Element 94

by Kleiner Jeffries

  They stayed close, all acting on a swell of patriotism following the terrorist disasters at the turn of the millenium and joining the nation's military. B.J. had since segued into the civilian sector to become a surgeon. Ironically, he was the only one to see active duty in Iraq, being awarded a silver cross for heroism in that conflict. For the other two brothers, their time for heroism would soon approach. Both would rise to the occasion, but both would tragically meet a different fate when the day was done.

  A.J. was about to sip from his drink when he felt a vibration along his trousers. He looked down to read the message, but already knew what it meant. He saw C.J.’s hand move down to his pager, and gracefully extricate himself from his conversation at the next table. With little fanfare and minimal discussion, they retrieved their coats and walked out of the club, hailing a taxi back to the Primo. The signal had been received – the wait was finally over. They had just been called into battle.

  Chapter 2

  Burkina Faso, North Africa

  “Yes, what is it?” Ra’ed spoke the words with an acrid tongue. He hated such interruptions while convening with his council. These briefings were now commonplace as events unfolded, and his patience was wanning. These were dangerous times, and Ra’ed didn’t have patience for petty matters.

  “Forgive me, Sayid”, the Fedaykin soldier blurted, eyes tilted down in a show of respect. That he referred to Ra’ed by one of the more reverent titles, ‘Sayid’ or ‘master’, bespoke of the man’s cautionary tone at such an inauspicious interruption.

  “Yes”. Ra’ed spoke softer now, recognizing the man before him as Abdul-Jabaar, leader of his inner sanctum of personal bodyguards and among his most loyal subjects.

  “We have word from Faarooq. They know.” Abdul-Jabaar waited anxiously for reaction from the holy prophet. He wondered how such news would be taken, and was surprised by the levity of the response.

  “Thank you Aasim”. Ra’ed took great care to hide any negative emotions as he referred to Abdul-Jabaar by his chosen name, the mighty protector Aasim. It must appear as if everything were under his control. Ra’ed was not omniscient, but he was their prophet and must exude strength and confidence at all times.

  The freedom fighter was led out of the cavernous sanctum where they were meeting. As the stone door closed behind him, the council began to stir. One of the elders spoke excitedly.

  “Just as you suspected, Ra’ed. How did you know?”

  The question was not answered directly by the religious leader.

  “Yes, I did suspect.” Ra’ed looked around the room, eyeing the men one by one. “That is too bad, but we still have time. Is everything else in order”? The question was directed at the operations chief.

  “Yes. Your Dhul Fiqaar has received word. He is prepared.”

  “And Faarooq?” Ra’ed had a personal interest in the fate of this man that went deeper than the typical Udeen allegiances.

  “We cannot know about the Faarooq, your Excellency”. This person was taking the greatest risk of all. For only one who could distinguish truth from falsehood could be referred to as Faarooq. It was this very source of intelligence that had kept his faith protected from the long reach of the American security forces. Ra’ed had thought this scenario out previously, and now rehashed the plan. Yes, they cannot know, he reiterated to himself. But neither could he. Faarooq had not contacted him for much time now, for fear of intercepted communications. But Ra’ed knew what to do. If Faarooq perished, Ra’ed would lose more than just a trusted ally, but all would not be lost. Sayf Udeen would carry on.

  “So will we need to alert Azeez?” asked one of the senior officers.

  “Yes, Ra’ed. We cannot rely solely on Faarooq”, another intoned. The concern among the men was becoming palpable.

  “Do not worry, my brothers.” Ra’ed spoke assuredly, could sense the confidence he exuded rubbing off on those around him. “Azeez has been alerted. He will await word from Faarooq. We cannot fail”. The accentuation on these last three words was emphatic. The assembled burst into a chorus of “Ra’ed Al-Abbas”, Ra’ed the lion.

