The Command (16 page)

But year by year the pace quickened. He was found trustworthy. His skills were honed and appreciated. He'd gone to Argentina, Azerbaijan, Bosnia, to Pakistan three times, to Yemen, Egypt again, then Saudi Arabia, Britain, Algeria.

And most recently to Iran.

But more and more these days, he found himself tiring of travel. He'd started a fishing company in Sudan, using the Sheikh's capital, but building his fleet with the profits. His boats spent more days at sea than any of his competitors', with fewer breakdowns and less theft. He owned six now; when he returned he hoped to buy two more.

FINALLY he said, “To us, Qari, the most exalted commandment is to kill the idol worshipers where we find them. Is your heart ready for this?”

Stubby hands spread. “Bones must break and limbs must fly, so the true religion may stand. I and mine are ready to help.”

Al-Ulam said, “So far, those who wage jihad have struck either against the sectarians, those outside the
lofel,
or against the regimes which support the Zionists. But in the end, these are puppets.

“We are not frightened of this so-called superpower. It is corrupt and decadent, and, above all, it does not want to fight.

“We must strike the enemies of God, and two stand foremost: the Greater Satan, the Americans, and the Lesser, the Jews themselves. It is God's command, to carry on until Al-Quds is free and Palestine is free, and the Kingdom of the Two Holy Places is free of their presence and taint.

“This is my business here, my friend. Tell me now, does it meet with your approval?”

Bin Jun'ad's pug face shone as if lit from within. For a moment he struggled to speak. Then whispered, like one given at last the land he'd worked as a laborer all his life: “There is no turning back from the ultimate victory of God.”

PRESENTLY bin Jun'ad suggested they go to a nearby mosque for the
zuhr,
the noonday prayers. They rose, paid, and passed out into the glaring sun.

They walked together down the Tarafa bin al-Abd, scanning passing faces and cars. Evidently he'd made his point, because bin Jun'ad said, “If that is why you are here, we must make decisions. There is a place we can talk. But we must be careful. The security service is active here. An English dog is their chief. They spy on us to protect the ruler, and the Crusaders. This is where they repair their ships. At this moment, fortunately, the police are concentrating on the cultists, who are politically active against the regime.”

“The Shi'a?”

“They attempted an armed coup ten years ago and were put down. There was another plot last year. Their Hezbollah are even more dangerous to us than the police.” The Yemeni lowered his voice as a foreigner came up behind them on the sidewalk. “We must not appear together, after this. Especially considering we'll be working in the Shi'a part of town.”

WHICH turned out to be in the Makarqah quarter, south of the Gold Souk. Bin Jun'ad didn't own a car; he said the island was small enough that when he needed to travel, a taxi sufficed. After prayers and discussion in the air-conditioned basement of the mosque, they walked for some time through the quarter, passing and repassing certain streets. Al-Ulam didn't object. Better to be cautious. Bin Jun'ad explained they also rented a house south of the city. The first brothers to arrive had worked there under the cover of setting up a fishing business.

“Fishing,” al-Ulam said. “That's good.”

“It let them buy equipment and travel about. The second team is waiting for us now. Do you have money? Is there anything else you need?”

Al-Ulam said he had enough, and more was there if it was needed; praise be to God, there were many who provided for those who fought the unrighteous.

Their destination was on the third floor of a narrow building on a narrow street lined with shops. The first floor was a shoemaker's; the second sold cell phones. The third and uppermost, reached by worn steps, was a small apartment. Whoever had lived in it before had taken most of his furniture; what remained was a table, some folding chairs, and several mattresses.

Three young men bowed as bin Jun'ad introduced them. Abdulrah-man, Nair, and Salman. The local talent, like the bearded Qari, tended to be the weakest link. They were guides in unfamiliar territory. But as the time for the action neared, some wondered if too many of their Muslim neighbors would die, or they remembered infidels they liked. Sometimes they bragged to their friends about the great act of jihad that was going to astonish everyone.

