Tank took his seat at the table and nodded to the Minister, signalling him to continue.


“Roman Kordinski will be detained under the prevention of terrorism act. His role as a spy or informer will not gift him any special privileges. I will arrange a further meeting with your agency directors at a later date to discuss future protocol,” the Minster was assertive in his manner and the Americans decided not to challenge his decision.


“Now if we can move on, Major Timms where do we stand with the matter internationally?”


 “The arrest of Kordinski is going to affect the Kellesh issue,” the Major began, “whoever is holding the girl is going to realise that she is no longer of any value to Kordinski. Our theory is that the Russian government has given notice to all exiles, that their business interests within the Soviet Union will become state property. The sharp rise in Saudi crude oil prices could be a response to a kidnap demand. Kordinski could be trying to maximise his profits before he loses his oil revenue.”


The Americans nodded in agreement with the Major`s theory. The US agencies had come to a similar conclusion. The Minster coughed dryly and took a sip of water.


“What are our options to resolve the issue?” the Minister asked.


“The Russian constitution does not allow any business to be controlled from outside of the Union, if the directors are proved to be involved in criminal activity.”


Tank looked at the faces round the table, and he deducted that most of the attendees had no idea where the meeting was headed. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure himself. The meeting was attended by covert agencies only. The only member of any government was the British Minister of Defence, which meant that no action requiring conventional allied forces could be proposed. Whatever was coming would require covert operations by clandestine agents. Tank`s sensory perception made his skin tingle with excitement, and he had a feeling that he would be at the centre of what was to come.


“I propose that we inform the Russian government that we have arrested Roman Kordinski, and that he has allegedly been passing top secret information to the Americans,” the Major held up his hand to stop any objections from the American agents before he finished his sentence, “we need them to snatch his business`s immediately. Without his millions he is just another criminal.”


The Americans scribbled notes on their pads but they seemed to accept the story so far. Tank sat forward in anticipation of what was coming. He sensed that an opportunity to right a wrong was about to rear its head. Faz nudged his foot under the table, as she could see where this was going too. Tank looked at her and stared into her deep brown eyes. If this was headed where he thought it was, then there was no way he could take Grace with him. He loved her too much to risk losing her and it would be an extremely dangerous mission. That`s why the Task Force forbade agents being in relationships with one another. Grace would expect to be number two on the list of agents selected, and she would play merry hell if she wasn’t. That was one problem; the other consideration was that Faz was the best agent he had. She would go ballistic if she were excluded from an operation this big. Tank swallowed hard and waited for the Major to propose his plans to resolve the situation.


 “We will then approach the Saudi Royal family, and explain the advantages of returning the price of crude oil to its lowest level possible. Any stockpiles that Kordinski has stashed will be rendered valueless, and tensions in the Middle East should be relaxed somewhat,” the Major paused while people caught up mentally with his plan.


“Why would the Saudis listen to us?” asked agent Shaw.


“They wouldn’t listen to you,” the Major looked over his glasses at the agent, “you`re American and they don’t trust you.” The American agents flushed red with embarrassment. This had not been a good meeting for them at all.


“They will listen to us however, especially if we return Jeannie Kellesh to them unharmed.”


The room was once again stunned into silence. Tank almost cheered with enthusiasm, and he had to restrain himself again. He knew what the Major had in mind now.


 “We need to send a covert operations group led by Senior Agent John Tankersley into Dagestan, via Chechnya to extract the Saudi Princess,” the Major looked at every face in the room looking for agreement. His gaze was met with silent acknowledgment and nodding heads. Tank looked at Grace again and he could see the concern in her eyes. Fine lines creased the black skin on her forehead, which showed she was worried. Tank broke her intense gaze and looked directly at Major Stanley Timms. The Major and Tank was waiting for an opportunity to enter Soviet territory with a crack team of Special Forces, with the direct backing of both American and British governments. This was their chance to do it without causing a serious political crisis. Chechnya and Dagestan were Islamic extremist strongholds, but more importantly they were the last known whereabouts of the nefarious Yasser Ahmed. The time had come to collect on a debt.


Chapter 38


12 Months Earlier (Yasser Ahmed)


 Yasser Ahmed was born in Iraq and was the spiritual leader and inspiration to the Islamic Extremist group known as `Ishmael`s Axe`. The parable of Ishmael, who was descended from the line of great prophets, which included Moses, is told in the teachings of Islam. The worship of carved images or statues is forbidden in the Islamic religion. The story goes that the statues and wooden carvings of pagan gods in the temple where he lived angered the great prophet Ishmael. He placed plates of fresh fruit at the feet of the carvings as offerings to the gods they represented. That night he returned to the temple to find that his fruit had not been taken, and so having proved that the gods were false idols he smashed them up with his axe. So Yasser took the name of his organisation from the parable to represent the destruction of the enemies of Islam, as he saw them. They had once been affiliated to Osama bin Laden and his al-Qaeda movement but had split to form a splinter group under the influence of Yasser Ahmed.


