Strike Force Alpha

by Mack Maloney

  The Prince’s wealth and power were rooted in the Saudi business establishment, something the extremists claimed they wanted to tear down. Why then would he be involved in the backdoor financing of the terrorists? What did he share with the mujahideen hiding in the caves of the Pershawar or the sleeper agents living in the squalor of Manila, East London, or Jersey City?

  Actually, very little. There was the obligation of every Muslim to help promote Islam, of course. There was also the respect he received from those holy fighters in the mountains and in the U.S. slums; they had been led to believe that Ali was spending millions of his own money on them. Then there was the dream of the Caliphate, the uniting of the entire Muslim world under a single entity. And the fact that if men in his position within the Royal Family didn’t help the terrorists, the martyrs would soon be blowing up their planes, their ships, their houses.

  But the real reason was simpler: Prince Ali detested Americans. He detested their lifestyles, their attitudes, the colors of their skin. He detested their freedoms, their diversity, and the way their women walked. He detested McDonald’s, Chevrolet, Kodak, and Coke and the way Americans always seemed to have something on their minds and were never shy about spitting it out. He hated their ruggedness, their TV shows, their blond hair, and their big blue eyes. He hated them.

  The Prince could really work himself up over this, too. There was a lot of anger inside him: strange, because he derived more than half his fortune from products purchased directly by Americans. The oil he sold today would be refined and pumped into American gas tanks in three weeks. He was rich because of America.

  The irony did not bother him. But if Prince Ali ever decided to lie down on an analyst’s couch, something he would never do, a not-so-surprising deeper truth would come out: that like many of his countrymen, rich or not, he hated Americans simply because he was not one of them.

  He’d heard about the bloodbath in the Rats’ Nest an hour after it happened. It was a very disturbing event. Not only was an important layer of Al Qaeda’s organization wiped out, but also the attack had come with absolutely no warning, out of the blue. The same was true in the leveling of the Olympic Hotel, an even bigger surprise, because the target seemed so unlikely. Nearly half of the Muslim Brotherhood leadership had been killed as a result of that attack. Dozens of operations inside Africa were now in disarray. As far as the cold-blooded killing of Musheed, their legal connection in Yemen, went, the cut was even deeper. Musheed had been Prince Ali’s third cousin.

  “Praise Allah, I still think these were Israeli operations,” one of the Prince’s companions said now. He was Adeen Farouk, 50, fat, bald—and another third cousin. “Israelis—with their aircraft painted like the Americans.”

  “I cannot accept the boldness, either,” the second friend said. He was Abu Khalis, the brother of one of the Prince’s 22 wives. He shifted on his pillow in the middle of the vast bedroom. “This willingness to so openly show their flag? To make so much noise? No—these were tricks. It is not them. The Americans just aren’t like that. They always come with a hammer, not a scalpel.”

  “It had to be them,” Ali replied harshly. “The Jews don’t have equipment like that. Plus we have the calling card stuffed into the mouth of the young nephew. Who else would have a dispute with Brother Qatad or our friends in Somalia? Or our dear fatso, Mr. Musheed? Yes, these were the Americans—and they were making a point. A big point. And that disturbs me.”

  “Praise Allah,” the other two men said together. All three were furiously fingering their worry beads.

  “But if it was the Americans, where did they attack from?” Farouk asked. “There is no American base or aircraft carrier within a thousand miles that our Chinese friends don’t have some kind of surveillance on. We have eyes near their special operations bases; we have ears on their phones. Yet we heard nothing about any of these things.”

  The Prince replied: “What I am most concerned about is why we did not read about these attacks coming two weeks ago—in the New York Times. We know how the Americans are. It is impossible for them to keep a secret. As you said, they are almost pathological when it comes to telegraphing their next move. The sound of the giant’s feet never reaches us before the sound of his tongue does.”

