Infidels Page 4

  He tossed the microphone to the ground and rushed to the back of the tent, pulling aside the rugs and prying up the side, the harsh daylight pouring in. Poking his head out, he saw no one. He pushed his head through, then his shoulders, and as he wiggled his way through the opening he began to think he might just make it out of this alive.

  When suddenly somebody grabbed his foot, yanking him back inside.

  And as his fingers dragged through the sand, he suddenly realized what the silver frame reminded him of.

  And laughed.

  Saudi Arabia, near Yemini border

  Abu Tahir al-Qarmati slammed his fist into the passenger seat in front of him, startling his driver for a moment. He needed an outlet for his rage, the sight outside the window unbelievable. Bodies were strewn about, blood staining the desert sands, the winds already beginning to erase the memory of what happened only hours before.

  Betrayal.

  That was the only explanation. No one had known the Prince was here with the Black Stone. Only those among the New Qarmatian Order, an organization he himself had founded ten years before, knew of their plans, and even within the Order there were few.

  Secrecy had been paramount if they were to succeed like the original Qarmatians had. In 930 AD the great Abu-Tahir Al-Jannabi, the man who he had taken the name of when he began down his path to enlightenment, had led a revolt against the ruling Abbasid Caliphate, sacking Mecca, desecrating the Zamzam Well and in the ultimate statement, stealing the blasphemous Black Stone itself.

  An act he had orchestrated a repeat of yesterday.

  But now his plan had been thwarted.

  He had grabbed a transport as soon as he had heard the gunfire, he, like much of the world, watching the broadcast live. He had never felt prouder as their message was revealed to the faithful and infidel alike, but had been crushed, then furious, when the broadcast was interrupted, their final purpose halted.

  And to add insult to injury, the Saudi government had immediately claimed the broadcast was faked, a lookalike used, then immediately issued a statement in Prince Khalid’s name stating he was alive and well and in Riyadh.

  He had thrown his chair across the room.

  The car skidded to a halt and he stepped out, not waiting for his driver to open the door. One of his men rushed up to him but he held up a hand, cutting him off before he could speak a word. Marching into the tent he dropped to his knees at the sight of his friend’s body, struck down only feet away from the now knocked over camera, a large pool of blood staining the carpets where his head should be.

  The barbarians!

  A roar escaped from deep within, filling the tent with his rage and despair as he tossed his head back, his eyes wide with hatred staring at the flowing silks overhead.

  Then there was silence, the few men inside saying nothing lest they feel his wrath, one which was famous in its brutality.

  Al-Qarmati rose then looked around for the Black Stone, frowning. “Where is it?”

  “They’ve taken it, sir.”

  He looked at the man brave enough to have replied. “Who is ‘they’?”

  “They left one survivor. He said it was Houthi rebels from Yemen.”

  Houthi!

  They were always interfering, conducting raids within his country then fleeing across the border where they couldn’t be pursued, and his cowardly, traitorous government would do nothing, instead pleading to the Americans to take action on their behalf.

  Which the Great Satan was more than willing to do.

  “Where is this survivor?”

  He was led outside to one of the relief vehicles that had been dispatched from a nearby camp when the attack had begun. They had arrived too late, and it wasn’t their fault—no one could have made it here on time—but he needed someone to blame.

  “This is him.”

  Al-Qarmati looked at the weary man who struggled to his feet, his badly beaten face a clear indication he hadn’t escaped the attack unscathed.

  “And why did they leave you of all people alive?”

  The man hesitated a moment, fear in his wide eyes, before delivering his shaky reply. “I w-was the last alive.”

  “You didn’t die for your cause?”

  His eyes widened further as his head began to shake rapidly back and forth. “No, sir! I fought back until I ran out of ammunition, then attacked with my bare hands but there were too many of them!” His chin dropped to his chest as his shoulders slumped. “But I still failed you.”

  Al-Qarmati nodded, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yes you did, but you fought hard, and with that you have honored Allah and the prophet, peace be upon him.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “You have earned your place in paradise.”

  Al-Qarmati emptied his Beretta into the man’s chest, his grip on his shoulder tightening as he held him in place. His magazine emptied, he released his hold, the body crumpling to the ground.

  He strode toward his vehicle, ignoring those around him.

  Now to find out where they went.

  He climbed into the back seat, his driver closing the door.

  And kill them all.

  1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  A.k.a. "The Unit"

  “We need your help.”

  Colonel Thomas Clancy leaned back in his chair, his unlit cigar between his fingers, tapping on his desk as he listened on the phone to Colonel Faisal bin Nayef of Saudi Arabia’s secret police, the Mabahith General Investigation Directorate. They had met on one occasion several years ago at a Pentagon briefing on the Syrian civil war, and had actually hit it off, their shared love of a good cigar enough to keep a rather dull evening entertaining.

