Nothing was impossible with Allah's will, peace be with him.
CHAPTER THREE
There was no mistaking the look in the eyes of President John Carmichael. His concern went beyond words. When he got the call at 2:40 in the morning that the JBAB had come under attack by a highly sophisticated military force, and that hardware valued at more than one hundred million dollars was missing, he reacted with a wide spectrum of emotions ranging from disbelief to unbridled anger. He called his team together for an early-hour session inside his office. At the moment he was surrounded by his secretary of state, Jenifer Rimaldi, his chief presidential advisor, Simon Davis, and Attorney General Steven Cayne. Vice President Madison was on his way in from his residence at the Naval Observatory.
When President Carmichael spoke he did so in a clipped manner. “Can anyone here tell me how in the hell someone can waltz right into a major military facility and walk away with more than one hundred million dollars worth of top-of-the-line hardware?”
Secretary of State Rimaldi responded by opening a manila envelope and producing several 8x10 glossies, which she placed before the president. They were photos of the insurgent movement inside the JBAB, starting with the main gate guardhouse.
The president sorted through them with careful study. “What am I looking at here?”
“These photos, Mr. President, are stills taken from the security video feed. What you’re looking at are the faces of the command team. The recognition programs have pointed out enough facial landmarks to identify at least two of these people,” she told him. Her manner remained stiff and edgy, which was consistent with her usual demeanor.
“The first image — the one at the main guardhouse — is that of Naji Mihran.”
The president looked up. “Arab?”
She gave a shrug. “Yes and no."
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mr. Mihran is of Arab heritage, although American-born with strong fundamentalist beliefs. But he was also a member of our military, serving as an Army Ranger prior to his going AWOL sixteen months ago.”
He held up the photo. “Are you telling me that he’s one of ours?”
“Was, Mr. President. Was.”
“So now we’re unwittingly training terrorists within our own military system, is that it?”
Carmichael's Chief Advisor spoke up for the first time since the meeting began. “As you know, Mr. President, our armed forces currently employ somewhere between fifteen to twenty thousand self-reported Muslims. We have long speculated that al-Qaeda and other groups may have patiently infiltrated the various military branches in order to fight the enemy from within. If that's true in this case, then unfortunately this action may be the tip of the spear for what’s to come.”
The president shot his Advisor a withering stare. “Am I to understand that this is some kind of internal military insurrection?”
“Right now, Mr. President, we’re simply saying that these men have been trained by our own military, which gives them some level of sophistication.”
“But it appears that Mihran is a secondary player in this.” Rimaldi crossed one leg over the other, subtly showing off her fine contours. “He was left to secure the front gate while the man in the subsequent photo—” The president lay down the black-and-white of Naji Mihran and focused on the lean and angular face of a man presumably in charge “—seems to be the one captaining his team from start to finish.”
“He’s the one we have to worry about,” said the attorney general. Steven Cayne was a diminutive man, small and slender at the shoulders, someone with a Napoleon complex who exhibited the weight of his authority as if it was Thor’s hammer. To cross him invited a scorn so relentless that it would break a man down to his husk, his opponent eventually waving the white flag of defeat while Cayne puffed his chest in glorious victory. Even Carmichael knew his limits against his attorney general, as small as he was. To love him as a god, however, garnered his loyalty.
The president stared at the photo. “Who is this?”
Cayne's voice dripped with disdain. “His name is Aasif Shazad."
Rimaldi nodded, running with the ball. “Sixteen years of impeccable service, highly decorated and respected soldier, until he disappeared just over two years ago from the JBAB.”
“He was stationed there?”
“He was. So when he did this thing he knew exactly what to expect. He led his team directly to Hanger 17 and commandeered the drones. He knew what he wanted, where they were— knew the layout of the facility and the locations of the responding teams. He secured the front gates with Naji Mihran and his unit, breached the hanger, and sent forward a truck with an undetermined amount of explosives — probably plastic explosives— to neutralize the threat of the first response team located at the barracks.”
“Casualties?”
“Twenty-two dead from the barracks.”
The president shook his head in abject disgust.
“The explosion at the barracks, Mr. President,” stated Cayne, “created a diversion for all responding units to gravitate to that particular point. A second unit of eight soldiers from the Motor Pool responded, but they were intercepted by a second attack truck that killed everyone involved.” There was a pause as the attorney general allowed this to sink in. Then: “By the time additional support arrived, Mr. President, Shazad and his team were gone. They knew precisely what targets to hit in order to achieve the means. They were well coordinated and highly sophisticated in their approach and execution.”
The president closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, causing the muscles in the back to work. "How many of these attackers were killed?"
"Two that we know of — the suicide drivers of the truck bombs; if more were killed, their bodies were taken with the combatants when they left with the drones."
“How many casualties on our side?”
“Thirty-six,” answered Rimaldi. “In addition to the barracks and the truck — two more at the main gate and four at the hanger."
“This is a goddamn fiasco, isn't it?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "What about the rest of Shazad’s team? Who are they?"
“They appear to be of Middle-Eastern descent. But that description is a hazard guess based on superficial appearances from the security footage rather than actual evidence.”
“So we have a terrorist cell on our hands,” Carmichael added softly. “One that we helped create with our own military training.” President Carmichael stated this rhetorically, but Rimaldi answered him as if it wasn’t.
“Mr. President, we know that Shazad is highly trained as a military specialist, one who achieved the rank of lieutenant commander as a Navy SEAL before he disappeared. He commanded SEAL teams into numerous delicate missions and saw them through. He's intimately familiar with the style and tactics of our most elite unit.”
“And Naji Mihran is no slouch, either,” added Cayne. “He was an Army Ranger. God knows who the others in the team are or the skill sets they possess.”
“Do we have a body count for these…enemy combatants, let's call them for now…as to how many were involved in the breach?”
“Fourteen altogether,” Rimaldi intoned. “Including the two of those who dispatched themselves in the truck bombs, leaving a working faction of twelve.”
President Carmichael sighed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The assailants were American born — at least the two they knew something about — growing up under American values but greatly influenced by the fundamentalist philosophies of their religion. He mentally kicked himself. He should have known it would come to this. Now he would be lambasted in the media for failing to pay attention.