by Chase Austin
The air was lighter compared to the heaviness of the city, but it was still hot and wet. The night breeze failed to give any respite. Yasin sweltered in the heat, but he had seen worse. He paid scant attention to it as he walked towards his mentees waiting for him in three straight lines next to a makeshift platform at the far corner of the hangar, the very place from where he had sentenced Mahfouz to death.
Chapter 5
The cadets bowed their heads as Yasin walked up to the dais. He turned to face twenty-nine pair of eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. His face was thoughtful and intelligent, but it betrayed no emotion. A warrior’s look was in his eyes. They all recognized the intensity — a mix of determination and ruthlessness.
To strangers, he appeared as normal as one would expect a person to be. He had a full head of thick black hair and a tanned face with a trimmed beard and a sharp mustache. People knew him as Ed McCarthy, a mild-mannered security guard at this deserted airfield, employed by an obscure North Dakota facilities management firm. On paper, his job was to take care of the airstrip and the hangar. The nearest town was fifteen miles to the north, and he rarely visited it. Whenever he did, it was always for groceries, which were always paid for in cash. The cashier never looked at him twice. No one ever did.
Seven months ago, Yasin had appeared in this town with three men. For the next thirty days they had worked on creating makeshift living spaces for thirty more people, a soundproof space that covered one-third of the hangar, a simulation room, and a makeshift kitchen. All this required cash. The money had found its way to him through Irfan-Ul-Haq, AKA the Great Cleric.
On the thirty-first day, the three men had left, leaving Yasin alone. Two days later, the first lot of fifteen men arrived and three days later, the next fifteen. And for the next six months they lived on that airfield, right under the American government’s nose, plotting the country’s downfall. Getting trained in hand-to-hand combat, the use of different kinds of firearms — assault rifles, submachine guns, and pistols — in the soundproof cabins. They learned to handle grenades and worked with every known kind of explosive. The training also covered a detailed lowdown of guerilla warfare and the deadly Palestinian terror strategies of deep insertion. At the end of six months, Yasin had converted them into live ammunition, using the Taliban’s playbook.
At times Yasin found the process of turning a misguided American kid into a walking time-bomb bloody hard. He felt as if he would never succeed, or someday a SWAT team would raid the compound and take him and his whole operation down, but he persisted. He persisted, and persisted, in the name of Allah.
The training was regimented. The whole process of breaking and molding young distressed minds was divided into six major steps.
Step one was to prey on kids from dysfunctional or broken families; isolate them from their parents and their familiar surroundings. The kids were selected based on their age, mixed parentage and citizenship. They were young, had one Muslim parent and were American citizens with valid social security numbers. Some of them were from affluent families, several had parents who commanded wide respect in their communities, almost all had gone to good schools and been at the top of their class for most of their academic lives. But the most important thing they had in common was their extreme loathing for society.
Step two started with the teaching of Koran, Islam’s holiest book, in Arabic, a language these youngsters didn’t understand and couldn’t speak. This made them rely heavily on Yasin, who then distorted the message as and when it suited his purpose. The trainees were explicitly forbidden to contact their families, read newspapers, listen to radio, read any books that Yasin did not prescribe for them, thus creating a complete blackout. The cadets were given a new identity. None of them could ask anyone else about anything except what they were learning there. Talking about old identities or families or girlfriends or past life was forbidden; breaking this pact meant a death sentence. The mission was more important than small talk about one’s past.
The third step was to make these young men hate the world that they currently lived in. Every single day for eight hours all they had to do was to read the Koran. Many a day they were beaten, fed only dry bread and water.
The next step was to drill the concept of martyrdom glories. How when they would die, they would be received up with unimaginable pleasures and food, and how this glory was going to propel them to become heroes in their neighborhoods.
The penultimate step was to show them videos of how minorities were being treated in the USA, how men, women, and children were suffering and dying at the hands of the American administration and how American politicians were milking the country dry, letting the nation go to the dogs. The underlying message was that modern America didn’t care about their own and others, so those who supported the government deserved to die. At the end of these phases, the youngsters were ready to go out and fight because that was the only way to eternal glory.
The last stage of the training was to assess if they would hesitate to kill a fellow American, and that was why, even though Yasin came to know about Mahfouz’s breach of trust very early, he still waited till the last day of the training to sentence him to death at the hands of his mates. By sacrificing Mahfouz, he had made sure that his six months of regimented training was successful in weeding out any vestige of humanity from every cadet’s consciousness. Now, not a shred of emotion or doubt would cloud their minds when the time came for them to kill.
Out of the thirty, Yasin had also chosen five to execute five unique jobs. Their given names were Taha, Habib, Sultan, Rahim, and Aslam. Their real names were Liam, Ethan, Mason, William, and Elijah, but not anymore. They were the youngest in the lot, from fourteen to seventeen years of age. Unlike the rest of the trainees on that airfield, these five were different and were treated differently. Yasin wanted more like them but soon found out that only those five had the right psyche and that they fit the criteria to a tee. Now, Yasin’s only job was to nurture them to be the best.
