Terror Trail

“Then you have proved yourself worthy, Ibrahim Hammid. You are among brothers.” He pointed in the direction of one of the huts. “Come, we will see to your needs.”

As he entered the hut behind Kerim a cool stream of air could be felt. It came from an air conditioner in one corner of the hut. James stood for a moment and let the flow wash over him.

“A generator behind the huts provides the power,” Kerim explained. “It is needed to keep the temperature down to cool the environment.” Kerim smiled. “Even out here the trappings of the modern age are needed.”

James made no comment as he eyed the top-of-the-line laptop computer sitting on the plain wooden desk. There were a number of cheap plastic office chairs ranged around the desk.

“Allah provides,” Kerim said, ‘but even He cannot give us everything we need.” He gestured to a seat. “Sit, Ibrahim, and I will provide.”

Kerim brought James a cup of black coffee from a thermos flask. He watched as the first cup was quickly drained and refilled it. He sat behind a plain wooden desk and studied his new recruit.

“You are still puzzled. Yes?” James nodded. “A simple test we put every new man through,” Kerim said. “A test of resolve. A way of assessing inner faith. And to satisfy those who may have suspicions as to the character of someone they know little of.” Kerim laid his hands flat on the desktop. “I chose you, Ibrahim, because what I saw and heard when we first met convinced me you were a true believer. A man with the will to make your stand against the true enemies of Islam. If I had not had enough faith then I would not have chosen you. I would have walked away and you would still be on the city streets. A lost and wasted soul. Others have been brought here, put in the cage, and many have broken quickly.” He smiled again. “But you, Ibrahim Hammid, lost nothing of your faith. The doubters will be satisfied now.”

“Thank you, brother,” James said. “Your faith in me makes me humble.”

Kerim began to speak in French, his voice soft, persuasive.

“You will rest and refresh yourself today. Tomorrow your training will begin. Weapons. Handguns. Automatic rifles. Hand grenades. The use of the knife.” He paused. “Forgive my indulgence but it is not often I am able to converse in French. It is a language I enjoy. Do you mind, brother, if we speak it together?”

James shook his head. “It was my mother’s tongue. It reminds me of her.”

They spent some time together. Kerim had food brought in for James. Gave him more coffee. James ate sparingly. Gorging too heavily after four days of very little food could have made him ill.

Finally Kerim said, “Forgive me, brother. You need to rest.”

He led James outside and took him to an empty tent. Inside was a low cot and blankets. Then he took James to where he could wash and dress in provided clean clothing.

“I will leave you now. Rest well, brother. Tomorrow we start your education.”

* * *

JAMES SLEPT WELL that night. In the morning, after prayers and breakfast, Kerim took him on a brief tour of the camp. James counted well over two dozen Hand of Allah followers. Every man was armed. Outside Kerim’s hut was a satellite dish and antenna. A mobile generator stood some distance away, a power cable connected to Kerim’s hut. The hut next to Kerim’s was the weapons center. James saw a number of vehicles some distance behind the huts. The dusty and much-used Toyota pickups were equipped with wide, deep-tread tires for negotiating the desert terrain.

James noticed that every snatch of conversation he picked up was in English. There was no other language being spoken. He mentioned this to Kerim.

“You will hear only English being spoken around the camp,” Kerim said. “I want every man to converse in English once they reach the U.S.A. Just another way of lessening suspicion. For our people to fit in. To make the Americans feel more comfortable. So while they are here only English is allowed.”

“Did that make your choices harder?”

“Not really,” Kerim said. “Just that much more selective. But not impossible. English is a widely used language so we had enough people to bring in.”

“Is that why there seem to be American objects around in the tents? I saw American magazines and newspapers. Candy bars. American coffee.”

“I was right about you, Ibrahim, in what I thought. You are very observant. You talk very little but you see everything. And you are correct. I want our soldiers to learn about American life—the habits of the people, the way they act, go about their daily lives. We have videos we show the teams. How to follow the rules in American cities and towns. The use of American currency. Some may be small things but they will accustom our soldiers how to behave once they reach America and walk the streets. They must not stand out. They must blend in. Be invisible so that when they strike no one will be expecting it. In the time they have they must be able to inflict maximum damage.”

