by Joseph Nagle
The Ayatollah heavily drummed his fingers of his left hand onto his desk in frustration as numerous unanswered questions raged through his mind.
But why would Hezbollah have been ordered to attack the negotiations between Syria, Lebanon, the US, and Israel? Why would they attack their own and in a Mosque? Who gave the order? It didn’t make any sense. Attacking Zionists he could understand, but attacking their own people, and in a Mosque?
He felt betrayed; it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Turning around in his chair, the Ayatollah stared out of his second floor window and over the streets of Tehran. Lost in his thoughts, the Ayatollah did not hear the assassin silently enter his office. Without a sound, the large and powerful man crept closer to the Supreme Leader. Too easy, the assassin thought to himself, it was Allah’s will.
The fatwa had been proclaimed against this apostate by the Messenger, the assassin was honored to have been chosen to enforce it: Allah’s Enforcer the Messenger had called him.
Raising the silenced, chrome-plated, .45-caliber American made handgun, he let out a slow breath at the end of which he pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.
The Ayatollah’s death had come quick but not instantly. For the smallest fraction of a second, but with enough time for his brain to process the confusing images before him, the Ayatollah had survived. In the moments after the first bullet exited from his throat, he saw the spray of his own blood on the glass and the hole created by the bullet as it pierced through the window in front of him. He would not be alive long enough to see the second and third bullet holes in the window. Death had followed in the fractions of time between the first and second shot, the third had been unnecessary, but a good assassin always makes sure the job is finished.
The assassin unscrewed the silencer from the weapon, and slipped it into his pocket. Wiping the gun clean of any fingerprints, he laid the weapon on the desk of the Supreme Leader, just as he had been instructed.
As quietly as he entered, he retreated. The assassin walked down the winding white marble staircase and passed the body of the Ayatollah’s wife. It had been her misfortune to be at home today. Snapping her neck had been a simple affair for the strong man, she had died without pain.
At the base of the stairs lay the body of their servant, a young girl barely eighteen years of age. The force of the three silenced bullets shot from behind had severed her spine and caused her to twist awkwardly as she fell. The momentum of her fall had spun her body completely around. The hijab that had covered her head was now off and lay next to her. Her eyes were open and were frantically scanning the room in desperation as if she were searching for answers.
This one was not yet dead. A rare mistake for the assassin, but she had run from out of nowhere; the assassin’s shots had been improvised. He had been lucky that she did not make any noise.
For a moment, the dark featured man felt a slight twinge of pity for the young woman. Her green, almond shaped eyes perfectly accentuated her high cheek bones, charcoal black hair, and light complexion. With each struggling heave of her chest, he could see the outline of her firm and round and nearly adolescent breasts through the dark cloth of her shirt. Shapely for a Persian, she was a striking young woman. Too bad, he thought, she would have given some man much pleasure.
Reaching to his side, the assassin removed a curved knife from its sheath on his belt and then knelt to her; with a precise and effortless movement he slit her throat.
Leaving through the door in which he came, he had to step over the bodies of the two guards that had given him little trouble.
Chapter Thirteen
USS Arizona
The Mediterranean
Two unmarked Blackhawks had swiftly extracted Michael and the twelve-man Delta Force team from Damascus and had flown at just over 150 knots to the Mediterranean. After an hour in the air, thirteen men were now standing upon the deck – and amidst the crew – of the USS Arizona, a Ford class aircraft super-carrier.
On the massive deck of the carrier, sailors were moving around in a ballet of well organized chaos. The men and women were wearing their job specific colored vests: white, red, green, brown, purple, and yellow. The use of the varying colors was necessary as the deck of an aircraft carrier was one of the most dangerous places in the world to work; different colored shirts and vests help to delineate the exact responsibility of each sailor that worked on the deck, and helped to ameliorate some of that danger.