The target cities and the buildings had already been identified, code-named and broken down to their bare basics — subways, police station locations, sewer networks, train systems, electric grids, water supplies, government institutions, schools, malls, theaters. Weekly simulations augmented familiarity with the terrain. Mock battles in which different ground situations were replicated gave the young men a real feel of covering their bases quickly while taking care of any obstructions.
Still, Yasin knew that no training could prepare them to take on the FBI and the CIA, and that’s why the attacks were not aimed to seize control but to inflict maximum damage, and then immediately withdraw to avoid retaliation. The assault’s sole objective was ‘destroy and move’.
America wouldn’t even know what hit her.
Chapter 6
Yasin clenched his right wrist with his left hand, behind his back. His posture was erect and attentive, his gaze fixed on the twenty-nine men standing before him in silence. His lips quivered and slowly the words started to take the shape of a speech. He had practiced it a zillion times in the privacy of his room, but tonight was the real test for him. This was the last thing his men were going to take with them.
“Allah has created us for his worship and commanded us to be just, and allowed us, the wronged ones, to retaliate against our oppressor.” His words came out in a measured tone. “Today we are gathered here to commence the most pious mission bestowed on us by Him, that is, to avenge the deaths of millions of our brothers and sisters at the hands of this barbaric nation – America – and fix its broken system. Today marks the beginning of a new order where idiots will not occupy the top places. They will not tell us how to live our lives. This nation and its leadership must realize that every human life has the same value. It must realize that we have suffered enough, and we are done being at the wrong end of their bullets, bombs, and missiles. Today the bullets, bombs, and missiles will have new targets. The assailant will become the prey.�
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Yasin paused to gauge his audience. They all were listening with rapt attention. “Our brothers and sisters are being killed and terrorized by America, within the borders and outside of them, and our brethren want us to do something. Today we’ll make them proud. We’ll teach this cruel nation a lesson on how to treat human life justly. America is our home too and a man cannot be blamed for protecting his home. This American system is beyond repair. Its hands are tainted with the blood of innocents and it’s time to return the favor in kind.” Yasin was almost at the conclusion of his speech. He could see the boys were charged up. It was time to give them one last push. “Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.” The boys shouted back.
“We are ready.” Yasin raised his right hand in the air.
“Ready to kill.” Twenty-nine right hands were up in solidarity. For the next few seconds, no one said anything. They just gazed at each other.
Yasin stared hard at the three men who would be leading the three teams in the battlefield. Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Shahrukh Umar, and Saif al-Adel were standing there, leading the three rows. Six months ago, they had names like Max, Jacob, and Pete but now they were Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Shahrukh Umar, and Saif al-Adel. Others were instructed to follow these three on the battlefield because Yasin wasn’t going to be there. He had other things to take care of, like dismantling this facility so that when the uniforms came sniffing, they would find nothing.
Yasin knew that none of the twenty-nine mentees was going to come out of this mission alive. He had made sure of that. There wasn’t any escape plan. Surrender wasn’t even an option. Once they were in, they had only two options – Kill or Die.
He slowly got off the podium and strutted towards Khalid, the nearest of the three. “I have very high hopes for you,” he said.
“Yes, Commander.” There was pride in Khalid’s answer. Yasin’s smile in return was that of a proud father. Khalid’s actual father was the vice president of one of the American oil and gas majors and his mother was marketing director in an Internet unicorn startup. They had no idea that their son, whom they thought was in his college dorm room, and right then probably asleep, was, in fact, getting ready to wage a war against his own country. They would, however, know it all too soon.
Yasin then paused near Saif and widened his hands for a hug, which Saif gladly accepted. He said, “Saif, make me proud.”
“Yes, Commander,” Saif spoke in Yasin’s ear. Saif’s actual father was a USA district judge and his mother an elementary school teacher. Their son, according to them, was on a foreign trip to Italy sponsored by his college. They had spoken to him only twice in the last six months despite the multiple options the world now had in terms of reaching out to people.
Shahrukh was last in the line. His father, a successful investment banker and his mother, an award-winning journalist, were on the road for the last nine months for work commitments and believed that their academically bright son was at their home busy preparing for Harvard.
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, still there remained a sense of unease. 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 was stretched as far as one could lay one’s eyes on. 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 p
assengers 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 expressions might be similar. He shifted his gaze to the window. The sun was about to rise. The dawn was breathing its last.
The Bell flew around the landing spot, checking for obstacles, planning on how to 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 deboarded the plane, walking in a line, and instantly felt a shiver due to the icy breeze emanating from the rotors.
