Читать книгу Atomic Fracture - Don Pendleton - Страница 6

PROLOGUE

A twisted smile fell over Emad Nosiar’s face and adrenaline shot through his body as he glanced at his watch.

Quickly he moved across the carpet of the eleventh-story hotel room to the window. Far below, at the corners of Ujaama and Sadaquee streets, he could see the cars and trucks flowing freely through the busy intersection. The sidewalks on both sides of the streets were crowded with pedestrians. Mixed in with men wearing Western-style business suits were others in traditional Muslim robes. The former were, for the most part, clean-shaved. The latter had long, untrimmed beards.

The women were of a similar mix. Some were outfitted like Western whores, wearing clothes that left their ankles and calves—not to mention their bared faces and hair—exposed for all to see and lust after. But other females had remained true to the faith in their dark burkas and veils. Behind the faithful women trailed what seemed like a dozen children each, moving along the sidewalks at a slower pace as they tried to keep together.

In the reflection off the glass, Nosiar saw his smile widen even further. The busy traffic of Ramesh, Radestan, was about to come to a screeching—and exploding—halt. And it would be of his doing.

Raising the walkie-talkie in his left hand to his lips, he pressed the binoculars to his eyes with his right. Through the lenses he could make out two ancient Ford pickups, one loaded with bales of hay, the other piled high with lawn-care equipment, parked on opposite sides of Ujaama Street. Behind the wheel of the lawn-care truck sat a man wearing a khaki shirt with military epaulets on the shoulders. In the other pickup was a long-bearded man with dark brown hair falling down his neck. Both men had removed their headgear so as not to attract attention. Though he could not see them, Nosiar knew that an eight-point Radestani army officer’s cap rested on the seat next to the man in the military shirt. A more traditional Arab headdress—known as the kaffiyeh—would be next to the driver of the other pickup.

The thought added a chuckle to Nosiar’s grinning face. One of the men would don his headwear as soon as the action started. The other would remain bareheaded as they moved their vehicles into position. Which one did which depended on who came along the streets in the next few minutes.

Nosiar turned the binoculars slightly, letting them stop on a black Buick Enclave parked in an alley a half block farther down Ujaama Street. Though he could not see it from his position on the eleventh floor of the hotel, he knew another Enclave was also in the alley almost directly beneath him.

His men were ready. He pressed the transmit button on the walkie-talkie. “Ali One to Three, Four, Five and Six,” he said in Arabic.

The acknowledgments from each driver came back in the same language. But Nosiar also needed to contact his second in command; his man on the ground who would step in and take up the slack if anything went wrong. And to contact the man he would address simply as “Two,” he needed to switch frequencies.

A simple turn of the dial on the walkie-talkie accomplished that.

“One to Two,” Nosiar said into the small portable radio. The line crackled with static. Then a somewhat hoarse voice, slightly higher in pitch than Two’s usual deep baritone, answered. “Yes, One. I am in place. All is ready. At both sites.”

Nosiar smiled to himself. The tension in Two’s voice came from the stress of the operation they were about to conduct. The man would not have been human had he not been at least a little nervous. “Good,” said Nosiar. “Remember, you will have to move swiftly between the first and second sites as soon as we have finished at the first.”

“I understand,” said the man using the simple call number Two.

Nosiar was about to speak again when he caught sight of a trio of army trucks a quarter of a mile farther down Ujaama. Quickly he switched back to the frequency that connected him to the operatives below.

The three vehicles were moving toward the intersection. And they all had canvas sides covering whatever it was they were transporting. Nosiar prayed silently that their cargo was more troops—men, government soldiers—and, therefore, his enemies. He pressed the button once more. “Three targets approaching from the south,” he said. “Strike time, approximately ninety seconds.”

“Ali Three to One,” came a voice as soon as Nosiar let up on the button. “Military or People’s Secular Opposition Forces?”

