The briefing began with photographs of the hostages flashing onto the TV screen. There was the usual stiff official navy ID shot of Senior Chief Richard Taggart that had been all over the media, followed by home snapshots of a dozen or so preteen or early-teen African girls with broad white smiles, along with their pretty teacher; another of SyncoPetro oil executive Terry McAlwain and his PR man Nick Rogers standing together in front of an oil derrick; and finally a head shot of the African named Hakeem, who was a company driver in Nigeria. Commander Atkins preceded the viewing with a disclaimer that it was still unknown whether all the hostages were being held together, or even if all of them were still alive. Taggart, however, could be assumed alive, as Boko Haram was demanding a hefty ransom for his return.
“The courier gave up Rip’s and the other hostages’ location,” Lieutenant Fung announced.
“How solid is this information?” Caulder asked, impatient as always.
“Let her brief us, for God’s sake,” Graves snapped.
“All I’m saying is, torture Santa Claus long enough and he’ll admit to being al-Qaeda.”
In truth, verifying info gleaned from terrorists always posed a challenge.
“Do we have any other visuals?” Senior Chief Graves asked Lieutenant Fung.
“No. And Caulder? Torture is against the Geneva Convention. All we know is that the hostages were to be taken to a location approximately one hundred twenty klicks east of Lagos. Just north of the Okomu National Park.”
She stepped next to a wall display map of the area showing vast, almost uninhabited forest. She tapped a spot on the map with her pointer. “CIA has set up a safe house here … here at Okoro. A Predator just checked on-station over the area. The problem is the canopy is so thick.”
The TV screen transitioned to real-time thermal imagery from the high-flying drone. It showed little but miles of trees with short sections of visible dirt roads here and there.
“We also have an airborne platform listening for words like ‘hostage,’ ‘SEAL,’ ‘Taggart,’” she resumed. “Anything that might tip their hand.”
“How big is the search area?” Graves asked.
“Eight hundred square miles. All heavily forested.”
Discouraged, Buckley muttered, “Like searching for flea shit in a pile of pepper.”
In all that vast area, Predator’s cameras revealed a single distinctive landmark—the magnified white-hot ring of what Lieutenant Fung identified as burning gas from an oil refinery’s venting system.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Nigeria
Rip Taggart, Chido’s pistol in hand, led his disparate little band of refugees tripping and stumbling in the darkness beneath thick canopy toward the refinery, whose distant glow could be glimpsed only now and then through the trees. It was a harrowing journey for the little girls. Rip noticed that Esther assisted Na’omi in keeping up her classmates’ spirit. His estimation of the child grew.
He kept alert for any indication that they were being pursued. Sooner or later, Aabid was bound to come. McAlwain’s deteriorating condition slowed down the trek, but if all went well they should still reach the refinery before daybreak.
Within two hours after fleeing the village, they came upon a joint/pressure valve assembly in an above-ground oil pipe, an encouraging encounter. It meant there must be a road nearby since the refinery would have to send out workers periodically to service the valve.
A short time later, the forest thinned enough that for the first time they spotted flame and black smoke jetting from a towering fifty-foot-high vent pipe. Rip estimated it lay less than a half-mile away. Light from the flame complemented by ambient glow from the night sky through the thinned forest revealed a primitive road heading in the direction of the refinery. That meant they could make faster time.
Rip passed the word. “The road should be safe.”
Even McAlwain’s spirits lifted. But not for long. Barely had the good news passed through the ranks than Rip threw up a palm, his senses flagged by out-of-place sounds nearby.
“What?” Nick demanded.
“Quiet,” Rip responded. “Everyone down!”
The men took a knee. Na’omi quietly bunched the girls into a low huddle, except for Esther, who sought out her protector. She went to her knees next to Taggart and clutched his arm for comfort. Taggart covered her hand with his and smiled.
Shuffling noises came from the direction of the nearby road. Soon, Rip spotted the shadowed outlines of two armed men cautiously advancing along the road in the direction of the Boko Haram–occupied village. Armed like that, in the middle of the night, they had to be BH scouts.
