Allah's Scorpion Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  PART TWO

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  PART THREE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  PART FOUR

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  FICTION BY DAVID HAGBERG

  Copyright Page

  This novel is for Lorrel.

  PROLOGUE

  GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA

  Under an overcast moonless sky, a rubber raft came ashore three hundred meters east of the U.S. Naval Base Guantanamo Bay’s outer security fence. Four men dressed in U.S. Navy SEAL night fighter camos, their faces blackened, Heckler & Koch suppressed baseline carbines strapped to their backs, jumped out of the boat and quickly carried it ten meters up the beach to some tall grass. They moved swiftly, efficiently, as a well-practiced team.

  Their leader, who’d entered Cuba with his operators ten days earlier under a French passport identifying him as Pierre Halille, raised a pair of Steiner Mil Spec binoculars to his eyes and scanned the beach in the direction of the U.S. Navy Base and the sprawling Camp Delta detention facility situated on a bluff that rose nearly fifty meters above sea level. He was sweating lightly even though the night was relatively cool. He was not used to the humidity, and a great deal was at stake this morning, not the least of which was his life and the lives of his men.

  The fence was six meters tall and was topped with coils of razor wire. Strong searchlights atop guard towers at one-hundred-meter intervals lit the no-man’s zones like day. Nothing could get close without being spotted, either by the American military guards on the inside or the Cuban Frontier Brigade patrolling the outside.

  Other lights were on throughout the sprawling camp, but very little activity went on at this hour. The main part of the base, with its hospital, schools, barracks, dining halls, and recreation centers, was to the west, along the bay, housed mostly in prefab buildings, large air-conditioned tents, and a collection of white-walled concrete-block buildings with red roofs. Base headquarters, the hospital, the school, and several other facilities were housed in more substantial buildings, yet even from here the installation looked temporary.

  Farther to the west, on the other side of the bay, Leeward Point Field served as Gitmo’s airfield, while on this side were eight separate detention areas, each within its own fenced and heavily guarded compound. Three were for high-security-risk prisoners, another three for medium risk, one for minimum risk, and the eighth, Camp Echo, outside the main detention area, was used for low-risk inmates selected for hearings before a military tribunal. These were the prisoners who would be the first to be released and returned to their home countries.

  He lowered his binoculars and raised his watch. It was 2:18 A.M. He held his breath and cocked his head to listen for a noise, any noise that might indicate their presence was known. U.S. Navy and Coast Guard fast-attack boats patrolled these waters to prevent escapes from the base by sea. But the only sounds were the small waves sighing ashore.

  In twenty-two minutes a diversion would begin five kilometers away at the northeast perimeter. They had to be in place before it began. It was the only way in which they had even the slightest chance of reaching Echo. A Cuban Frontier Brigade combat unit would make one of its routine probes on base defenses. This evening the attack would be more intense than usual, and would last much longer than normal, drawing the Americans to the opposite side of the base from Camp Delta, where the hills rose steeply behind the outer fence.

  Returning the binoculars to a zippered pocket in his camos, he unslung his carbine, and without a word, headed north through the scrub brush, keeping the no-man’s zone fifty meters to the left. His three men fell in silently behind him.

  As they approached the first guard tower, he motioned for his people to drop to the ground. They would have to continue on their bellies. Although it was the middle of the night, the U.S. Army troops here had a fearsome reputation. This place wasn’t another Abu Ghraib, but not one freedom fighter or mujahideen had ever escaped. Nor did he want to run into a Cuban patrol. He took great care to make no noise, and to keep his head down until they were twenty meters past the tower, and even then he motioned for his brothers to keep low and move slow.

  They had come to rescue five prisoners, not become prisoners themselves.

  Several minutes later they came to a spot directly opposite the second guard tower. They were on a slight rise here, the terrain dipping down to the no-man’s zone and a tall fence, before angling sharply upward to the Camp Delta bluff and inner security fences. But there was considerably more scrub brush and sea oats, providing them decent cover.

  Halille, whose real name was Sharif al-Habib, raised a hand for his men to halt and drop to the ground. He checked his watch again. It was 2:37 A.M. He looked back at the others and nodded. They had reached their first objective with three minutes to spare. So far there had been no signs that their presence had been detected. The Cuban fishing boat, Nueva Cruz, that had dropped them off five kilometers southeast of the bay had not been challenged by the U.S. Coast Guard that patrolled these waters, for the simple reason that the boat was only one of a fleet of a dozen similar commercial fishermen that worked close inshore every night. In reality, the Coast Guard, like the soldie
rs manning the towers, and the military policemen who kept watch over the eight individual detention camps within Delta, looked inward. They were guarding against prisoners breaking out, not mujahideen breaking in.