Many of the sailors curiously eyed the dirty and bloodied, barefoot civilian – surrounded by a Delta Force team – who had suddenly appeared on their deck. The congregating group of young American service members parted without warning as if Moses himself were coming through.
Shouts of “make way” were being repeated, and through the crowd of sailors the ship’s Captain, with another officer in tow, emerged. A solidly built and formidably tall man, Captain Irving M. Savage, was wearing dark aviation glasses and a Captain’s hat that was adorned with what looked like ornate, yellow scrambled eggs over its shiny black brim.
The other officer, smaller in stature and more cerebral in appearance, carried the distinguishable and stereotypical black bag of a doctor.
The two naval officers stepped up to Michael, one with his hand extended. The Carrier’s Captain grabbed Michael’s hand and shook it. Hurriedly, he uttered, “Welcome aboard the USS Arizona, Dr. Sterling, glad you could make it.”
“I am too, thanks for having me, Captain, and thanks for the lift back there.” Michael then relieved his hand, which had been firmly in the grasp of the Captain.
“Captain, did you say the Arizona? Correct my history, but I thought the Arizona was the name of the ship resting on the sea floor in Pearl Harbor?”
“Dr. Sterling, you are on board the newly designated Ford Class USS Arizona, newest carrier chopped to the Sixth Fleet - Task Force 64 - Special Operations. She’s a beauty ain’t she?”
Michael knew enough about naval operations to know that a carrier of this size in the Mediterranean would certainly be accompanied by nuclear powered submarines with long-range strategic missiles (SSBN’s) and cruise missiles for both her defense and strategic use.
Submarines, the only naval vessel referred to as a boat, that carry SSBN’s are designed for stealth using a number of sound reducing technologies and design features that work to nearly eliminate detection. All machinery is mounted on sound and vibration dampening devices, the propulsion systems are designed to eliminate detectable sound, and the boats’ hulls are built with anechoic sound absorbing tiles. Every bit of stealth technology built into the boat work harmoniously to create nothing more than the sound of a large school of fish to the prying ears of any enemy.
Michael looked over the edge of the carrier hoping to see the outline of a sub, but was met only with ominous whitecaps and dark, nearly ink-black, Mediterranean water.
Looking up, he scanned the deck of the ship from the front to the back. Michael was confused by the ship’s layout: “Did you say Ford class, Captain; what happened to the Nimitz class, and why are there so few sailors on the deck and the island so far aft?”
Pleased with the barrage of sudden questions, the Captain was more than willing to talk about his vessel, “Dr. Sterling, you seem to know your carriers. The USS Arizona is the newest class of super carriers, taking the place of the retiring Nimitz class over the next ten years. We just haven’t officially told anybody yet. The Arizona is my big fat baby, displacing over 100,000 tons.
She’s strong, silent, and as modern as they get. She is powered by two of the new Bechtel designed first-generation A1B class of nuclear reactors, has stealth features, uses the new Electromagnetic Aircraft Launch System (EMALS), which, to answer your questions, pushes the island further aft and needs by far fewer hands to crew her nearly automated operations.
You are standing on the finest and most efficient ocean going aircraft carrier the world has ever seen. Cost you, me, and every other tax payer eight billion bi
g-ones to have her made. All she needs is a Starbucks and we’d all feel like we were back at home.”
With a wink the Captain continued, “Hell, no offense to President Ford, but she should have been known as the “John Holmes” super carrier class. It’s the biggest friggin’ thing to part any sea.”
Michael smiled uncomfortably at the Captain's pornographic analogy, and then turned to acknowledge the other officer that had arrived with the Captain; the throb in Michael’s leg reminded him of his present condition as he said, “Captain, I hate to sound rude being that we just met, but is there any chance that your friend here is a doctor?”
Michael’s tattered right pant leg was covered with blood, some not his own, and instantly reminded the Captain that the rescued man before him had been extracted from a battle and had been injured.