When that happened, they had to be silenced.

He glanced through the single low window down at the street. “Qari, do you have the findings of our brothers, the first to come here?”

“They left this.” He pointed to a computer on the table.

Al-Ulam grunted approvingly. A new Sanyo, with hard drive, scanner, printer. A phone cord coiled down the stairs.

The first team, who'd reconnoitered the targets, was out of the country by now, except for the leader, who'd been killed in a bicycle accident. Abdulrahman, Nair, and Salman would buy whatever was necessary for the action. Only when all was ready would he turn again to bin Jun'ad for those fanatics who'd would actually drive, carry the bombs, throw the grenades—the “useful idiots” who, if captured, could say nothing, for they knew nothing.

He started the machine, waited while it booted, and inventoried the directory. Instead of opening the files, though—they'd contain only gibberish if opened by accident or by someone probing the system— he first opened the scrambling program. Shielding the keyboard with his body, he entered the passwords and user identifications, then opened the file.

He read in silence, while the others waited.

THE first team had identified two possible targets in Bahrain. The first was the American naval base. Bin Jun'ad had put them in touch with a friend from the mosque, a believer who worked in the fuel supply facility. This man had taken one of the men from the cell onto the base with him. They'd photographed the gate area and the fuel pier. They'd thought of sabotaging the pier, blowing up the valves with grenades, then using flares to ignite a raging fire in the harbor. But they later evolved a better plan: driving a truck onto the base during the huge Fourth of July rock concert and “Back Home” celebration that would pull hundreds of Americans together in the Desert Dome.

Al-Ulam studied diagrams, photographs, schedules. Detonated at the right point, a bomb would bring the dome down on the revelers. The death count might be close to a thousand.

The second possible target was an apartment building in the new suburb of Juffair. A new sixteen-story building, where American support personnel lived—contractors, visiting officers, civilian personnel and their families. This attack, too, would be via truck bomb, not unlike the one he'd built at Mashhad.

He cocked his head. The problem was, he had no explosives. He'd managed to bring detonators; they were easily concealed in his shaving kit. But the stocks of Polish plastic were exhausted. He could improvise
something. But improvised explosives were never as potent as the manufactured article.

“What are you thinking?” bin Jun'ad wanted to know.

“I'm considering how to build the bomb.”

The rotund man in the thobe smiled cherubically. “You're going to be pleased at this. Our man inside the base? He had a friend with access to their weapons storehouse. It was expensive to deal with him. But together they brought out almost a hundred kilos of American plastic explosive.”

Al-Ulam looked again at the screen. It showed the ground floor of the apartment building. He could see where the supporting pillars were located. The plastic would serve as the heart of the charge; the rest he could buy locally. Diesel oil, nitrate … His heart pounded with the same passion he'd felt in Buenos Aires, in Algeria, at Mashhad. Sixteen stories. No one in it would remain alive.

“That is good news,” he said. “Good news indeed.”

N
OW muster all accused, witnesses, and chain of command in the wardroom for captain's mast. Maintain silence about the decks.”

Marty Marchetti stood at parade rest.
Horn
was at anchor, but the waiting men still swayed in the passageway. He flexed his arms behind him, feeling the burn from a hard workout in the cramped rubber-matted weight room aft. Pain was weakness leaving the body. He'd heard that once, and it had stayed with him.

Like the anger stayed with you, when one of your guys was getting railroaded.

The starboard side 01 level passageway zigzagged out around the wardroom, the wood-grained metal door of which was closed as, he supposed, the captain and exec settled on what was going to happen in a few minutes. The chiefs had already sat in judgment, and the exec had done her quizzing the day before. His guys stood in line with the others, with, to his surprise, some of the bitches, too. He couldn't get used to them. Gave him a start when he'd come around a corner and there was a pair of tits.

