“So, you’re a new navigator around this plane; we’re used to Senior Airman Phillips. What brings you aboard the Hercules?” the pilot asked the navigator seated behind the pilot and co-pilot seats.
The new face in the cockpit smiled and responded, “Name’s Smith…Carey Smith, Sir. I am just following orders; you know, when your Captain tells you that you need experience being closer to the black operations and tells you to meet a certain plane at a certain base – you do what the man says. So here I am.”
The pilot just nodded.
He added in a joking tone, “Well just don’t get us lost. I am not sure I know where to turn once we cross ‘the pond’.”
The navigator laughed in return and then waved off the comment.
“Well, if we get lost, I can always give you directions to the best town to find some good Mediterranean food,” the navigator said sarcastically.
Little did the two pilots know that the man giving them small changes in headings along the way was not a navigator at all. Although the man had experience navigating in several large aircraft in his past, that was not the man’s true mission on this flight. “First Sergeant Carey Smith” was planted on the flight crew by none other than CIA Director Marks. He was the Arbiter. He was the same Arabic-American male that had followed Agent White back in New York. The Arbiter was sent to keep tabs on the activist, and his mission started as soon as the activist had been seen sitting outside the Hercules. So far he had seen nothing out of the norm. As soon as they landed outside Baghdad, things might pick up. The Arbiter was there to make sure that the activist was not a rogue agent. The Arbiter was also going to ‘fix’ the problem if he discovered otherwise.
In the meantime he would play the part of navigator. He and the two pilots told cockpit stories, and shared little anecdotes about family back home. Of course it was all a lie for the Arbiter; his lifestyle and occupation would not coincide with family life, but the pilots didn’t need to know any of that. He was strictly acting out his assigned part, and playing it well. By the time they were about to re-fuel at an air force base in France, he fit right in with the crew. All the while the activist sat in the back of the plane with the Delta Force soldiers; shaking, rattling, and flying along. The activist didn’t know it yet, but he was about to let someone else in on his little mission for God.
The stealth helicopter had dropped him down a climbing rope over the heart of the largest residential area in Baghdad. It was two-thirty in the morning, and the neighborhood appeared to be in a state of rest. The houses and apartment buildings stacked up around each other in large city blocks, and all the buildings were made of white and tan brick and concrete. It was a mostly middle-class neighborhood, but the equivalent of a lower-class area back in the United States. The only crime in these areas was petty theft, auto-theft, and of course crimes associated with terrorism (you know – kidnapping, murder, torture, etc.); but most of that stuff happened in daylight hours. The activist scanned his surroundings as the Blackhawk quietly flew away after he dropped off the rope onto the roof of a three story apartment building. It was strange how the entire city seemed to be like a ghost town late at night. The helicopter had dropped him in an area that intelligence resources had indicated some of the top dogs in Al Qaeda were hiding.
It was said that they were pretending to be Iraqis who embraced western culture, and this neighborhood was supposed to be the home of the biggest American-wannabes. The activist’s main target was a high ranking Al-Qaeda leader by the name of Aziz al-Zawari. There were several other minor terrorists that had been rumored to be here, but Al-Zawari was the main guy that had caught the attention of CIA informants. Al-Zawari was known to be a big fan of American sports, so any sports team logos in the middle of Baghdad might be a good indicator of his location. The first thing the activist was going to look for were signs of obvious Americana.
There was an old rusted, miserable excuse for a ladder that had small handrails that came up over the ledge of the roof. The activist made his way over to it and climbed down to the ground. He carefully stepped off the ladder into a dark alley between the apartment building and what appeared to be the back entrances to several small housing units. There were short little walkways that led up to low hanging archways made of brick, which covered the entries into small courtyards and patios. The activist had never seen this side of Middle-eastern life; it was a hidden treasure among the other old-fashioned desert buildings. The first one he came to, he slowly crept under the archway and into a courtyard with a small fountain and goldfish pond. There were signs of western influence in the shape of the patio furniture, as well as several small bits of yard art. There were some interesting pieces of pottery in the shape of flamingoes and eagles, and even a patio table and chairs, with an umbrella. There was also a small tricycle parked over near a set of sliding doors that marked entry to the house.
The activist moved on to several others of similar character and scenery. As he got further down the alley after seeing several pieces of property that looked the same, he heard a smattering of voices two more houses down. He kept his back against the outer walls of the houses, and quickly slipped across the next two yard entries covered with archways. As he slowly edged his way across the wall of the last house, he could hear the clear sounds of an American football game. Although he found that to be a real head scratcher, he kept going. When he thought he was close enough, he slowly peeked his head around the last entry way. To his surprise there were several Iraqis sitting around a large patio table, drinking beers. They were at least speaking some form of Arabic, so they weren’t totally Americanized…but this scene let the activist know he was probably in the right vicinity. Although he figured the men gathering in that particular backyard may just be trying to emulate neighborhood life in America, the activist decided to explore more of the immediate area. The activist thought he probably wouldn’t be able to send a confirmation to Delta Force until he had positive ID of at least one of the terrorist targets during the day, but he thought he might try to find other examples of the Iraqi terrorists, maybe trying a little too hard to be ‘Westerners’.
