“This is very good, Colonel,” the elderly Libyan statesman said. “But we question the use of the word ‘toothless.” The American Tomahawk attack has killed many senior military officers in Tripoli and Benghazi. We are concerned that this attack was only a prelude to further action. Qaddafi learned his lesson in ‘86 when a bomb from an American aircraft nearly killed him. Also, we have already had the Italians and Greeks attack and kill some of our warriors.”
Several members of the junta nodded in agreement.
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Whatever happens, Colonel, you have done well.” He nodded to the other junta members. “We must discuss how we defuse the situation without further losses.” He grinned at Alqahiray. “Now, tell me, why is the photographer here?”
“For you, gentlemen. Our people and the Arab world must know how Libya has avenged itself. If you will do me the honor of assembling in front of the cameras, we will take photographs for the newspapers. Let the world know who controls Libya at this momentous time in our history. Let the world know that we have passed the legendary era of Colonel Qaddafi and are ushering in a new, vibrant era of Libyan pride.” He shook his clenched fist.
The men rose, smiling and shaking each other’s hands as they moved gradually to the area where the photographer stood welcoming them. The colonel nodded at the soldier photographer, who guided the men forward and aligned them side by side. The leader of the junta stood in the center, with the next two most powerful men on each side of him. These three wore traditional Arab dress, while the other four were attired in Western business suits.
The leader waved. “Colonel, you come stand with us.”
“Thank you for the honor, sir, but this moment is for the leaders of Libya. We in the military are here to serve. With your permission, I will stand with you for the next photograph — the one for the Western press.”
They nodded among themselves, aware of the colonel’s hatred for the West as well as the reason for it. The colonel had never forgiven America and its allies for that night in 1986 when, as a small boy, bombs rained down upon Tripoli and killed his mother and father. A hatred burned within him that they could only imagine.
The colonel walked down the line, handing each man a single large photograph from the table.
“Please, hold the photographs at chest level,” the photographer directed. “Smile, now.”
“Yes, smile, please,” echoed the colonel. “Show the Arab world what you have done. Let them share in the glory of your power.” He nodded eagerly. This was easier than expected.
They smiled more in reaction to the colonel’s theatrics than the request. Lights flashed as the photographer began. Ten minutes and numerous photographs later, the soldier-photographer signaled that he was done.
The junta leader appeared tired. “Colonel, don’t you think these will be sufficient?”
“Sir, if you will allow me. We need photographs of everyone in proper Bedouin clothes. My apologies, sirs. I know this is tiring business, but once done, we can use these photographs for weeks without worrying you again.” The leader sighed audibly. “Once again, you are right, Colonel.” He motioned the four in business clothes to the nearby closet, where they pulled white abas over their suits and put on the red squared headdress preferred by men of statute and power. When finished, they looked more like the Saudi royal family than junta leaders of a new Mediterranean power.
“Tell me, Colonel,” the leader asked. “How do we deflect further retaliation against our government? We know the Americans will return, and when they do, they will return in sufficient force that we will be unable to oppose them. As much as I appreciate your loyalty and the dedication of our military forces, we are quite unable to meet Americans on equal terms. This gives us cause for concern.”
He wanted to strike the man. Cowards. That was what had brought Libya to where it was today. Cowards! And Qaddafi had been the biggest one of them. Scared to stand up to the Americans. Relying on terrorism and sly methods to deflect any trace back to the country responsible.
It goaded him that the junta leader was right! True heroes met the enemy head on. When he wielded sufficient power to oppose the great Satan, that was how he would respond — head-on. But now was the time for guile and stealth. Time to build toward that moment when the truth could be told.
The photographer moved behind the men and began removing the patriotic portraits that decorated the white wall.
“Sir,” the colonel replied after a few seconds. “We are going to mount a massive press campaign, telling everyone what we did. We are going to convince the world that the Libyan people were not responsible for the military attacks against the Americans, the Italians, or the Greeks. We will announce that a rogue element within our government planned and executed the attacks. That we captured them, tried them, and executed them. We will broadcast photographs of the execution to the world. There will be no reason for them to disbelieve us.”
Colonel Alqahiray continued. “The West grasps for anything believable to avoid conflict. Look at Kosovo in 1998. By the time they decided that the Yugoslavian government was lying to them, a half-million ethnic Albanians were homeless and many were dead. So, what we do is to give them something to believe. Something that makes sense of what to them appears to be an act of lunacy on the part of Libya.”
The leader nodded as the other members of the junta returned to the photography area in their new outfits. “That sounds very ingenious, Colonel. I am presuming that you already have the details of such a ruse figured out?”
“That is correct, sir,” the colonel replied. He walked to the door and opened it. “We need a set of photographs showing the rogue elements dead. And the rogue elements have to be people high enough in our government for the West to truly believe the story.”
The cousin-captain and the other nine soldiers rushed in with their AK-47s trained on the men who were lined up along the wall.
“What is the meaning of this, Colonel?” said the outraged leader, stepping forward.
The clicks of the AK-47s caused him to step back.
“Who are these men? What is going on? Speak up, Colonel!” he demanded angrily.
“As you said, sir, placing the blame on a group of Libyans who acted without the blessings of the Libyan people would be an acceptable ruse.
For that ruse to work, we have to ensure that those executed are of sufficient stature that the world will little doubt our story.” “Not me!” one of the men shouted, and ran toward the door. “I wasn’t in favor of attacking the Americans!”
The cousin-captain pumped two bullets from the pistol in his hand into the junta member’s back. The sounds of the gunfire echoed, and the smell of burnt gunpowder quickly filled the small conference room.
“I hate cowards,” said the colonel, spitting at the body. “Now stand tall, please. Think of yourselves as patriots dying for your country.”
Frightened, two more tried to run for safety. Two soldiers opened fire before the elderly men managed more than a few steps, causing their comrades to open fire at the others too frightened to move.
Bullets peppered the wall. Pieces of plaster mixed with blood and flesh. Blood splattered on the white wall and the marble tiles. The impact of the bullets, fired from less than ten feet away, sent two of the junta slamming against the wall, where they slid to a sitting position, leaving a bloody trail down the wall.
“Not the faces!” shouted the colonel. The shooting stopped. “Not the faces.”
The cousin-captain moved among the dead, kicking each one, his pistol at his side. One moaned when the steel-toed boot broke his rib. The captain stopped, put the pistol directly over the heart, and fired. The body jerked as the bullet went through the body and ricocheted off the floor back into the chest. Satisfied, the captain turned to the colonel and announced, “All dead.”