  Al-Habib took a small tripod out of a pocket, opened its legs, and attached his M8 to the base shoe. He took a prone position, and adjusted his sightline until he picked up the silhouette of the lone guard on the tower sixty meters away in his scope. His heart hammered in his chest, and all the spit had dried up in his mouth. They had gotten to this point because of good intelligence: They knew the Coast Guard patrol routes and times, they knew when the Frontier Brigade guards on the beach would be at the northern leg of their patrol, and six months ago they had been given a detailed topographic map of the U.S. facility, as well as the surrounding area on either side of the winding bay. From the maps they had spotted a weakness in Camp Delta’s perimeter. A way in, and a way back out.

  Now the mission depended on how accurate al-Habib’s aim was.

  “There is a possibility of failure at every step of your journey, Sharif,” Osama bin Laden had warned him six months ago on the Pakistani side of the mountains outside Drosh. “I do not want you or the others to die for the cause yet. This is very important.”

  “Insh’allah,” al-Habib had replied. He had been fighting Jews for more than twenty years, since he was a boy on the West Bank. He’d only been six the first time he went with his brothers to throw stones at Israeli APCs in Nablus. Now his brothers were dead, his father was gone, and he knew of no Palestinian who hadn’t lost family members. He was not afraid of dying.

  “Yes, God willing, but it is the hearts and minds of men who do His work,” bin Laden said gently. He nodded and smiled with such incredible warmth and sadness that all the air seemed to go out of the cave. “Your heart, Sharif. Your mind.”

  Al-Habib had felt love washing through his body. It was, he remembered now, as if God’s own hand had caressed his heart. “I won’t let you down.”

  “It’s not for me, Sharif,” bin Laden said. He took al-Habib by the arm and they went outside into the cool mountain evening. They had the ephemeris of every Western spy satellite. None were in position overhead at this moment. “Your struggle is for the jihad. For our people. For Allah.”

  Bin Laden was a legend among Islamic militants everywhere because of his service in Afghanistan. He had brought only his construction equipment, his money, and his brilliance up against the might of the entire Russian army. And he had won. By doing so he’d inspired an entire generation of mujahideen to take up the fight; to be bold, to have initiative, and best of all, to have heart. If you will believe in God, He will believe in you. And al-Habib truly believed in God, in the struggle, and most of all, in bin Laden.

  Sixty meters away, the tower guard disappeared. Al-Habib’s heart lurched, and he looked up from the scope. Everything hinged on taking the guard down without raising an alarm, so that they could approach the fence where a drainage tunnel was located, cut through the screen, climb the bluff up to the camp, take out the two guards outside Echo, retrieve the five prisoners waiting for them, and then make their way back to the Nueva Cruz.

  “Men fadlak,” he whispered under his breath. Please. The diversion would begin at any moment. He could feel the tension of his men behind him.

  A zephyr of a breeze caressed his cheek, bringing with it the hint of soft music playing from a great distance. A radio perhaps. He leaned forward into the sniper scope, steadying his aim so that the backlit reticle was centered on the tower’s west observation port.

  “This mission is important, Sharif,” bin Laden had said. “The brothers you will rescue have an inestimable value. Do you understand?”

  “We will not fail.”

  A mock-up of a portion of Camp Delta had been built in the desert outside Damascus where al-Habib and his people had trained. It had been cleverly constructed in disconnected sections so that the satellites would see this installation as nothing more than another base for Islamic militants. Such places were common in Syria. Bin Laden had come to the camp at great personal risk to speak to al-Habib before he left for Cuba. It had been such a huge honor that al-Habib’s stature among the Syrians had immediately risen to astronomical heights.

  “I do not want you to needlessly sacrifice your life for this mission, but the brothers you will rescue are even more important than you. You must free them and bring them back here unharmed.”

  It was night and they stood beneath an awning to conceal them from an American Keyhole satellite. Bin Laden was a full head taller than al-Habib, but he had to use the battered Kalashnikov rifle he’d carried since Afghanistan as a cane. Their eyes met and al-Habib was struck by three things: the man’s patience, his great intellect, and a sadness that lay heavy around him, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “What if we run into resistance, Imam?” al-Habib asked respectfully. During the last three months of their training they’d all been struck by how fragile a mission this was. So many things could go wrong.

