Infidels (5 page)

“Yet it
is not too late. For today I will save us all, save Islam from itself, return us
all
to the right path, and once we stop praying to this false idol, and
pray instead to Allah and his prophets, peace and blessings be upon them, we
will rise up and shake off the yoke of our oppressors and bring about the
Global Caliphate once and for all!”

Gunfire
erupted from outside the tent, the Prince spinning toward the sound, the men
behind the camera hesitating for a moment before rushing out to see what was
happening. Two men entered, grabbing the Prince, ushering him away as the
cameraman joined them, Josh suddenly finding himself alone as the automatic
weapons fire intensified, shouts and screams drifting through the thin cloth
walls of the tent.

He
looked at the camera, wondering if he was still on the air, and decided to take
the chance.

“If
anyone is seeing this, tell my mom and dad that I love them, and my little
sister too. And Connie, I’m really sorry about Bill. He was a good friend and
he loved you very much. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.” He sucked in a deep
breath. “This is probably my final broadcast. I hope somebody somewhere watched
it. This is Josh Pullman, signing off.”

He
tossed the microphone to the ground and rushed to the back of the tent, pulling
aside the rugs and prying up the side, the harsh daylight pouring in. Poking
his head out, he saw no one. He pushed his head through, then his shoulders,
and as he wiggled his way through the opening he began to think he might just
make it out of this alive.

When
suddenly somebody grabbed his foot, yanking him back inside.

And as
his fingers dragged through the sand, he suddenly realized what the silver frame
reminded him of.

And
laughed.

Saudi Arabia, near Yemini border

Abu Tahir al-Qarmati slammed his fist into the passenger seat in
front of him, startling his driver for a moment. He needed an outlet for his
rage, the sight outside the window unbelievable. Bodies were strewn about,
blood staining the desert sands, the winds already beginning to erase the
memory of what happened only hours before.

Betrayal.

That was
the only explanation. No one had known the Prince was here with the Black
Stone. Only those among the New Qarmatian Order, an organization he himself had
founded ten years before, knew of their plans, and even within the Order there
were few.

Secrecy
had been paramount if they were to succeed like the original Qarmatians had. In
930 AD the great Abu-Tahir Al-Jannabi, the man who he had taken the name of
when he began down his path to enlightenment, had led a revolt against the
ruling Abbasid Caliphate, sacking Mecca, desecrating the Zamzam Well and in the
ultimate statement, stealing the blasphemous Black Stone itself.

An act
he had orchestrated a repeat of yesterday.

But now
his plan had been thwarted.

He had
grabbed a transport as soon as he had heard the gunfire, he, like much of the
world, watching the broadcast live. He had never felt prouder as their message
was revealed to the faithful and infidel alike, but had been crushed, then
furious, when the broadcast was interrupted, their final purpose halted.

And to
add insult to injury, the Saudi government had immediately claimed the
broadcast was faked, a lookalike used, then immediately issued a statement in
Prince Khalid’s name stating he was alive and well and in Riyadh.

He had
thrown his chair across the room.

The car
skidded to a halt and he stepped out, not waiting for his driver to open the
door. One of his men rushed up to him but he held up a hand, cutting him off
before he could speak a word. Marching into the tent he dropped to his knees at
the sight of his friend’s body, struck down only feet away from the now knocked
over camera, a large pool of blood staining the carpets where his head should
be.

The
barbarians!

A roar
escaped from deep within, filling the tent with his rage and despair as he
tossed his head back, his eyes wide with hatred staring at the flowing silks
overhead.

Then
there was silence, the few men inside saying nothing lest they feel his wrath,
one which was famous in its brutality.

Al-Qarmati
rose then looked around for the Black Stone, frowning. “Where is it?”

“They’ve
taken it, sir.”

He
looked at the man brave enough to have replied. “Who is ‘they’?”

“They
left one survivor. He said it was Houthi rebels from Yemen.”

Houthi!

They were
always interfering, conducting raids within his country then fleeing across the
border where they couldn’t be pursued, and his cowardly, traitorous government
would do nothing, instead pleading to the Americans to take action on their
behalf.

Which
the Great Satan was more than willing to do.

“Where
is this survivor?”

He was
led outside to one of the relief vehicles that had been dispatched from a
nearby camp when the attack had begun. They had arrived too late, and it wasn’t
their fault—no one could have made it here on time—but he needed someone to
blame.

“This is him.”

Al-Qarmati
looked at the weary man who struggled to his feet, his badly beaten face a
clear indication he hadn’t escaped the attack unscathed.

“And why
did they leave you of all people alive?”

The man
hesitated a moment, fear in his wide eyes, before delivering his shaky reply.
“I w-was the last alive.”

“You
didn’t die for your cause?”

His eyes
widened further as his head began to shake rapidly back and forth. “No, sir! I
fought back until I ran out of ammunition, then attacked with my bare hands but
there were too many of them!” His chin dropped to his chest as his shoulders
slumped. “But I still failed you.”

Al-Qarmati
nodded, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yes you did, but you fought
hard, and with that you have honored Allah and the prophet, peace be upon him.”
He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “You have earned your place in paradise.”

Al-Qarmati
emptied his Beretta into the man’s chest, his grip on his shoulder tightening
as he held him in place. His magazine emptied, he released his hold, the body
crumpling to the ground.

He
strode toward his vehicle, ignoring those around him.

Now
to find out where they went.

He
climbed into the back seat, his driver closing the door.

And
kill them all.

1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta HQ, Fort Bragg,
North Carolina

A.k.a. "The Unit"

“We need your help.”

