"We would watch them on television," said Musa.
Ali laughed. "That has nothing to do with America, though everyone who has not been to America thinks it is the truth. It is not. Except for the fact that the people of the Faith are the only ones it is permissible to insult. We are the villains of every drama. They call us ragheads."
"Ragheads!" Musa exclaimed. "They said this?"
"Why not?" said Ali.
"Disgusting," said Musa.
"It is how they see us," said Ali. "But to them we have always been too much trouble to try and understand."
Musa felt that Ali was close to revealing something. He asked gently, "What did they do to you?
Ali took a deep breath. He placed his forearms on the table as if to steady himself. "It was fall. I had been studying in the library and afterward went to a cafe. Then I walked to my dormitory. Along the street were student houses that were called fraternities, private clubs filled with the most fascist elements—all white, of course. They drank alcohol constantly, and in public they would insult any woman they did not find attractive and proposition those they did. Like pigs they would abuse whoever crossed their path: women, blacks, Orientals—anyone different."
"I would have guessed it," said Musa. "Did the authorities encourage this?"
"Their general behavior was tolerated," Ali explained. "There would be protests from women and blacks they had abused. But their behavior toward us was ignored. We were not in fashion with the so-called liberals at that time."
"Go on," said Musa.
"As I said, I was walking back to my dormitory. I passed one of these fraternities where a party was taking place. My attention was attracted when the music became louder; the front door had been opened. The people of the house were ejecting someone from their party; I should have left, but my curiosity was too great."
"What of the neighbors?" Musa asked.
"Animals like themselves. These people were beating a man on the front steps. They dragged him down the steps and threw him onto the lawn. Then they went back into the house to continue their drinking. I thought of running away, but the man on the lawn was moaning. I walked over and began to examine his wounds. I could not go to the house for help, and if I called to anyone on the street they would think I was trying to rob them and run away. Then I heard voices, and bright light hit my eyes. There were many police vehicles, and policemen running toward me. A voice shouted, "Get him!" Before I could speak, I was hit with a club, and they swarmed on me.
"You must understand that the American police had many rules that governed their conduct," Ali said bitterly. "Those in their hands had rights that protected their safety. But the police of Philadelphia did not know of these rules—they had a fearsome reputation for violence and corruption."
"Go on," said Musa.
"Soon they stopped hitting me with their clubs and put handcuffs on my wrists. I cannot bear to be confined, and I screamed and thrashed with my legs. I think I kicked one. That infuriated them. They took hold of the handcuffs and dragged me across the lawn. They dragged me across the concrete sidewalk and threw me into the back of a van. They beat me until I lost consciousness." He stared at the table, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue.
"One of them was a woman," he said.
"A woman!" exclaimed Musa.
"Yes, they have women police. The last thing I remember was her beating me with a club, and her look of enjoyment."
"An abomination!" Musa said.
"When I woke up I found myself in a hospital, but there were bars on the door. My face was so swollen I could barely see, and my jaw was wired—it was broken. My ribs were broken, and one wrist. The next day a judge came to the hospital, and I was charged with attacking the police."
"They accused you of attacking them?"
"Yes, The lawyer defending me said it was to keep me from charging them with brutality. That is the word he used, 'brutality.' Well, we have no embassy, so a man from the Department of State gave me a choice. I could leave the country at once. Or I could make a complaint against the police, in which case the police would say I had gone berserk and they defended themselves. I would go to prison, and then be expelled from the country."
"Wonderful choices," said Musa.
"Yes, it did not take me long to decide. I was home in a week, in my bandages."
"So this is why you hate them," Musa said flatly.
"I vowed one day I would have my vengeance. But that is a personal thing. The whole world hates them, why not I? They deserve to be hated. When I discovered how they thought, it all became clear to me. They believe the world must live by their orders. Their arrogance is even greater than their power."
"The rich are always like that," Musa said knowingly.
"Yes, they have everything they could desire. Everything, but it is never enough. For years their companies would take our oil for a pittance, and we could buy their goods that we could not afford and did not need. Their plan for us was permanent poverty, poverty that would pay for their luxury. When we took our wealth back and made them pay fairly for once, they screamed in outrage."
"Like a spoiled child, who pushes another away from a bowl of sweets even though he has had enough," said Musa, indulging him, wanting Ali to be rid of it.
"You understand," said Ali, "to be among them is intolerable. They live in freedom, with no enemies on their borders. But for the sake of their security, their prosperity, their freedom, others must live in poverty."
"I always wondered when I read of them," Musa said. "After they fought so well for their own freedom, why they should begrudge it to others."
"Why should they care?" said Ali. "They already have their freedom." His voice rasped; his mouth was dry. "They were shocked we should call them spies, the same CIA that once overthrew our government, trained our torturers, and plotted against the revolution. Then they were hurt we did not embrace them when they held out their arms. To them we were returning to the Middle Ages when in fact we had gained not only our freedom, but our souls. Now we frighten them because we are the few they cannot control."