“Government vehicles,” said Nosiar. He watched through the binoculars as the man in the hay pickup quickly donned his kaffiyeh and secured it in place with a double-wound cord known as an agal. The man in the uniform slumped down in the driver’s seat, hiding the military epaulets on his shoulders and leaving his head bare.

The Radestani army trucks caught a green light at the intersection before reaching the corner where the vehicles were set up. They made good time, passing beneath Nosiar’s binoculars with twenty seconds to spare on his ninety-second estimate. But his men were ready. As soon as the third truck passed the alleys, both of the black Enclaves pulled out behind them onto the street. Then, a second or so before they reached Sadaquee Street, the pickups suddenly darted out from the curbs to block their forward progression.

The technique was known as a “flying block.” And it worked almost exactly the same way every time Nosiar employed it.

The army trucks screeched to a halt.

And gunfire erupted immediately.

Dark-haired, dark-skinned men—obviously of Arab descent but wearing jeans, T-shirts and other forms of Western dress—suddenly appeared from the Enclaves behind the trucks and rose from hiding in the beds of the pickups. AK-47s, some of Russian origin, others Kalashnikov copies made in China, began to sputter out 7.62 mm bullets to penetrate the canvas sides of the military trucks. Nosiar caught himself breathing faster and deeper as his men moved forward, still firing, to surround the trucks and shred the canvas.

Emad Nosiar was pleased to see that his prayer to God had been at least partially answered. Two of the three trucks did indeed contain Radestani soldiers. While the rifle fire from his men continued, he watched through the threads of canvas as the surprised troops jerked back and forth in death throes, having no time to bring their own weapons into play.

The third truck in the small army convoy appeared to contain rations. As the men who had appeared from the Enclaves poured round after round through the canvas, Nosiar saw cans of food explode and fly through the air. Ragged metal cans and broken glass bottles became impromptu shrapnel in the assault.

The odors of canned meat, vegetables and other food—rations that would never reach the government soldiers for whom they’d been intended—rose with the wind, all the way to the eleventh floor of the Hotel Salahudden to penetrate the cracks around the window and enter Emad Nosiar’s olfactory glands.

Along with those smells came the stench of death in the form of blood, expelled feces and urine. Not to mention the screams of terror as completely innocent and unaligned men, women and children along the sidewalks fell to wildly aimed rounds.

As Nosiar continued to watch through his binoculars, a large shard of glass flew through the air. It sliced into the hoodlike covering of a woman’s black burka at the throat. Then, unseen behind the garment, it severed her jugular and slammed her to her back on the sidewalk. Nosiar turned his binoculars downward and watched as blood raised the material in front of her neck, pushing it upward with each beat of her petrified heart. When the fire-hose stream had reached its height above her neck, it splashed back down, then ran to the sides, creating huge black pools on both sides of her head.

Her burka stayed in place and she died faceless.

Breathing even harder as he watched, Nosiar wondered for a moment if it was the will of God that he take such delight in such things. Especially with a woman who was undoubtedly a fellow Muslim. But the thoughts were disturbing so he attributed them to Satan. Yes, such thoughts had to come from Satan. The great enemy of God shoved them into his mind to slow his progress in the never-ending jihad.

There was always going to be collateral damage. That was simply life in the jihad. He could not afford to worry about it. The dead in God would go immediately to paradise as martyrs. Let the demonic Westerners—especially the Great Satan America—worry about collateral damage. They were the ones who would burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.

When the woman had bled out and lay still on the concrete, Nosiar turned his binoculars back to the trucks. All but one of the soldiers in the first two trucks was now dead. Some had fallen forward onto the floor of the vehicle; some hung awkwardly out over the sides, while others had fallen to the ground. The shreds of canvas tarp that had hidden them earlier now flapped in the breeze.

The one man who remained alive had been shot in both legs. He lay sideways on the street, the OD green battle dress pants of his uniform soaked black with blood. He was trying valiantly but vainly to pull himself to the curb with both hands as sweat ran down his forehead into his convulsively blinking eyes.

