Salal sensed movement in the darkened room and tightened his grip on the AK-47 at his side.
He strained to hear a whispered voice.
“Osama,” the voice said, “awaken at once. We must go from this place. The Americans are coming.”
There was a soft rustling of cloth and a calm, deep voice responded in Arabic.
“How many are they? How far away?”
A rifle barrel scraped on the wall as the weapon clattered to the floor.
“An hour, maybe more, perhaps a bit less. One of our men in Islamabad informs us a large transport
aircraft from the American base at Dalbandin has been observed. One of our agents at the control
tower in Islamabad has been tracking the plane by radar. The plane is moving in a direction he
thought suspicious. A few moments ago, the aircraft somewhat changed direction and is now on a
course which will cross the border on a path close to this place.”
Salal sat up from the hard stone floor on which he lay, awake in an instant, all senses alert
and on guard.
“Just one plane?” Salal asked, now wide awake.
Salal was a lean man who had let his silver flecked beard grow long in the manner of bin Laden
himself. His eyes were quick and bright, dark, shining and empty akin to a bird of prey. He was
in Afghanistan for a bit over three months and missed the warmth of his Palestinian homeland,
the heat of the desert safe havens which were his sanctuaries.
“Yes, only one was seen,” replied the messenger who served as one of Osama’s inner circle of
trusted body guards.
The other man in the small charcoal warmed room stirred. A long body emerged from under a
heavy sheep wool hide, his face instantly recognizable.
The two men, Osama bin Laden and Salal l‘Rahal, rousted about the confined space in an organized
and efficient manner issuing orders to their small band of dedicated bodyguards, gathering belongings
stuffing food and clothing into ruck sacks. They had both done this type of evacuation many times
before and were well practiced in its execution. Neither their voices nor their actions betrayed
any sign of panic or anxiety. Knowing the Americans had put a huge price on their heads and had
hounded them with determination served to make them more alert to impending danger and more
cautious in their actions.
“Send word to our Taliban friends in the mountains to the North. Tell them we are coming,”
bin Laden directed. “Tell the others we leave straight away.”
“It has already been done. Machmued has assembled the men. He has organized a rear guard.
We will delay the Americans if they come in force,” the man responded.
Salal was silent for a moment, bit on his lower lip and tugged inattentively at his beard.
He raised a hand in a gesture signaling a pause for re-examination.
“The Americans are not coming in force,” Salal said to bin Laden. “Perhaps they have learned
from spies where we are and few in number. I think the ones who come are assassins who seek to
take us by surprise. The men they send will be their very best or even with our few numbers
they would have sent a larger force with more planes. No, they come by stealth to catch us
unawares in our beds. They will attack when the sun touches the valley.”
Another of bin Laden’s personal body guards spoke from the doorway.
“We should attack them before they can harm us. We can ambush and harass them in the mountains.”
“No,” Salal replied while he and the others gathered their belongings. “The most important
thing is our safety. The Americans cannot be allowed to take us. Escape is more important.
Besides we are too few at this place and the time to send word and gather men before the
Americans arrive has already past. We are too late for this choice. Let them come -- we
will be gone.”
Turning to bin Laden, Salal continued.
“Leave the rear guard under Machmued’s command. He knows well how to delay the Americans.
Send another of your men to the Taliban friends who are with us to the south and to the west.
Let the Taliban gather and attack the Americans in the mountains as they withdraw. The death
of the Americans will be a good example for those who are still undecided in their support for us.”
“Yes, a wise course,” bin Laden replied after a moment’s thought.
“Once the American assassins are engaged,” Salal continued, “they will call for reinforcements.
The diversion and confusion to save the assassins will distract the Americans from our escape.
By the time they realize we are not there, we will be safely away and across the border into
Tajikistan. They will have political and diplomatic difficulty in following us and our friends
there will protect us.”
Osama bin Laden nodded his agreement and, drawing to his full six foot four inch height,
turned to the bodyguard.
“Make it as Salal has said,” he ordered. “We will dance away from the Americans for now,
but in Allah’s short time we will become a lion and rip Americai flesh with sharp Arab teeth.”
Turning to Salal, the terrorist commander in chief continued. “Come good friend, it is time
for us to depart. Again you have proved to be wise in your counsel. We will not be taken.”
Salal nodded and gathered up his sparse gear. His thoughts went back to a time seven months
earlier when again he had been forced to flee from Americans close on his heels.
* * *
Unobserved, the SEAL team jumped their MC-5 ram air parachutes and steered them into a glacier
landing zone, LZ, high in the Hindukush Mountains. As they were about to touch the snow field
beneath them, the men released clumsy leg mounted cargo packs and flew their chutes in for
easy touch, stand-up landings. They reassembled at the edge of the drop zone, the team recovered
their equipments and donned Afghan native dress over their uniforms. Black hooded ski masks were
replaced with long tailed Afghani turbans which were twisted about their head to provide
protection to their wind exposed faces.
Reconstituted and organized, the eight men, without conversation, deployed into tactical
formation and moved off the ice and snow field. Their slogging forced march was made even
more difficult and arduous by the thin air. Although the entire team had undergone high
altitude acclimatization, the cold and high elevation nonetheless had a lethargic, fatiguing
effect. Only because of their rugged physical condition and focus was the team was able to
make the trek in a little over 90 minutes.
A cheerless sun transformed the purple night to a chilled, blue blur of fog and swirling snow
as morning came to life. Peaks, darkened by night, transformed from purple, blue-black shadows
and black crevasses to softer, less ominous shades in the break of dawn sky. The sun climbed
over the rim of the horizon, an orange orb at the back of the SEAL team which brought no
warmth to the wind which scoured 24,550 foot heights of Nowshak, the highest of the Hindu
Kush chain.
Christ, it’s cold, Gannon thought. He shifted his pack in an effort to relieve a cramp which
had developed in his left thigh. As a rule he dismissed the bits of plastic and metal which
formed the prosthesis fitted to his left leg just below the knee with deprecating humor, but
not this morning. The stump of his left leg hurt and was throbbing, sending a pulse of
discomfort to the trunk of his body with each beat of his heart.
By far the oldest member of the assault force Matt Gannon reflected on the events which
had led him to the moment where the Lockheed built Hercules powered him through the night
and into the morning skies. The trek had in fact started in September two years earlier
with a call from the office of the Army Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence, Lieutenant
General Rufus Brandt.
“The mission is to kill or capture an evil man,” Brandt had said when Matt had finally
completed his vetting and was cleared for the “EYES ONLY” intelligence file. “You’ll be the
trigger on the trap. Your life will be put in extreme prejudice. I wouldn’t make an even
money bet on your chances of survival. Are you still interested?”
“Yes sir,” Matt had responded.
Thus far the mission’s journey had taken Matt Gannon through Operations Jericho, Gambit,
and Judas and had resulted in the loss of his lower left leg. In less than twenty-four months
he had been cast into the bowels of international terrorism, made an obsessive, extremely
dangerous enemy in the personage of Salal, come far too close to death, and somewhat to his
personal regret, left behind a successful army career. He had also acquired a wife, found
and lost new friends, come to know men --both admirable and dishonorable-- and now, was
engaged in a clandestine mission in a bucking MC-130 over the mountains of Afghanistan.
You’ve come a long way Gannon, and right now you’re really out there on the edge, he thought.
Matt thought back to the first meeting five months ago with Phil Hobler, the US Ambassador
to Pakistan. The concerns voiced during the meeting were not lost on him as he recalled the
cautions as he trudged through the hard packed snow.