, sir.” Irfan gave a feeble smile, but the screen had already gone black.
The Cleric’s payment had always reached him on time. But this time it was different, this was the last leg of the mission and he knew the man would vanish once this was over. What if he decided not to pay him? What would he do then? But if the man did, then forty-eight hours later the Great Cleric would be one of the richest men in Pakistan.
The Cleric didn’t know what to do with these contradictory thoughts. He could only hope that his luck wouldn’t desert him now.
Chapter 8
Saturday, 0437 hours, Someplace Near Houston
The farmland stretched as far as one could see and in the middle of it, a square-shaped helipad was illuminated with incandescent lights at its edges. The area was guarded by four gunners; their faces covered with black masks. Five similar teams were on alert in the other five target cities.
The Bell’s pilot checked the weather and the dashboard. The coast was clear for landing. He announced on the microphone to let the passengers know about it. Shahrukh heard the announcement and watched Yakub, who was sitting diagonally to him. His eyes were alert, but his face was blank. Shahrukh figured that his own expression might be similar. He shifted his gaze to the window. The sun was about to rise. The dawn was breathing its last.
The Bell circled the landing spot, checking for obstacles, planning its approach. Once the pilot was satisfied, he brought down the speed gradually, careful not to overshoot the landing site. The bird hovered just above the square-shaped location, but the pilot knew it wasn’t a rush job. Despite the perception that a helicopter could land anywhere, and only needed a small square to land, it was a difficult beast to control, especially in confined or uneven spaces like farmlands.
The pilot’s primary concern was not to get into a vortex ring, which simply meant an uncontrolled descent of the helicopter falling into its own downwash and killing everyone. The bird had to gradually descend vertically. The Bell steadied and then touched the ground but not before shaking one last time. The door opened only when the rotors started to cool off. The eight young men disembarked the plane, walking in a line, and instantly felt a shiver due to the icy breeze emanating from the rotors.
The four gunners instinctively closed in on them but stopped at a comfortable distance. They let Shahrukh and his team cover the rest of the distance after disembarking. One of the gunners, who seemed to be the leader, came forward two steps and lifted his right hand to his forehead in a slicing motion. “As-Salam-u-Alaikum.”
“Wa-Alaikumussalam wa-Rahmatullah,” said Shahrukh, responding with the same gesture.
“How was the journey?” the leader asked.
“Good,” Shahrukh smiled.
The leader gestured at two of his gunners and said, “They will take you to your destination.”
The two gunmen assigned to escort the squad led the path to the two SUVs parked not far from the helipad. Shahrukh and his team walked behind them, flanked by the leader and one more gunman.
The Bell’s rotors had started again. It had to return to the base.
Right before boarding the SUV, Shahrukh and his men heard a suppressed gunshot followed by the sound of frightened birds leaving their nests.
“What’s that sound?” Yakub seemed perturbed.
“Nothing worth worrying about,” said the leader, smiling at them. “Please…” he said, and signaled Yakub to get inside. Two gunmen took the driver seats of the two SUVs and the tires started to roll on the muddy roads.
The leader and the gunman who stayed behind with him watched the vehicles disappearing. The leader took out his phone and dialed Yasin’s number. He said, “The bird is in the air and the kids are on their way to school.”
“Clean the house and move.” The call was disconnected.
The leader saw his fifth colleague arriving from the country house. “The body?” he asked.
“Taken care of.” The man was talking about the farm’s owner.
“Good. We have one hour to take care of things here,�
� said the leader.
Chapter 9
Maryland, USA
The morning was not going as Helms had planned. He gazed at the multiple wall clocks showing times of different geographies. It was ten in the morning in Maryland but seven-thirty pm in Helmand, Afghanistan, where Wick and Eddie were on a mission.
Helms had not had a chance to sleep last night. It had all started with a call from Walter Raborn, Director of the CIA, about one of his abducted operatives. What he didn’t realize was that the call was just the beginning of something he’d never expected from someone like Raborn, for two hours later he was facing the President. A meeting that was orchestrated by Raborn.
For the first time in his thirty-five year career, Helms wasn’t ready, and he didn’t know how to respond to President Hancock when he ordered, “Either you find me that abducted agent or quit.” Those were his only options.
The mission was a deathtrap. The Taliban had kept the man at one of their most secure locations – Zangabad in Afghanistan, a place that had been a graveyard of the NATO forces in the past. No soldier or agent in his right mind would agree to go in there, but Helms had just demanded his men to do the impossible.
And for the first time in his life he had no answer when Wick and Eddie asked him, “What about our lives? Are they not worth saving?”
And for the first time in Helms’ life, he had to ask his agents to back out if they wanted. There was no way he could tell them to continue with the mission.
Wick and Eddie eventually decided to stay on the hunt. Part of it was madness and part of it was a mad rage. It was their way of saying, fuck the politics and the politicians, we will save one of ours even if we have to sacrifice ourselves.
And now, after several hours of radio silence, Helms was on a call with Wick and Eddie. And he was listening to Wick with rapt attention. While he was happy that his assets and Josh were breathing, the intel on rogue CIA agents was alarming. But the most pressing concern was the impending attack on the USA. No one knew the time or the exact place. They only had a vague idea, which was worth nothing, because they could not plan anything concrete based on it.
