by Lee Jackson
“We’re monitoring your surveillance system remotely from our offices, and we have three men staking out the house. They’re not as visible as these clowns. We also notified the sheriff’s office through Atcho’s company that you were coming home and had received threats. The deputies do drive-bys. When you get back to your house after picking up your car, we’ll see how they react.”
“Sounds like a plan, but they must have seen us when you drove me home.”
“I’m sure they did. That could be good. If they intend on doing something bad, they might be slowed down knowing you’ve got friends at your back. I could have taken you straight to the office, but you looked like you were ready to see your own house and could use a friend hanging around for a while.”
Sofia nodded her appreciation.
They arrived at the company office. “Keep your gun loaded,” Ivan said before Sofia exited his car. “Use your remote to open the garage, and don’t get out of the car until it’s closed. No use giving a sniper a clear shot.”
Sofia shot him an amused look. “I know what to do, Ivan. This won’t be the first time I’ve thrown a lariat.”
“I know. I just don’t want to forget a detail.”
An hour later, Sofia entered the safe-room in her house without incident. “I’m in,” she called to Ivan over the phone.
“The watchers are still in position. We saw them talking on their radios when you arrived.”
“What do I do now, sit tight? I can’t stay cooped up here for long.”
Ivan chuckled. “When you’re at the point of pulling your hair out, give us a call, and you can leave the same way you came in. We’ll watch out for you. If you have an emergency, we’ll pick you up by boat at the bottom of the bluff. Meanwhile, feel free to move about the house. If we see movement, we’ll call and be ready to pounce.”
“Great.” Sofia’s voice was laden with sarcasm. “This is going to be fun.”
“Oh, and Sofia.” Ivan chuckled again. “You can turn off the internal surveillance.”
Sofia spun around in her seat. She made a face at a pinhole over the entry and waved. Then she flipped a switch.
“OK,” Ivan said. “All the internal cameras are off.”
Kadir spoke with Klaus over the phone from Berlin. “I’ve heard from the surveillance company we hired in Austin. Ms. Sofia is back in her house.”
“That’s good to know,” Klaus growled. “Don’t do anything now. Keep one man watching her and let me know if she’s leaving town. I’ll be there in a few days.”
27
A Blackhawk helicopter settled on the helipad outside the Ministry of Defense building in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Atcho and Horton stepped down from its open doors into the warm prop wash beneath the strumming rotors. A soldier met them where a surprisingly cool desert wind overtook the chopper’s down thrust. He pointed to a door on the side of the building where an Army captain in camouflaged fatigues stood to one side and beckoned them. They walked briskly toward him, ducking their heads to one side to let their Kevlar helmets break the wind and absorb stinging sand.
The captain saluted Horton and held the door open for them. “The general is expecting you,” he said when they were inside and could talk without shouting. He introduced himself. “I’ll take you to him.”
He stopped at a security desk, signed them in, and acquired visitors passes for them. Then he led off at a fast pace through a maze of hallways and offices. “Things have been a bit hectic here,” he said as they hurried through the beehive of activity all around them. “Combat operations terminated, but now with those oil-well fires…” He shook his head.
He turned into a massive room divided up by cubicles with officers busily typing into computers or reading their monitors or conferring with each other. The captain led past them to a row of offices at the far end. The door to one of them in the middle stood open. He knocked and stepped inside. “General, they’re here.”
“Bring them in,” an enthusiastic voice called out. When they entered, a youngish man in battle-dress rounded his desk and approached them, his hand extended. He carried a slight build, dark hair with the first signs of gray, and he exuded energy despite sunken eyes attesting to days in the desert. Atcho noticed a single star at chest level on his blouse.
“Hi. I’m Jason Forrester. I’m read in on the situation but could use a briefing on the nitty-gritty. General Schwarzkopf is tied up at the moment but detailed me to support your mission. Sounds serious.”
