Chapter 1

 

March 2002 - Outside Kandahar Afghanistan

 

It was almost dusk when they approached the warehouse.  The desert wind whipped the sand into tiny dust devils and a skinny stray dog with one eye kept pace with the jeep, warily watching the marines inside.  The warehouse was dead silent and ominous against the purple sky.   The temperature, over one hundred degrees a few hours before, was rapidly dropping.

                Major Chad Milton raised a hand signaling his patrol to stop and put a pair of binoculars against his eyes.  All appeared quiet and there were no signs of activity around the large metal building.  Yellow paint peeled from corrugated walls and there was scorching around the doorways.  Rusty bullet holes were visible on one side of the structure.

                "What do you think?" Milton asked Corporal Lance Steglitz, a bookish, quiet young man with black plastic eyeglasses.

                "Intel suggests it's an opium den, sir," Steglitz replied, staring at a sheaf of green bar computer printouts.

                The term 'Opium Den' was slang for the Taliban controlled warehouses throughout Afghanistan that were stuffed full of bags of unprocessed opium.  The Taliban had put a halt to the cultivation of opium poppies a few years before but not before stockpiling all of the available drug in warehouses such as this one.  They would dig into their reserves whenever they needed a ready supply of cash to further their vision of the perfect Islamic caliphate.

                "It looks quiet enough, probably emptied out a while ago," Milton said and picking up the radio directed his men to position themselves to enter the building.  Milton gave the necessary orders and pulled his jeep parallel to the warehouse.  A private in the back trained a .50 caliber machine gun on the entrance.

                For some reason, even with all of the activity going on around him, Milton couldn't get a song out of his head he'd heard at Kandahar Airfield earlier in the day.  Someone had a boombox and he heard Bob Dylan blasting from behind a tent flap.  It seemed so incongruous to be hearing such a familiar song in such a strange place.

 

                "How does it feel?  To be on your own?  With no direction home..."

 

                Four marines in desert camouflage positioned themselves on either side of the doorway, M-16 assault rifles at the ready.  Two more kicked in the flimsy sheet of tin which functioned as a door. The soldiers entered the building and all was quiet.  Three minutes later a black sergeant emerged with his rifle pointed at the ground.  He collapsed to his knees and vomited in the dirt, tears streaming from his eyes.

               

Milton's radio crackled.

 

"Sir, I think you better take a look at this."

 

It was dark inside the warehouse when Milton and Steglitz entered.  Four marines trained flashlights on the horror they had discovered.  Lined up in neat rows on the concrete slab were sixteen corpses.  Fire had turned the bodies into bizarre parodies of the human form.  Twisted arms and legs stuck up at odd angles and shrunken heads displayed haunting rictal grins where heat had peeled back lips.  They were completely black and reduced to a fraction of the size they had been in life by fat sizzled off bone.  Five empty jerricans sat off to one side.  The air smelled of ashes and overcooked meat. 

                "Jesus Christ all mighty," Milton swore, "What the fuck happened here?  A missile?  Napalm?"

                "Carter says we didn't do this.  Somebody did a number on these guys with gasoline," Steglitz reported, "You can see the accelerant marks on the concrete and those bodies are so crispy that they couldn't have been moved here, they would have broken into pieces in transport.  He also says it looks like they were burned alive, although he can't be sure."

                "They're lined up like they were laying down when it happened.  Would you just lay down and let somebody burn you to death?"

                "Well sir, it will take our experts a while to figure out what happened, if they ever figure it out.  Best we can tell based on what's left of the clothes and all of the weapons laying around, these were Taliban fighters, possibly Arabs."

                "You know how fanatical these guys are Corporal.  Even with a gun to their heads they wouldn't let somebody soak them in gas and light a match," Milton said.

                "Maybe they did it to themselves, sir, some kind of extremist suicide pact," Steglitz responded.

                Milton raised the back of his hand to cover his mouth and signaled a withdrawal from the building with the other hand.  Outside the one-eyed stray let out a mournful howl.

                "Come on, these guys aren't going anywhere, we can wait outside until the cavalry arrives."

               

In his head a verse kept repeating over and over.

               

"How does it feel?"

 

April 2002 - Karachi, Pakistan

 

The sign identified the compound as a nursery.  On the busy street in front of the buildings Toyotas and Mercedes competed with ox drawn carts and crowds of pedestrians wearing the traditional white long shirts favored by Pakistani men.

                 Behind a stone wall and two greenhouses was a non-descript gray outbuilding with one small window.  Inside, Mohammed Zyef, a twenty three year old Saudi finished his afternoon prayers and rolled up his prayer mat.    He took a final bow towards the Country of the Two Holy Places and let out his breath.  His prayers had taken on a special significance since the Director had entrusted him with such an important task.  All of his life, his upbringing in southern Saudi Arabia, his years of study in the Madrassas of Eastern Pakistan, his time with the clerics in Afghanistan, had all led up to this moment.  He now had his chance to prove himself as a true mujahadeen and if necessary, a holy martyr. 

                Mohammed drew back a curtain and entered the space behind the prayer alcove.  Sitting at a scarred wooden table in the dark room was a small gray haired man in a black suit, a gold charm pinned to his lapel.  As Mohammed bowed in respect the man reached a withered hand into a glass bowl and pulled out a brown locust.   He opened his thin, colorless lips, popped the squirming insect into his mouth and bit down with a wet crunch.

                "The Director says the mission will soon begin," Mohammed said in flawless English.

                "Yez Mohammed," the man responded smacking his lips, “in three days we will go to America."

                "Praise be to Allah," Mohammed said solemnly, turning his eyes skyward.

                "Yes indeed," Otto said in his clipped German accent.  He reached down to a black cloth bag in his lap and stroked it softly. 

                Behind Otto standing at attention were three tall Muslim warriors in black coats and turbans.  Dark sunglasses covered their eyes and the skin on their faces and hands shimmered gray. 

Otto reached for another locust.  Mohammed bowed and exited through the curtain.  From behind the glasses of one of the warriors a wisp of black smoke emerged and twisted towards the ceiling.