The Last Jihad

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Along your journey to Moscow, you will also wind your way through Lviv, the largest city in Western Ukraine. With its sprawling open-air market and crumbling Russian Orthodox churches that barely survived the age of atheism, Lviv can seem like a city somehow trapped in a time gone by.

  In warmer weather, in genuinely lovely, tree-lined parks, babushkas play with their grandchildren. Young mothers stroll their infants. Old men play chess and dominoes. There is a sense of family and faith that have been the glue holding this seven-century-old society together. But the fashions are drab and colorless and seem right out of the American ’30s. The cars and trucks are old and styleless, like a black-and-white scene from Mayberry. The storefronts are simple and unattractive—no neon, little advertising, few brand names, just signs like “Bakery” and “Drugstore” and “Butcher,” though the racks are sparse and the cupboards nearly bare.

  Somehow, the whole city has the feel of a Hollywood back lot amidst the filming of a Depression-era period piece. And Lviv, too, like most cities and towns in the region, has a sad story and a wounded spirit.

  It, too, was occupied by the Nazis, from 1941 through 1944. It, too, saw thousands of Jews rounded up into concentration camps, wherein the S.S. and the Gestapo proceeded to murder nearly the entire Jewish population. And as if that weren’t enough, the Soviet Red Army then rolled in to “liberate” the city for Communism, killing, maiming and enslaving the already traumatized citizens and plunging everyone into a new war, a Cold War, a new age of ghettos and gulags. So often has the city been in different hands that it actually has four different names—Lviv in Ukrainian, Lvov in Russian, Lvuv in Polish, and Limberg in German.

  Eventually, your journey by train will bring you to the end of German-and Soviet-ravaged Ukraine and you will arrive at the Russian border, and a huge guard tower, barbed-wire fences and searchlights will welcome you. A few dozen soldiers, all wearing green wool uniforms and green caps with red bands and gold badges around them, toting machine guns and walking German shepherds, look like a scene straight out of All’s Quiet on the Western Front.

  The soldiers step aboard the train to check passports and visas, as well as to check every compartment from top to bottom and every passenger from head to toe, and even the engines and wiring underneath the cars, looking for contraband and drugs and guns and bombs and more recently for anthrax and other weapons du jour.

  Satisfied that all is well, the soldiers direct everyone to a fairly large customs building across the border, hot and stuffy and crowded. It is the last chance to buy a newspaper and make a phone call, get some food and drinks and use a slightly cleaner bathroom, though “cleaner” is a distinctly relative term in Russia. Then, eventually, it is time to board the train once again and cross the three hundred or so kilometers of the great, Russian “bread basket” to the capital on the turbid Moskva River.

  What’s different about entering Russia by rail rather than by air is the remarkably lax security at the borders in the post–Cold War era, a loophole the “four horsemen” now exploited with a vengeance.

  Soviet borders were once impenetrable. Russian borders are now Swiss cheese.

  Traveling through airports East or West meant traveling past video cameras and high-tech surveillance equipment such as state-of-the-art facial recognition software, and counterterrorism experts on a heightened state of alert, painstakingly checking passengers against watch lists developed by the FBI, FSB, and Interpol, updated daily, sometimes hourly. But slipping incognito across distant Russian borders spanning eleven time zones, manned by ill-clothed and poorly paid soldiers more interested in getting drunk than monitoring every loser who couldn’t afford to fly into Moscow, was fairly easy.

  Getting weapons into the country wasn’t easy. But getting people trained and willing to use them was, and the country had more than enough weapons within its borders to get the job done, and that’s all that really mattered.

  After all, the Russian Federation comprised nearly eleven million square miles of territory, almost twice the size of the U.S. And in a time of near famine and starvation, few if any of the nearly one hundred and fifty million citizens cared to think much about who wanted to get into their country, at least by car, truck or train. Most, instead, thought several times a day about how to afford getting out. And this was one of those days.

