The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  “It is safe?” he asked.

  Al-Khafji nodded. “It is not yet armed. That will take a key in the main switch of the wiring harness. This will not be done until the vehicle’s time. Get in if you wish.”

  Rashid looked back to the door handle, and a second later, opened it and climbed inside. He grinned, his hands gripping the wheel, and then his look turned serious.

  “I had a vehicle at University. Then the war came, and I returned home.”

  Al-Khafji smiled. “This vehicle is yours if you wish it.”

  Rashid looked over the immaculate interior. “May I see the trunk?”

  “Of course, it is the reason for the car.” Al-Khafji moved to the rear of the Volga, pleased, his hand readying the keys. “Come, see.”

  Rashid exited and gingerly closed the door. He, too, rounded the back of the sedan. Al-Khafji slid the key into the trunk lock and released it, gently opening the shiny black decklid.

  Five artillery projectiles were secured in their cradles in the rack that AQI workmen had fabricated out of steel tubing, welded and bolted to the bed of the compartment. Wiring, neatly bundled, ran from the front of each round into a conduit that disappeared under the rear seat and ran up the center of the vehicle to the control box in reach of the driver’s right hand. Though Rashid would never know of it, there was also a radio-controlled firing mechanism that the occupants of a chase vehicle could use to detonate the payload should the driver lose his ability or his will.

  He and Rashid were not far apart in their awe of the sight, the Saudi thought. He looked down at the rounds, seeing from the stenciled Russian symbols that they were placed correctly: two pairs of 94% RDX-filled high explosive casings with each set positioned on either side of a white phosphorous-coded incendiary round strapped into the middle cradle of the rack.

  Al-Khafji spoke, and it was as if he were breaking a spell. “In addition to a full tank of fuel, it is a devastating weapon. The infidels have their guidance systems and their technology because they fear death. We have our devotion, and it will overcome them all.”

  Rashid nodded. “There will be no pain. A white light and I will see the gates of Paradise. I can do this. I will do this.”

  Al-Khafji grinned and clapped Rashid on the shoulder. “I know that you will. It is the will of God.”

  Across the street a boy and his companion noticed the illuminated garage. It had not been reopened since the owners fled the city two years previously, and lighting inside in the evening was something unusual, something to catch the attention of boys.

  They could not see inside from street level, so one climbed the steps of the business where they often played and shimmied up the light post. He was high enough to see the shiny black car and the two men admiring it through the windows of the service bay door. He slid down and told his playmate, who climbed to look also. The men must be rich to afford such a beautiful car, they agreed. As Al-Khafji shut the lid on the trunk, the youngsters continued on their way home. They were out of sight by the time he had thought to turn and check the street behind him.

  The following day, Saturday, they did Rashid an honor in allowing him to videotape his farewells in the living room of Abu Bakir Raad’s secondary bolt-hole. It was an apartment not far from the garage where the Volga sat at the ready. They had covered the walls with poster board on which were hand-lettered verses from the Holy Qur’an. These had been used before, but there had been no need to tell Rashid of this. He was humbled at the effort when he saw the room.

  New clothes waited for him, and roasted lamb, and everything else that he had requested. After he had showered and prepared himself, he emerged, and they prayed the midday Dhuhr together before sharing the meal.

  Al-Khafji set up the camera and checked the lamps, complete with a set of photographer’s reflective screens that would put Rashid in his best light. Raad sat in a comfortable chair out of frame, legs crossed, relaxing with a cup of coffee.

  Al-Khafji gave everything one last check and signaled Rashid, who began to read his last testimony. It was a lengthy statement of his free will to become a martyr, and he quoted from memory Surah 3:

  “Does it not say in the blessed Qur’an: ‘Count not those who are killed in the way of God as dead, but living with their Lord; provided for, rejoicing in what God has brought them of His grace, and being glad for those who have not reached them yet, those left behind them; there is no fear for them, and they shall not be grieved; glad at favor from God and grace, and that God wastes not the hire of the believers. Whoso answered to the call of God and of His prophet after sorrow had befallen them, for those, if they do good and fear God, are mighty hires!’ ”

  Al-Khafji closed his eyes, so powerful the moment always was for him. He listened as Rashid said his good-byes to his older brothers and sister and last to his mother, telling her to not weep for him but rejoice that she had raised a soldier for Allah.