They halted on the road to peer into the jungle. Something had given Rip’s people away—a noise, a bird’s warning, perhaps their whispered voices. Tension mounted when one of the scouts pointed into the trees. The other dropped low in a wary half-crouch.
Rip waited, nerves jangling, trusting that none of the others did anything foolish like trying to make a run for it.
Both scouts, as if on an unspoken cue, unslung their rifles and moved together into the woods to investigate, heading directly toward where Rip and his people hid in the bushes. Considering the penchant of Aabid’s men for violence, Rip realized he had one hope for saving Na’omi and the girls, who were his primary concern. He made the decision immediately to lure the men into effective pistol range.
“Esther! Stand up by me. Now!”
Shocked, Na’omi looked on as little Esther, trusting the tall white man, promptly obeyed. Rip hugged the child close to his side to cut down on her target potential while he concealed Chido’s pistol behind her back. The movement and voice immediately attracted the attention of the two terrorists.
“Hands up! Hands up!” they shouted as they moved in concert, weapons pointed.
Rip and Esther remained perfectly still. Any sudden movement on their part invited a deadly hail of rifle bullets.
“Hands up! Hands up!”
Rip slowly lifted his free hand. In the dark, the men would be unable to determine much about the prowlers other than that they appeared to be a man and a child. Perhaps he was a woodman embracing his frightened daughter after being surprised while out hunting a lost goat in the forest.
Rip remained perfectly still while hugging Esther tightly to his side to keep her from panicking.
Come on, assholes. Just a few more steps.
Partly reassured, the riflemen advanced with more confidence. The flaming vent pipe behind them silhouetted their threatening forms.
Just a few more steps.
He waited until the shooters were ten yards away before he acted. His right hand gripping the pistol snaked out from behind Esther. In the same lightning-fast movement, he stepped in front of the little girl and went into a combat stance with his left hand bracing the weapon. The pistol barked twice in rapid sequence. Tongues of flame licked into the lead man, dropping him. The second shooter got off a single wild shot before Rip’s next shot nailed him through the heart. Esther screamed and dashed into Na’omi’s arms.
It was over that quickly, with only echoes and acrid gunpowder odor left in the air.
Back in the village, Aabid heard the distant gunfire. He awoke and dashed out of his hut, rifle in hand.
“Chido!” he shouted.
Chido should have been on guard duty behind the detention hut. He failed to answer Aabid’s summons.
“Chido!”
He crossed the open village square in long strides and threw open the door to the hostages’ cells. He discovered them empty, prisoners gone. He ran back outside and fired at the stars to arouse the camp.
Aabid’s rifle fire in the village panicked Nick and the schoolgirls, who were already traumatized by Rip’s shooting of the two BH scouts. Rip quickly retrieved the fallen terrorists’ rifles. He kept one for himself and thrust the other at Nick. Nick jumped back as if the weapon were a poisonous viper.
“Take it!” Rip snapped. “Let’s go. Get on
the road.”
Time was now crucial. They had to move fast.
“What if there’s more?” Nick protested.
“We have to chance it now. Move!”
Nick clung to the SEAL. He was almost hysterical with fear. “We don’t stand a chance. We have to give up. Maybe they won’t shoot us if we give up.”
Disgusted, Rip shook free. “Get on the road,” he ordered.
Under clear starlight, Rip and Na’omi herded the trembling girls out of the jungle and onto the road that led to the refinery. Flames from the gas vent brought renewed hope. Together, the little group stampeded toward what might be a last chance for rescue.
At the same time back in the village, Aabid assembled his troops. A dozen or so gunmen piled onto the back of a flatbed truck with Quayum at the wheel, crossbow at his side, and Aabid riding shotgun. On a furious mission to intercept the escaping prisoners, the truck roared out of the darkened village on the road that led to the refinery.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Qatar
Two days after their success in planning the bombing of the Dubai Film Festival, Insha’ Allah, Michael Nasry and Akmal Barayev exited the backseat of a chauffeured Range Rover at the international airport in Doha, Qatar. Wary after the long drive from Dubai across Saudi Arabia to meet with Emir Hatim al-Muttaqi on his orders, the two men made their way through the upscale hangar past al-Muttaqi’s private jet, which had arrived last evening. It was the same Legacy 650 that had flown them to Dubai from Tanzania after the American embassy bombing.