“How many bombs are we talking about?” Helms asked.
“Basit didn’t know, but I don’t trust him. We need more time to grill him,” answered Wick.
“Why can’t we go and extract the Cleric?” Eddie asked.
“That won’t matter for now. If what Basit is saying is correct, then our immediate priority is to contain the attacks and minimize causalities.” Wick said.
“How much damage?” asked Helms.
“That’s contingent on whether we’re looking at an airburst or ground detonation, and how many cities. Also, if it’s detonated during the middle of the day or in the evening. Immediate casualties could be in the thousands,” Wick said.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group as everyone grappled with the enormity of the possible carnage. Eddie uttered a soft curse.
“We don’t even know the type of bombs,” Helms said. “My team is notifying the FBI and CIA.”
“Any response from them yet?”
“FBI—yes. CIA—no, as of now,” Helms said.
“Dammit,” Wick muttered.
“What do you want us to do?” Eddie asked.
“Get Josh to the army medical facility in Helmand. Get Basit here. We need to interrogate him further. I’ll arrange a plane for you at the airbase. Let me talk to the President.” Helms said.
“I hope he doesn’t do something stupid,” Eddie muttered just before the line was disconnected.
Chapter 10
President Hancock’s Cadillac-One sped towards his favorite golf course where he’d planned a few rounds of the game with his North Korean counterpart.
Hancock, like the USA’s former president Woodrow Wilson also saw golf as a diversion from the long, high-pressured days of his job. “Each stroke requires your whole attention and seems the most important thing in life,” Wilson had once said, and Hancock couldn’t agree more. But his golf course visits were under intense scrutiny from media houses all over the globe.
But that wasn’t all. His North Korea strategy, full of boasting and bluster, far different from that of his predecessors, was not yielding many results either. Still, supporters of his outreach cited North Korea’s tension-easing suspension of nuclear and missile tests as an important step forward. But this view was a minority one in the polarized world of Washington.
Hancock’s foes — and some political hawks — saw dangerous signs of a president without much grasp of foreign policy who could be played by North Korea. Even Hancock’s own intelligence chief had testified last week that the North Korean Supreme Leader wasn’t likely to give up his nuclear weapons.
More suspicions arose when in advance of the initial talks, Hancock had flattered and cajoled North Korea and described it as an ‘economic powerhouse’ in waiting, and — to the surprise of many — said he was in ‘no rush’ to find a deal that would dismantle its nuclear program.
Even the definition of ‘denuclearization’ hadn’t been hammered out between U.S. and North Korean negotiators — with the North Korean regime indicating that it could entail a significant rollback of U.S. defense arrangements with allies in the region.
But this wasn’t all. Midterm elections were approaching and with his latest weekly approval ratings languishing at thirty-five percent, far below that of his predecessors, his and his party’s chances were not looking very bright.
Cadillac-One had one more passenger, his election campaign lead and now his Special Advisor, Peter Jackson. As the motorcade of Secret Service vehicles raced through D.C.’s concrete jungle, Jackson slowly and deliberately laid out their strategy to arrest the slide. Jackson, the Harvard Law grad and Pennsylvania native, while going through the plan one last time, ran a hand through his signature bleach-blond hair every five minutes. Hancock found it annoying but chose to ignore it. This man was majorly responsible for getting him his current position as US President and he still trusted him.
“This crisis presents us with a unique opportunity.” Jackson started his monologue with a deliberate positive spin of the proceedings and then looked at Hancock. “People right now see you as someone who doesn’t know what he is doing.” He paused for effect and saw Hancock stifling his urge to counter this point. Jackson was a data guy and his every decision was based on numbers and statistics. So what he was saying now was not something out of a hat and Hancock knew that arguing with him could only result in losing the argument. And even if he won the argument, he would lose the war. Like every other time, he decided to hear where Jackson was going with this.
“This makes you the underdog and we need to make this your campaign’s strength. We need to let the country know that you are in charge, and a few of your detractors are unhappy with your rise and your vision of taking America to heights of greatness again.”
“How?” Hancock blurted out, for although he didn’t want to sound stupid or too eager, his words betrayed his intentions.
“You have to fire a few people from your administration. I’ve prepared a list,” Jackson gestured at his laptop’s screen.
Hancock checked the names and then looked at Jackson. A few of the names were of people he had recently praised through his social media account or had recently appointed. Firing them would lead to multiple questions about his own decisions.
“Why is this necessary?” he asked.
“I’ve spoken to a few publishing houses. They are interested in an insider view of the White House under your leadership.” Jackson gave him the reason.
“Are you insane? Firing them and then asking them if they would be interested in writing a memoir about their life in the White House?”
Jackson had his points ready. “A disgruntled employee is as believable as life on Mars. People will talk about the books, media will have a field day, but I’ll make sure you emerge victorious like a true underdog. Short term pain is always good for
long-term gain.” Jackson spoke with glee. “This is the idea that will win you midterms.”
“Jackson, we need better options,” Hancock said.
“What if there are no better options?”
“Then do what one of the previous administrations did.”
“What?” asked Jackson.
“The twin towers.”
“Isn’t that just a conspiracy theory?”
“Conspiracy theory or not, it worked extremely well for the then-current administration.”
