Its less than posh interior was simply rudimentary with padded benches lining the interior walls and a small communications center with fax and phone. The ceiling was low, the rotary system above them a semblance of moving parts that aided in the muting of the continuous wop-wop-wop of the helicopter’s blades. Nevertheless, and with much of the noise canceled out, President Burroughs always had to speak louder than the norm, as did the members of his team.
Inside, the bay that was cordoned off from the cockpit by a wall of diamond-studded steel as President Burroughs, Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, Attorney General Dean Hamilton and Chief CIA Analyst Doug Craner gleaned through documents of newly gathered information from international sources, as they waited for the rotors to pick up the maximum speed for liftoff.
Once Marine One airlifted and began its western trajectory to Raven Rock, President Burroughs continued to read over the newly acquired facts until he was well studied with the new findings. Through the porthole window over his left shoulder Washington faded in the distance, the needle of the Washington Monument contracting to the size of a pin before disappearing all together.
Since the inception of the incident along the Arizona-Mexico border, information had come in at a breakneck pace, especially from Homeland Security who proffered dossiers on the cell group, and its extended members attained from the FBI Watch List and their own significant data base. The Arizona group was simply a small attachment of a much larger brigade.
CIA Analyst Doug Craner lifted the flap of a manila folder and rummaged through it, looking for the glossy photos of those killed at the site. “As you already know, Mr. President, al-Khalid Hassan was a leading member of that Arizona group before being killed by the Border Patrol. The other two, however,” Craner forwarded two black-and-white photos of the terrorists killed at the site to the president, “possess very little background. All we know about them at this time is that they were recently trained in al-Qaeda camps along the Afghan-Pakistani border. As far as we know, this was their first jihad mission.”
“They look like kids,” he commented.
“They pretty much are.” Craner opened the folder again and grabbed another photo of a young man whose face was grizzled with the minute curls of a beard and eyes that were dark and cold, which offset the gentle and angelic repose of his face, hinting that there was a subterfuge of something very dangerous hidden underneath.
“This is al-Khatib Hakam,” he added, “twenty-eight years of age, extremely learned and intelligent with an IQ touching the stratosphere.”
“Am I to assume he’s the team lead?”
“Yes, sir. And get a load of this. He was born in Dearborn, Michigan; an American who found his god while attending Columbia University in New York, at the age of seventeen.”
The president examined the photo and simply thought, An American?
“The man is a prodigy who graduated with Honors at nineteen, and then disappeared, only to show up on the FBI’s Watch List because of his known ties with insurgent groups and organizations.”
“Do we know where he is now?”
“No, sir. It’s said that Hakam reveals himself only if it serves a purpose. But we have received unconfirmed reports that Hakam was in Russia not too long ago. Six months ago, to be exact.”
“To purchase the bombs,” he whispered.
Craner did not comment.
Hakam obviously had the world in one hand and a Columbia scroll of graduation in the other, but decided to give it away for twisted idealism. It was truly sad for the president to see someone so naturally gifted to simply throw it all away. “So, what you’re telling me is that Al-Khatib Hakam is spearheading this crusade?”
“Al-Khatib Hakam is the alleged leader of the Muslim Revolutionary Front, which is not only a group of terrorists, but also a ring of highly trained assassins which is a cut above the normal radical who does not obligate themselves to surrender their life by committing suicide in the name of Allah. This group actually engages in combat techniques akin to our own Special Forces units, and lives on to battle another day if they survive the initial skirmish.”
Craner proffered several more photos of the known members of the Muslim Revolutionary Front. At first glance the president considered them hardened men who carried the same stoic toughness as the men from American Special Forces. But there was something different, something missing. Or perhaps they possessed too much, he considered. Perhaps their faith had corrupted them with such zealous grandeur that they held nothing more than thoughtless determination.
As Burroughs picked up the last photo Marine One dipped a little in open space, the helicopter soon recapturing its even course as the president took careful study of Hakam. “How many men are left in this cell?” he asked.
“We believe six, including him. There’s no information or record of anybody else other than the six photos and dossiers we have.”
“The guy doesn’t look like much of a soldier.”
“I’m sure the guy couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. But true power doesn’t come by killing. It comes by getting others to do it for you. And that’s what Hakam is, the driving force that gets others to do whatever he wants, which makes him a very dangerous man.”
The president fanned the photos across his fingers as if holding a poker hand. “Tell me more about his team.”
“Five men who were elite commandos serving under the Republican Guard and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard as the best of the best,” he stated. “And I do mean the best of the best. When things didn’t go right on the war front, they would send these guys in to clean up the mess.”
The president nodded, and then closed his eyes. “So, we have five elite soldiers and a mental giant. I guess if you cut off the head of the serpent, then the body would wither and die.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
“And Hakam was last known to be in Russia how long ago?”
“Six months ago.”
“And nobody’s seen or heard from him since?”
“No, sir.”
President Burroughs pressed his lips into a tight grimace. “Alan, what’s your take on all this?”
Thornton, elfish and diminutive in his own right, leaned forward to gather those in close conference without having to yell above the beat of the blades. “Well, Mr. President, barring the inexperience of the members shot and killed at the site with the exception of al-Khalid Hassan, we have to assume the more experienced of the team got through. And taking into consideration that it takes a custodial team of at least two people to get a single unit across the border, simply translates that two, or maybe even three units have made their way onto American territory. And this is based upon the information that six members of the team remain, which, of course, is purely speculation at this point. There could be more, there could be less.”
“And what about Perchenko? Any feedback from intercepted lines?”
“Plenty,” said Craner. “We confirmed Perchenko to be in Minsk, as we speak. And it appears the Russians have mobilized their sources to find him before we do. So we have our teams scouring Perchenko’s frequent haunts hoping to grab him as soon as possible.”
“Whatever it takes, Doug, find him. I need to know how many units are out there. Because if these devices go off, then this country will lose everything — it’ll lose its will, its courage, and its ability to sustain a national confidence in its government to protect.”
“I agree, sir.”
“In the meantime, we need to come up with solutions. And we need to come up with probable target sites despite the obvious, and cover those areas with as many bodies as we can provide. Use whatever is necessary to accomplish the means. I want you to look inside every mosque, temple, or Muslim holy site known for radical behavior. Those packages could be anywhere. And Dean?”