Nosiar continued to watch. One of his men, wearing faded blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt and carrying one of the AK-47s, broke off from the front of the truck and walked purposefully toward the lone survivor. Through his round glass lenses, Nosiar could see a sadistic grin on the face of that man. He glanced into the glass window once more at his own face. It was smiling very much like the man below who was about to commit murder.

The man in the white T-shirt stopped next to the broken soldier. Aiming his rifle downward, he shot him first in the right elbow.

The government soldier fell forward for a second. Then he raised his head slightly and tried to scratch his way forward using his left arm.

The muzzle of the AK-47 pressed into the injured man’s other elbow. Then it jumped slightly again with recoil.

Blood, tissue and bone fragments shot out from the now quadriplegic soldier. With no way left to crawl, he twisted at the waist and fell back against the concrete, looking up at his torturer.

Nosiar’s blue-jeaned man jammed the barrel of his rifle into the soldier’s forehead. For a moment Nosiar thought the AK-47 would end the man’s life right there. But the man in the T-shirt appeared to change his mind and pulled the rifle back toward him. Instead of aiming at the head, the 7.62 mm weapon was now pointed at the soldier’s lower abdomen. A 3-round burst exploded out of the weapon and the man on the ground grimaced in pain.

The trio of gut shots would ensure the man died before help could arrive. But it also ensured a slower, more torturous and lingering demise than a head shot would have provided.

Nosiar’s chuckle became an audible laugh. He had trained his men well. The screams of the dying soldier would send a message to the civilians on the sidewalks who had survived the attack.

The gunfire was over now. The Radestani military men had been vanquished. So Nosiar raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “Ali One to Three through Five. Did we sustain any casualties?” he asked.

“Negative,” came the responses from the men below.

“Good,” Nosiar said. “Gather up all weapons and extra magazines. If the trucks are still drivable, assign drivers and bring them with you. And make sure you shout enough ridiculous PSOF slogans so the civilians hiding along the street will believe you are from the People’s Secular Opposition Forces.” He could still feel the excitement in his chest and had to force himself to breathe shallowly. “Then proceed to the second site. Team Two may need backup.”

Without waiting for any answers, Nosiar let his binoculars fall to the end of their strap and picked up his own AK-47 from where he had rested it against the wall by the window. Without further ado, he left the hotel room and walked down the hall to the elevator. On the way, he passed a young couple who had undoubtedly heard the gunfire outside the building. Both stared at his rifle, then closed their eyes in terror and pressed their backs against the wall to let him pass.

Nosiar walked onto the elevator and took it to the twelfth floor, then walked down another hall to the other side of the building where he had rented another room. Inserting the key card, he entered and walked directly to the window, pulling back the curtains.

Below, he saw two more streets. Another busy intersection. And more parked vehicles that he recognized. As he waited, he saw the two pickups and Buick Enclaves turn the corner, their drivers looking for places to set up again.

Excitement still filled Nosiar’s chest as the vehicles pulled into parking spaces. The intersection would again be closed, and other vehicles would pull in behind to prevent a retreat. Again, the words “flying block” crossed his mind. The term had been coined by someone in the press when it had first begun to be used in the Syrian civil war. The technique, and the term for it, had caught on all over the Islamic world.

Nosiar stared down through the window once more. There was one small difference between this assault and the one he had just orchestrated on the other side of the hotel. This time, he had received prior information that the People’s Secular Opposition Forces—or PSOF as the loosely allied, poorly organized rebels fighting the Radestani government were called—were definitely bringing a truckload of supplies down the street.

That intel proved correct.

Less than two minutes after Nosiar’s men had set up he saw the semitrailer come lumbering forward a block away. Pressing the key on his walkie-talkie again, he said, “Ali One to all units. There will be great amounts of supplies in this truck. But unless there are men hidden in the trailer, we expect only a driver and perhaps a guard in the cab.”

“Ali Four to One,” came back to Nosiar. “We left dozens of dead soldiers on the other side of the building when we masqueraded as PSOF rebels. Now that we are to play the part of soldiers ourselves, we will not create as much hatred or emotional response if only two men are killed.”

