Hunter didn’t hear whatever they said, but, after a minute of animated conversation, LeMarcus said, “The chief pulled him out earlier and double-checked him and his checked bags. He’s clean. He’s flying an Arabic name with an American passport. I flagged him for an intrusive search when he arrives in Atlanta.”
“That’ll work.”
Over years of being asked outdated security questions, international passengers stopped listening or giving any credence to airborne threats when someone at the ticket counter or in airport security asked, “Has anyone unknown to you asked you to carry an item on this flight?” or, “Have any of the items you’re traveling with been out of your immediate control since the time you packed them?”
The bosomy lady in the wild, orange, African-print dress largely ignored the questions and answered, “No,” although the man ahead of her paid her handsomely for the privilege of checking an additional bag of his through to their destination.
Zaafir Miller was being scrutinized by the TSA for Secondary Security Screening Selection, not because his name was on the No-Fly list, but Miller was one of two passengers with a one-way reservation who paid cash for his ticket. Both booked reservations on the day of the flight.
Miller assumed the additional security originated from a similar name, Zaafir Muller, a German Muslim who was tracked on the Terrorist Watch List and hadn’t left Germany in weeks. Zaafir Miller was highly aware that his size commanded second looks in airport security queues. The one white and two black men were obviously airport employees who wanted to ensure everyone saw the big man being hassled.
CHAPTER FIVE
0735 April 19, 2010
Helmand Province, Afghanistan
For the past seven days, poppy farmers and their Taliban masters were in a state of high dither. The messages from Allah were clear—stop growing poppies. Every night, farmers raced into their fields to find the stench of hundreds of dead or dying poppies. Some plants were lifeless and discolored, others shrunken and curled with drooping stalks, and everywhere was the faint smell of burned dung. Even watching or sleeping in the field, the workers saw and heard nothing. Thousands of healthy plants surrounded thousands of sick ones.
The Taliban initially thought the Americans were crop dusting, spraying their fields with poison like the Russians did thirty years earlier, but the farmers didn’t see or hear any aircraft. They couldn’t find residue on any of the poppies. Some leaves were marred with discolored streaks, while others appeared perforated with tiny holes, but there were no mites or other infestations.
The farmers planted sharp, straight rows of poppies stretching over 100 feet. Deflated, defeated plants defined one side, while a row of healthy green plants stood straight and unaffected on the other. The rows of flattened dead or dying plants curved with sharp points and definition.
“Why is it curved here and straight there?” Mansoor asked, remembering something he saw in a Kandahar bazaar. “Father, I’ve seen something like this before the Taliban. A music cover, called a crop circle. These are no circles, but they might make a design. It may be a message from God. Inshallah.”
The farmers looked at each other, unable to see the design from ground level. After consulting together in great trepidation, Mansoor was elected to climb the valley walls for a better look.
Three distinct shapes carved into the poppy fields became clearer the higher he climbed. Having seen Allah’s writing before, Mansoor trembled. His bladder released, and he fell to the ground, wailing.
*
Lynche and Hunter walked to the rear of the dark AFSOC C-130. The aircrew waited for their Code 2s to board. The YO-3A with the Weedbusters multiple laser system was secured in the cargo hold in a conformal container specifically made for C-130 transportation. When they arrived in Jordan, outside of Amman, the quiet airplane was transferred to its seagoing 10x10x40 foot shipping container and loaded on an intermodal container chassis for its short ride to Aqaba.
The next day, the container was transferred to a ship bound for Baltimore. The support crew of Bob and Bob had first-class accommodations aboard the ship for the two-week return to America.
Opium production continued to increase, since the Americans arrived in Afghanistan in 2001. The State Department had projected opium production would increase in 2010 and in 2011.
However, opium production dropped significantly in 2010 due to an unknown plant disease that killed off much of the crop.
CHAPTER SIX
1100 April 21, 2010
Near East Division CIA Headquarters
Nazy Cunningham patted herself from breast to waist to ensure she shed all her electronics. She put her right hand in the HandTrac biometric scanner while a camera verified her iris print. Green lights flashed when she inserted her ID card into the reader. Locks released loudly, and she entered the SCIF. She crossed the dirty carpeted floor. Her high heels crushed hundreds of tiny chads into the thick pile, while thousands held fast on the floor and along the walls of the cubicles from static electricity generated from the monster shredders in the room.
Nazy went straight to the classified terminals that linked the US embassies to a secure network. She eased herself into the decrepit conference chair. Delicate fingers raced across the keyboard, entering login and password. Interlacing her fingers in her lap, she waited.
One minute later, the system came alive, and a few mouse clicks took her to the page she wanted. Ignoring the classification headers and footers, she stared at the middle of the black-and- white monitor in disbelief.
Confirmed requested subjects arrived Islamabad Intl Airport 24 Oct 2006. ISI monitored their departure from airport to a compound in Hazara region. No record of any departure. Photo attached. Compound under protection of local military base.
She clicked the attachment icon, waiting for the file to open. After twenty seconds, a very detailed color photograph popped into view and highlighted a three-story structure inside very high walls and protected by a heavily fortified metal door.