  “Mr. President, we need to move you immediately,” said Agent Sanchez.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Checkmate’s on the phone. He’s got the NSC team in place and events are moving rapidly,” answered Sanchez as she and the other agents maneuvered his wheelchair out of the commander’s private office and into the adjoining conference room. Corsetti, Iverson, and Black were already waiting for them, as was General David Schwartz, the NORAD commander.

  “Bennett, McCoy, get your butts in here,” shouted the president as Sanchez positioned him behind the oak table at the head of the room.

  All evidence of a Thanksgiving meal was long gone. Instead, all the previously plain and unadorned walls were lowering to reveal video screens, computer monitors, and a high-tech THREATCON map of the world, the likes of which Bennett had never seen before. Even the top of the conference table was rapidly removed by NORAD staff to reveal four banks of secure phones—one for each side of the table—and networked laptops allowing each person to simultaneously read real-time threat condition information and type each other instant messages without having to speak out loud if they were in the middle of a conference call.

  Bennett glanced up at the wall over the major video screen to the twelve digital clocks, one from every major time zone. It was now 7:13 P.M. at NORAD—9:13 P.M. in Washington, 4:13 A.M. the next morning in Jerusalem.

  “This is amazing,” whispered Bennett to McCoy as the two got seated next to Black. “You ever see anything like it?”

  “Where do you think I got the idea for our little war room in London?” McCoy whispered back.

  Bennett just looked at her for a moment.

  “I just thought you’d watched too many James Bond movies.”

  Everyone was ready.

  Except for the president and Secretary Iverson, the entire National Security Council was physically gathered and assembled in the President’s Emergency Operations Center underneath the White House. Present and accounted for were the vice president; National Security Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick; Defense Secretary Burt Trainor; Secretary of State Tucker Paine; CIA Director Jack Mitchell; Attorney General Neil Wittimore; four-star General Ed Mutschler, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and a top aide for each. Unlike the Counter-Terrorism Task Force, the FBI and Secret Service Directors were not present, but both were on standby in their offices.

  The vice president began immediately.

  “Mr. President, first of all, how are you?”

  “Fine. You’ve all got my medical summary?”

  “We did, sir. Chuck wants to know if we should release it to the media?”

  “Absolutely. People need to know the facts if they’re going to understand exactly how hard we’re about to hit back. Marsha, you there?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kirkpatrick.

  “Call Marcus Jackson at the Times. Give him a briefing on my condition and a copy of the summary exclusively—on background—as a ‘high-level government source.’ I want it to look a deliberate, calculated leak, a message to the world that we regard these terrorist attacks as a prelude to war.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Make sure Jackson has the story and it’s big, front-page news. The Times puts it up on the Web around midnight your time. The moment the story goes up on the Web, have Chuck page the White House press corps staying over at Peterson and alert them he’ll do a full background briefing at four A.M.—six Eastern. I want every TV morning show, plus radio, talking tomorrow morning about how serious the president’s condition really is and that high-level government sources say a massive retaliation is coming.”

  “Sir, this
is Tucker.”

  “Yes, Tuck.”

  “Is that really wise? We need to be careful not to inflame the situation.”

  “Mr. Secretary, can you see me? Am I on your video screen right now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then with all due respect, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sir—sir, we cannot make this personal. This is not about you, sir.”

  “No, you’re right, Tucker,” the president replied, making an extra effort, Bennett could see, to remain calm. “It’s not about me. It’s about the American presidency. It’s about the security of our government, and our people. It’s about the British royal family. It’s about the Canadian prime minister. It’s about the royal family of Saudi Arabia.”

  “My point, sir, is…”

  “I know what you’re saying, Tucker. And I couldn’t disagree more. We are not inflaming the situation, Mr. Secretary. The situation is inflamed. We’re simply responding to a war that has been forced upon us. And make no mistake about it: this is war. We are at war. It’s not a war on terrorism anymore. It’s a war against the country or countries that did this. We are going to strike. And we’re going to strike hard. Am I clear?”

