David Hagberg
Allah's Scorpion
This novel is for Lorrel.
PROLOGUE
Under an overcast moonless sky, a rubber raft came ashore three hundred meters east of the U.S. Naval Base Guantanamo Bay’s outer security fence. Four men dressed in U.S. Navy SEAL night fighter camos, their faces blackened, Heckler & Koch suppressed baseline carbines strapped to their backs, jumped out of the boat and quickly carried it ten meters up the beach to some tall grass. They moved swiftly, efficiently, as a well-practiced team.
Their leader, who’d entered Cuba with his operators ten days earlier under a French passport identifying him as Pierre Halille, raised a pair of Steiner Mil Spec binoculars to his eyes and scanned the beach in the direction of the U.S. Navy Base and the sprawling Camp Delta detention facility situated on a bluff that rose nearly fifty meters above sea level. He was sweating lightly even though the night was relatively cool. He was not used to the humidity, and a great deal was at stake this morning, not the least of which was his life and the lives of his men.
The fence was six meters tall and was topped with coils of razor wire. Strong searchlights atop guard towers at one-hundred-meter intervals lit the no-man’s zones like day. Nothing could get close without being spotted, either by the American military guards on the inside or the Cuban Frontier Brigade patrolling the outside.
Other lights were on throughout the sprawling camp, but very little activity went on at this hour. The main part of the base, with its hospital, schools, barracks, dining halls, and recreation centers, was to the west, along the bay, housed mostly in prefab buildings, large air-conditioned tents, and a collection of white-walled concrete-block buildings with red roofs. Base headquarters, the hospital, the school, and several other facilities were housed in more substantial buildings, yet even from here the installation looked temporary.
Farther to the west, on the other side of the bay, Leeward Point Field served as Gitmo’s airfield, while on this side were eight separate detention areas, each within its own fenced and heavily guarded compound. Three were for high-security-risk prisoners, another three for medium risk, one for minimum risk, and the eighth, Camp Echo, outside the main detention area, was used for low-risk inmates selected for hearings before a military tribunal. These were the prisoners who would be the first to be released and returned to their home countries.
He lowered his binoculars and raised his watch. It was 2:18 A.M. He held his breath and cocked his head to listen for a noise, any noise that might indicate their presence was known. U.S. Navy and Coast Guard fast-attack boats patrolled these waters to prevent escapes from the base by sea. But the only sounds were the small waves sighing ashore.
In twenty-two minutes a diversion would begin five kilometers away at the northeast perimeter. They had to be in place before it began. It was the only way in which they had even the slightest chance of reaching Echo. A Cuban Frontier Brigade combat unit would make one of its routine probes on base defenses. This evening the attack would be more intense than usual, and would last much longer than normal, drawing the Americans to the opposite side of the base from Camp Delta, where the hills rose steeply behind the outer fence.
Returning the binoculars to a zippered pocket in his camos, he unslung his carbine, and without a word, headed north through the scrub brush, keeping the no-man’s zone fifty meters to the left. His three men fell in silently behind him.
As they approached the first guard tower, he motioned for his people to drop to the ground. They would have to continue on their bellies. Although it was the middle of the night, the U.S. Army troops here had a fearsome reputation. This place wasn’t another Abu Ghraib, but not one freedom fighter or mujahideen had ever escaped. Nor did he want to run into a Cuban patrol. He took great care to make no noise, and to keep his head down until they were twenty meters past the tower, and even then he motioned for his brothers to keep low and move slow.
They had come to rescue five prisoners, not become prisoners themselves.
Several minutes later they came to a spot directly opposite the second guard tower. They were on a slight rise here, the terrain dipping down to the no-man’s zone and a tall fence, before angling sharply upward to the Camp Delta bluff and inner security fences. But there was considerably more scrub brush and sea oats, providing them decent cover.
Halille, whose real name was Sharif al-Habib, raised a hand for his men to halt and drop to the ground. He checked his watch again. It was 2:37 A.M. He looked back at the others and nodded. They had reached their first objective with three minutes to spare. So far there had been no signs that their presence had been detected. The Cuban fishing boat, Nueva Cruz, that had dropped them off five kilometers southeast of the bay had not been challenged by the U.S. Coast Guard that patrolled these waters, for the simple reason that the boat was only one of a fleet of a dozen similar commercial fishermen that worked close inshore every night. In reality, the Coast Guard, like the soldiers manning the towers, and the military policemen who kept watch over the eight individual detention camps within Delta, looked inward. They were guarding against prisoners breaking out, not mujahideen breaking in.
Al-Habib took a small tripod out of a pocket, opened its legs, and attached his M8 to the base shoe. He took a prone position, and adjusted his sightline until he picked up the silhouette of the lone guard on the tower sixty meters away in his scope. His heart hammered in his chest, and all the spit had dried up in his mouth. They had gotten to this point because of good intelligence: They knew the Coast Guard patrol routes and times, they knew when the Frontier Brigade guards on the beach would be at the northern leg of their patrol, and six months ago they had been given a detailed topographic map of the U.S. facility, as well as the surrounding area on either side of the winding bay. From the maps they had spotted a weakness in Camp Delta’s perimeter. A way in, and a way back out.
Now the mission depended on how accurate al-Habib’s aim was.
“There is a possibility of failure at every step of your journey, Sharif,” Osama bin Laden had warned him six months ago on the Pakistani side of the mountains outside Drosh. “I do not want you or the others to die for the cause yet. This is very important.”
“Insh’allah,” al-Habib had replied. He had been fighting Jews for more than twenty years, since he was a boy on the West Bank. He’d only been six the first time he went with his brothers to throw stones at Israeli APCs in Nablus. Now his brothers were dead, his father was gone, and he knew of no Palestinian who hadn’t lost family members. He was not afraid of dying.
“Yes, God willing, but it is the hearts and minds of men who do His work,” bin Laden said gently. He nodded and smiled with such incredible warmth and sadness that all the air seemed to go out of the cave. “Your heart, Sharif. Your mind.”
Al-Habib had felt love washing through his body. It was, he remembered now, as if God’s own hand had caressed his heart. “I won’t let you down.”
“It’s not for me, Sharif,” bin Laden said. He took al-Habib by the arm and they went outside into the cool mountain evening. They had the ephemeris of every Western spy satellite. None were in position overhead at this moment. “Your struggle is for the jihad. For our people. For Allah.”
Bin Laden was a legend among Islamic militants everywhere because of his service in Afghanistan. He had brought only his construction equipment, his money, and his brilliance up against the might of the entire Russian army. And he had won. By doing so he’d inspired an entire generation of mujahideen to take up the fight; to be bold, to have initiative, and best of all, to have heart. If you will believe in God, He will believe in you. And al-Habib truly believed in God, in the struggle, and most of all, in bin Laden.