Eighteen months earlier Yasser had started his `Soft Target` campaign, which attacked famous American tourist destinations killing hundreds and wiping billions of dollars off the stock markets world-wide. His campaign had brought him to Britain where he plotted to destroy a major oil storage depot, which was foiled at the last minute. Yasser deployed a fleet of ice-cream vans and hotdog stalls, which was converted into mobile bombs by packing them full of Semtex, to the world famous Anfield football stadium. The fixture was to attract over ninety thousand excited football fans onto the streets of Liverpool, where he had laid his deadly convoy in wait.


Yasser had a younger brother called Mustapha who was identical to him visually, but who did not share his extreme beliefs. Tank had anticipated Yasser`s intentions, and employed Mustapha to help the Task Force by acting as a decoy to confuse Yasser`s suicide bombers.


Tank had gathered his team around him before Mustapha arrived at the stadium, in an unmarked police car. They had identified a total of twelve ice-cream vendors working around the stadium, who could be potential suicide bombers. Four of them had men of Middle Eastern appearance working in them. In addition they had located 18 hot-dog stands dotted around the streets outside the stadium. Tank had ordered his men to commandeer the Liverpool Football Club souvenir shop for padded overcoats that would help the agents to blend into the football crowd, and hide the weapons that they carried. If the crowds of people saw a gun, panic would ensue, and the bombers would be alerted. If the bombers panicked then they may activate their devices early. Tank`s plan was risky but simple.


Mustapha Ahmed was to approach the suspect vans from a reasonable distance and then signal the occupants to come to him. Once the suspects had left the vehicle they would be neutralised and the bomb squad could make the vehicle safe. It would be too risky to try and move the vans in case they were booby trapped with motion sensors or mercury switches. Mercury being a liquid metal could conduct an electric charge to trigger a bomb. It would also move like a liquid if the device was moved. It would make a circuit complete and triggering the booby-trap.


 Grace was in contact with the Anfield Stadium management and had indicated that there was a large security service operation in motion outside the stadium. Their cooperation would be required to make the operation run smoothly, and avoid the possible loss of life. Terrorist Task Force Agents were located inside the stadium control room monitoring the CCTV. Grace had also asked the ground staff to pipe music through the external sound system to nullify the nose of any gunfire. She had also insisted that it was turned up to full volume to make it very uncomfortable to remain close by the stadium. They could not risk the arrest of one terrorist to alert another. The music was blaring on the streets outside the ground making it very uncomfortable for sightseers to just wander aimlessly. The crowds started to drift slowly further away from the ground using the bars and shops located a safer distance from the stadium.


 The crowds had thinned significantly when Mustapha arrived. The music was deafening. Tank briefed Mustapha on the plan and they approached the first target near to the Shankly Gates. The gates were a memorial to one of the clubs greatest ever managers, Bill Shankly. Mustapha stood across the street from the idle ice-cream van, which tank had picked as a potential suspect vehicle, and leaned against the wall behind him. He looked through his darkened sunglasses toward the Middle Eastern looking man who was in the vehicle. Mustapha pretended to be making a call on his cell phone when the man appeared to recognise him. He looked intently at Mustapha and half raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgement. Mustapha waved to him in a gesture of beckoning. The Asian man hesitated briefly and then opened the passenger door and climbed out of the vehicle. He crossed the road heading toward Mustapha through the crowd.


Tank grabbed the man from behind crushing the breath from his lungs as he lifted him off his feet. He pinned both of the man`s arms to his sides in the vice like grip that he held him in. Agents rushed in and fastened the terrorist`s wrists and ankles together with plasticuffs. Startled members of the public who were shocked by the incident quickly moved on when Task Force ID cards were displayed. The bomb squad cordoned the van off by parking a huge truck alongside it to protect innocent passersby from any potential blast. They quickly confirmed their worst suspicions. The freezer storage space inside the van was packed with Semtex and ball bearings.


 “That`s one suspect down with no weapons drawn ladies and gentlemen. Target two is two hundred yards away on Brecks Road,” Tank instructed his agents and Mustapha through their earpieces. He continued.


 “We have just received information that an attack on Stanlow Oil Refinery has been foiled. Suspect was neutralised. He managed to release an RPG but it exploded short of his intended target. Let`s get the same result here.”