  Everyone but the Secretary of State nodded quietly.

  Tucker Paine looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach. He was mortified at the way he’d just been dismissed by the president. But he didn’t dare walk out. In his judgment, things were disintegrating rapidly now. Cooler heads were not prevailing. Emotion was winning the day.

  “Now Jack, what’ve you got?” the president continued.

  Kirkpatrick slipped out of the room for a moment to call Marcus Jackson with the New York Times in Colorado.

  “Sir, we at CIA are now convinced that the events of the past thirty-six hours are not acts of terrorism,” said Mitchell. “They are, in fact, acts of war.”

  The CIA Director had everyone’s undivided attention, and he began methodically going through the evidence his team had gathered.

  “In the past thirty-six hours, the Iraqis have shot down three of our reconnaissance planes. They’re readying several mechanized units. They’re readying their Republican Guard forces. They’re sending recon units to the borders of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. They’ve put their bombers on standby. The streets of Baghdad are like a ghost town. No car or truck has left the city—except for a U.N. relief team headed back to Jordan—in the past twelve hours. And Saddam just delivered a real humdinger of a speech. Allow me to quote: ‘My Arab brothers. If we cannot recapture the glory of Palestine from the river to the sea, and from the sea to the river, with its crown Al-Quds, then we shall erase the Zionist invaders from the face of the earth. We will make the blood of the criminal Zionist invaders and occupiers run cold, then cease to run at all. I have no intention but to do whatever pleases Allah and bestows glory onto our Arab Nation. Allah will not disappoint the Arab Nation, and we will triumph. Allah is the Greatest…Allah is the Greatest…Allah is the Greatest…Let the imperialist and Zionist enemies of our Nation be debased…May Allah damn the Jews.’ End quote.”

  “Jack, you’re sure about that translation?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Just got it from NSA. The scary thing is that the language is almost exactly the same as Saddam has used in speeches to the Arab League in the past. The critical difference my guys point out is that in the past, Saddam talked about ‘liberating’ Palestine. Now he’s talking about ‘erasing’ Zionism from the ‘face of the planet.’”

  “And?”

  “Well, sir, we’re not quite sure yet. We need more time to analyze it. But there’s no question Saddam’s rhetoric is hotter than it’s ever been. He seems to be getting an itchy trigger finger. That’s not good. And the fear my team has is that Saddam is becoming desperate and irrational.”

  “How would one know?” the president quipped.

  “Fair enough, sir. But there is some disturbing circumstantial evidence to consider. About eighteen months ago, British intelligence intercepted a phone call between Saddam Hussein’s personal physician and the physician’s father. The call was cryptic, but seemed to suggest that Saddam may have just been diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. Then, about nine months ago, Saddam’s eldest son, Uday, was killed in a car crash outside of Tikrit. We don’t think it was foul play or anything. The kid—well, he was forty-eight—did have a long history of fast cars and fast women. But we’re not sure. The bottom line, however, is that our analysts believe the death hit Saddam incredibly hard. He’d been grooming Uday to succeed him and he may very well blame us, or the Israelis, for trying to take him out. Back in 1996, you may recall, someone—we don’t know who, it wasn’t us, we think it may have been the Iranians—did try to assassinate Uday. They failed, but eight bullets left the young man paralyzed from the waist down.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Mr. President, you may reacall that two and a half months later, Saddam’s younger son, Qusay, was killed in a car bomb explosion in downtown Baghdad. We believe that was the work of a Kurdish rebel faction. But it doesn’t really matter. We’re certain that regardless of who was really responsible, Saddam blames you and Prime Minister Doron. The bottom line, sir, is that Saddam Hussein is now seventy-three. He is dying. He has no sons. No direct offspring. No direct line of succession. No one to pass on his power to. If he really believes time is running out, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  The president was quiet, sober, distant.