“That is correct,” said Nosiar. “So you know what to do.” He paused a second. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“Negative,” was the response from the man on the ground. “You have trained us to know.”

As the semitrailer neared, the pickups and other vehicles pulled into place just as they had done before. But this time the men—the same men who had emerged earlier in the clothing of the rebel PSOF—appeared wearing the military uniforms of the Radestani army. One of the men on the ground—Ali Three it appeared to be through the binoculars—fired a burst of 7.62 mm fire through the side window into the driver and another into the man riding shotgun.

Another of Nosiar’s men shot the lock off the door at the rear of the trailer, then fired his own burst of autofire into the storage area. Perhaps there had been only one man in the back of the trailer. Perhaps none at all. Nosiar couldn’t tell from his vantage point. All he knew was that there had not been enough killing to suit him. There had not been enough carnage to keep the balance of power between the government and rebels going. Nosiar stared down at the sidewalks. The men, women and children had not even had time to take cover. So he spoke into the radio one final time. “Do it,” was all he had to say.

Immediately the imposters in government army uniforms turned toward the people on the sidewalks. The AK-47s from both Russia and China spit out their deadly automatic fire, cutting down innocent civilians before they could hide.

But not before they could scream.

The massacre went on for less than sixty seconds. But to the few people on the street who survived it by diving under cars or darting down the steps to basement establishments, it would seem like hours for the rest of their lives.

When it was over, Emad Nosiar simply said, “Bring the truck,” into the walkie-talkie. Then he switched frequencies again and said, “One to Two.”

“Two,” said the voice on the other end.

“It appears that everything went well,” Nosiar said.

“Perfect,” said Two. “The rebels will blame the government and the government will blame the rebels. Both sides are weakening more every day.”

“Then God should be praised,” said Nosiar.

“Indeed,” said the man going by Two.

“I am signing off the air,” Nosiar said. “We will speak when we meet again in a few minutes.”

“We will indeed.”

Nosiar smiled as he switched the walkie-talkie off, lifted his rifle and started out of the hotel room. Adrenaline still shot through his veins and he thought of Two still on the ground at the flying block site below.

Harun Bartovi was Two’s actual name. And he had truly been a gift from God. The man had worked his way up the ladder to become Nosiar’s most competent and trusted assistant. Bartovi could be counted on not only to carry out orders but also to give them, and he had the ability to think on his feet, changing plans in the middle of an operation when the unexpected happened. No one could coordinate the flying blocks the way Bartovi did, and these last two were perfect examples of his efficiency. He had remained below as a backup, ready to take up the slack if any part of his plan fell apart. But it had not. His careful and strategic planning had meant he had not had to fire even one shot himself.

Nosiar walked down the hall to the elevator. More than a few civilians lay dead below, and he would more than likely have to step over their corpses when he left the hotel. That was unfortunate because most of them would be fellow Muslims. But as he had done before, he pushed such uncomfortable thoughts from his mind.

Casualties were inevitable. Some had to die so that others could live. And the end of the jihad would certainly justify the means. He would fight on and continue to prepare for whatever happened. Nosiar wanted the current semi-Islamic government to be overthrown. It was weak and needed to be replaced by a total Islamic theocracy. But he could not afford to let the godless rebels win, either. If they ever became organized enough to take over, they would set up a satanic democracy. For some time now, Nosiar and his fellow al Qaeda brothers had planned to do their best to keep the war going. The two sides would eventually destroy each other, and when they did, al Qaeda would take over and set up the Islamic government that God wanted.

Nosiar pushed the down button and waited on the elevator. The problem he faced was that that plan was taking too long. So he had come up with an alternate course of action. One that would speed up the process of al Qaeda’s takeover.

Or destroy Radestan altogether and provide the means for al Qaeda to start the country anew from the very foundation.

The elevator doors opened and Nosiar stepped inside.

Either way, God’s will would be done.