  The fervor instilled in his people was unparalleled, thought Ra’ed as the intonations began to die down. He believed his own words – they really could not fail. Despite the many variables in play at once, all he had to ensure was that the Americans did not learn of his Dhul Fiqaar, his holy sword. And even if they did, it would be too late. In the final analysis, on the day of reckoning, it should not matter. The groundwork was still not completed, but it would not be long now before power such as had never before been seen was within his grasp.

  Ra’ed reflected on the turn of events. The Americans could not have detected the source of his strength. The ship could never have made it so close to US shores otherwise. That was the key here; that was the true purpose of the mission – an experiment to probe the defenses of his enemy. But how did the Americans learn then of his ploy? It must be the work of Salaam, the Mustafa. There was just no other explanation. If the Americans did not vanquish the man themselves, then Ra’ed would make sure the traitorous bastard did not live to see the light of Allah for even one more day.

  A.J. and C.J. were among the last to arrive on the deck of the Primo. They were greeted by none other than Bill Kelly as they made their way on board. When the last of the men arrived, the ship embarked from port for the first time in 6 weeks. Despite the call to arms, all the operatives seemed relaxed, an air of confidence about them. They had all experienced the calm before the storm during prior engagements. The beginning of the end of their mission had finally arrived. For some it would be the beginning of the end of their lives. They were the best their government had to offer, but they were not invincible.

  Below deck, the operatives were assembling in the war room, awaiting the briefing. As C.J. and A.J. arrived, two seats remained empty in the section occupied by the diving squadron.

  “About time, Muzzy”, Ali said to A.J. as he took a seat next to him. “What took you so long? Out baby-sitting again.” Ali Ramsey was the unit leader, among the early recruits to the CTG. A native of Sudan, Ali had recorded some of the fiercest and most daring assaults on the Al-Qaeda network years back. It was rumored he had pulled the trigger on Bin-Laden himself, although the details of the missions remain classified to even fellow CTG operatives.

  “Fuck you bitch”, C.J., overhearing the conversation, interjected in a semi-serious tone.

  “Lighten-up, baby face. You ready?” Ali asked rhetorically. He already knew the answer from studying the young man’s eyes. A resounding yes; the kid would perform admirably in the ensuing battle. It was said one never knew how a man would hold up in the throngs of war. After years of special operations, Ali would agree with the statement – with one caveat. Sure he had seen otherwise Herculean men wilt in battle, while others conducted themselves with unexpected courage. But C.J. came from special-ops; SEAL team 6, no less. He was trained for what was to come. Indeed, anyone who made it through was by default proven, something Ali knew all too well having survived the rigors of the program some years back. And the man’s eyes spoke of a toughness and courage Ali had noted only among the best of the best. The youngster could be counted on.

  Just then Bill Kelly and Mack Sullivan entered the staging room from the rear. The chatter died down as the two senior men reached the front podium. Kelly began speaking as Mack took a seat off to the side.

  "Gentlemen, as you all know our intelligence has indicated an imminent terrorist attack for some time now." The mumbling among the men suddenly ceased altogether as Kelly began addressing the unit. His presence demanded attention. The shift in demeanor was predicated more upon respect than inculcation from years of military service.

  "We appreciate your patience and professionalism over these tense past few weeks. Men ", he paused for effect, "the wait is now over. I ask of you all once again to place yourselves in harm's way." Kelly's booming voice held the soldiers transfixed. His eyes surveyed the room as he
spoke, often making eye contact with individual members of the varied units. Without dallying, he moved on to the substance of the briefing.

  "This is our target." He used the remote to turn on the overhead projector. The room was silent save for the humming of the ship’s engines as Kelly motioned to the image of a large cargo tanker on the screen before them. Several angles could be visualized. The photos were clearly more than just satellite images, his analysts preparing a remarkable assemblage of intelligence on short notice. The name of the vessel pasted on the sides and stern was blackened out. Kelly was fanatical about maintaining secrecy, delivering information purely on a need to know basis. The men would inevitably develop an intimate familiarity with that ship, but they didn't need to know the name of the target just yet.