The Captain reached over with one of his abnormally large hands, and put it on the shoulder of the man that had been trailing his march through the crowd. “Dr. Sterling, I would like to introduce you to the personal physician of the Vice Admiral of the Sixth Fleet, Dr. Philip Montreau. The Admiral’s doc will have you taken care of in no time.” As if sensing what Michael was thinking, the Captain eyed Michael up and down for size, and continued, “I have laid out a pair of my dress slacks for you. I believe that they should fit you nicely, maybe just a little loose around the waist,” along with another wink he chuckled and patted his distinguished mid-section.
With a slight shake of his head, Michael uttered “Amir al bahr.”
“Sorry? I didn’t quite get that?”
“My apologies, Captain, a bit of an occupational hazard I guess. ‘Amir al bahr’ is an old Arabic phrase meaning commander of the sea. It’s where the title Admiral comes from. The Holy Roman crusaders of the 11th and 12th centuries created the word from their encounters with Arabs in the Mediterranean. The French and Spanish gave their ship commanders similar titles.
I just find it interesting that here I am sitting on a ship in the middle of the Mediterranean having been nearly killed by a Muslim terrorist group with an Amir al bahr on board.”
Scratching his head at the unnecessary lesson in etymology, the Captain proclaimed, “Well, I guess you learn something new everyday. The world is full of little ironies is it not?”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself. Say, Captain, I hate to create a further imposition, but would you happen to wear a size twelve shoe?”
The Captain took off his aviator rims and raised an eyebrow. He lowered his stare until it reached Michael’s feet, cocked his head to one side, and with his baritone voice said, “Must have been some party. I should have noticed before, twelve-and-a-half work for you?”
“Thanks, Captain, I really appreciate it.”
“Son, don’t even think twice about it. From the looks of it, you had a hell of a time getting out of there. We can still see the rising smoke columns from shore, a lot of folks are a bit uneasy at what’s going on in Damascus. Half the fleet is on standby, just what the hell happened there?”
Scanning his surroundings and noticing that every set of eyes and ears were now focused on him, Michael was hesitant, but said, “Captain, let’s just say I took a left turn when I should have turned right, and ended up in the wrong mosque, and pissed off the wrong group of terrorists.” Trying to add his own sense of levity, Michael offered a weak attempt of sarcasm, “Just think what would have happened had I forgotten to take off my shoes.”
Michael then asked the doctor, “So, you’re the Admiral’s personal doc, he must be on the ship?”
“What makes you think that, sir?”
Michael pointed to the stream of flags draped near the island’s command center and replied to the doctor, “That blue flag with the three stars flying below the halberd, that’s the Vice Admiral’s flag isn’t it? That means he is on the carrier, right? I would like to meet him and thank him as well.”
The doctor smiled and turned to the Captain, “Doesn’t miss much, does he, Captain?”
“No, Phil, it would seem he doesn’t. Dr. Sterling, unfortunately, the Vice Admiral is a bit indisposed given what’s happening in Damascus, and not to imply that I am anxious to get you off my carrier, but I do have to get you off this ship as soon as possible, we can’t be associated with your little adventure. The Vice Admiral, however, does send his regards to you.”
Captain Savage put a hand on Dr. Montreau’s shoulder and ordered, “Get him fixed up.”
The young physician smirked and with a knowing nod, dutifully responded, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Captain Savage leaned down to Michael and said, “Dr. Montreau will get you fixed up once you are on board.”
“On board? What do you mean; I am on board - aren’t I?”
Just as Michael finished his sentence the Captain gave Dr. Montreau another one of his obviously patented winks, and then made a gesture with his arm toward the island. A naval officer known as a Handler, and the one responsible for the movement of aircraft on the carrier, pushed a series of buttons, and then picked up a phone to issue orders of his own.
The well choreographed ballet began, and the sailors quickly went back to work; half a dozen men wearing white shirts were positioned about the flight deck, and began to move the other non-essential sailors toward the port side of the carrier.