  Bin Laden laid a gentle hand on al-Habib’s shoulder. “If it becomes clear that you will not succeed, you must kill them. Under no circumstances must they fall back into American hands.”

  If the prisoners were so important, al-Habib wanted to know, why would they be held in the minimum-security Camp Echo? But he didn’t ask the question. There were some things better left unsaid. Now, he wondered if he’d been wise, or if he’d simply been dazzled by bin Laden’s presence.

  The guard came into sight. Al-Habib’s gut instantly tightened. He thumbed the safety selector lever to the off, single-fire position, and with his free hand, motioned for his people to make ready. It was time now. Any second—

  A bright flash blossomed in the hills several kilometers to the north, directly behind the base. Before the sharp boom of the explosion arrived, the tower guard started to turn toward the light, his head in profile at the exact moment al-Habib squeezed off one shot.

  With a muzzle velocity in excess of 2,850 feet per second, the 5.56-by-45mm NATO round covered the sixty meters in less than one second, the noise from the supersonic round all but lost in the confusion. The guard’s head was shoved violently forward, al-Habib could see the impact of the bullet before the American was down.

  The sound of the initial flash-bang mortar shell rolled across the base, followed immediately by a lot of small-arms fire, all concentrated to the northeast.

  A siren sounded somewhere inland to the west, probably at base headquarters, and lights started coming on all over the place.

  Al-Habib looked up from the scope and held his breath. The next part was crucial if their mission had any hope of succeeding. The diversion had to temporarily lead the American defenses away from this end of the base. The window did not have to be a big one, because Camp Echo was less than two hundred meters from this spot. But they needed at least seven minutes to get in, free the five prisoners, and get back out.

  Another flash-bang mortar round went off in the distance, and the small-arms fire intensified, mostly Kalashnikovs, but al-Habib could hear machine-gun fire, possibly the U.S.-made M60s that the Cuban military used.

  Nothing moved in the tower, nor had the local alarm sounded, which meant that the guard had gone down without hitting the Panic button. No one was coming to the rescue. Yet.

  Al-Habib detached his weapon from its tripod and, keeping low, scrambled down the shallow slope to the two-meter-wide drainage ditch that paralleled the fence. An oval, corrugated metal drainage pipe, just wide enough for one man at a time to enter, crossed beneath the fence to a similar drainage ditch on the inside of the camp. The opening was covered by a thick metal grate.

  He dropped to one knee and trained his scope on the nearest tower one hundred meters to the north as Abu Bukhari slung his weapon and started on the grate with bolt cutters.

  The distant tower guard was gone, and when he raised his scope, he could see no activity on the bluff.


  In less than thirty seconds Bukhari had the grate off, and without a word climbed into the twenty-meter-long tunnel and disappeared in the darkness. Ibin Kamal and Omar Sufyan, good West Bank boys, followed, leaving al-Habib alone for just a moment in the middle of a mission for which all of his self-confidence had disappeared. Once they were inside the perimeter, the Americans would shoot to kill.

  Al-Habib touched the fingers of his left hand to his chest to feel for the one-kilo block of Semtex plastic explosive taped to his body. It had been his idea. Bin Laden didn’t want any of the prisoners they’d come to rescue to be recaptured. Neither would he or his men be taken alive. For just an instant he had a vision of his father’s tear-stained face, and he shook his head.

  What is writ by the hand of God cannot be put asunder by the mere will of man.

  The jihad was right and just. “Writ by the hand of God,” al-Habib mumbled. “No question.”

  He ducked into the tunnel and crawled on his hands and knees to the other side, reaching the opening just as Sufyan was pulling himself out. He didn’t suffer from claustrophobia, nevertheless he was glad to be back out in the open air, even though he was getting the increasingly uncomfortable feeling that he had come to the end of his life.

  The action to the north was heating up as American forces began returning fire. There would be nothing in Cuban or U.S. newspapers about the routine probe, but a U.S. military report would mention the incident, the greater-than-usual quantity of ordinance expended, and the fact that no casualties were sustained. Nothing would be mentioned about the prison break, or the casualties here.

  The four of them crossed the no-man’s zone and started up the steep slope, clawing at the loose sand and crumbling rock, trying to hurry as fast as they could while making the minimum of noise.

  At the crest of the bluff, they held up. Camp Delta, behind its own razor-wire-topped fence, consisted of several dozen concrete block detention units, each with its own inner fence and security station manned by MPs.

  Kamal pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then pointed them in the direction of a low, concrete block building just outside the main detention area, which housed Camp Echo.