He could see four Iraqi men in the courtyard, and there was a big screen TV sitting outside, with a cord running back into the house through a sliding back door. One of the men went back in through the door, probably to get another cold beer. The other men seemed to be remotely interested in what was obviously a replay of an NFL game on the TV. The activist knew he could take all four men out, but they didn’t come across as the terrorist-type. He quickly slid across the entrance below the archway, and the other three men didn’t even notice. He went around to the side of the wall and found another ladder that went to the roof of the house. He climbed the ladder to the roof and found a small storage house with a water heater, the connected pipes running out of the storage house and down through a hole in the roof. He could only assume the pipes ran down into a bathroom or laundry room of some sort on the floor underneath.
He looked over the edge of another side of the roof, and saw a window to whatever room was under the water heater. He took the black rope that he always wore around one of his shoulders and tied it around the water heater. He held on tight as he hung over the side and unraveled several loops of the climbing rope, and then he lowered himself down the wall by repelling down beside the window. He held on with one hand, and used the other to test the window. He pulled up on the bottom, and it slid open. He pushed it the rest of the way up and shimmied with his feet down past the window. He grabbed on to the bottom ledge of the window and pulled himself up and into a small bathroom. The bathroom had a southwestern motif, as in southwestern United States. There were pictures of cow skulls and canyons on the wall. The activist was really starting to feel like he had stepped into the twilight zone.
The activist could hear the faint sounds of the TV out on the patio downstairs, and a couple of voices laughing, probably belonging to a couple of men who were getting more drunk by the minute as they
enjoyed the American custom of drinking beer and watching football. The activist made his way out of the bathroom and into a hallway. The hallway was dark because none of the rooms upstairs seemed to have their lights on. The activist slipped on his night vision shades and set them to the best lighting. There were three doors along the wall on the right before coming to a set of steps that led downstairs. The activist decided to carefully enter the first door on the right. When he slowly pushed the door opened, to his relief, it didn’t make any loud creaking noises. He looked into the room and noticed large pictures on the wall. He carefully walked all the way into the room and then pulled the door closed behind him. He could tell through his night vision that the pictures on the wall were actually large maps. He took a closer look and realized they were maps of Texas. There were several small towns near the border between Texas and Mexico that were circled. There were also long lines of highway highlighted on the maps that followed all the way to the interstate system. In the middle of the room was a ping pong table. The activist had apparently walked into some sort of map room that doubled as the terrorists’ rec room.
On the table was a single American newspaper – a copy of the USA Today. The headline on the front had a big red star that had been drawn there to emphasize the importance of the article; it read Top Muslim Brotherhood Imams to Meet in NY to Address the UN. The activist read on to discover that the imams of the largest mosques in Yemen and Saudi Arabia were the men selected to speak to the UN. They were set to meet with the UN within the next few weeks. The article said that the imams wanted the United Nations to play an active role in capturing this Jesus Assassin that had now been confirmed to have killed three of their Muslim brothers. The activist had stumbled onto his next two targets for his mission, and never even would have had to come to Iraq to discover the information. He took the front page of the paper, folded it into a neat little square, and tucked it away into one of his pockets. However, he still had a mission to finish now. After all, his country needed him just as God needed him.
The activist still needed to locate their main target. He had a good feeling that al-Zawari was downstairs watching football, but he had to make visual confirmation before summoning the cavalry. He eased his way out of the bedroom and back into the hallway. He thought he would snoop around a little more since the men downstairs seemed so distracted. He went into the next room just as quietly and closed the door behind him. This time he stumbled into a major cache of weapons and bomb making materials. The activist imagined this is where the terrorists kept all their weapons for defense stashed, in case their location was ever discovered and compromised. There were several boxes full of AK-47s, hand grenades, and even some RPGs. The activist wrinkled up his nose as he caught the faint smell of some of the chemicals used to make explosives. He knew he would have to text the team of operatives soon; this was some seriously dangerous stuff, and these terrorists could not only be storing some of these things up to use against Americans back home, but also some of the soldiers that were still in and around locations in Iraq. The activist left the weapons room and still saw that the hallway was dark. He decided to by-pass the last door and get a closer look at the men downstairs. One of them had to be al-Zawari.
As he came close to the bottom of the steps, he could see one of the men outside through the back door. His face was a bright glare because of the activist’s night vision glasses, and the reflection of light from the TV screen. The activist removed his night vision glasses, and immediately recognized the man as one of Al-Zawari’s lieutenants. He had all the key players’ faces committed to memory, and he knew this was one of the big fish. He quickly took out his satellite phone and slid the keypad open. He began texting: ACTIVATING LOCATION SIGNAL UPON SENDING OF TEXT. AT LEAST FOUR TARGETS…REPEAT – AT LEAST FOUR TARGETS. HAVE NOT CONFIRMED AL-ZAWARI, BUT –
Suddenly the activist was grabbed from behind, and before he knew it, a very sharp, very handy KABAR fighting knife was held to his throat. The assailant was very quick, and strong. He pulled back on the activist’s head to expose more of his neck. The activist couldn’t believe he let someone get the drop on him; it was the third door – he made the mistake of walking right past the third door in the hallway. But he hadn’t lost his clarity of thought yet; he went ahead and hit the send button on the phone at the same time that he slowly raised his hands – all in the same motion. The attacker yelled down to the other men in Arabic, and suddenly the activist had three other men scrambling into the house to assist the large man who had him in a very tight chokehold. Before the activist re-considered whether or not he would resist, despite having a blade at his throat, the attacker’s buddies all grabbed a limb, except for the one that his attacker had pinned up in the air as part of the chokehold.
