“I agree,” said the President. “The war on terrorism may have just escalated a few notches, people. Both here and abroad." He turned to his advisor and continued. “Once the media gets hold of the fact that al-Zawahiri is to be extradited to the U.S., how do you rate the likelihood of a heightened threat on American soil?”
His response was immediate. “Extremely high. That’s why we need to get him to Gitmo so that we can mine him for information in a secure environment and develop a course of defense.”
“Agreed. But that won’t make us safe — not completely. Al-Qaeda will still hold us responsible.”
A hush fell over the room as the President got to his feet and stood before the center window of the three behind his desk. He looked out over the nighttime D.C. skyline as he spoke.
“Cells are here in the homeland. There’s a reason why we need to keep our enemies close. Watch all Internet sites, all telecom lines. Get all agencies involved to monitor insurrectionist thinking and attitudes. Identify those willing to use this event as an excuse to take up the march in the name of Allah. We're always funding those research grants to develop software to identify these people before they strike. Now's the time to put those apps into practice. Is all that clear?”
There was a chorus of agreements, mumblings really.
The president went on. “We have al-Zawahiri, and because we do we need to be at the top of our game. He may be the key to bringing down al-Qaeda for years to come.”
He turned away from the window to face his audience of friends, people whom he had come to trust with his ideas and agendas over the term of his presidency. “There will be retaliation,” he stated evenly. “So let’s not forget who we are and what we’re capable of.”
VP Madison nodded smartly. “Understood, Mr. President.”
“Keep me posted.”
The Secretary of State spoke before everyone moved to leave.. “This is a great victory for us, yes?”
Carmichael nodded. But deep in the back of his mind he knew that victories could be short-lived. It was the war that they needed to win, not a single skirmish. And the capture of Zawahiri certainly had the potential to be earmarked as the start of a violent chess match.
The next move was al-Qaeda’s.
CHAPTER TWO
Aasif Shazad had served the U.S. military for sixteen years, earning the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the Navy, serving as an executive officer for SEAL teams before he disappeared amidst his own rising fundamentalist beliefs. Born in Dearborn, Michigan and raised in Detroit, he found religion to be more of a crutch in his youth than a mainstay of beliefs, attributing his wayward attitude to the influence of American culture at the time.
Then the world changed as did his cultural landscape when the twin towers fell on nine-eleven. It was also the day that his sense of neutrality began to gravitate towards his Muslim roots, finding religion the salve of healing for the sudden and painful vilification he had suddenly come under, despite his loyalties to the American banner.
In time he had grown inwardly hostile and angry as his repugnance matured into intolerance, his intolerance then evolving to fundamentalism, and finally his fundamentalism becoming the burning hatred of all things not Muslim.
Two years ago, while stationed at the JBAB, the Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, a military installation located in Southeast Washington, D.C., he absconded from service with vengeance in his heart.
He had become nameless and faceless inside American borders, working simple jobs to stay under the radar when he was, in fact, developing a cell made up of the most seasoned warriors who abided by the same intolerances toward the ‘infidels’ as did he. When the U.S. military employed around 20,000 Muslims as part of their fighting force, recruits were easy to come by. So in the two years that he’d gone missing, Aasif Shazad had become a conduit working through a network of mosques on U.S. soil, eventually becoming the eyes, ears and mind of al-Qaeda on the D.C. front. With ties to two cultures and the vision to see as his enemy does, and with tactical training by way of the U.S. military, Aasif Shazad would become much more than just an enemy of the state.
He would become the scourge to a superpower in the name of Allah.
When he was contacted twenty-four hours ago regarding the extraction of al-Zawahiri from Islamabad — presumably with the influence of the American government — his patiently developed cell had been activated. Plans went into motion.
As an officer he had driven the route to the JBAB many times before, where the Naval Support Facility Anacostia and Bolling Air Force Base were joined together as a single base.
He knew the facility well, knew the enemy even better, as he drove the first of seven military cargo trucks to the front gate. Sitting beside him was former Army Ranger Naji Mihran, his second lieutenant.
A sentry posted at the guardhouse with an MP5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder held his hand up. A second sentry remained inside, pecking at the keyboard of a computer.
“Papers, please.”
Shazad smiled. “Certainly.”
As he reached into his shirt pocket, Naji Mihran leaned across the truck’s cab with a suppressed firearm and did a double tap, the two bullets finding the sentry’s head, killing him instantly.
When the sentry inside the guardhouse saw his comrade fall through his peripheral vision, he sprung to his feet, reaching for his holstered Glock pistol. Before his hand could reach his weapon, three quiet shots from a suppressed weapon impacted his chest and drove him to the wall. As the soldier slid to the floor with a surprised look regarding his own mortality, a trail of blood marred the wall behind him.
Good shooting, thought Shazad. But then again, he expected nothing less from his team, especially from Naji. “Maintain the guardhouse,” he told him. “You’re the first line of defense. Make sure that no one enters or leaves. Should there be problems…” He lowered the curved arm of his lip mike. “Then advise. Is that clear?”
Naji nodded. Quite clear.
Shazad held up his wrist to show his lieutenant the face of his watch. Eighteen minutes left to complete the mission.
Naji understood as he jumped down from the truck along with two others. They exited from the rear, all dressed in the same uniform as that of the downed guards. While the others dragged the bodies out of sight, Naji lifted the arm gate to allow passage.
They had seventeen minutes left.
In a housed facility approximately six hundred yards from the main gate stood a hanger with the number ‘17’ stenciled on the doors. It was massive, with enough interior space to contain several Boeing jets. But this particular hanger contained items of far more value.
When Shazad pulled up to the doors, four heavily armed guards stood their posts, one of them holding up a hand and patting the air for him to stop.
Shazad whispered into his lip mike. “Four tangos, all armed. One approaching the vehicle. The others are manning their posts by the doors. On five.”
“On five. We copy.”
Shazad glanced at his watch, which was synchronized to the second with those of his team.
Four seconds.
The guard approached the vehicle with a questioning look on his face, then settled about ten feet from the vehicle, advancing no further.
“Sir, state your purpose.”
Shazad noticed that the sentry was holding the mouth of his weapon toward the truck.