Colonel
Thomas Clancy leaned back in his chair, his unlit cigar between his fingers,
tapping on his desk as he listened on the phone to Colonel Faisal bin Nayef of
Saudi Arabia’s secret police, the Mabahith General Investigation Directorate.
They had met on one occasion several years ago at a Pentagon briefing on the
Syrian civil war, and had actually hit it off, their shared love of a good
cigar enough to keep a rather dull evening entertaining.

He had
also proved invaluable on several occasions with intel on the region.

But this
was the first time the man had ever asked for help, and he felt the proverbial
other shoe dropping.

“How?”

“Just so
we’re clear, we’re not having this conversation. I’ll deny I ever said any of
what I’m about to say, understood.”

Clancy
pursed his lips, tilting forward in his chair. “Understood.”

“Prince
Khalid has been kidnapped.”

Clancy
suppressed a laugh.

Tell
me something I
don’t
know.

The
Saudi assertion that the video was a fake was absurd, and the video they
trotted out of a happy Prince Khalid on vacation with his family, waving at a
camera, had already been shown to be weeks old, though the state press in the
Middle East was keeping that under wraps.

But it’s
almost impossible to stuff a gag in the great mouth that is the Internet.

“We’re
aware of that,” he replied.

Nayef
chuckled. “Of course you are. My government’s attempts to hide the fact the
broadcast was genuine have been ineffectual at best. To admit that not only has
a crown prince betrayed his religion and his country, but to also admit they
have no idea where he is, is simply something they have no contingency plan
for.”

“The end
of the broadcast seemed to suggest an attack of some sort. Was that your
forces?”

“No, I
can assure you if we had mounted an attack, we would have succeeded.” A sigh
from the other end caused a momentary burst of static. “I’m afraid it was Houthi
rebels crossing the border from Yemen once again.”

“They’ve
been quite the annoyance as of late.”

Yemen
had been a basket case for quite some time with the collapse of their
government just recently occurring, supported by many groups, the most
important of which were the Houthi rebels. They opposed the Saudi government,
mostly for being an ally of the United States, and for its control over Islam’s
holy sites, conducting regular raids across the border.

His own
men had been in Yemen on countless occasions, he the commanding officer of 1st
Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, commonly known as Delta Force.
With over one thousand men and women under his command, his teams were called
upon when the best of the best were needed, where no credit would be due.

Including
on American soil.

They
were the only military unit in existence with permission to carry out
operations on American soil, the President having the power to suspend Posse
Comitatus and activate Delta when the need became necessary.

As it
had just recently.

The
several hundred highly trained operators he had under his command were just the
latest generation of the small force created in 1977 by Colonel Charles
Beckwith as an answer to the growing threat of terrorism around the world. And
though Operation Eagle Claw—their inaugural operation during the Iran Hostage Crisis—had
been disastrous, they had served with honor and distinction since, successfully
executing hundreds of missions.

And now
he had a sneaking suspicion he was about to be asked to put his men into harm’s
way once again. His men had taken on Houthi rebels and others of their ilk
across the world. They were a nasty bunch that you couldn’t underestimate,
though his men had yet to be bested by them.

For him
the ultimate question was whether or not the Yeminis had just been lucky, or if
they knew what they were hitting. It was a question he wouldn’t get a reliable
answer to.

“An
annoyance is putting it mildly,” said Nayef. “Despite your drone attacks on
their camps, they still seem to swarm like cockroaches.”

Clancy
jammed his cigar back in his mouth, desperate to light it, his promise to his
wife to give up the delicious habit the most difficult promise he had ever
made.

And I
promised to be nice to her sister.

“What do
you need from me?”

“We need
you to find Prince Khalid.”

“That
might be possible. And if we do?”

“Rescue
him.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Chris Leroux chewed on his umpteenth Breath Savers, trying to rid
himself of the taste and smell of his second bout of vomiting today. He had
isolated himself in his office with the hopes of going home after this final
briefing of the day, where he’d find an empty apartment, Sherrie on her op.

It was
times like these he wished he lived closer to his parents.

But as
it was, he’d have to make sure they didn’t find out he was sick and alone,
otherwise his mother would insist on coming to take care of him, and he knew
she couldn’t afford to be taking off work every time “her baby” was sick.

He
groaned.

“Are you
okay, Chris?”

He
jerked upright in his chair at the sound of his boss’ voice over the speakerphone.
“Umm, sorry, sir. I’ll live.”

“Good.
Give us your update then head home. Last thing I need is the entire section
sick with the flu.”

“Thank
you, sir. I’ve confirmed that Prince Khalid arrived at the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque
as scheduled. Apparently damage was discovered last week during a cleaning
ritual. He was supposed to accompany the stone to be repaired.”

“Why
would they not just repair it there?” asked Donovan Eppes.

“Apparently
it’s sacrilege to perform manual labor within the grounds of the shrine other
than routine cleaning and maintenance of the structure itself. As well, with
this object being so revered, they can’t risk slipshod work, so they have a
dedicated team that has been trained to maintain and restore this specific
object.”

“So
you’ve confirmed he arrived to pick up the relic. What then?”

“Our
analysis of the chatter indicates at least one dozen men stormed the mosque,
killing the ceremonial guard, then according to witness accounts, left the
mosque with the Prince
and
the Black Stone, while wearing uniforms of
the ceremonial guard.”

“Did
they steal the uniforms off the dead guards?” asked Cindy Fowler.

“No,
they apparently had them on underneath their robes.”

“So the
Black Stone has been stolen,” stated Morrison.

“It
would appear so, sir, though the Saudi authorities have managed to keep that
piece of intel compartmentalized. Right now the public has no idea of what has
happened, except that the Prince was either kidnapped or turned traitor, and
their government is lying about it.”