  He had also proved invaluable on several occasions with intel on the region.

  But this was the first time the man had ever asked for help, and he felt the proverbial other shoe dropping.

  “How?”

  “Just so we’re clear, we’re not having this conversation. I’ll deny I ever said any of what I’m about to say, understood.”

  Clancy pursed his lips, tilting forward in his chair. “Understood.”

  “Prince Khalid has been kidnapped.”

  Clancy suppressed a laugh.

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  The Saudi assertion that the video was a fake was absurd, and the video they trotted out of a happy Prince Khalid on vacation with his family, waving at a camera, had already been shown to be weeks old, though the state press in the Middle East was keeping that under wraps.

  But it’s almost impossible to stuff a gag in the great mouth that is the Internet.

  “We’re aware of that,” he replied.

  Nayef chuckled. “Of course you are. My government’s attempts to hide the fact the broadcast was genuine have been ineffectual at best. To admit that not only has a crown prince betrayed his religion and his country, but to also admit they have no idea where he is, is simply something they have no contingency plan for.”

  “The end of the broadcast seemed to suggest an attack of some sort. Was that your forces?”

  “No, I can assure you if we had mounted an attack, we would have succeeded.” A sigh from the other end caused a momentary burst of static. “I’m afraid it was Houthi rebels crossing the border from Yemen once again.”

  “They’ve been quite the annoyance as of late.”

  Yemen had been a basket case for quite some time with the collapse of their government just recently occurring, supported by many groups, the most important of which were the Houthi rebels. They opposed the Saudi government, mostly for being an ally of the United States, and for its control over Islam’s holy sites, conducting regular raids across the border.

  His own men had been in Yemen on countless occasions, he the commanding officer of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, commonly known as Delta Force. With over one thousand men and women under his command, his teams were called upon when the best of the best were needed, where no credit would be due.

  Including on American soil.

  They were the only military unit in existence with permission to carry out operations on American soil, the President having the power to suspend Posse Comitatus and activate Delta when the need became necessary.

  As it had just recently.

  The several hundred highly trained operators he had under his command were just the latest generation of the small force created in 1977 by Colonel Charles Beckwith as an answer to the growing threat of terrorism around the world. And though Operation Eagle Claw—their inaugural operation during the Iran Hostage Crisis—had been disastrous, they had served with honor and distinction since, successfully executing hundreds of missions.

  And now he had a sneaking suspicion he was about to be asked to put his men into harm’s way once again. His men had taken on Houthi rebels and others of their ilk across the world. They were a nasty bunch that you couldn’t underestimate, though his men had yet to be bested by them.

  For him the ultimate question was whether or not the Yeminis had just been lucky, or if they knew what they were hitting. It was a question he wouldn’t get a reliable answer to.

  “An annoyance is putting it mildly,” said Nayef. “Despite your drone attacks on their camps, they still seem to swarm like cockroaches.”

  Clancy jammed his cigar back in his mouth, desperate to light it, his promise to his wife to give up the delicious habit the most difficult promise he had ever made.

  And I promised to be nice to her sister.

  “What do you need from me?”

  “We need you to find Prince Khalid.”

  “That might be possible. And if we do?”

  “Rescue him.”

  CIA Headquarters,
Langley, Virginia

  Chris Leroux chewed on his umpteenth Breath Savers, trying to rid himself of the taste and smell of his second bout of vomiting today. He had isolated himself in his office with the hopes of going home after this final briefing of the day, where he’d find an empty apartment, Sherrie on her op.

  It was times like these he wished he lived closer to his parents.

  But as it was, he’d have to make sure they didn’t find out he was sick and alone, otherwise his mother would insist on coming to take care of him, and he knew she couldn’t afford to be taking off work every time “her baby” was sick.

  He groaned.

  “Are you okay, Chris?”

  He jerked upright in his chair at the sound of his boss’ voice over the speakerphone. “Umm, sorry, sir. I’ll live.”

  “Good. Give us your update then head home. Last thing I need is the entire section sick with the flu.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve confirmed that Prince Khalid arrived at the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque as scheduled. Apparently damage was discovered last week during a cleaning ritual. He was supposed to accompany the stone to be repaired.”

  “Why would they not just repair it there?” asked Donovan Eppes.

  “Apparently it’s sacrilege to perform manual labor within the grounds of the shrine other than routine cleaning and maintenance of the structure itself. As well, with this object being so revered, they can’t risk slipshod work, so they have a dedicated team that has been trained to maintain and restore this specific object.”

  “So you’ve confirmed he arrived to pick up the relic. What then?”

  “Our analysis of the chatter indicates at least one dozen men stormed the mosque, killing the ceremonial guard, then according to witness accounts, left the mosque with the Prince and the Black Stone, while wearing uniforms of the ceremonial guard.”

  “Did they steal the uniforms off the dead guards?” asked Cindy Fowler.