Simultaneously, a green vested sailor went to work on the EMALS control panel. He looked back at the Captain with a nod as if to say, ready when you are, sir. His message was understood by the Captain, and the sailor received a return nod in the affirmative from his commander. The green-vested man turned his attention back to the control panel and pushed a couple of additional buttons.
Unseen to Michael, four disk-alternators that were controlled through a closed loop system sprung to life. Each disk is able to collect 100 MJ’s of energy, energy that would soon supply power to the three-hundred foot long linear induction motor.
The EMALS system will quite literally throw a one-hundred-thousand pound aircraft from the deck of the carrier at one-hundred-thirty mph in a matter of moments. The disks would only need forty-five seconds to be fully charged.
Nearby, loud horns let out ominous warnings and startled Michael. The middle of the deck took a life of its own and screamed out a fierce, metallic groan as it seemed to split right down the middle. Steam from distant, unseen valves emanated from the deck followed by the tremendous sound of hydraulic engines springing to life.
Slowly, a very flat, very black, and nearly round, wingless plane began to materialize through the clouded air.
Turning to the Captain Michael said, “What the hell is that thing?”
With his grin still crooked, the Captain replied, “That, my friend, is the Shadow; your ride back to the States.”
Chapter Fourteen
Home of the Messenger
Beirut, Lebanon
“As-Salamu Alaykum.”
“Aleykum As-Salaam. Come in, Shalid, come in. It is good to see you. How is your home, your little one?
The two men embraced and kissed cheeks. “They are fine, and yours?”
“Good as well, would you like some coffee?”
As a good Muslim, Shalid knew he would have to accept the offer for coffee, turning it down would have been a sign of disrespect, and something he could not afford to show right now. Hopefully it would be the only cup that was offered, he truly did not have the stomach for anything at the moment.
“Of course, thank you for your kindness,” replied Shalid.
Gazing upon Shalid, the Messenger could see that his Second’s left eye was distorted and purple with swelling, and he remarked with concern, “You are injured; let me get you something for that.”
Shalid raised his left hand to the side of his face and, with a slight detection of shame, covered the discolored edema, “It is nothing. It will heal fine. Thank you again for your concern.”
The customary greetings were concluded, and courtesies now aside. The Messenger, wearing a stern look, rele
ased himself from their embrace, and walked passed Shalid and toward a small table. Built of solid wood, the table was topped by white and red speckled marble, and its legs painstakingly hand carved into the shapes of elephant heads. The head of each elephant, remarkably, contained small and real ivory tusks jutting from the carvings. The Messenger spoke, “I am sure that the deliverance of your good news will allow the celebration dinner to be better savored tonight.”
Remembering that the Messenger has a reputation for a quick and sometimes violent temper, Shalid took a moment to work up the courage before he said, “The mission has failed. One man has survived, an American. He was the attaché to the US Ambassador.”
From where he stood, and from behind the Messenger, Shalid could sense the anger rising in his leader. Even though he couldn’t see his face, Shalid was sure that the Messenger would spin around at any moment and strangle him; he expected it.
The Messenger peered slightly over his shoulder while pouring the two coffees and asked, “The US and Israeli Ambassadors, they are dead, no, the other apostates as well? Then how has it failed?”
“Yes, sir, they all perished in the attack, just as you ordered. Only the American attaché survived, he was able to escape.”
Shalid watched as his leader slowly let his head fall backward. Gazing up toward the intricate designs carved into the moldings of the alabaster white ceiling, the Messenger closed his eyes for a disquietingly long time. Opening them, he turned around. From under the brim of the olive drab military hat and through the Messenger’s thick, long black beard that covered most of his face, Shalid could see that the Messenger’s entire disposition had changed. It was as if he were looking at a different man, but it wasn’t anger that he saw; Shalid was confused.
“One survivor, an American you say? What were our casualties? How many of our brothers did we lose?”
