Born of War (28 page)

“W
e have a lead on another cell.” An agent was manning a front-row workstation when the classified email came through from the National Security Agency.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation's Strategic Information and Operations Center had kept a special work group focused on Omar since Mobile, and now Reagan. As at other high-speed operations centers, the rows of desks and computer stations faced a wall of digital flat-screened panels. A large panel dominated by several side graphics showed information from around the world.

“What is it?” The SIOC duty officer had a number of people on the list he had to keep informed regarding Omar. He typed in some key words and a photograph of Abo Omar Fazul
al-Amriiki, al-Kanadi, as-Somali
, popped up. It showed his date of birth, making him no more than twenty-five years old, and his place of birth being Mobile, Alabama. It showed a picture of his wife with a last-known location of Cairo. And another photograph showed a small ranch home with a black mailbox on a wooden pole in the front yard. It was a well-cut yard with the bushes trimmed and roses blooming in the front flower beds.

Another photograph showed an older man with the light brown skin of someone born in the Middle East, and a black moustache, in a pose for an Alabama driver's license. He wore a white shirt with the collar edges sticking up slightly, and a striped tie tied in a large knot. Another photograph showed a woman, a schoolteacher, with large-rimmed glasses.

The house could not look more American.
The operations chief played with his mouse, amplifying the photograph of the suburban home somewhere across Mobile Bay.

“NSA had him on the list.”

Omar was an easy one to track. Despite the media's uproar about NSA's search through millions of Americans' lives, this one passed all the tests for a closer scrutiny. They had every telephone call pulled in from America to Somalia, and from Somalia to America. As a result, a federal court had cleared it so that Omar could be the target of all levels of scrutiny.

Omar had another distinction. He was rapidly moving up the FBI's Most Wanted list. The government had just issued a reward of $5,000,000 for him.

The tracking of telephone calls to the wife in Egypt was also high on the list. They knew that the wife was pregnant with their first child. And they knew that she was trying to leave Egypt. Her loyalty to the cause seemed to be withering. The mother-to-be did not seem to be as committed now that her child was involved.

The resident agent in Cairo had been working with the Egyptian intelligence service on keeping track of Mrs. Omar Dhaahir. Despite the public chaos reported by the media in Egypt, the intelligence service still had a strong grip on what was going on locally. They particularly had no love for the jihadists who were passing through Cairo from around the world to either Somalia or Iraq or Pakistan. The connective tissue to the tumor called Al Qaeda often had a common passing point, and the crossover was Cairo.

“What did they find?”

“We had the emails we pulled from when he was in Toronto.” The Bureau could reach deep and well into the past when they had a strong target. “He mentioned ‘Papafour five eight zero' more than once.”

The email from the NSA showed the transcription of a telephone call made from a cell phone, triangulated to a location on the plateau on the west side of southern Somalia. The location was pictured on a map. The call was to Cairo.

“He is asking his wife to tell the Somali milkman to deliver $45.80 worth of milk and eggs to the Waajib.” The junior agent read the transcription out loud while the others in the room listened.

“So?”

“P4580 is an MSDS.”

The number was known in the chemical transportation world as a reference to a greenish-yellow, corrosive, oxidizing chemical; a liquefied gas with a horrible, irritating odor. It was an odor that didn't last long to the person inhaling it because they quickly died.

“Which one?”

“Chlorine.”

“Hell, the stuff is used everywhere,” the watch officer spoke his thoughts aloud. “So it is likely that someone from Toronto is going to come into the United States and be looking for a concentrated source of the stuff?”

“We are talking trucks or maybe a railroad tank car?” The shift agent who took the incoming email turned his chair around as he spoke to the central desk. The entire shift of officers all turned their chairs so as to face the chief officer.

“Probably a tank car in a populated area?” the chief asked the group.

“Yes, sir. You remember South Carolina?”

They all had studied the South Carolina incident. It didn't involve a crime or a terrorist act. It did involve a railroad tank car that ruptured near a small town. Nine died as they were running from a slow-moving, green-yellowish cloud that seeped into the air-conditioning of a nearby factory. One witness said he saw people running, and as the cloud reached them on the far side of the factory they dropped in their tracks, gasping, with their hands to their throats.

“We need to watch the crossover point Omar used when he left the U.S.”

“Do you think another would be crazy enough to use the same trail?”

“Perhaps.” The chief agent was on duty when the word came across about the attack at Reagan National. He had been on duty when too many calls like that had come across the wire.

“I have another idea. If we are sure it will be chlorine gas, we can stop it at the source.”

“How?”

“We stopped every airplane that flew over America in 2001. Why not stop the movement of any large quantities of the stuff?”

“It might work.”

It was the big containers that posed the most danger. A fourteen-thousand-gallon railroad tank car full of chlorine gas could wipe out much of a city. A small tank of gas on the back of a delivery truck was less of a threat. Could they identify and stop every railroad tank car moving the chemical?

O
mar returned from his walk. Karen could see him from the chest up moving through the savannah grass just beyond the grove of acacia trees. He could be seen pacing around, waving his free hand, as if someone was disagreeing with everything he was saying.

He walked back to her and the others.

“Tarriq is dead.” She greeted him with the news. The body was just behind her, curled up in a fetal position. It was cold and lifeless.

“May he see the face of Allah,” Omar gave the edict.

The others were not as sure. They wore the face of fear. One had been complaining of headaches through the night. He would likely be the next victim. Their silent partner was moving through the group one at a time.