  “No, they apparently had them on underneath their robes.”

  “So the Black Stone has been stolen,” stated Morrison.

  “It would appear so, sir, though the Saudi authorities have managed to keep that piece of intel compartmentalized. Right now the public has no idea of what has happened, except that the Prince was either kidnapped or turned traitor, and their government is lying about it.”

  “We’ve had new intel come in from a confidential source well-placed within the Saudi government that confirms the prince has indeed betrayed his government and his faith,” said Morrison. “The attack heard at the end of the broadcast was apparently Houthi rebel forces from Yemen attacking. He apparently now is indeed a hostage.”

  “Are the Saudi’s planning a rescue operation?”

  “No, their agreement with us is to not cross international borders with equipment sold to them by us.”

  “So that basically means everything,” interjected Eppes.

  “True,” resumed Morrison. “They’ve asked us to rescue him.”

  There was silence over the speakerphone for a moment as the implications set in. It was Leroux that broke the silence.

  “Sir, what if they have the Black Stone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if our forces recover the Prince and this relic, then that means infidels will have the stone in their possession.”

  “Uh huh.” Morrison paused as he apparently mulled over Leroux’s statement. Fanatics the world over were always looking for some way to blame the West, especially America, for all their ills, and if it were to come to light that American soldiers had the Black Stone in their possession, even with the best of intentions, he shuddered to think how it could be twisted by those fuelled by so much hate. Yet there was one piece of intel he hadn’t had a chance to impart, and once he had, he was pretty certain any question on whether or not to mount a rescue would be settled.

  “Sir, there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Leroux moved closer to his phone.

  “Intel reports indicate that those who attacked the mosque were all speaking English.”

  “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Morrison. “Meeting adjourned, I have to talk to the White House.”

  Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, USS Iwo Jima, Gulf of Aden

  Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme watched the split screen display with his boss, Colonel Thomas Clancy in one panel along with several others including a CIA analyst he had dealt with in the past named Chris Leroux.

  He looked like shit.

  Hell, he looks worse than I did.

  Red had just finished commanding his first op since infected with Ebola a few months ago. It had been rough going but he had recovered and had been begging the Colonel to put him back into the rotation for weeks now.

  It wasn’t until Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson had cleared him three weeks ago that he had been put back on the board. He hadn’t expected his first op to be in command, but with Dawson on vacation in Paris with his girlfriend—the Colonel’s personal assistant—he had been tasked to lead an op recovering some moron millionaire with connections who had sailed his yacht off the Horn of Africa and found himself captured by Somali pirates.

  He and seven of the Bravo Team had successfully rescued the hostage, plus two others, killing pretty much the entire group of khat chewing criminals the international community had yet to figure out how to combat.

  “The White House has approved the op,” said Clancy, “but this is completely compartmentalized. Only a handful know you’re going in so try not to get caught, gentlemen. And for God’s sake don’t kill the prince. The last thing we need is it getting out that he died by our hand.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Red. “How recent are these satellite images?”

  Leroux moaned out a reply. “These are less than two hours. It looks like they’re down for the night. We’ll have a UAV over the area to give you live intel when you’re inserted.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The young man seemed to flinch at the formality. The man was younger than him, though not by the couple of decades Clancy had on him. Special Ops was a young man’s world, and young men in the military grew up fast if they wanted to make sergeant, faster still if they wanted to make Delta.

  There were no boys in The Unit.

  “Be careful on this one, Sergeant. There’re a lot of rumors flying about, including the possibility that some Islamic relic has been stolen, and if that’s the case, then Prince Khalid was behind it. If this cell you’re about to hit has the relic, they’ll fight to the death to keep it out of American hands.”

  “We’ll watch our sixes, sir.”

  “You do that. Clancy, out.”

  The various squares of the screen went black as the teleconference ended, leaving Red to look at his second-in-command for the mission, Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James. “So, what do you think?”

  Atlas, his nickname earned by looking like his muscled self should take a knee then a planet on his shoulders, responded in his ridiculously deep voice. “I think if this mission goes south, we’re going to be hung out to dry.”

  Red frowned, nodding.

  “So do I.”

  Qarmatian Camp, Saudi Arabia

  Abu Tahir al-Qarmati stifled a yawn, it now well past dark, the only light from the fire and several candles. They had a generator but it was powered down for the night, it a waste to use it for something as trivial as light, it reserved to power computer equipment and charge cellphones and laptops.

  His head drooped as he drifted off, his body beginning to fall forward, the sensation enough to startle him awake.

  The sound of whispered words outside gave him a jolt of energy, the flap to the tent pushed aside as the man he had been waiting for finally arrived.

  “Sir, I’m sorry I’m late, but there was a patrol near the border. We had to go around them.”

  Al-Qarmati waved off the excuse, motioning for the man to sit near the fire and for tea to be brought. “What have you found?”