She placed her hands flat on the desk, leaning closer for a better look, as she contemplated her next move. What to say, and to whom? Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for a moment.
When she returned to the present, she scrolled and clicked the mouse buttons to close the window and attachment before logging off. As she quickly left the room, she ground more chads into the carpet with each step.
Nazy’s heels clicked on the tile in the hallway leading to the office of the Director of Operations. Her mind raced, as she rehearsed what to say. She walked past two secretaries without a greeting or acknowledgment that they were alive, knocked on the director’s door, and entered. Five graying men in gray suits and dull ties stopped talking and looked up as the NE director entered and closed the door behind her. They admired the fleeting callipygian view and were nearly caught as their eyes ran the length of her legs when she quickly spun around.
Steeling herself, she took a deep breath. “I found him.”
First annoyed, then confused, the Director of Operations blinked twice before locking eyes with her. “Who did you find?”
Her green eyes flashed from the sunlight pouring through the window, as they darted to each man’s face. Save for the DCI, the CIA’s uppermost leadership waited for her response.
“Bin Laden.”
The Director of Operations smiled and spread his hands, asking for clarification.
The Director of the National Clandestine Service asked, “Pakistan?”
“Are you sure?” another asked.
“I predicted when he finally quit running, he’d send for his family,” she said. “We just received confirmation that three of his wives traveled to Islamabad in late 2006. The ISI ensured they made it to a compound outside a military installation thirty miles from the capital. The compound is a fortress unlike anything else in the area. We should put it under surveillance for a positive ID. They’ve been there three-and-a-half years. He’s there.”
“Stake your re
putation on it?” asked the man with little hands from the NCTC.
“Sir, he’s there. I guarantee it. I just can’t prove it at the moment.”
The Director of Operations lifted his eyes from Nazy’s shoes to her nose. “OK, Nazy. Be ready to brief the director in ten minutes. Show him what you’ve got. You were right on all the others. I hope you’re right on this one. I think this meeting’s over.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
0700 June 9, 2010
Roberts International Airport Monrovia, Liberia
LeMarcus Leonard drove while the two men slept. Hunter snored lightly, while Lynche sounded like an oncoming freight train. LeMarcus reached over the seat every few minutes and jostled Lynche gently, quieting the noise. The road from the airport to the cutoff for the Kendeja Resort Hotel remained surprisingly smooth after years of wear and tear, as United Nations armored personnel carriers routinely scarred the asphalt running into town or out to the airport. Fatigue, the steady drive, and the decent suspension in the Toyota 4Runner quickly put the two pilots to sleep after another all-night mission monitoring al-Qaeda and drug smugglers coming from South America.
West Africa, from Casablanca to Lagos, had long been a cesspool of terrorist and narcoterrorists activity, but with nations not very friendly to the US, it was unlikely any head of state would allow any ISR missions to be flown from their countries. There was little Americans could do to interdict or disrupt the flow of drugs or terrorists coming to or leaving Africa. Unmanned aircraft, with their ridiculously high accident rate, couldn’t be spared for missions in West Africa with its even-more-volatile flying environment and remained in the Iraqi, Afghani, and Pakistani theaters. Even if there were available assets with which to conduct ISR missions, there were no airfields from which to operate—until recently.
What looked like a string of business jet hangars and commercial office spaces on the other side of the runway at Roberts International were the newly constructed hangars and office spaces of US Special Operations Command. For the past week, low-noise-profile ISR flights went up and down the coast, highlighting pirate strongholds, drug-running berths for surface and submersibles, and unmarked airfields from which a cornucopia of drugs and blood diamonds flowed.
LeMarcus was mildly frustrated with Hunter for not bringing him into the fold with whatever operations he and Lynche conducted.
“LeMarcus,” Duncan explained, “first, you aren’t cleared for this, and you haven’t been read in on this SAP. It’s better this way. When there’s a need for you to know, I’ll let you know. You can help by keeping everyone away from the hangars and ignoring what we’re doing.”
Early that morning, as LeMarcus drove out to the hangar, he saw something, or thought he did, make the turn to the runway threshold at the far end of the field. He never heard an engine, and, by the time he drove up to the hangar, the large fold-up doors were in their fully down position. Hunter and Lynche walked toward him.
“Hotel please, good Sir,” yawned an exhausted Hunter, as he slid into the front seat.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Lynche grumbled, gliding into the rear.
LeMarcus began asking about the airplane when Hunter interrupted him and waved his hand before the man’s face. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”
“Boss, I’m worried.”
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” Hunter repeated. “One of these days, we might have to let you in on what we’re doing, but not today, and maybe not ever. It just depends.”
“Depends on what? I think it might be some cool shit.” “LeMarcus, you aren’t cleared for this. The less you know, the better. How about for now, we get us old farts to the hotel, so we can sleep. We should be done in a day or two.”
“OK. One of these days, I want to do some fun stuff.”
“Maverick, one of these days I want to do some fun stuff, too,” Lynche said sleepily from the back seat.
“Maverick?” asked LeMarcus.