 Tank indicated where he wanted Mustapha to go and he crossed the busy street and made himself visible to the occupant of the second vehicle. Inside the van was Ali and he stooped low to make sure that it was Yasser that he could see beckoning him out of the van. He was sure it was him but something made him suspicious. Ali took the safety catch off his Magnum .357 and pushed it into the waistband of his jeans. He opened the driver`s door and stepped down from the ice-cream van. Mustapha was sweating as Ali approached him, and he did not look comfortable as the man neared him. Football fans were hampering the Task Force Agents as they tried to approach Ali without alerting him to their presence. They could not be sure if the terrorists would have the facility to remote-detonate the devices until the bomb squad had analysed the first device. Tank couldn’t grab Ali and ensure that his hands was neutralised because of the crowds in his proximity. Mustapha wiped sweat from his forehead, and his sleeve removed the make-up that was covering a deep bite mark on his cheek. He was bitten in a fight with a Bosnian Muslim who had shot the woman he loved just days before. The Bosnian had left a deep wound in Mustapha`s face that would scar for life.


Ali realised in an instant that this was not Yasser Ahmed although the likeness was uncanny. He pulled his gun from his waistband and aimed at Mustapha. Mustapha froze in fear as Ali fired three rounds at him through the crowd. The deafening music muffled the booming gunshots, and only those closest to Ali realised that shots was fired. Mustapha felt shattered pieces of house brick scratch his face and neck as the bullets from the .357 Magnum shattered the wall behind him. Tank reached Ali and placed his Glock 9mm against the top of the shorter man`s head. The gun was pointed vertically down at the floor. Tank fired twice. The 9mm bullets ripped downwards through Ali`s brain and into his torso. The devastating effect of the bullets liquidised most of the Iranian`s brain before he had even realised that he was shot. His legs buckled and he crumpled to the floor. Tank had to shoot down through the terrorist`s head to minimise the risk of a through and through bullet continuing on its journey into an innocent football fan.


“A second target is down. Was there any response to the gunfire from the other vehicles Grace?” Tank asked as he made his way to Mustapha through the crowd.


“Nothing at all, I don’t think they heard it at all. Bomb squad have just informed us that the devices are manually activated. There is no remote detonation facility on the first device,” Grace replied.


Tank reached Mustapha and he noticed how pale he looked. He was going into nervous shock.


“Are you feeling alright, there are only two more ice-cream vans that fit the profile? Can you carry on Mustapha?” Tank shook him a little trying to get a response but Mustapha was staring at the Ice-cream van.


 “Look it`s Pinky and Perky,” Mustapha said pointing to the driver`s door of the van.


 “Mustapha I need you to hold it together for just a little bit longer. Don`t you worry about the two little pigs right now.” Tank was getting annoyed. They needed to move on quickly.


“You don’t understand what I am saying to you Tank. Both vans had Pinky and Perky decals on the driver`s door. It might help to narrow down the search,” Mustapha shouted over the booming music from the external sound system. Tank realised what Mustapha had noticed, and he reacted immediately.


 “Grace get every vendor checked for decals on the driver`s door of Pinky and Perky. If the same person re-sprayed all these vans then he may have left a pattern without even realising it. Chen, you pass the information on to uniform as soon as possible please.” Tank knew that Chen and the fat controller were coordinating events and information that was coming in from units all over the city. They had deployed the relevant assets to the relevant situations, and so far they were on top.


Tank guided Mustapha toward the third target and pointed to the position that he wanted him to maintain. Mustapha looked at the ice-cream vendor and the man caught his eye. The Asian man took a double take at Mustapha and then bolted toward the back of the vehicle. Tank watched in horror as the man reached for the detonator in an attempt to blow the van, and the public around it to smithereens. For some reason the man knew that Mustapha was not Yasser straight away.


Tank closed the distance between himself and the van in a few strides. He drew the 9mm Glock simultaneously and emptied the clip of sixteen high velocity bullets through the glass, into the terrorist. The bullets smashed through the man`s chest spraying blood and cartilage up the windows of the van. As he collapsed, three rounds to the neck area ripped his head from his body completely. The terrorist wouldn’t get the chance to detonate his bomb.


The dead terrorist had realised that Mustapha was not Yasser Ahmed because Yasser had left the van just seconds before. Yasser Ahmed watched the action unfold from the safety of the crowds as his affiliate was gunned down inside his mobile bomb. He was fascinated as he saw his younger brother Mustapha being led away by a big man with a shaved head. Yasser backed slowly into an alleyway transfixed by his younger brother. Yasser hadn`t seen him since he was a small boy. Although there was six years between them he was stunned by their resemblance to each other.