After introductions, he gestured them to chairs in front of his desk. As he returned to his seat, he peered at Horton. “Your legend precedes you, Major. Don’t try any of that Texas dumb-guy stuff on me.” He grinned slightly.
Horton glanced at Atcho, his eyes wide and round. He said nothing.
“I’ve been briefed about you too, Atcho,” Forrester continued. “Now, down to business. General Schwarzkopf got a call from the chairman of the joint chiefs. I’m supposed to do everything I can to help you. I work in his operations section.”
“Have you spoken with General Alsip?” Atcho asked.
Forrester’s face clouded, and he nodded. “I’m sorry to hear about Tony Collins. I hear he was a close friend of yours.”
Atcho nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “We worked together a few times. He set a standard for reporting that few in the profession approach.”
“Alsip had only good things to say about him. In particular, he appreciated the way he loved and respected soldiers. He got down in the sand with them.”
“Did Alsip know anything about this terrorist we’re chasing—Klaus?” Atcho said.
Forrester shook his head. “Collins flew with Alsip at the outset of ground combat, and Alsip got him to Dhahran on cease-fire. They didn’t get a lot of chance to chitchat.”
“Collins gave us a license plate number that he thought connected to Klaus. We ran it up but haven’t heard anything back. Do you have anything on it?”
The general shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard, but I just came in the loop. I’m still in the dark on a lot of it. I hear the FBI is sending a couple of guys to investigate with the Saudi police.”
“Can you get us to that hotel in Dhahran?” Horton cut in.
“I’ll get a crew to fly you down there,” Forrester replied. “What are you going to do?”
“Look around. See if we can pick up anything useful. It’s a starting point.”
They conferred for an hour and then left for their flight to Dhahran. As they made their way back through the maze of offices, Horton elbowed Atcho. “Geez, sir. I’m a legend.”
Amused, Atcho shook his head. “Get over it. What do you expect to find at that hotel? We don’t have much time. Klaus is way ahead of us, and Saudi Arabia is three times the size of Texas.”
Horton circled in front of Atcho, his hands on his hips. “You think I don’t know that? But guess what. This country has a lot of sand. That narrows things down a bit.”
“We still don’t know where he is.”
“Well that’s what we’re trying to find out. Geez, Atcho. Who’s the legend around here anyhow?”
Another Blackhawk waited for Atcho and Horton at the helipad. On arrival in Dhahran, a military sedan drove them to the hotel. Horton instructed the driver to wait for them.
Inside, they asked for the manager. Immediately, Horton struck up a conversation in fluent Arabic. He saw Atcho stare at him in amazement.
Horton caught Atcho’s reaction. “What? I was stationed in this country for three years. I had to communicate.”
Atcho chuckled and turned to observe the foyer, decked out in Saudi opulence. He saw nothing of particular note, but when he turned back to listen to Horton and the manager, he noticed one of the clerks lurking behind the office door.
As they climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered the hall where Collins had stayed, Atcho related to Horton what he had seen. “We’ll need to talk to him,” Horton said. “The FBI ain’t been here yet. T
he manager said they’re supposed to arrive this evening with Saudi police detectives.”
The door to Collins’ room was shattered. A piece of yellow tape had been hung across the entrance. When they entered, the atmosphere was cold, gloomy, with signs of Collins’ last movements. The bedspread was wrinkled. A shirt hung on the corner of a chair. His suitcase sat next to a shallow closet. Shaving cream and a razor were set on a glass shelf below a mirror. Splatters of blood marred the walls.
“I can feel him,” Atcho said. “I hear his last words over that phone.” He pointed. Then he picked up a piece of paper balled up in the corner next to the bed stand. He smoothed it out and studied it. “Joe, what was the license number we got from Collins?”
Horton reached inside his jacket for a small notebook. He thumbed through it and read the numbers to Atcho.
“He was one digit off,” Atcho said. “That could be why the Saudi authorities haven’t found the owner yet.”