"They attack us, and they attack the Faith," the Sergeant Major said, almost sadly.
"That is because they have none," Ali said, his voice winding down. "They are amazed by people who take God seriously."
Several Guards, attracted by the conversation, stood in the doorway, watching silently.
Musa gripped Ali's shoulders with both hands. "Now I know why you feel as you do." He noticed the men in the doorway. "Go back to your work!" he snapped. Grudgingly, they returned to cleaning weapons.
Ali gently removed the hands from his shoulders. "I am sorry, old comrade. I have never told the entire story. Before the war I dreamt of it often. Then I had other things to occupy my nightmares. Now the dream has come back every night since we landed." His face took on a strange look. "Perhaps tomorrow night it will go away."
"Because tomorrow you will be revenged."
"Or dead. I always knew I would be back. Now the chance has come ... another chance in America. But we may all pay for my vengeance."
The Sergeant Major drank down his now-cold tea, trying to absorb what this rigidly self-contained man had revealed. He had seen many under stress break apart without warning, and he prayed that Ali's actions were not a sign of this. But we are all human, Musa thought. We all have our limits and our many motives. "We come for our country's vengeance," he said.
"But before, under the pressure of events, it was easy just to act. Now I have had time to think. I made you all take a great risk at the Marine camp."
"And we won," Musa interrupted.
"We take a much greater risk this time."
"Is it the mission? Is that what you worry about?"
"I worry what will happen to Iran if we succeed, what the Americans will do. I worry about the men."
"Then do you think we are doing the right thing?" Musa asked quietly.
Ali waved his hand impatiently; some of h
is fire was coming back. "You misunderstand. I am sure it is the only way we can defend ourselves. All this talk about war waged by rules is a Western invention, to soothe their troubled consciences. These 'humanists' were the first to use poison gas, nuclear weapons, and drop bombs on cities of unarmed civilians. The only rule in war is to win. You owe your enemies nothing—certainly not mercy. It is like prisoners," he said pointedly. "You take prisoners because it makes the enemy more willing to give up without much fight. But if prisoners are a burden, you kill them. Who or what they are makes no difference. That is war."
"I know it is true," Musa said. "It was just that, at the time, I did not want it to be. But the way you said it, the way you did it, you made it so hard."
"I never try to put a pretty face on reality," Ali said. "My only worry is what we may do to ourselves."
Musa sensed that Ali was not so much stating a philosophy as trying to convince himself. He realized his friend was asking for his approval, to share at least some of the responsibility. No wonder, he thought, with the strain of the past weeks, knowing the consequences of a mistake. "I do not worry for us, Ali. You are not one of these empty-headed children who has learned to hate life, heard too much talk of martyrdom and Paradise, and rushes toward death with a plastic key in his hand…I believe in you."
Ali rubbed his eyes again. He felt sickened by his show of vulnerability. Then the door in the man slammed shut—Ali was gone, and the colonel had returned. "Have no fear, my good, good friend. I am tired, and I talk like a fool. We have nothing to be ashamed of. And tomorrow we will accomplish our mission. All debts will be paid."
Musa smiled sadly. "I have always trusted in your skill. And I have always prayed. God has always protected us. What happens tomorrow is in His hands."
CHAPTER 29
Rich Welsh stood in the rear of a Military Airlift Command terminal at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, sipping a diet soda and taking in all the activity around him.
Andrews has the largest capacity of any military airfield near Washington, D.C. In addition to handling the transportation needs of the President, incoming foreign dignitaries, and the upper levels of the political establishment, the base accommodates a full range of strictly military missions. When the air force was ordered to give up a space near the flight line to Special Operations Command, it meant someone would have to be kicked out. The howls of outrage could be heard all the way to the Pentagon.
Welsh accompanied the Joint Special Operations Command advance party that had checked out the first facilities offered by the air force. The facilities were inadequate, but that was expected. As in the Middle Eastern bazaars, in such situations the bargaining was an accepted part of doing business. After a call to Washington, a Military Airlift Command terminal and a transient barracks were put at JSOC's disposal. There were no further problems. It was Welsh's experience that the air force handled the transport and accommodation of large numbers of men and equipment better than any other service—and with immeasurably less chickenshit.
On the tarmac outside was a line of helicopters belonging to the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the U.S. Army's special operations helicopter unit based at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Probably the best special operations helicopter unit in the world, it was populated by crazy warrant officers who would fly through the eye of a needle on a pitch dark night. The 160th made a specialty of sneaking into places, and because of that they liked to fly alone and without the close air support and Apache gunships other Army helo units found essential. This worked when the sneaking worked, but when the enemy was alerted they'd lost helicopters and people.
The three different helicopter types flown by the 160th were all represented. Most numerous were the medium-range assault transports, the MH-60 Blackhawk with up-rated engines and in-flight refueling probe, terrain-following radar, forward-looking infrared for night flying, comprehensive navigation and communications systems, top of the line electronic countermeasures and missile warning, and extra fuel tanks.
