Opposite the ID was a pass authorizing the bearer to work the security detail for tomorrow’s peace summit. It had been deemed too risky to try to get them from the issuing office, so these had been forged here at the camp. Hassad had friends in the Army who would be at the conference as part of the massive security force, and he’d studied their passes. What he saw before him was a flawless copy.
He handed back the papers, and asked, “What do you expect tomorrow?”
“To be martyred in the name of Islam and Suleiman Al-Jama.”
“Do you believe you are worthy of such an honor?”
The answer was a moment in coming. “It is enough for me that the Imam believes I am worthy.”
“Well said,” Hassad remarked. “You and your compatriots are going to strike a blow against the West that will take them years to recover from, if ever. Imam Al-Jama has decreed they will no longer be allowed to dictate to us how we should live our lives. The corruption they spread with their television and movies, their music, and their democracy, will no longer be allowed. Soon we will see the beginning of the end for them. They will finally understand their way of life is not for us, and that it is Islam that will take over the world. This is the honor of which Al-Jama believes you are worthy.”
“I will not let him down,” the terrorist said, his voice firm, his eyes steady.
“You are dismissed,” Hassad said, and turned back to Abdullah. “Very well done, my old friend.”
“The military training was relatively easy,” the commander said. “Keeping them true to the cause without making them appear like wild-eyed fanatics was the difficult part.”
Both men knew that countless suicide attacks had been thwarted because the perpetrators looked so nervous and out of place that even untrained civilians knew what was about to occur. And the fifty men they were sending to Tripoli today would be surrounded by legitimate security forces on full alert for the very type of attack they were attempting. They had culled through hundreds of recruits from training camps and madrasas all over the Middle East to find the right men.
Hassad glanced at his watch. “In eighteen hours, it will be over. The American Secretary of State will be dead, and the palace hall will be awash in blood. The tide of peace will once again be pushed back, and in its absence we will continue to spread our way of life.”
“As the original Suleiman Al-Jama wrote, ‘When in the struggle to keep our faith from corruption we find our will slacking, our resolve waning, our strength ebbing, we must, at that moment, make the supreme effort, and the supreme sacrifice if necessary, to show our enemies that we will never be defeated.’ ”
“I prefer another line, ‘They who do not submit to Islam are an affront to Allah and worthy only of our bullets.’ ”
“Soon they shall have them.”
“Now, why don’t you introduce me to the American woman. I have a little time before she needs to board the frigate for her date with destiny, but I would like to gaze upon her.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
C ABRILLO’S HOPE FOR A LONG BATH FILLOWING HIS RETURN to the Oregon was not meant to be. He allowed himself a quick shower only after all the prisoners had been made as comfortable as possible in the hold. He had been introduced to Libya’s ex-Foreign Minister by Fodl, who’d been his deputy. As it was nearing noon, Juan had shown him in which direction Mecca lay relative to the ship so they could all pray for the first time since their incarceration.
He was dressing when Max Hanley knocked on his cabin door and entered without waiting. In tow were Eric Stone and Mark Murphy, who still wore his filthy uniform.
On seeing Cabrillo, he said, “Man, that is totally not fair.”
“Privilege of rank,” Juan replied airily, and finished tying a pair of black combat boots. “What do you have for me?”
“They apparently bought the trick with the sinking railcar,” Max said. “They sent out a chopper to investigate about fifteen minutes after you boarded. Mark’s time estimation of it sinking was spot-on. They must have seen it seconds before it went under.”
Eric cut in. “Then I swung the UAV back over the terrorist camp. Because of the altitude I had to maintain so they wouldn’t hear it, the camera’s resolution wasn’t the best, but we have a pretty good idea of what was happening.”
“And?”
“You were right,” Max replied. “The flight of Libyan military choppers landed with no opposition. It looks like there were only a few men aboard any of them.”
“Sounds like transport back out to me,” Juan guessed.
“That’s our read, too,” Eric replied. “They’re going to be moving more men than they can carry in that old Mi-8 you flew on from the crash scene.”
“What’s the capacity of the choppers?”
“Fifty at least.”
“Hell of an assault force.”
Mark said, “The target has to be the peace conference.”
Eric Stone shook his head. “Never happen. The security is impenetrable. There is no way a terrorist is going to get within a mile of a single dignitary.”
“They would if the Libyan government’s in on it,” Max countered.
“That’s the million-dollar question. If Minister Ghami is Suleiman Al-Jama, does Qaddafi know it?”
“How could he not? He appointed him.”
“Okay, say he does, Max. That still doesn’t mean he knows what Al-Jama is planning.”
“What difference does it make?” Hanley asked.
“Maybe none, but it’s something we need to know.”
“And how do we find out?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Mark, is there any chance we can take out those choppers?”
“We’d need to launch another UAV,” Eric said before Mark could answer. “The first drone’s out of fuel, and I had to ditch it. Though not before taking this.”
He handed Juan a grainy still photograph from the drone’s video camera. Details were murky to say the least, but it looked like two armed men escorting a third person toward one of the helicopters.
“Is that Secretary Katamora?”
“Possibly. Factoring the height of a typical Libyan male and comparing the middle figure to them, the height is right, and the build certainly fits. The person’s head is covered so we can’t see hair, which would have been a dead giveaway—hers flows to the middle of her back.”
“Best guess?”
“It’s her, and by the time we turn around she’s going to be long gone.”
Juan frowned. He’d made a conscious decision to save the Libyan prisoners rather than wait out the terrorists. The balance of one life versus one hundred tipped the same way no matter who sat on the scales. But being so close and not getting her irked. “Okay, what about taking out the other choppers?” he said to get the meeting back on course, his eyes lingering on the picture.
“We could laze them from the second UAV so I can guarantee a missile hit, but we have to consider collateral damage if Secretary Katamora’s there.”
“Options?”
“Nail the choppers in flight if they come out over the ocean. But, again, we risk her life if she’s a hostage aboard one of them.”
“They’ll stick to the desert anyway,” Eric said.
Max cleared his throat. “Listen, why not pass on what we know to Overholt and let him tell the other delegates about the possibility of a massive attack?”
“We’ll tell Lang,” Juan replied, “but I don’t want that information disseminated.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Two reasons. One, if they know the attack is coming, they will call off the conference, and the chance to get these people in a room talking peace again is zilch. The conference has to proceed. Second, we have nothing concrete linking Ghami to Al-Jama. This is our one and only chance to expose him and his entire operation.”