Two Middle Eastern bodyguards wearing a sort of khaki uniform and toting holstered semiauto Glock handguns stood watch at the bottom of a steel stairway. Emir al-Muttaqi, operational head of Umayyad Caliphate, descended the stairs to meet arrivals he obviously expected. He was a strange-looking Arab in his mid-forties, emaciated with a bearded, cadaverous face and unruly hair turning gray. He wore traditional Arab garb consisting of a flowing white robe and a black-and-white checkered kaffiyeh. Two traits distinguished him in the world of Islamic Jihad. He was utterly ruthless and completely devoted to Allah; and he was rapidly becoming the West’s most highly sought HVT since the death of Osama bin Laden.
Michael and Akmal paid homage by embracing and kissing the emir’s cheeks.
“You could have just used the Game,” Michael reminded him, referring to communications via social media and the video game. “Saved some aviation fuel.”
Al-Muttaqi replied in a gravelly, emotionless voice. “Sometimes it is important to look the men under your command in the eye. To build trust. Respect.”
“Of course, Emir. Insha’ Allah.”
The emir lost no time in bringing up the purpose of this meeting. “Michael, we’ve all lost loved ones to the Americans in this war. We all burn with the holy fire of vengeance. But I don’t want this SEAL to distract you from our goal.”
Nasry’s face hardened as he recalled that night in Kunar Province when the US SEAL, whose name he now knew to be Taggart, had assassinated his brother—shot him in cold blood, point-blank between the eyes. It would have been fitting had the emir possessed the same burning for revenge in his soul as Michael had in his. After all, it was he, the emir, whom Taggart and his criminals had been seeking that night. Had they found him, it would have been he, not Omar, who died with the infidel’s bullet in his skull.
“We can use the SEAL,” Michael said. “For the cause.”
“It’s risky.”
Al-Muttaqi studied the younger man for a long moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he nodded assent. “But remember, Michael, the words of the Prophet, Alay hi as-Salam: ‘The world is just a moment. So make it a moment of obedience.’”
“Of course. I owe everything to you.”
Al-Muttaqi gave a jerk of the head toward his private jet. “Take the plane. There are some Saudis I need to see here.”
“Thank you. I’ll be careful.”
“I know.”
He crooked a finger at one of his hovering bodyguards, who promptly rushed forward and presented Michael a urine sample cup commonly used for drug testing.
“I’m clean,” Michael protested. “I told you. I’ve been clean for six months.”
“The Prince insists.”
Michael gave in. He took the cup with a scowl and trotted up the jet’s portable stairway and disappeared inside to perform the required task in the privacy of the airplane’s lavatory. Al-Muttaqi turned to Akmal and quietly, in Arabic, said, “Keep a close eye on him. He’s American after all.”
Michael returned and passed the urine-filled cup to the guard, who walked away with it to an SUV parked inside the hangar. Michael and Akmal embraced al-Muttaqi farewell and gripped elbows with him.
“Asalam Alaikum.”
“Wa’ala ikum Salam.”
Al-Muttaqi and the other guard strode away to the SUV. Michael looked at Akmal and gestured toward the airplane. Akmal followed him inside. They were the only passengers. Michael selected a seat and stared out the window as the turbines began to spin up.
“Don’t get too used to the bling, Akmal,” he said without looking at his fellow traveler, who took the seat ahead of him.
The wide hangar doors opened. The jet began to move slowly toward the opening, engines whining. From his coat pocket Michael took a photo of his brother Omar, whom the SEAL Taggart killed in Afghanistan. Omar in the yellowing photo wore a Lakers T-shirt and his big goofy grin.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Another entirely different photograph existed of Michael Nasry’s brother. This one was snapped by one of the SEALs that night of the raid on the village in Kunar when the SEALs were hunting Hatim al-Muttaqi. It showed him with a bullet hole in his head.