“Or it could be that someone doesn’t want to find him,” Horton said. “They got computers in this country. They could have figured out if one digit was wrong. Not everyone in official Saudi Arabia loves us, not even on the police force. We’ll check the register downstairs and see what we find.” He copied the numbers down. Atcho balled up the paper and tossed it back in the corner for the FBI to find.
They spoke again with the manager at the front desk. “Your boy back there listened to our conversation,” Horton told him. “I want to talk to him.”
The manager at first refused, but Horton pressed him. At one point, Horton’s face grew red and he spoke in a terse voice. He pulled out his military ID and shoved it in the man’s face. Atcho understood none of what was said.
The manager stepped to the office door and called out angrily. A moment later, the clerk appeared. He looked both shamefaced and scared. He had a slight build and could not be more than seventeen years old. His boss yelled at him in Arabic.
The clerk crossed to the computer and typed into it, ran his finger down the screen, and pointed.
“We got a name and address, and we got a correct license plate,” Horton said flatly as they climbed back into the Army sedan. “Let’s get back to General Forrester with this. He can send this up the totem pole and put pressure on authorities to run it down better than we can.”
28
“I need an airplane,” Klaus told Yousef. “I need to see the oilfields.”
“That is a difficult request,” Yousef replied. “The US and Saudi Arabia have the airspace locked down. Flying in there will be dangerous. I have a friend near the border who is a pilot and flies his own plane. We’ll see what he thinks. Crews are already organizing to put out the fires. They’ll be on site within six days.”
Klaus agreed. “I’m not a pilot, but I know enough to be careful about the turbulence from those fires too. The thermals above them must be terrible. I’ve seen videos from the ground. I’m looking for huge wells with plumes going straight up.”
“Do you plan to drop all five bombs on one well, or put each one on a different site?”
Klaus cast him a sideways glance. “It’s only going to be four bombs. I have another target already selected for the fifth one.”
Yousef studied him silently for a few minutes. “There’s a saying. ‘Revenge is best served cold.’”
“I’ve been patient,” Klaus snapped. Then he took a deep breath. “I haven’t decided yet about putting the bombs together or keeping them separate. Together is much simpler. All I have to do is put them on the same frequency from the remote control.
“If I go after separate wells, there’s a greater probability of something going wrong with one of them, or worse, I get stuck in the blast area. I have no desire to be a martyr, at least not yet.”
“Of course not,” Yousef replied, his face expressing horror at the idea. “You are much too valuable to lose. You know how to do things, get places, and you’re not afraid to act. The jihad needs a thousand more like you.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “There is a man in Riyadh. His family owns the largest construction company in the country. He is disgusted that the royal family allowed the US to base its troops and war planes on the Saudi Arabia Peninsula. He’s been so vocal that the government is likely to expel him from the country. His driver brought you to my house when you arrived in Riyadh. Have you heard of Usama bin Laden?”
Klaus pursed his mouth. “I’m not familiar with the name.”
Kadir shrugged. “You will be.” He thought a moment. “My pilot friend has a Mooney. He brags that it is built for speed and maneuverability. It should be able to handle the turbulence. He’s a good pilot.” He laughed. “He’ll charge me a lot of money because he’ll whine about how dangerous it is to fly into the smoke with all the air defenses, and I’m sure the plane will come back looking very different than when it goes out.”
“I can pay.”
Yousef shook his head and raised his palms to protest. “You are the warrior risking your life. When you succeed, you’ll further jihad more than anyone in recent memory. Save your wealth for your old age.”
Klaus and Bandar, the pilot, took off shortly after dawn broke the next morning. They flew close to the ground at full throttle until a veil of dark moisture coated the windshield. Then they climbed steeply until breaking into bright sunlight. Even for someone as battle hardened as Klaus, the view of the fires from above was ghastly.
Shroud-like pollution hung over Kuwait City. They flew east above the cloud until it stretched as far as the eye could see in any direction.