“It’s a long story. One of these days, I’ll tell you. How about the next time we’re here?”
LeMarcus gave up. Hunter yawned. By the time LeMarcus left the air side of the airport, his passengers were sound asleep.
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for?” LeMarcus mumbled. “While I’m looking for smugglers and terrorists and such, I’ll bet you’re looking for flying saucers or some shit.”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Hunter said. “Let’s not go there, Obi-Won LeMarcus. We have plans for you, and we can’t do them if you’re dead.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
1930 July 2, 2010
Presidential Suite JW Marriott Washington, DC
Duncan Hunter, entering the suite, tossed his keys on the table in front of the couch, put his briefcase on the credenza, and hung up his suit coat. As he pulled off his tie, the in-room phone rang.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Sir,” the concierge said, “but you have a visitor, a young woman named Ms. Nazy Cunningham.”
Hunter’s internal alarm went off. They planned to meet Friday and take an extended drive to the Tidewater Virginia area. “Thank you. Send her up.”
When he let Nazy in, instead of unbridled sexual chemistry boiling over in the doorway, she walked right past him. Hunter never saw her like that before. She was agitated, worried, perhaps livid.
Nazy tossed her purse onto the couch and sat down. “Duncan, the man’s an idiot.”
“Which one?” He knew she’d been hounded for a date by several men at headquarters and the NCTC, and she was being promoted to the senior intelligence service. He also knew she’d been summoned to the office of the Director of Central Intelligence for a project.
“All of them, really. All of them but you. Why are you so different, Duncan Hunter?” She kissed him and squeezed his hand.
“Baby, that’s been asked many times, and I don’t know what it means. I’m just me, an average guy trying to do an above-average job. So who’s the idiot? I might know him.” He thought he was being funny.
“The DCI.”
Suddenly, it wasn’t funny. Mind racing, he squeezed her hand. “What has that idiot done to get you fired up? I’d be shocked if he asked you out.”
It was obvious she was upset, or she would have waited to tell him the following day.
Nazy took a deep breath. “He said, ‘I understand you’re our highest-ranking Muslim. I was wondering how you were able to get into the CIA and other Muslims can’t?’ I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say or do. Then he said, ‘The President wants me to do some Muslim outreach. It’s my top priority, and I need help.’ He wants me to help him.”
“The man is definitely an idiot. Then again, all of the president’s appointments are imbeciles. They look like the clientele in the bar scene of Star Wars. What did you say?”
She looked concerned and confused. “Duncan, I sensed real danger in that man’s office. I had no idea what to expect, and I didn’t want to be there.”
“You mean other rumors besides his being gay?”
“That’s neither a secret nor the issue. Well before I was assigned to lead the Near East Division, there were rumors about him, only I knew they weren’t rumors, and I sensed a trap. I wanted to run from that office as fast as I could. Then I thought, ‘What would Duncan do in this situation.’ I swear, thoughts of you calmed me instantly. I’ve learned so much from you. You’re always helping me, mentoring." Duncan Hunter broke out in a broad grin.
“I composed myself and asked, ‘What did you have in mind, Sir?’
“He said, ‘Human Resources hasn’t been able to recruit a single Muslim. They can’t pass background checks or polys. I’m at my wit’s end. We need to hire more Muslims.”
Duncan shook his head. “If you see blood shooting from my eyes, you’ll know my head’s exploding. Muslim outreach is this man’s priority? What am I missing? Is the rumor he’s lost his mind?”
/>
“You aren’t missing anything. Ever since I came to the Agency and nearly every job I’ve had since my first day has been either developing intelligence to fight Islamists or work to keep Islamists and radical Muslims from infiltrating the Agency and other government agencies. There are plenty of Islamic apologists and defenders. I used to be one, you know.”
“Yes, I know. That was a long time ago in another life.”
“I thought it was obvious. He’s the DCI and should’ve known I renounced Islam years ago. Obviously, that bit of information isn’t in my file.” She took a deep breath. “When we went to dinner at the Red Parrot—I’ll never forget that night, Duncan—I realized that even what the West considers good Islam is terrible. I long felt it was the wrong way to live when I was in school at Yale, but I was conditioned to think Islam was the ultimate way of life. I was Jordanian. Life was good. I didn’t have to wear a veil or head scarf, but even then, women were still considered less than a whole person. We were simply property."
“If you submit to Islam, it means you’re a slave, man or woman. It doesn’t matter. Someone controls you. At dinner, you said you wanted to help me. I ran away once from my husband, and I wanted to run away from that disgusting imam, but no one ever said anything like that to me. You treated me with kindness and respect."
“Somehow, you knew I was in deep trouble, and you jumped in to help me escape. As I sat there, looking at this beautiful, wonderful man, someone I was sent to spy on, you just wanted me to be free. At that moment, that was all I wanted, to enjoy the freedoms Americans take for granted."
“When we were in your room, and I changed into your workout clothes—I still sleep in that shirt every night—I knew right there my life would be a thousand times better if I walked away.”
He tried to lighten the tone. “And, I helped.”
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