Bryce and Gex homed in on their target with the heart-felt belief they would soon rid the world of an evil dictator and free Kuwait. Their agenda was the most noble and foolish of alclass="underline" they fought for honor and the love of their country. In reality, they were merely pawns in the game, putting on a deadly show for the world. Saddam Hussein was not in the fortified bunker buried 30 feet beneath the earth. It mattered little to the leaders who ordered the mission, those who never actually fought the wars, that the underground bunker was filled with women and children. Neither Gex nor Bryce knew what they were really about to do.
When the target came into view both men fired. Colonel Bryce missed but not Commander Gex. Born and raised in Louisiana, Gex was called the Rajun Cajun for his fighting in the air and the defense of his French name Gex. He made a point to let others know his name was pronounced “Jay.” He would even use his fist to better help them understand. He never failed to get his point across. He came from a line of Frenchman who centuries before had been the best swordsmen in Europe. Respect for their ability the French had named a city after then on the border of France and Switzerland. Robert Gex’s great-great grandfather, Jacques Gex, had migrated to America. Fighting was inbred in the Gex’s and Robert was a natural in the air, as good with his aircraft as Jacques had been with a sword. Gex seldom missed his target. The video-monitored rockets ripped through the bunker before they exploded, and the thirty-four women and children hiding inside perished. News media around the world replayed the video on the hour, illustrating the accuracy and power of U.S. armed forces in cold, lethal detail. Soon, Iraqi camera crews responded with their own video showing the devastation from a different perspective. The bodies of dead women and children strewn about the area startled and appalled people around the world. In response, President Bush and his crew quickly explained that the incident was the fault of Saddam Hussein, who had used the women and children as pawns in a war he started. Clearly, this hideous mistake was not the fault of the benevolent Americans, but instead the responsibility of the tyrant and dictator Hussein. Over the next few weeks televisions on all continents replayed the murder. The world called it a tragedy. The American military swayed between first calling it justified and then an accident of war that could have been prevented had Saddam Hussein not invaded Kuwait. The incident was declared an item of national security so the names of the pilots were never revealed. The F-15 attack mission was soon forgotten as most of the world went on to focus on other matters.
For the families of the thirty-four women and children murdered in the bunker, their world ended that day.
However, it was the survivors of one family who would forever change history, helping to bring the mightiest country in the world to its knees.
Chapter 1
DESERT SECRETS
The full moon rose majestically over the dark shimmering Mediterranean Sea, while waves pounded against the desert sands surrounding the dead city. More than twenty-three years had passed since the Desert Storm operation of 1991. Two more wars had completed the devastation. Previously a beacon to tourists from around the world, the burned and bombed buildings stood like skeletons: a grim reminder of an elegant past. The once proud Lebanese city was a testimony to the destructive might of the United States of America. The destruction had come about to make the world safe from aggression and to protect the Jewish country of Israel, bordering to the south. A New World Order had been created to protect freedom and humanity — and to prevent wars. Still, men killed each other for God and country. The Muslims had succumbed, but had not forgotten and now their rapid rise to power terrified the world. While the United States became divided the Muslim world had united and ironically received their financial support from the President of America.
Beneath the Moon’s glow a silver, ghostly whirlwind twirled about the cool, dark, desert floor, filling with thousands of timeless moonstruck grains of sand that frolicked freely through the changing spiral. Slowly it crept across the desert, toward the empty decaying resort. Moon shadows guarded the dead city. Desert winds howled their delight.
This night the desert rats were not the only ones stirring. The decaying structures of once beautiful architectural masterpieces were now a gathering place for Iraqi and Lebanese terrorists carrying out missions of retaliation, death, and torture. Inside the shell of a past ornate and exquisitely decorated hotel where people had once gathered to celebrate and dance, a lone lantern sent shadows dancing against the scarred stone walls and dusty, rock-strewn floor. Three men came to do their truculent work, while their captive waited for a death that would be long in coming.
In a far corner of the room, a lantern rested on an old, broken table. A rusted and bent metal barrel served as a leg for the warped and peeling desk. The prisoner was tied firmly to a worn out feeble chair. Two of the men held their intended victim’s arms firmly against the tabletop, while the third watched.
The third man seemed out of place, like a person wearing formal attire to a mud-wrestling match. Impeccably dressed in a pilot’s uniform, not a button was out of position. Even in the dust of the old building, his black boots retained their shine. Clean shaven, with a square jaw and a straight nose set in light skin, and with hair perfectly groomed, few would have guessed him to be Syrian. Except for the cruel eyes, he might have gone unnoticed in America. His heavy cologne presented a stark match to the pungent odor of his two companions. Carefully, he laid a small, dark green, metallic box on the table. Next to this, he placed a long slender knife, razor sharp on both sides.
The captured man’s right eye was swollen shut with dirt caked in the wound above. Blood oozed from his nose, running down his chin and dripping to the cut stone floor. The impact of each droplet raised a tiny cloud of dust. An open cut above his left eye flowed crimson, making him turn his head sideways, move his cheek, and squeeze his good eye shut to clear his vision. Occasionally, he spit red from his injured mouth. He wore the uniform of an Israeli fighter pilot. The blood-soaked, matted blond hair, straight nose, and one visible blue eye were not that unusual for an Israeli, but he was not. The American pilot, dressed in an Israeli uniform, watched while showing no emotion.
The Syrian leader spoke. “I am Rasht Sharafan. They call me Cobra. You have heard of me, yes?”
“No,” lied the prisoner. He had heard of Cobra, Syria’s best pilot, who received his nickname from his exploits with and against the agile F-14 Tomcat. In combat, the F-14 was always his first choice. It was rumored that just for the opportunity to shoot down American pilots. He had flown for Iraq in the War of 2003. When not flying he would commit terrorist acts, exploiting the enemy through torture and terror. Cobra approached these abuses with the same vigor and excitement as a normal person anticipated sex.
“You any relation to Mickey Mouse? No, that must be your operations here. You must be Goofy,” said the American fighter pilot. He paused to spit blood on the floor. Yes, he had heard of Cobra. Even during the second Desert Storm, or Operation Iraqi Freedom as it was called in 2003, his wing command specifically sought out the terrorist.