“Can you descend back into it?”
“I’ll take the plane down until either the turbulence is too much, or the oxygen is too thin for the engine—or us.”
Wisps of smoke slid over the windscreen. The plane bumped through the increasing blackness until the sun was a dull orb in the sky. An unearthly roar seared through the light metal airframe louder than the combined noise of the engine and the wind. It shook the small plane. Then the wet stench of burnt oil spread through the cabin, causing Klaus and the pilot to gag. Ahead of them, an orange plume reached into the black sky, clutching at them.
Bandar maneuvered the aircraft around the updraft of hot air that must be immediately above the flame. When the plane banked, a dark panorama stretched out below. Towers of flame burst from the ground like demons dancing on blackened desert sand.
Klaus glanced at Bandar. He had blanched, gripping the yoke and starting into a steady climb. “Time to go home,” he said when they broke back into sunlight.
Klaus nodded. He looked back at the wing on his side of the airplane. It had turned black, with only rivets showing intermittent splashes of the original white paint.
Later, while meeting with Yousef, Klaus still coughed out the effects of smoke over a parched throat. “This is going to be more difficult than we thought, but I have a couple of ideas.”
“Whatever you do,” Yousef replied, “it should be done within the next five days. After that, security around the oilfields will be extremely tight.”
“I know. Can you get me in on the ground?”
“Can you get me in on the ground?” Atcho asked General Forrester. “I need to see what the conditions are at the wells and how difficult it will be for Klaus to get close to one of them. I want to get into Klaus’ head, see what he sees—figure out what he’ll do.”Forrester nodded. “We’ll fly you down to 1st Marine Division headquarters. That’s their sector. Someone there will drive you into the oilfields. I’ll arrange it. Be ready to leave in an hour. We’ll have special clothing and equipment for you. I’ll get the CG there to assign one action officer each from their intelligence and operations sections. I’d suggest you work out of there for anything you want to do in the oilfields.”
On landing, a Marine pulled in front of them in a civilian pickup. He wore yellow coveralls, a safety helmet, and gloves. A pair of goggles stretched over the front of his helmet. He jumped from the truck. “I’ve got these Su
nday-best duds for y’all.” He lowered the back of the pickup, revealing two boxes. “We just got these in. They’re rushing them here for the cleanup crews.”
They drove through abandoned battlefields on the way to the wells. Massive numbers of scorched cars and trucks lined the roads where days and weeks ago terrified refugees fled the onslaught of the Iraqi army. Spread out in the sands, burned-out hulks of battle tanks, personnel carriers, field artillery guns, rocket launchers, and all manner of war machinery lay strewn about, relics of the folly of misplaced ambition. In one charred vehicle, the upright corpse of the driver testified to the horror of the flames. The black ashes of his hands clawed at the windshield, his blackened brow stretched in terror. His burnt-out eyes still stared into a cauldron and his lips parted over carbonized teeth in a silent, eternal scream.
No one spoke as the trio drove past the carnage. The ground turned black beneath them as they approached the wells. Above them, the sky darkened. The combined roar drowned any other sound. Ahead, gigantic flames, separated by indiscernible distance as far as they could see, shot hundreds of feet into the air, their unearthly glows shedding the only light other than vehicle headlamps. Around some wells, oil had spread and ignited, creating ground fires on desert sand.
Some of the plumes burnt straight up, perpendicular to the ground. Others angled to one side. “Watch those sidewinders,” the driver yelled. “If we get downwind of those flames, the heat and fumes could kill us real quick. And the winds change constantly.”
As they drove by individual wells, they saw melted steel casings and equipment strewn about. Unignited oil streamed into the air and fell to the ground, collecting in low areas to form lakes of black oil, needing only a lighted match to convert them into yet more hellfires on earth.
They drove back as they had come, in silence. The profoundness of what they had seen bore down to the cores of their spirits.