“You seem to not care.” Stewart stared at Omar.

“It is war. There will be losses.”

“But what if the loss is your captives? What will your people on the telephone think?”

She had struck a cord.

“Godane doesn't know what he is doing. We let the Kenyans slaughter us by falling into their traps.” Omar didn't care who was listening. “We need more kidnappings and more hostages. We need money for more ammunition and weapons.”

Karen pulled herself up into the bed of the truck. The rain had come in torrents and then stopped. The monsoon would attack and then retreat. It had caused puddles of water to form on the tarp and she would cup her hands together to try and capture some of the liquid. She would drink and then try to get more for Peter.

She had given up on ever being dry.

If they could build a fire, there was a chance they would start to dry out. But the men were afraid that the fire would attract the enemy. They would only build one when they thought the lions or baboons were close. She had not seen a baboon but could tell, even with her little understanding of Swahili, that the men were more frightened of the baboons than the lions. It seemed that the lions only came when desperate for food.

“How are you doing?” Peter looked worse than before.

“Okay. Just thinking of my mother's cooking.”

“It's not good to think of that.”

“You know I have a child?” Peter turned his head to her.

“No.”

“Yes, I have a son. He and his mother live in Nice.”

“What is his name?”

“Pierre. He's a junior in high school.” Peter was opening up in a way she did not like. He was accepting approaching death.

“His mother told me that if I did not leave the MSF, she would leave me. I had dreams.”

Karen didn't say anything.

“I had a dream of the child that I did not save. I had a dream of the children that I did not save because I stayed home.” Peter held his hands over his chest.

“My mother died last year.” Karen meant to change the subject but didn't realize what subject she was changing to until it was too late. The words just came out. “My father lives for his work. He has become helpless without her.”

“And you left?”

Peter struck a nerve.

“I didn't know how to help.” Karen rubbed her neck with her hand.

“Why are you rubbing your neck?”

“Just a crick from when I fell asleep.”

She pulled the tarp back a moment and looked up into the dark clouds. The rain was softer now but still fell on her face.

“I think I heard something.”

There was the faint sound of a jet, well above the clouds.

“Another jet,” Peter mumbled.

“Do you think they are even looking for us?” she asked.

“We are worth money to these men. Always remember that. And yes, someone is looking for us. I feel it in my bones.”

 

 

Tarriq's men continued to stare at Omar. They were without a leader and knew enough English to realize that criticism of Godane was not wise. Their faces showed that they were uncertain of this
Amriiki
.

“We will go on and meet up with our brothers. Godane and Faud are sending a battalion of men to meet us and bring us to Jilib.” Omar waved the cell phone. It gave him power over them as it was a real form of communication. It made them believe he had orders and a plan.

“Jilib has the bananas.” Omar wanted them to think of food. It would give them direction. Omar had taken charge.

Xasan and his father looked like this was a journey they had not planned for.

“Jilib?”

“Yes, have you ever been to Jilib?”

“No.” Xasan had never traveled to the coast.

“There is plenty of food to eat in Jilib and there will be money.” Omar needed them to all move together to Jilib so he could reach the other fighters.

“Tell us. What is the reward?” Xasan wanted to know.

“You will not get a new tire, my friend. You will get a new truck.” Omar sold the idea. “You will get a bag of
Amriiki
money.”

“A new truck?” Xasan sounded doubtful. There were no new trucks in Ferfer or Beledweyne.

“You will get paid in
Amriiki
money and can go to Kenya to buy a new truck.”

The U.S. dollar had international appeal.

“How much?”

“More than you can dream.”

Their group now consisted of Omar, the three followers of Tarriq, Xasan and his father, and the two prisoners.

“We need food and water. And our brothers are less than a day away.”

Karen and Peter knew that once they were with the larger mujaahidiin force there would be no escape. But they had no energy to do anything but breathe, and that was hard enough.

“Less than a day.” Omar waved the telephone in the air.

The rain came, however, and bought the trackers more time.

“A
mazing.” The Marine major looked at the display showing the location of the tablet with Captain Tola. It had moved far from the Shebelle River and deep into the interior of Somalia.

“What does that scale indicate?” Moncrief looked over his shoulder as they talked.

“They have gone nearly a hundred miles.”

“Damn.” Moncrief knew that the captain would move fast but he didn't know how fast.

“And in this weather.” The major was amazed.

The wind had started to blow the flaps of the tents. Rain came in waves and then would stop for a while.

“The team that went to the departure point is on its way back right now.” The major pointed to another set of red triangles. They, too, had tablets that kept track of their locations. Their red triangles seemed to be nearly on top of the base's location.

“What is the weather forecast?”

“This is the beginning of a good-sized monsoon. It is going to get much worse over the next twenty-four hours.” The major held up a fax showing a map that was covered with lines forming a circle to the west of Ferfer. The lines near the center of the circle were closer together. It was a wall of weather moving in.

“What will this do to the Ospreys?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can they reach our men?” Moncrief looked into the major's eyes to detect what the true answer would be. He didn't like the idea of leaving his man out in the dark without help. If it meant putting on a pack and heading out now, by himself, Moncrief would do what he knew Parker would do for him if their positions were reversed.

The major smiled.

“You said you wanted to go?”

“Yes, sir, without a doubt.”

“Then you are going to find out the hard way.”

Moncrief thought he had gotten the answer.

“This is combat. They go, period.”