  Kelly's obsession with secrecy was legendary, bordering on paranoia in the opinion of some. But such precautions were often predicated upon substance. This particular plan called for a rendezvous with a coast guard cutter patrolling close to their mark. The men were to interact with others outside their unit, and Kelly couldn't afford to take any chances. Any forewarning could compromise the mission. The element of surprise would be crucial. Mack had resisted involving others in the operation, but Kelly's argument had ultimately prevailed. He convinced the operations chief that too much precious time would be lost without an airlift to the target. He wanted to ensure a safe distance from the more trafficked waterways along the coastline, and more importantly, the densely populated shores. The cutter was perfectly positioned, and he had already made the necessary contacts. Mack, reluctantly, agreed to do without the stealthy, well-equipped Primo. He had other ideas to ensure a covert approach. His divers were ready.

  "Our job is to search the vessel for any contraband and apprehend this man", Kelly continued on. The next image was one of Salaam shortly before his release from Guantanamo. Kelly showed several more slides, these showing computer-enhanced images of the terrorist as he might look today, well over a decade later, in various guises, conformations of facial hair, and so forth. It would be critical to accurately identify this man and capture him alive. Kelly subsequently arrived at a projection of the ship again, only this one showing a detailed schematic of the vessel. Labeled very clearly were the cargo bays, sleeping quarters, fuel tanks, propulsion system, and every other vital organ of the ship. Mack had worked remarkably quickly to procure the necessary schematics. As if on cue, Kelly gestured to the muscular operations chief sitting to his left.

  "Mack will take you through the op". Mack Sullivan stood up, faced the CIA operatives, and began to speak.

  "Thank you Bill". Mack took a laser pointer and began going through a detailed analysis of their target. Kelly moved aside, giving the strategist center stage. Kelly had participated in the global planning of the operation, but now Mack went through the execution stages in considerable detail, much of it new to Kelly himself. The orchestration of the attack was predicated upon the layout of the ship, which they all hoped had not been altered since its initial construction. The deck allowed for five separate entrances below, where most of the men were likely to be found. Storage containers littered the surface, and could be used for cover. The situation below deck, however, was another matter. Intelligence was scanty, and the men would have to cover much ground in a short time. Compounding the territorial and logistical obstacles was the nature of their prey – elusive and homicidal, this enemy was known to prefer dying rather than be captured. There was only one viable option – a scenario even veterans like Ali had not employed, save in training exercises. Several murmurs arose among the squad as Mack briefed the operatives. The unit was trained to defend against the unconventional, but now they were being asked to utilize these skills in an offensive capacity.

  In all, the briefing was surprisingly short, lasting just over an hour. Unfortunately, there would be no time for rehearsing the plan, but then again there rarely ever was. Established procedures were already in place for overtaking and securing territory in confined environs like those in the interior of a large ship. Everyone in the unit was cross-trained in counter-terrorism techniques as well as specialized clandestine maneuvers and hostage interrogation. Their time at Fort Bragg served the former prerequisite, and a mandatory training session at the “farm”, the CIA’s Camp Peary training center near Williamsburg, Va, instilled the latter skills. All they needed now was a blueprint of the specifics of the operation, which could easily be incorporated into their vast repertoire of skills to overtake the target. The CTG was the preeminent rapid response team in the country, arguably the world; they were well within their comfort zone.

  The meeting adjourned just as the humming of arriving choppers could be heard overhead. These CIA-commissioned craft were to deliver the team to the awaiting coast guard vessel. They were now out of view of any coastline, and could operate freely. The two helicopters were sufficient to carry Kelly and their crew of 20. The operatives scurried about hastily, retrieving and preparing their gear. Dark tape had already been placed on uniforms, munitions, helmets, diving gear. The special tape blended perfectly with the black uniforms they would adorn on this night, and serve as a precautionary measure against accidental injury by friendly fire. Such incidents were always significant in any such operation, but all the more so in the labyrinthine belly of the cargo freighter. The tape would luminesce when viewed through infrared goggles, allowing rapid identification of fellow comrades in the melee of battle. Under the cover of darkness, the marker was invisible to the naked eye - a tactic Kelly adopted, albeit in a modified, more technologically advanced form, from his colleagues in Israel's special operations forces.