James simply nodded in recognition of Kerim’s revelations. Despite his revulsion of the man’s concept, there was no denying the brilliance of the terrorist’s plan.

And it made the Phoenix Force warrior all the more determined to do everything he could to make certain the Hand of Allah kill teams did not carry out the mission they were training for.

After the tour, James was taken to the hut where the ordnance was stored. He was given an AK-47 with a loaded magazine and a Beretta 92F, also ready for use. There was also a matte-black Gerber combat knife.

“Carry these with you at all times,” Kerim advised. “Yes, we have protection but it is not wise to allow complacency to make us weak. You understand? If there was an attack on the camp we must be willing to defend it.”

James handled the weapons as any novice would. His Phoenix Force skills were going to have to be denied until Ibrahim had gone through his “training.”

They moved away from the camp and came to the firing range. The sound of auto-fire had been noticeable for some time. There were a half-dozen shooters using their weapons on the selection of targets set up at different distances.

Kerim gestured for a lean figure dressed in military fatigues to join them. The man, dark skinned with fierce eyes, wore a hard expression on his scarred face.

“This is Anwar. He will train you. Listen well to him and do as he instructs. He also speaks English.”

Anwar studied James for a moment.

“He looks fit,” he said. “Have you ever fired a weapon?” he asked James.

“Never.”

“At least you won’t have any bad habits, then. That’s something in your favor. Come with me and we will begin.”

“I will leave you in Anwar’s hands,” Kerim said and walked away.

There was a trestle table set up at the side of the range. Anwar pointed to it.

“Place your weapons on the table.”

James did as he was told.

“AK-47 assault rifle,” Anwar said. “Still one of the best. Caliber 7.62 mm copper-jacketed bullets. Has a punch that will knock a man off his feet and go right through him. Magazine holds thirty rounds. Once you get the feel you should be able to change a magazine in seconds. Selector lets you use full auto, or fire one shot at a time. The weapons you will be given once you reach America will be without the stock to reduce the length. This will make it a little easier to conceal. The automatic pistol is a Beretta 92F. Solid, dependable 9 mm weapon. Magazine holds thirteen shots. A man with a few extra magazines will carry a lot of firepower. Quick magazine changes mean you can get through a large number of shots quickly. More shots, more results. In a crowded place people will panic once the shooting starts, so you’ll be able to pick a lot of targets in a short time. Now, first we’ll go through each weapon. Strip down and reassemble. We will start with the Beretta… .”

CHAPTER SIX

Los Angeles

Doug Castle saw his partner emerge from Starbucks with a coffee cup in each hand. He watched as Larry Shapiro crossed the street, heading for the parked cruiser, weaving between the pedestrians milling around the town square. Shapiro was no lightweight but he maneuvered the crowd like a trained gymnast. Castle was grinning as he stepped out of the cruiser to meet his partner.

The two cops had been partnered for almost five years. They were good cops, though not promotional material. They liked the way things were. Steady and uncomplicated. Let the ambitious guys go for the higher ranks, even plainclothes in the detective division. That might bring in more pay, but it also brought more responsibility, longer hours and fractured lives. Castle and Shapiro preferred their street-cop existence. The younger guys could have all the pressure.

Through the open door of the cruiser Castle could hear the click and hiss of the car’s radio. The dispatcher’s voice came and went, issuing instructions, keeping track of the city’s patrol vehicles. He hoped nothing would come through to break into their midmorning coffee halt.

“Hell of a crowd in there,” Shapiro said. He handed Castle his paper cup. “Watch out, it’s hot.”

“You don’t say.” Castle felt the scalding brew leeching through the waxed cardboard. “Hey, you forgot the protector.”

“They ran out,” Shapiro said.

A couple of young children ran by, yelling and screaming excitedly.

Castle took off his uniform cap, sleeved his forehead. “Hot day.”