Insurgent forces on the lower floor took up positions of engagement, but the members of the PEP were too fast, too efficient, their weapons going off with precision shots that killed the insurgents before their bodies hit the ground. Other guerilla forces were dropped immediately as bullets stitched across their chests and abdomens, ejecting gouts of blood in bold arcs and splashes that decorated the walls with gaudy Pollock designs.
When the first level was clear, Team Leader took inventory of his units as they reassembled. Nobody from the PEP had been downed.
He then pointed to the base of each stairwell — there were three altogether — with his fore and middle fingers, directing his team to break up into three separate units and wait for his command.
Once positioned, Alpha Leader spoke through his lip mike. “Flash bangs on five.”
“Flash bangs on five. All units copy.”
“On four… On three… On two… Engage!”
A series of non-lethal explosions detonated in quick succession as blinding light lit up the entire second level, turning night into day as concussion waves crippled all sense of cognition in those standing at the top. With time-of-opportunity limited to split seconds, the teams rushed up the stairwells with the points of their weapons raised.
Al-Zawahiri saw the flash of blinding light filter in from around the seams and cracks of his bedroom door. He held his weapon tight, the mouth of the barrel directed to the door, and waited.
He had heard the volley of gunfire below, the commotion muted behind the closed door. But he knew that the enemy had pushed through his forces and were making their way towards their prized asset.
As everything moved with the slowness of a bad dream, he remembered the moments when he issued a call for suicide bombers, those who were willing to martyr themselves and become legacies. But he did not share that inclination — he did not feel like sacrificing his life for his own cause. So unlike those he called upon to pay the price of admission to Paradise by wearing bomb-laden vests, in the end he wanted to live.
Closing his eyes and praying to Allah for forgiveness with respect to his own cowardice, he listened to the PEP edge closer.
The light was blinding. The concussive waves were a powerful blow to the senses of the al-Qaeda forces who lost all capability to coordinate their thoughts. They moved blindly about with their minds and judgment too fractured to make any sense of what was happening.
When the members of the PEP topped the stairs, targets were immediately acquired and brought down, the threat of imminent danger quickly erased. Bullets continued to find their marks, all kill shots, either to the head, heart, or to the center of body mass.
In less than twenty seconds, nearly every room had been cleared. Bodies of al-Qaeda lay everywhere.
The high-valued asset, however, was not among them.
At the end of the hallway stood a single door.
The PEP moved forward with the points of their weapons raised and centered.
Silence, and specifically the element of mystery that came with it, was just as disturbing as the sound of battle. No sound issued from beyond the door. The team leader stood his ground. He set his weapon to grenade mode, aimed, and set off a mortar round. The shell exited the barrel and corkscrewed through the air until it impacted with the door, the resulting explosion decimating it into innumerable shards and splintered pieces.
As a wall of smoke moved about in lazy swirls and eddies, another flash bang was tossed into the room. In the explosion's aftermath, the PEP forces found al-Zawahiri huddled against the corner with his mind in disarray from the grenade, his AK-47 abandoned and lying on the floor in front of him.
This man, once a kingpin of terrorism who sat upon one of the most fearsome thrones in the Middle East, was now in the custody of the Punjab Elite Police Force.
The high-value asset had been attained.
CHAPTER ONE
The Oval Office, located in the West Wing of the White House, is the official office of the President of the United States and serves as the nerve center of discussions that do not require input from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Two hours after the extraction of al-Zawahiri, President John Carmichael, Vice President Connor Madison, Secretary of State Jenifer Rimaldi, Chief Presidential Advisor Simon Davis and Attorney General Steven Cayne, were gathered for a closed-door session to discuss matters regarding Ayman al-Zawahiri in depth.
Secretary of State Rimaldi was an attractive middle-aged woman with raven hair and striking blue eyes that sparkled like precious gems. On her lap sat an accordion binder containing numerous photos, paperwork and dossiers.
“Approximately two hours ago, Mr. President,” she began as she rifled through the folder, “the Punjab Elite Police Force successfully procured the high-value asset of Ayman al-Zawahiri in Pakistan.” She handed the president a series of photos. “Right now he’s in an undisclosed location about fifty miles outside of Islamabad.”
President Carmichael examined the 8x10 black-and-whites. They were pictures of al-Zawahiri in captivity, times/date stamps at the bottom of each photo. He looked worn and weary — certainly not like the man that martyrs bowed before.
“Very good,” Carmichael said. He laid the photos down. “It’s about time that Pakistan made the decision to stop playing both sides of the fence. Either they stand in league with the worldwide community, or they can become a pariah of it.”
“I don’t think they had a choice,” said Vice President Madison. He was referring to the political arm-bending of Pakistani officials who knew that al-Zawahiri was hiding directly under their roof. Surveillance photos from the CIA taken over the past six months showed political principals and captains of industry entering and leaving the estate. One photo in particular was enough to clearly identify Zawahiri through facial recognition software. It depicted him speaking with Ali Nawaz, a high-ranking official within the Pakistan Muslim League (PML), which was ironic since the PML supported a strong and friendly relationship with the U.S.
When the photos were proffered to PML dignitaries, their political arm had been twisted nearly to the breaking point by U.S. Intelligence. Either Pakistan complied with bringing al-Zawahiri in, or the United States would provide evidence to the international courts and plead their case to recognize Pakistan as a country harboring terrorist factions, in turn setting forth crippling sanctions. As an addendum, the United States would send aid to India to shore up and defend the borders along Kashmir as a show of support.
“Didn’t you think that offering to send aid to the Kashmir border was too strong of a commitment?” Carmichael asked Rimaldi.
She nodded. “It was a gamble, Mr. President. But with all due respect, we do have al-Zawahiri in custody.”
“That we do,” said President Carmichael as he fell back into his seat. “What are the plans for extradition?”
“Right now, Pakistani officials are being very careful in regards to possible retaliation by al-Qaeda insurgents. So they’re proceeding with extreme caution in the matter. In the meantime, we’re sending delegates to question al-Zawahiri as we speak.”
“You mean Company men.”
She nodded. Then: “We’re looking at possibly five, maybe six days until Zawahiri is in the States.”
“Do we anticipate incursions within Pakistan?” asked Vice President Madison.
“There’ll be some backlash,” she answered.
“If that’s the case,” said the Chief Advisor, “then we do the right thing and support Pakistan with military support, if need be.”