  “And they always pretend to be so careful about anyone seeing them,” Khalis said. “But this thing in Lebanon, it was not just some Predator drone shot. It was done in the bright light of day, by real soldiers, helicopters, and jet fighters—”

  “Yet still nothing on CNN,” Farouk added, glancing at the wide-screen TV hanging on the far wall. “Nor on Fox. The BBC. Anywhere….”

  This was true. The Rats’ Nest incident had been reported briefly as a gas line explosion. The attack in Mogadishu had been called civil unrest. Musheed’s killing barely made the local papers. No one in the media seemed to be making the link that the three incidents were related, that the perpetrators might be the same. But then again, only people within Al Qaeda would know enough to connect all the dots.

  The three men sipped their tea. This was all very mysterious.

  “Let’s say these are the Americans then,” Farouk said worriedly. “Could this be their way of finally taking it directly to us? I mean, they seem more like a hit squad than a military unit and they seem to know who to hit and when. Could they have picked up our scent?”

  Not so long ago, such a comment might have invoked laughter from the three men. They were so high up in the royal Saudi hierarchy, they once believed themselves invincible. But not so now.

  A knock came at the door, startling them. It was the captain of the Prince’s household staff. He asked Ali if he should tell the three thousand people waiting in the Tent to go home.

  “Tell them to be patient,” the Prince said, waving him away. “I will be there.”

  He stood up to go. “Brothers, we might be getting concerned over nothing. After all, the giant is still a giant. And praise Allah, this giant never acts both quickly and fruitfully on anything, as our brothers in Baghdad will attest. I feel this will be especially true after doing something like this. The perpetrators are already back home, I’m sure, in their beds, where it is safe, awaiting their medals and apple pie.

  “In any case, we can’t allow these things to interfere with any of our future plans. We would be fools if we did.”

  Chapter 4

  Genoa

  The buses had been arriving at the dock all morning.

  Eighteen tour groups, flying in from all over Europe and the United States, were pouring off the airport buses and climbing aboard the Sea Princess, one of the newest cruise ships in the Mediterranean.

  At 1,100 feet long, the Sea Princess was also one of the largest. It had 15 passenger decks, 1,700 cabins, 12 restaurants, four swimming pools, four health clubs, four casinos, a movie theater, a golf range, a skeet range, two nightclubs, two dozen bars, and a bowling alley. It could carry nearly 3,400 passengers.

  By noon, the ship was 80 percent full. The passenger list was almost exclusively American, with many elderly Jewish couples onboard. It was soon learned that a plane carrying French tourists had been mysteriously delayed at Orly. They would not be boarding the Sea Princess in Genoa after all. Still, including the crew, there was nearly 4,000 people onboard.

  The cruise liner went out with the tide around 1:00 P.M. Its itinerary included a sail of the Aegean lower islands, a stop in Cyprus, and then on to Israel.

  As it left the harbor, two seagoing yachts began shadowing it. One was riding very low in the water.

  The Sea Princess traveled down the coast of Italy, making a comfortable 18 knots. It passed through the straits of Medina during the night and was in the Ionian Sea by morning. The pair of sea yachts was still tailing it, staying about a mile behind. When the ship stopped at the Greek port of Corfu around noon, the yachts stopped, too. Some of the crew noticed them at this point but failed to inform the captain. When the liner pulled anchor later that day, the pair of yachts left as
well.

  Night fell again. At 11:45 P.M., the liner was about twelve miles off the coast of Greece, heading for the straits of Kithira. It entered the narrow passage shortly before midnight, slowing to five knots, a necessity in shallow water. At this point, the yachts were spotted again; they were now just 500 feet off the stern.

  Finally the captain was notified. He was furious upon learning the yachts had been detected earlier, but he hadn’t been told. Now he wasn’t sure what do to do. In the old days, yachts would occasionally tail cruise liners, thinking they would lead them to the best spots in the Med. But this hadn’t happened to the veteran captain in years, and certainly not in this new era of terrorism.