  Rashid finished, and al-Khafji opened his eyes. The boy looked at him, signaling his readiness.

  He spoke for the first time since the taping had begun. “Are you ready to take the oath, Rashid, your bai 'at ridwan?”

  Rashid answered without hesitation. “I am ready.”

  Rashid took his leather-bound copy of the Qur’an and kissed it, placing it in front of him on the low table where he knelt. He put his right hand on the worn cover and closed his eyes to recite the pledge.

  “I swear, here before God, that I will not waver in my resolve, that I will complete my mission to strike the infidel. I give all glory to God, and to Muhammad who is His messenger. This is my purpose, for which He gave me life. I freely give it back to Him in accordance with His will. God is great, and His mercies are everlasting.”

  Bowing his head and nodding, al-Khafji reached out to end the recording. Rashid glowed with fervor, and al-Khafji shared the emotional high with him. It was an addiction, and he was already craving the next time that he would experience it. It was a shame that for this young one, the moment could come only once.

  “You have done well, Rashid. You are blessed now as a martyr of the jihad. We welcome you into the fold as a brother in arms. We have much work this day. You must learn to handle the vehicle with its load. You must commit the streets around your target to memory and be able to recite the route turn by turn. It is a mission that cannot be rerun. It must be perfect, but we shall make it perfect, Insha’Allah.”

  Rashid beamed as he replied, eyes closing, “Insha’Allah.”

  Al-Khafji saw that even Raad was smiling, but it was a cold, Persian smile, he thought. That man separated himself from human material in a way that the Saudi could not. It did not matter at the end of things. Still much work waited. This was the final day of preparation.

  Tom Colby had many things to do today. So did his staff, people to whom he had promised comp time for the portion of the weekend already consumed by reception preparations. It was not a social occasion but business as the Sheik’s suggestion of a Sunday meeting indicated. Serious about integrating the emerging fabric of coalition government into his region of Al Anbar, he wanted very much to be in on the ground floor of a new enterprise as any merchant would. The weekend gave Colby and Sheik Muhammad Zola al-Dulaimi each time to prepare. The man’s party would travel on Saturday and overnight at the compound of a family member that evening, a short morning drive distant from Baghdad International. Clearing the route would be Army and Marine patrols briefed on the armed convoy’s arrival for a sanctioned diplomatic security event.

  With the Ambassador’s request to the Iraqi transitional government’s Prime Minister, Schuster had lined up the facilities: a hangar space in the airport. Arranged to accommodate food and seating for fifty people as well as a private, modular meeting space with room for both core teams, it had come together quickly and well. Colby thought it a tribute to the excellence his people could produce under pressure. Stress was easing now, but he knew it would return. Today was his show, his initiatives and the first tangible mile
stone of the road that he hoped to construct here.

  He could see that Schuster was incredulous, talking with one of his envoys near the hangar entrance. Colby switched off the microphone and reached into the lecturn to cut the power to the mixer, now properly adjusted for the structure’s acoustics. Schuster had "that look" when something intense was happening, he thought.

  “Racks? What the hell do we need racks for?”

  The emissary, an Anbari named Ahmad, explained patiently. “The Sheik’s men will need a place for their weapons. We cannot ask them to lean them against the wall.”

  Schuster looked stunned. “How the hell many weapons are they bringing?”

  “Each man will have his rifle, of course. The men closest to the Sheik may be wearing handguns as well, but they will retain these. They may bring an RPG grenade launcher or a Russian machine gun. It is dangerous on the road, and the Sheik is a careful man. Would you ask them to lock them in their vehicles? That would be rude and a sign that we are cowards.”