Taggart’s team had been unusually quiet, uneasy after extraction back to the Jalalabad military airfield. The mood was more than simply post-op decompression. And it wasn’t because the mission had failed and al-Muttaqi had escaped. Something had snapped in the team leader. Perhaps it was the sight of the family murdered in their own bed, father and children, by al-Muttaqi or his men. Add to that the grisly scene when the Mujahideen slit the young mother’s throat in front of their eyes.
Or perhaps the senior chief had experienced too much war, been on too many missions.
Not one of the SEALs from that night would ever forget the barbaric image of Taggart scalping the hajji. He stood in the eerie greenish light of their NVGs with the dead man’s hair dripping blood in one hand, his knife in the other. But it was the expression on his face that most horrified the others—a mixture of raw savagery and … glee.
Worse than that, however, especially in Caulder’s estimation, was when Taggart executed the hajji who claimed to be an American. For God’s sake, the guy had been trying to surrender.
It was a different team that unassed the extraction helicopter after the mission and repaired to their tent behind its HESCO and concertina barriers. The team had departed on the op in high spirits and excitement. Bear Graves had just learned he was finally going to be a papa. Buddha Ortiz and Alex Caulder had been ribbing each other about Buddha’s yerba maté tea and Caulder’s ragged recliner. Now, upon return, they were like feral animals slinking off to their cave after a killing spree in a farmer’s henhouse.
Inside the GP large tent, somebody switched on the battery-powered lamp. The sudden illumination revealed faces hard and wary. Men still laden in body armor and combat gear stood apart from one another, avoiding one another’s eyes.
Several SEALs from the support/backup team had trailed into the tent as well. They hadn’t been present at the raid itself, having been assigned to perimeter security, and now glanced uneasily at one another, wondering what was going on.
Needing a diversion from the discomfort, Fishbait broke out his digital to evaluate the shots Intel would need for the After Action debriefing. The dead American Jihadist’s bloody face stared at him from the view screen with sightless eyes.
“Erase that shit,” Taggart ordered.
Fishbait objected. “We need it for the post-op.”
“I said, erase it.”
Rip reached to take the camera, but Caulder moved in suddenly and snatched it away.
“Hey, dude!” Fishbait objected.
Taggart’s head lowered and his eyes slitted. “Give me the camera, Caulder.”
Caulder glared back at him.
“Caulder, give me the fucking camera.”
Tension mounted as the standoff reached its boiling point. Caulder felt conflicted in defying the father figure who had trained him for the team, who had helped make him the SEAL he was. But what Taggart did tonight was wrong to its core. His eyes continued to bore unwaveringly into Taggart’s. He had made his stand and wasn’t backing down.
“Buckley! Fishbait! Everybody out!” Caulder snapped.
Fishbait hesitated before he and Buckley joined the support/backup operators and left the tent. Graves and Ortiz remained behind with Taggart and Caulder. The four of them constituted the team’s foundation.
Accusation and hurt tinged Caulder’s voice. “The shit you taught us, Rip? Everything? You betrayed us all.”
Graves interceded to defuse the situation. “Hell, Caulder. My grandfather scalped Japs on Iwo Jima.”
“It’s not the scalping,” Caulder countered.
“Then what? Because he killed a hajji? How many have you smoked, Caulder? Twenty? Thirty?”
“He was an unarmed American!” Caulder exploded from rage, disgust and despair. “He surrendered!”
“He was a traitor!” Rip shot back furiously.
Graves still strived to be the voice of reason. “The asshole would’ve just gotten out to kill more of us.”
Caulder came back with, “So it’s more important to be effective than to be right? Is that it?”
Bear’s voice lowered. “It’s war, Caulder.”
Caulder was having none of that argument. “And we’re warriors, not savages. We have rules. If we didn’t, we’d be no better than the ragheads.”
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