The VIPs and the other spectators watched and listened as the two brigade commanders explained in detail the drama unfolding before them, blissfully unaware of the one developing to their rear. All except Representative Ed Lewis. The crack of an AK assault rifle firing to his rear caused him to start. Craning his neck around, Lewis attempted to determine what was going on. No one had mentioned anything about Egyptian infantry, the only ones armed with the AK-47, participating in the demonstration. The only thing the Egyptians should have been firing at that time was tanks. Almost instinctively Lewis knew something was going on, but he couldn't determine what it was.
Turning back to the front, he noticed the colonel next to him giving him a strange look. He was about to ask him about the firing but decided not to. The firing had stopped. If something was wrong, there were people paid to handle it. Besides, no one else seemed to be excited. The last thing Lewis wanted was to make an ass of himself in front of so many Army types. Instead, he watched the Egyptian tanks, now visible from the platform for the first time.
Jan was looking into the camera, commenting on the amount of training and coordination that an exercise like the one then occurring required. The popping of small arms fire from the parking area was masked by the crash of impacting artillery rounds behind her. In the middle of one of Jan's sentences, one of the British camera crewmen turned and yelled, "Jesus! Those bloody bastards back there are really killing each other!"
Angry that someone had interrupted her shot, Jan was about to lash the offender with a stream of obscenities when she saw Hafez and Dixon, pistols drawn and followed by Egyptian soldiers, running away from the platform. With her view masked by a slight rise, she called out, "What's going on down there?"
There was no response. The camera crew, veterans of Northern Ireland and Lebanon, had already turned and were running toward the unfolding drama, cameras rolling. They did not answer Jan. She stood there for a second before it dawned upon her that something big was going down. She wasn't sure what was happening but ran to join the camera crews anyhow, driven by one thought: assassination attempt on the president of the united states. film and story by jan fields at eleven.
Once through the barrier, the two jeeps separated, one headed for each side of the platform where the two presidents, still unaware of the danger they faced, continued to watch the demonstration. Dixon saw Hafez peel off and head for the jeep on the left, the one that had been the lead. Dixon veered off to the right and ran for the second one. As he did so, it suddenly dawned upon him that he had no idea what he intended to do. One man and a pistol against a jeep full of terrorists did not seem like an even match. Without stopping, Dixon glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.
To his relief, there were two of Hafez's men coming up behind him. Dixon waved his pistol toward the second jeep and yelled to them in Arabic, "COME — FOLLOW!" At least he hoped that he had said that. The effect was immediate as the two soldiers quickened their pace in an effort to catch up with Dixon.
Confident that he now had enough firepower to do something, Dixon locked all his attention onto the approaching jeep. The scene before him now began to unfold in slow motion. The images that ran through his mind were like a series of snapshots instead of a steady stream of events: the glare of the sun on the jeep's windshield, the arm holding an assault rifle out of the passenger side of the jeep, the flash of that rifle firing, the cloud of dust and flying dirt. They all flashed through Dixon's mind as he rushed to place himself and his two followers between the jeep and the platform to his rear.
Satisfied that he and his two Egyptian soldiers were in as good a spot as they were going to get, he stopped. His two followers came up to his side and also stopped. No sooner had they done so than rifle fire from the jeep cut down the soldier to his left. Dixon knew it was time. Do or die. He lowered his pistol and then, in English, yelled "Fire!"
The surviving Egyptian soldier to his right did nothing. Shit! Dixon thought. How do you say "shoot" in Arabic? He had no idea. Nor did he have any more time to think. The jeep was less than one hundred meters away and closing fast. All he could do now was fire himself and hope the Egyptian soldier would follow his lead.
Holding his pistol with both hands, Dixon stood before the on-rushing jeep, feet spread shoulders' width apart. Fifty meters. Dixon, blinded by the glare of the sun off the jeep's windshield, aimed at where he thought the driver should be, then began to fire. After his second round the Egyptian joined in.
Dixon never did find out who actually killed the driver. The body had both 9mm and 7.62mm bullets in it. What did matter was that the driver, hit several times, cut the wheel and rolled the jeep, killing all on board. Even as the jeep tumbled and rolled, Dixon remembered, he continued to follow it, firing into the wreckage. He fired until he had emptied the magazine of his Beretta. His Egyptian companion also fired until he had expended all thirty rounds in his AK-47. When he had done so, the two of them merely stood there, aiming their empty weapons at the wrecked jeep. Past them rushed security men and other soldiers. It was only after one of the American Secret Service men at the jeep shouted out that all the terrorists were dead that Dixon let the arm holding his pistol fall to his side. Suddenly winded and shaking from the burst of activity and rush of adrenaline, Dixon turned to walk away from the jeep. Instead, he walked right into the lens of a camera.
Their eyes locked together for a moment. Neither Hafez nor Sadiq spoke. What was there to say? Pinned under the overturned jeep, Sadiq stared at his former Brother, now holding a pistol to his head. He had lost. He had lost everything. He closed his eyes as he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. Then he realized that he had not lost all. At least he had his soul. In a few seconds he would be a martyr. All that he had done, he had done in the name of God, the one God, the true God. And now, as always, he was in the hands of his God. With his last breath he called out "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar" — God is great, God is great.
Sadiq never heard the report of Hafez's pistol. Nor did he feel any pain.
Chapter 7
The urge to gain release from tension by action is a precipitating cause of war.
The staff officers that comprised the core of the CENTCOM crisis action team, or CAT, were used to dealing with situations that suddenly cropped up out of nowhere. The assassination attempt on the two presidents was no different. Although they were supported by the most sophisticated intelligence network in the world, the officers' ability to project what would happen in the future was still, at best, guesswork.
Information gathered from many sources is dumped on a handful of people every day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. These people, called analysts, have the task of sorting through the glut of data they are given and putting together an intelligence summary that can be used by those who make the plans and decisions. The problem is that there is a tremendous amount of raw data available. It is impossible for a small group of people, let alone one person, to see and digest all the information available. Therefore, a system of screening and compartmenting this information as it comes in is used. Some of it is never forwarded because it does not fit an established criterion. Some, because it concerns only one military service or is gathered and used by nonuniform intelligence agencies such as the CIA and FBI, is sent to that service for handling. Even after the initial screening and sorting takes place, the analyst must still pick those items that he deems to be important based on the current situation as it exists or as he projects it will be. The final product, a summary at best, is based on many factors: the nature of the situation, the training and experience of the analyst, his personal biases and view of the world, and the information and guidance given to him for sorting through the data.