Ted Bell - Spy

“I bring greetings and prayers for your success from on high.”

“Please assure the sheikh I am prepared to do my sacred duty. The aggressors will trouble us no more after the Day of Reckoning.”

Top tried desperately to conceal his surprise at Khan’s mention of Osama. No one in the terrorist community was sure whether or not the sheikh was even alive. A recent tape had been played on al-Jazeerah, but there were doubts as to its authenticity.

The true leader of the movement, the almost mythical prince Osama, had not been actually seen, publicly or privately, in nearly three years. Not since December of 2004, when he had released his last video. He called for his jihadist warriors to strike Persian Gulf oil supplies and warned the apostate House of Saud that they risked a popular uprising. Then he disappeared. Now, rumor had it, Khan was preparing to succeed the long silent leader.

The Western media were strangely silent too. The media simply didn’t know what had happened to the man who’d ignited the worldwide Islamic jihad. They didn’t know if the much-vaunted prince of darkness had simply gone deeper into hiding as the American troops closed in on him; or, perhaps, he had simply died. It was still entirely possible he was only lying low, lulling the West into a false sense of complacency while planning some great Armageddon.

In truth, even so important a figure in the global movement as Muhammad Top did not know the answer to that puzzle. But he knew that it was Abu Musab al Khan who had recently stepped into the media limelight as the “brains” of the organization. If Khan didn’t hold the reins of power, surely he was in the business of seizing them. Top knew that his own success in this current initiative would consolidate Khan’s position in the Arab world.

And, so did his esteemed guest.

In any case, Khan was not a man to be trifled with. He was clearly capable of running the movement’s global terror operations. Besides, it was common knowledge that Dr. Khan had personally eviscerated men on the spot for failing his particular kind of eye test. It was said that Khan secreted a viciously curved scimitar within the folds of his robes for just such a purpose.

For all of Top’s judicious planning, his guest had arrived two hours late. He had been delayed by bad weather, a storm front moving over Buenos Aires. After a good deal of hand-wringing over arrangements to receive them, the man had finally arrived at the jungle compound.

After his arrival at the landing strip, and travel to the central village, Top escorted him to his temporary guest quarters. He enjoyed the man’s reaction as they climbed into a sturdy woven basket to be lofted upward to the large two-story guesthouse situated some two hundred feet up in the treetops. Shortly afterward, the new arrival had descended and begun a guided tour of the bustling complex.

Top had decided to start the tour with the subterranean Command and Communication center secreted in the very heart of his compound. Even Dr. Khan could not fail to be impressed by all the stunning long-distance warfare technology he would see this day. Already Top could sense that Khan was secretly delighted with the Swiss-clock workings and precision perfection of the teeming terrorist enclave.

The two men were now standing before an array of surveillance monitors, their upturned faces bathed in incandescent blue. Each of the flat screens carried a live digital satellite feed from the cameras of Muhammad Top’s fleet of tiny UAVs now circling above Manhattan and Washington, DC.

On site pilots flew the two-foot-long birds, using joysticks and input from sensor operators seated next to them. Each ground control workstation received feeds via a Ku-Band satellite data link for beyond line-of-sight flight.

Khan smiled his approval. He had designed these UAV systems and it was the first time he’d seen them in a war-footing operation.

The large central monitor was currently dedicated to lower Manhattan. The Staten Island Ferry was just nearing the wharf and lights were coming on in the office towers near the Battery. A row of smaller monitors to either side showed aerial views of Washington, the Chicago lake-front, the port of Miami, and central Los Angeles. Beneath these screens, a secondary grouping of monitors showed views of various border towns along the Texas-Mexico borderline.

“And how go the preparations for the Lone Star State?” Khan asked Top, his eyes fixed on a view of the International Bridge connecting Laredo with its sister city across the border.

“The convoy is assembled, Doctor. It has moved north of the border.”

The two men were certainly a study in contrasts. Khan was a small, modest-looking intellectual. Save the keen intensity of the black eyes, the Iranian would be indistinguishable at any gathering of Muslim elders in Tehran. Of less than medium height, he had a great beak of a nose, with tiny eyeglasses perched on the end of it. He had very small hands and feet that always seemed to be still. He was surprising only in that he had changed into jungle fatigues for the tour.

“Listen carefully,” Khan said, taking a step backward and looking up at his giant host. His black eyes flashing with the reflections of America on the screens above, he said, “I am bringing you a message from on high. Killing Americans is secondary to our true mission. It is only icing on the pudding. Do you understand that?”

“Doctor, with your kind permission, I must argue—”

“Listen! Don’t speak! I am talking about attacking the foundations of the corrupt state these faithless pawns serve. God willing, I am determined to scrape America’s bucolic soil down to the tainted bedrock it is built upon! If you don’t agree, tell me now.”

Top silently nodded his understanding. Patience was required. Khan was having trouble assembling a “coalition of the willing” in the Latin American capitals. More and more it looked as if Top’s righteous legions might be marching north alone. Top was willing to go it alone. But if Khan’s shaky coalition were convinced to step up, it would seal America’s fate.

Khan, visibly tired by the long journey, removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was secretly fighting a crippling headache. He had been anxious to see his military field commander in the flesh. Everything was riding on this one man. As the final hour approached, Castro was waffling. So was Chávez in Venezuela. Both men needed to see if Muhammad Top’s brazen attack could succeed before joining the fray.

Venezuela, in Khan’s view, could seal the victory over the Americans. Chávez, despite all Khan’s assuarances, was taking a wait-and-see attitude. If Tip and Khan succeeded, and brought down the U.S. command and central, Venezuela might decide to strike in the ensuing chaos. Chávez had been secretly building a powerful air force. He had amassed squadrons of the latest Russian fighter jets, the Sukhoi 27 Flanker. Armed with the unstoppable Yahkont antiship missiles, Venezuelan fighter jets could destroy America’s vital oil shipments in the Gulf of Mexico.

It wouldn’t be the end of America, but it might be the beginning of the end.

Top alone, of all his commanders, had the best chance of finally bringing the Americans to their knees. Reports reaching his own mountain hideout from his emissaries were uniformly positive. They all indicated that Muhammad Top had at last built the jihadist juggernaut that would humble the world.

Maybe.

Khan also received monthly intelligence reports from leaders of his South American cells. They provided a more balanced approach to developments in the southern hemisphere. He had carefully monitored Top’s progress over the last few years from afar. Read reports from their brethren in Havana and Caracas and Lima. Now he was here to see for himself exactly what had been accomplished here at La Selva Negra.