  A small panic swept the ship. Word of the mysterious yachts spread quickly. Many passengers moved to the stern, gathering on three tiers of lower aft railings. Many brought their video cameras; some were equipped with low-light lenses. Through them, the passengers could clearly see activity on the two yachts, now riding just 200 feet away. The vessels had been lashed together and men in ski masks could be seen loading boxes wrapped in electrical wire and tape onto a small rubber raft that was hanging off the back of one of the yachts.

  Once loaded, the rubber raft was put off the yacht, with two men in ski masks aboard, its outboard motor already turning. It hit the water with a splash, churning up a geyser of spray and smoke. The raft circled the two yachts once and then turned toward the cruise ship.

  Passengers started screaming. It was obvious the rubber boat was filled with explosives and those driving it intended to ram the cruise ship. Some ran for the lifeboats. Others fled to their cabins. But many remained on the aft railing, simply stunned. Some continued videotaping the scene.

  The captain hastily tried to increase speed, hard to do for such a large ship. He turned to starboard; the nearest land was still eight miles away. His communications officer was frantically sending out messages saying the cruise liner ship had an “extraordinary emergency” and needed assistance immediately. Meanwhile, up on the front promenade deck, with no one noticing, some members of the crew were trying to lower themselves into lifeboats.

  The raft began to circle the Sea Princess. Keeping up with the liner’s course change, it was clearly building speed. A Klaxon went off aboard the ship. Too late, the call went out for all passengers to don their life vests. Then the captain ordered all lights doused. He was hoping to make it difficult for the men in the raft to see their target, but this was sheer desperation. It would be very hard to miss such a large ship. The sudden blackout only caused more panic among the passengers.

  The rubber boat circled one more time. Then with a growl from its engine, it began heading right for the middle of the cruise liner.

  But suddenly there came another terrific roar, mechanical and powerful. A jet fighter flew out of the night an instant later. It was painted black and had a long spit of flame trailing behind it. Flying very low, it went by the ship and then rocketed over the speeding rubber boat at tremendous speed, not 15 feet above the water. Whether by fright or confusion, this caused the two men on the suicide boat to kill their engine. Big mistake. Momentum carried them forward another 50 feet or so before they went dead in the water. Then the jet fighter appeared again. This time it was hovering right above them.

  Few people on the cruise ship realized they were looking at a Harrier jump jet. It seemed able to do impossible things. But while the strange plane was attracting so much attention, almost no one noticed that another aircraft, this one a black helicopter, had emerged from the darkness and had slipped down next to the rubber boat. A sniper with a night scope was hanging out of the helicopter’s side door. He raised his weapon at the two masked men and pulled his trigger twice. Two perfect head shots. Two dead terrorists. Both toppled overboard.

  Now another helicopter appeared. It, too, was painted black and was virtually without noise. Three soldiers rappelled down ropes to the rubber boat below. They worked quickly, hooking up a trio of hoist lines and connecting them to a pull cable beneath the helicopter. The men on the boat then gave the pilots a thumbs-up and the helicopter lifted the rubber boat out of the water, explosives and all. The helicopter lurched forward and disappeared back into the night. The Harrier vanished as well.

  The first copter now turned its attention to the two yachts. It positioned itself parallel to the vessels, flying about one hundred feet off their starboard. The yachts were no longer tied together, but neither had they diverted from their straight-ahead course. Shadows aboard both vessels could be seen scrambling for their radio equipment. Others were pointing, but not firing, assault rifles at the silent black aircraft. The helicopter was waiting for something….

  This went on for about a minute, the final act in the drama unfolding for the passengers still crowded onto the cruise ship’s rear decks. The yachts never attempted to get away. The helicopter simply kept pace with them.

  What the cruise passengers didn’t know was that a communications expert aboard the helicopter was listening in on radio traffic coming from the yachts. Both yachts were sending out frantic messages, in English and Arabic, detailing what had just happened. Shrill voices in the night, they were screaming into their radios that the attack on the Sea Princess had been thwarted by two helicopters and a fighter jet. The men on the yachts were desperate. They were requesting that somebody, somewhere, give them new instructions immediately: “What should we do? Withdraw? Surrender? Ram the cruise liner ourselves?”