The activist found himself being lifted off the steps, then carried upstairs back to the first room with the maps. The attacker’s friends were much bigger than they appeared outside in the dim patio light. The men who had appeared to be so sluggish and drunk earlier were now thriving on a surge of adrenaline – and they knew what they were doing. They quickly forced the activist down into a chair near the ping pong table. Two men continued to hold his legs down, while Al-Zawari’s lieutenant ran over to a small cabinet in the room and took out some duct tape. He quickly began taking the start of the tape off the roll, and then quickly began wrapping the activist’s limbs and body into the chair. It had been executed so efficiently, it was obvious to the activist that these men had done this before. Horrible flashbacks of the video of his wife and daughter played in his mind as he realized the predicament he was in. The man who had held the knife to the activist’s throat went over to the wall and turned the light on.
“Who are you? How did you get here, and who sent you?” the large Iraqi terrorist leader barked.
It was heavily accented English, but the activist knew the speaker.
He knew he didn’t stand a chance trying to fight the men holding him captive in the room now; not when he was completely taped to a chair and rendered pretty much immobile. But he also knew he had been able to get the message on the phone sent. All he had to do now was stall them; he sure hoped the Army’s new stealth motorcycles were as fast and silent as he had heard the Delta Force guys brag about on the flight over. They had described the motorcycles as being fast like a crotch rocket, but quiet like a remote control car. The plan all along was for him to send confirmation of the target, and they would come riding into town like ghosts, do their thing, and take him with them when they go. In the meantime, he was in quite a pickle. Al-Zawari pulled the activist’s hood back to reveal his white face and red hair.
His big green eyes met the eyes of the terrorist leader as he answered directly, “I was sent here to find you. The people I work for wanted to know if you’d be interested in buying some girl-scout cookies.”
That smart comment earned him a backhand slap across the face.
Al-Zawari glanced over at the ping pong table, and noticed a bright orange paddle. He set his KABAR down and snatched up the paddle in his right hand, and struck the activist hard across the face with a wicked backhand. The strike immediately opened up a cut across the bridge of the activist’s nose.
The other terrorists in the room giggled and laughed, and one even had the nerve to make a comment in accented English, “Hit him again, Aziz; I think he said it tickled.”
The activist looked over at the man who just spoke and noticed his position in the room…closest to the fatal funnel and a prime first target for special-forces soldiers clearing a room.
He smiled and spoke back, “You’re first to go.”
That earned him another solid backhand with the ping pong paddle. Al-Zawari was getting tired of playing games (except for his backhand; the activist was beginning to think he favored the backhand in ping pong).
“I told you American – I want to know who sent you! There’s never just one of you. You travel in packs like cock roaches when you come to our country.
Where are the rest?”
The activist knew he needed to say anything he could think of for the next few minutes; he had to stall him until Delta Force came. As he had a brief moment of silence, he heard the sound he was waiting for…the sound of what seemed to be remote control cars coming to a stop outside. He noticed that none of the terrorists reacted. They must not have heard what he heard; but then again, they didn’t know what stealth motorcycles were supposed to sound like. The activist knew better. With him knowing escape was close at hand, he couldn’t help but talk a little smack.
“I tell you what, sports fans. Let’s play a game. How about ‘Who’s the dumbest terrorist in the room’?”
That earned him a forehand this time; good to know the terrorist leader was multi-talented.
By this point, the activist’s face was looking pretty messed up, but he knew that if he could just get un-taped from the chair, he’d be alright. He just had to wait a little bit longer. Suddenly, a small metal cylinder fell in through the door and the lights were turned off. As soon as the cylinder hit the floor, it went off like the loudest cherry bomb in the world. Knowing that the Flash-Bang would temporarily de-pressurize the room, the activist held his breath and squinted his eyes at just the right moment. Delta Force excelled in what the military likes to refer to as ‘violence of action’. As soon as the flash-bang went off in the room, the squad of soldiers clad in their body armor and night vision methodically came through the door one after the other, each double-tap of suppressed M-16’s signifying one more for the good guys. The squad leader ran over to the activist and pulled his knife out as he set his rifle to the side.
He began cutting away at the duct tape, but couldn’t resist a jab at the activist, “Well here we are once again – busting in to save your butt! You look like crap.”
The activist rubbed his sore jaw and stammered, “Hey, at least I got them all in one place for you.”
Misguided: The Jesus Assassin Page 13