  “What about the G4?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “Is there any evidence Iraq was connected to that?”

  “Actually, there is, sir,” Mitchell responded. “The Canadians just found the two pilots who were supposed to be flying the Gulfstream IV that attacked you. They were bound, gagged, and double-tapped to the head, then left in a Dumpster outside of a Toronto hotel, near the airport.”

  “Good God.”

  “We also found the three oil executives who were supposed to be on that flight. Same thing: double-tapped to the head and dumped in some woods beyond the perimeter of the airport.”

  “So it wasn’t actually hijacked in flight?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Any idea who took the plane?”

  “Yes, sir, we do,” added Mitchell. “We have the thugs on a security tape.”

  “Who?”

  “Two men, dressed as pilot and copilot of the G4. The images are as clear as a sunny day in Houston—one from a camera aimed at the front door of the private terminal, and one behind the counter as they signed a credit card—stolen, of course—paying for their fuel.”

  “Names, Jack, names.”

  “We checked the tapes against our database. You won’t believe who popped up?”

  “Who?”

  “Daoud Maleek and Ahmed Jafar. Both are members of Al-Nakbah—which translated into English means, ‘The Disaster.’ It’s a Shi’ite group set up originally by the Iranians to help fight in the war in Chechnya. Run by a guy named Mohammed Jibril.”

  “The guy who seems to be trying to take the place of bin Laden?” asked the vice president.

  “Exactly.”

  “OK, keep going,” pressed the president.

  Bennett couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was a long way from Wall Street, riveted by the discussion and increasingly anxious about where it might lead. He poured himself a glass of water, and silently offered to do the same for others. All but McCoy turned him down.

  “We’ve been hunting Maleek and Jafar for the last several years. We had a pretty solid report that they were hiding out at a training camp in the Ural mountains outside of Moscow. Obviously, we haven’t caught them yet.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But we do know Saddam Hussein has been funding Mohammed Jibril.”

  “I thought you said the Iranians were funding him,” said Kirkpatrick.

  “The Iranians did give Al-Nakbah some initial seed money to wage war against the Russians in Ch
echnya. Al-Nakbah has also received some funding from Yuri Gogolov’s ultranationalist faction in Russia.”

  “Ultranationalist? Try fascist fanatics,” said the attorney general.

  “True.”

  “God help us if Gogolov ever becomes the next Czar of Russia,” added the AG.

  “Amen to that,” said Kirkpatrick.

  “Why’s Gogolov involved?” asked the president.

  “Well, sir, it’s complicated. Gogolov is Russian. But he hates the current Russian government, led by President Vadim. He thinks Vadim’s a traitor. Too cozy with the West. Too nice to Israel. Too soft on Russian Jews emigrating to Israel. Gogolov’s furious that you and Vadim have gotten so close in the last few years, and particularly that we worked so closely to destroy Al-Qaeda and the Taliban. He’s been willing to fund any rebel or terrorist group that might weaken Vadim, including Al-Nakbah.”

  “OK, Jack. So tie it all together. What does this all mean?”

  “Sir, Mohammed Jibril and Al-Nakbah have gotten help from several sources, including the Iranians and Gogolov. But in the past few years, the bulk of Jibril’s money—about six million dollars—has come from Iraq. Specifically from Saddam Hussein’s right-hand man, General Khalid Azziz, head of the Republican Guard. That ties the Iraqis in directly with this attack on you.”

  “We know all that for sure?” asked Kirkpatrick.

  “Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t take it to court. Not yet. But it’s pretty solid. We photographed Maleek and Jafar in Berlin eighteen months ago.”

  Pictures of the two now flashed on the video screen before them.

  “They hadn’t done anything yet. But they were meeting with an Iraqi intel guy in Prague for more than four hours inside a local hotel.”

  More pictures flashed on the screen.