  Schuster looked almost ready to lose it. Colby approached in time to overhear the last part of the conversation and took over for his XO. “Ahmad, we certainly will do nothing to offend the Sheik. His security was agreed to ahead of time. We want him to be comfortable here, but we do not know what racks we can obtain in time.”

  Ahmad shrugged. “It is a simple matter. We need a table saw, a hole-saw and some lumber. Cut a series of five-centimeter holes down the middle of some boards and split them with the table saw. Make it three-quarters of a meter high with another board for the base to keep the stocks from slipping or touching the concrete. Your carpenters should have all they need.”

  Colby nodded, having done enough home improvements to visualize the racks. “They will want them by the door, accessible and visible.”

  “Yes, this will be very good.”

  Colby nodded. “It will be done. Thank you for the information, Ahmad.” The man nodded politely and walked off. Schuster rubbed his face.

  “It’s Iraq, Bernie.” Colby shrugged. “Different field, different rules. Have the nail pounders rig another couple sets for the Blackwater guys in case they want to set their hardware down while they grab a bite or something.”

  Schuster looked tired, and he had reason. “We can do that, Tom. I just hope it doesn’t turn into Tombstone around here.”

  “Or Dodge City.” Colby laughed. “Don’t worry, Bern. The Sheik will see that we’re serious men if we can accommodate another serious man. See if you can get his security lead together with Blackwater for some face time. Maybe they can give the Sheik’s man some tips—or maybe get some. Who knows?”

  Schuster nodded. “We’ll do it, Tom. We’ll make it work.”

  Colby believed him. He had a good feeling about this meet. It was going to lead to bigger things. He wouldn’t contemplate otherwise.

  Kameldorn had followed the General’s orders as Friday night turned to Saturday and hit the rack as ordered. The resulting six hours of sleep, a quick breakfast, bottled water and Power Bars were what he had been running on since then. McAllen’s teams were running hard and finding next to nothing. One site, though, was freshly used; the Army Intel guys reported that they could still smell the welding and gasoline from the vehicle that had been prepped there. It was Sunday morning now, and the minarets had already called the Fajr, the first prayer. For Kameldorn it meant that he had lost another night, and that they were nearly out of time.

  The early shops were opening as Iraqis started the first workday of the week. Bakeries and coffee shops were preparing for the morning crowd, and the smells were wafting as designed, calling the hungry and the half-asleep.

  Kameldorn felt that call, stopping at one such establishment for some rolls and the heavy, delicious coffee that he indulged in on mornings like this one. He could not make himself sit down, but he leaned back against the cool stone of the storefront, still scanning the area, looking for … something.

  In his pocket, the Thuraya buzzed; it was McAllen again. He answered with his customary, curt greeting. “Yes, sir.”

  “Major, where are you?” McAllen’s voice was tinged with urgency.

  “In Saydiyah, sir.”

  “Good man. You’re the closest. I want you to check out someone who runs the morning shift at that restaurant we’ve been to, just off the Dora Expressway. You know the one?”

  “Yes, sir. Friendly or otherwise?”

  “Friendly. Tipped off a buddy of his who’s one of my locals. His kid saw some men looking at a car in a garage. The garage hasn’t been open for a couple years. See if he can point it out for you.”

  Kameldorn reflexively popped off the stone wall, moving as he spoke. “I’m on my way, sir. Anything else?”

  “Just ‘good hunting,’ Major.” The connection dropped. McAllen wasn’t one to waste time and was probably dialing another operator already.

  Kameldorn wrapped and pocketed his uneaten roll and downed the last of the coffee though it was still too hot to drink that quickly. He headed toward the Trooper at a brisk pace.

  He was on the wrong side of the expressway, and the morning traffic was already starting. The call to prayer made many Baghdad residents early risers. It was more a commute than the quick, early morning drive that he had hoped for, but he managed to reach the restaurant about half an hour later.

  Kameldorn pulled into the parking lot and backed the Isuzu into a spot at the edge of the street; it caught the manager's attention. He knew from this McAllen had called so the man could watch for him. A customer quickly rung up and an employee motioned to the till, the contact then moved toward the front door.