For some reason it seemed like he always went through the Ditch at night. The scenery: not worth looking at, even if you wanted to stand topside in suffocating heat and biting flies and gnats so micromean they bit you on the way down when you breathed them in. For hour after hour they'd bored through the narrow, dead-straight canal. He wondered why they called this the Holy Land when God had wasted so little time on it. It was flat and dead, and the villages that lined it were broken down and poverty stricken. They'd dropped anchor in the lake not long after dawn, to let the northbound traffic go by before proceeding on the second leg down to the Red Sea.

He stuck his chin out as somebody cracked the door. “Chiefs and div-ohs can come in,” Woltz, the command master chief, said. “Witnesses, too.”

He was the nearest to the door, so he went through first, with Chief Bendt and Lieutenant Osmani behind him. Then Gerhardt, the radioman, and Mr. Camill, because the communications officer was on anchor watch, and Lieutenant Sanduskie and Chief Andrews, the cryp-pies. They looked lost out of their little shack up on the 03 level, like hermit crabs blasted out of their shells.

The wardroom smelled of burnt coffee with an aftertaste of mold from the ventilation ducting. The tables were moved back to the bulkheads, except for the long one where the captain stood.

Lenson was looking at the records in front of him. He was in cotton khakis with his portable radio clipped to his belt. He looked tired, his long frame pelvis-braced against the table. They ran into each other sometimes in the weight room. Marchetti was a lifter, but the captain spent most of his time on the treadmill, cranking off miles. Behind him the yeoman stood ready with more folders.

Marty ended up in rank with the other chiefs and division officers and department heads, to the captain's left, directly across from where the exec stood. She looked focused and vindictive. He'd have to spend the whole mast looking at the gap in her front teeth. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders.

“Atten-hut,”
said the exec. The captain said, almost too soft to hear, “All right, we ready? Bring in the first victim.”

The door opened for a thin boy in dress whites and a white hat. Marty followed him with his gaze, trying to beam encouragement. Goldie was the armorer for the boarding team. He was matched pace for pace by Chief Forker. Forker was a joke as master at arms, a roly-poly with a tentative voice who didn't swing as much weight in the chiefs' mess as the ship's sheriff ought to. He murmured, “Halt… hand salute … sound off.”

“Gunner's Mate Third Class Gowin Goldstine, reporting as ordered, sir.”

Lenson nodded. He looked at Goldstine as he stood at attention, then down at the papers.

“Goldstine, you are suspected of committing the following violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Article 134, disorders to the prejudice of good order and discipline. You do not have to make any statement regarding the offense of which you are accused or suspected. Any statement made by you may be used as evidence against you. You are advised that a captain's mast is not a trial and that a determination of misconduct on your part is not a conviction by a court. Further, you are advised that the formal rules of evidence used in trials
by court-martial do not apply at a captain's mast.” The captain held up a paper. “I have a statement here signed by you acknowledging you were advised of your legal rights pertaining at this hearing. Do you understand the rights explained therein?”

“Yes, sir.” The response was barely audible; the yeoman took a step forward with his steno pad, to hear better.

“Do we have a witness?”

“Witness, step forward,” said Forker. “Sound off.”

A girl stepped out of ranks and came to attention, a pace behind Goldstine. Marchetti looked her up and down. The rat. “Fireman Cobie Kasson, sir.”

“Witness, what can you tell me about the accused's involvement in the offense?”

Marty noted with contempt she looked more nervous than Goldie, and he was the guy actually at mast. He tried to guess how stacked she was, under the baggy coveralls, then remembered he didn't have to. He'd seen the pictures.

In a quavering voice she said she'd been on the beach, had several drinks, and had her top stolen. The other women were going topless and she didn't think it through, just joined them. If she hadn't been drinking, she wouldn't have done it.

“Petty Officer Goldstine took the pictures?”

“I saw him with a camera. Taking pictures of Ina and Patryce—of the other women there, too.”

“He took one of you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you pose for it?”

“No, sir. I didn't pose. I didn't see him taking it.”

Lenson said, looking at his papers, “If you didn't see him taking it, how do you know he took it?”