Next were two versions of the bubble-shaped H-6, familiar to viewers of the movie Blackhawk Down. The MH-6 was the assault transport, very quiet and small enough to land on a rooftop or crowded city street. It had "people platforms" mounted outside the cabin above the skids, for rapid dismounting. The AH-6 was the gunship variant, armed with rocket pods and 7.62mm Gatling guns. The AH/MH-6s and the Blackhawks had special blade folding and stowage systems that made them flyable within ten minutes of being unloaded from an Air Force transport.
The long-range transport was the MH-47, the Vietnam-era twin-rotor Chinook with the same avionics and special equipment as the special ops Blackhawk.
Some of the helicopters were ready to go on the flight line, some were already prepared for transport in the two C-5B and two C-17 cargo planes also standing by, along with a pair of KC-130s to refuel the helicopters in flight.
If a terrorist incident went down within helicopter range of Andrews, the assault group from SEAL Team 6 would fly in directly. If something happened farther away, the unit would fly in the C-5Bs and C-141s to the nearest capable airfield.
The members of SEAL Team 6 sat together on one side of the terminal. Even though it wasn't called SEAL Team 6 anymore. The military had always refused to admit that the two Tier One special mission units of Joint Special Operations Command existed, even though the first commanding officers of both had written books about them. So at great expense the unit names were changed on a regular basis, or whenever someone wrote an article citing them. Delta Force had become the Combat Applications Group and then Army Compartmented Elements. SEAL Team Six had become the Naval Special Warfare Development Group. Both now had new official names, for what it was worth, since everyone in the military still called them "Delta" and "Six."
Small groups were reading, playing cards, or sleeping. Others pored over maps or checked equipment. Just like the FBI they were dressed in sage green one-piece assault jumpsuits made of fireproof Nomex, though they kept all kinds of different camouflage uniforms in their supply warehouse. Like Delta they used the Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle, in this case also in the short barrel close quarter battle configuration with EOTech red dot sight and laser and white light illuminators. Over ten years of war had led to a few other changes in their equipment. Instead of the plastic Pro-Tec hockey helmets previously used to protect against falls and mount their night vision goggles, all of them now wore ballistic helmets with integral Peltor earmuffs that electronically amplified external sound for more sensitive hearing, automatically shut down to protect the ears against explosion and gunfire, and also served as communications headsets. The old side drop holster had just about gone away, and most of the SEALs wore their Heckler and Koch HK-45C pistols in plastic Kydex holsters chest-high on the front of their body armor vests.
There were a few MK-46 and MK-48 machineguns, the first the SEAL-specific squad automatic weapon and the latter their bigger 7.62mm machinegun. The snipers carried a golf bag of weapons, from the 7.62mm MK-11, which looked like an M-16 on steroids, to Macmillan bolt actions in both .300 Winchester Magnum and a .50 caliber that could hit a target from 2000 yards away.
Welsh had worked with SEALs in combat, though never Team 6. SEALs were, well, different. Really great in the water. On land they focused on quick, in and out, hard hitting direct action missions, and they were really good at them. But the longer they had to stay out in the field the less well they showed in the detailed nuts and bolts stuff of ground operations. They moved really fast, and claimed that their training and standard operating procedures were so good that they didn't have to waste a lot of time on the detailed planning everyone else considered essential, but to date all their disasters could probably be laid at the feet of planning shortcomings. Because they were so selective, their training was so extensive, their equipment so good, and they were such physical studs there tended to be both an arrogance and a sense of invincibility that led them to underestimate the opposition. And no one was i
nvincible. Welsh could have said the same about Marine Special Operations, except that MARSOC platoon commanders had to be successful infantry platoon commanders first. And nothing could give you a better sense of just how many things could go wrong if you didn't keep your eye on the ball. The other SEAL Achilles heel was that even though the troops were generally outstanding their senior leadership pool was very small and very political, and because of that had a tendency to be risk-averse. Welsh remembered a British Marine officer in Iraq calling the SEALs "lions led by dogs."
Both Delta and Team 6 picked from the best of the best, and both had the finest training and facilities money could buy. Originally the delineation between them was that Delta did everything land while Six did everything maritime. But long years of war in Iraq and Afghanistan had broken down those boundaries. Because of that there was a sibling rivalry between the two units that would never go away. But both were probably the best in the world at what they did.
The pilots and flight crew of the 160th gathered in another part of the terminal. They also wore green flight suits and had an attitude similar to that of the SEALs, which was to be expected of the most shit-hot pilots in the army.
Wandering in and out were members of the 160th's ground crews, dressed in regular army camouflage field uniforms, BDUs. Most were young soldiers chosen solely for their technical expertise. They had given SOCOM fits during several exercises with their typically American inability to keep their mouths shut about what they were doing.
Like the rest of the SOCOM support staff, Welsh wore a flight suit with no markings. He finished his soda and tossed the can.
"What's up?" said a voice behind him.
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