  After securing their gear, the men boarded the choppers and streaked off Southeast to rendezvous with a deep patrolling coast guard vessel.

  "Colonel, welcome aboard". Captain Gilbert Hillebrand, known as 'Hill' among the crew of the high endurance coast guard cutter WHEC Seafin, seemed genuine about accepting Kelly's men and this assignment. Patrolling far offshore could be tedious work, and the Captain was eager, albeit anxious about providing the special operations professionals a ride to wherever it was they needed to go. What Hill didn’t know was he would be an accomplice to a highly covert CIA operation. Kelly was not a recognizable face, and posed as a military officer. Ironically, he had retired from the military a major, and now suppressed a grin at his newly fabricated rank.

  "Thank you Captain. We appreciate your cooperation on such short notice."

  Kelly shook the captain's heavily callused hand, the grip rough and firm, a product no doubt of a life spent toiling on the high seas. The rest of the crew was finishing roping down to the 76-foot gunboat, the approach slowed somewhat by the high winds and frigid weather. Once the men had fully boarded, the helicopters departed and they were led to their quarters. Along the way several of the crew greeted them, a mixture of handshakes, smiles, and looks of admiration and respect intermixed with a healthy dose of suspicion. It was a similar response the CTG received from almost any regular military or civilian unit. But little of import was said beyond a cursory exchange of pleasantries, and soon the unit found themselves isolated in a cramped cabin going over the mission one final time.

  Operation “Sea Patrol”, as Mack had begun referring to it, was to launch within a matter of minutes. Kelly was making the final preparations and coordinating with the crew of the Seafin. The divers began strapping the specially designed, lightweight oxygen tanks on their backs. Ali spoke privately with the amphibious assault team, reviewing the early phases of the plan one last time. The amphibious assault team was to be the “tip of the spear”, the first responders. They were the cornerstone of the operation as it was drafted, and the fate of the operation rested most heavily on their shoulders.

  Privately, Ali went through another calculus. Was Mack right about this one? Was there really no other option? It was no secret to anyone present that commandeering a large vessel was not a trivial task. A ship that size had so many compartments, so much
risk. Any forewarning would allow those on board a huge strategic advantage. Rooms often had only one entrance to guard, walkways were narrow and offered limited mobility, night vision technology was useless in the glowing underbelly of the ship until they could cut off the electrical power. Conventional strategies simply put them at too great a risk. Clandestine entry, they all knew, would inevitably turn into a warning signal with the first exchange of fire. A dynamic assault might catch their enemies by surprise, but they could never cover the vast terrain for an overwhelming assault. Yes, he concluded, there really was no better option. But god help them if word of the operation leaked to the public. Taboos on the use of such tactics as they were soon to employ continued to exist.

  In the control room above, Kelly and Mack were reviewing logistical issues with the commander of the Seafin.

  “We’ve got your target on radar now”, Hillebrand noted. “How close do you want to get?”

  “What’s visibility like out there?” Mack asked. He had already estimated the limits of vision at a generous 3 miles – the nearly full moon and clear skies working to their disadvantage.

  “If you don’t want to be spotted, I’d go another 2 clicks max”, responded Hillebrand confidently. When it came to maritime issues, the captain knew his stuff.

  "Captain Hillebrand, how fast can we close the distance from there?" Kelly asked.

  "5 minutes at full throttle, sir"

  Kelly and Mack exchanged a nervous look. Those few minutes were critical. The diving force would be isolated until they could surface board the reinforcements. But nothing could be done about the lag time. Any closer and the cutter might be spotted. They would just have to await deployment of the weapon and the go-ahead from Ali.