  Kameldorn reached between the front seats and grasped the stubby M4A1, laying the weapon across his lap, muzzle toward the door. He lowered the driver’s window. His thumb rested on the selector switch as the man approached wiping his hands with a paper napkin.

  He did not come closer than just outside of arm’s reach, which, it seemed, was fine with both of them. He spoke in passable English. “You are a man of the General McAllen?”

  Kameldorn nodded. “I am,” he answered in Arabic. “The General and I thank you for calling.”

  The contact nodded and looked around the lot, continuing in English. “I prefer your language this morning, if we can. My son was playing on Friday night, not far from where we live. He saw two men looking into the trunk of a shiny black car, and told me that he wanted one like it. But the garage has not been open for some time. I knew the owner! If he had returned I would know.”

  Kameldorn relaxed. “This is very useful, thank you. Can you tell me where to find the place?”

  The man reached into his pocket, where he had a map drawn on the back of a receipt. He offered it, taking a step closer. “It is there, in Masafee. Do you know it?”

  Kameldorn took the slip of paper between his fingers. “I know enough of it, and I have a good map. I will look. Thank you again. I will tell General McAllen how helpful you have been.”

  Nodding and looking around the parking lot once more, the manager hurried back inside. This contact had just risked his life to help, Kameldorn knew, but they had made it quick. Few patrons sat inside, and all of them seemed busy with their breakfasts. McAllen would make it worth the man’s while whether the lead turned up anything useful or not; it would ensure that he would pass along anything he might encounter in the future. It was insurance, paid one small premium at a time.

  Kameldorn scanned the parking lot again and resettled the carbine between the front seats. Comparing the hand-drawn map to his street map, he located the vicinity of the garage, surrounding streets, and avenues of ingress as well as egress. He had not hit this street yet, and it was a solid lead. He took a minute to determine his route and a couple more to memorize it, avoiding a drive in Baghdad morning traffic consulting a map. He was used to taking risks, but that would be suicidal.

  Al-Khafji, Raad and Rashid stood around the Volga. With them were team leaders whose assets would escort
it to the target, and the men who had outfitted the car, and still others who would escort Raad as far as the Mehran border crossing. The three team leaders each had a half-dozen or so men armed and waiting for them outside in other vehicles this Sunday morning.

  “This, my friends, is the hour that we have all waited for. Each of you knows his mission. Everything is prepared. Is there any man here who shrinks from his destiny, from the will of God?” al-Khafji demanded, knowing that none would answer.

  Raad nodded in approval. “Then once again it has been my pleasure to help you. I will take my leave of you now until our next meeting,” he said. “What assistance I can render until then, you should not hesitate to let me know.”

  Al-Khafji spoke for all of them. “We shall, my friend. We must go now to fulfill our purpose. Safe travel and God watch you until your return.”

  He waved off the team leaders, who dispersed to the vehicles that would support Rashid’s strike. They would position themselves first, and then Rashid would follow the route accompanied by a chase car. Across the city, al-Khafji knew that his other team leaders would be doing the same as the time was growing ever nearer. The Saudi turned to the boyish would-be martyr.

  “Farewell, Rashid. Your parents named you well. ‘Rightly Guided,’ one of the ninety-nine names of God Himself. They must have foreseen this day. You make us all proud.”

  Without words, Rashid took his hand. Al-Khafji's other hand delivered the key for the ignition and a separate one to arm the electrical firing mechanism. He clasped Rashid on the shoulder and gestured to his men; they left the garage. He nodded to Raad, who responded with one of his own. Al-Khafji then followed his men outside.

  Raad opened the door for Rashid, who got in, careful of the keys. One went into the switch box at his right hand, in but not yet turned. The other fired up the readied engine of the Russian sedan.

  Raad offered his last blessing. “God be with you, boy.”

  Looking up, Rashid uttered his final words to a human being in this life. “And I hope that He is with you as well.”