  Finally the radio expert aboard the helicopter gave a signal to his pilots. Just as long as the men on the yachts got word back to their superiors that the attack had been stopped by the trio of aircraft, that’s all the terrorists’ leaders had to know.

  The helicopter increased power and turned 90 degrees. It was soon facing the first yacht. The men onboard knew they were trapped. They had no defense against the helicopter’s huge gun and no place to seek cover. So they stood there, feet frozen to the deck, unable to move. The helicopter’s minigun opened up on them from just 100 feet away, engulfing the yacht in a vivid orange glow. The three men were simply blown away. Still, the helicopter kept firing. Its cannon shells eventually found the yacht’s fuel tank, causing an explosion so powerful the boat was thrown into the air. When it came back down, it was in thousands of tiny pieces.

  The second yacht had killed its engines by this time. The men aboard knew what was to come, knew it was senseless to run. Illuminated by a powerful light beamed from the cruise liner’s mast, the three men tore off their ski masks—they were Arabs—and, one after another, dived overboard. The helicopter fired three rockets into the yacht and it went up in three simultaneous explosions. The helicopter flew through the wreckage cloud and, using its own powerful searchlight, found the three terrorists in the water. It came down to just about sea level, almost as if it were going to rescue the floundering men. But the helicopter crew was not in the business of showing mercy. The marksman with the night-scope rifle took up his position again. The pleas from the terrorists could be heard all the way back on the Sea Princess, but they were in vain.

  One by one the man with the rifle picked them off. The cruise ship passengers cheered as each one was hit. It took five shots in all, as one man tried his best to stay underwater. But soon enough, he was shot, too.

  The only noise now was the incredibly soft whirring of the helicopter’s rotor blades. The incident seemed to play out over a lifetime for those who witnessed it. Yet it took only two minutes from beginning to end.

  The cruise passengers were awestruck. They had been saved at the last possible moment from certain death—but by whom? Certainly not the Greek military. When the spotlight on the ship’s mast finally caught the American flag emblazoned on the side of the helicopter, they had their answer. One man on the aft railing let out a great cheer. Then came another. And another.

  In seconds, all of the passengers on the lower railings were cheering. Hundreds of seniors, pumping their fists in the air. Then those on the upper
railings began cheering, too. Soon the entire ship was chanting: “USA! USA!”

  The helicopter went over the top of the ship, fast and low. The cheering grew. The Harrier reappeared and roared over seconds later. The cheering got even louder.

  In fact, the passengers were still cheering 30 minutes later when a Greek patrol boat finally arrived to escort them to the nearest port.

  In all the excitement, few noticed the rusty containership Ocean Voyager passing close by in the night.

  Chapter 5

  The Harrier put itself into hover mode. Automatically…no buttons pushed, no levers thrown. All was ready for landing. The ship below was pitching wildly, the wind and rain growing fierce. But he was lining up his approach just right. And he was feeling good. The cannon on his airplane was empty. All his missiles had been fired, too. He’d played the Wings of Death game again last night and had loved every second of it. He was descending now, a large platform of gleaming metal his landing place. It was surrounded by a perfect circle of sailors, wearing dress blue uniforms and holding incandescent flares above their heads. They were not getting wet, though. The wind didn’t seem to be blowing on them. He eased the Harrier down farther. Twenty feet to go. The sea spray grew vicious, but his descent was unnaturally smooth. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. At 15 feet his headphones exploded with chatter. Something was wrong. He was supposed to be doing this in total radio silence, but the voices in his head were shouting, Look at the front of the ship! Someone is standing up there! It was the absolute worst thing to do, but he took his eyes off the controls and looked to the bow. And there she was…on the railing so far away, smiling and dry, wearing the same red dress, beckoning him to join her.