The shooting of the ice-cream vendor was witnessed by hundreds of people and word had spread around the pubs and bars that the police had shot someone. Speculation was rife that it was a potential terrorist. Why else would the police shoot an Ice-cream man at a football game? Customers from a local pub called The Sand Dune had come out onto the street as soon as they had heard what was going on. They stood holding pint glasses on the pavement outside the pub watching the bomb squad going in and out of an Ice-cream van that was parked just a few hundred yards away. Some of the football fans were just ten feet from a hot dog stand that was on the corner of Brecks Road and Anfield Road. Speculation was rife that a terrorist was shot. There was a nervous buzz around the stadium. No one was really sure if they themselves were in any danger.


 Two fans approached the abandoned hot dog stand still holding their precious beer in their hands. There didn’t appear to be anyone staffing it. One of the men lifted the lid from a stainless steel pan and looked at the hot dog sausages inside the steaming container.


 “Here we are lad free hot dogs. The bloke must have fucked off somewhere. Tell the rest of the lads and I`ll get some more bread rolls out of the bottom here,” the drunken fans pushed and shoved each other mischievously around the hot dog stand.


One of them opened the stainless steel door beneath the stand and thought that it was odd that there were wires everywhere inside. He never thought of anything ever again. The stand exploded and the members of the Sand Dune took the full blast of the shrapnel bomb.


 Tank had instinctively pushed Mustapha to the ground when he heard the explosion and covered him with his own body. The crowds around the stadium scattered in all directions as realisation of what had happened struck home. The remnants of the bodies from the blast were strewn across the street like bloody confetti. Within seconds the immediate area was almost empty.


“Take the last target down immediately,” Tank shouted across the airwaves. Three agents dressed in red Liverpool FC shirts drew weapons and surrounded the remaining van, and pumped it full of bullets. The occupant was left dangling from the serving hatch where a pool of his blood spread on the road beneath him.


The remaining hot dog stand bomb was cordoned off and a controlled explosion was carried out. It too was left unattended and unnoticed by the huge crowds that passed unaware.


“Tank, uniform has reported two unattended Ice-cream vans next to the Anglican Cathedral. They both have the Pinky and Perky decals on the driver`s door. We are evacuating the building now and beginning a search of the building. Everyone leaving the cathedral has been searched,” Chen informed Tank of the breaking news.


“What time is it? Get everyone away from the building immediately. Chen if you are right about the optimum time for exploding the devices being 3pm, then we only have five minutes left.” Tank realised that Chen was probably correct in his assumption.


He lifted Mustapha off the road onto his feet. The Iraqi man was badly shaken by the blast. Tank walked him toward a police transit van that was parked on the pavement nearby, 70-yards away.


Yasser watched from the safety of the alleyway as the big skinhead walked toward the van, carrying his younger brother. The police transit van had a white background with the distinctive orange stripes carried by police vehicles around the middle of it. Tank noticed that the police markings didn’t look quite right. He realised that the markings were upside down. There were two parallel orange stripes on a genuine police vehicle. The thicker of the two stripes was fixed above the thinner band. This one was upside down.


The disguised police van exploded at exactly 3pm, as did the Semtex in the bell tower of the Anglican cathedral. The cathedral bell tower, weakened by the blast had disintegrated beneath the massive weight of the bells. Huge sandstone blocks weighing tons, had tumbled into the cavernous building crushing six-members of the Terrorist Bomb Squad that had not had time to escape. The skyline of Liverpool had changed forever.


Tank was blown across the street with Mustapha when the police van exploded. The two men were stunned into unconsciousness by the power of the shockwave.


Tank had woken up in intensive care at The Royal Liverpool Hospital 48-hours later. He had woken just long enough to ask Grace, who was waiting by his bedside what had happened. Then he passed out again and didn’t come round for another three days. The swelling to Tank`s brain caused by the concussion wave had nearly killed him. The surgeons had drilled a hole into his skull to relieve the pressure from the bleeding, and that saved his life.


Seven Terrorist Task Force members lost their lives at the Cathedral blast along with the nine football fans, near the stadium.


Mustapha had never arrived at the hospital at all. Witnesses said that he was seen being helped away from the scene by an Asian man, who looked like he was related to him.


Tank and his team returned to duty as normal, once all the scars had healed. The Terrorist Task Force tracked the alleged movements of the ghost like Yasser Ahmed across the planet. Several reports of him were received from the Philippines and Afghanistan over the following six months, but nothing concrete ever surfaced.


Eventually a report came in from an American Black operations team that specialised in rendition. These people don’t officially exist of course but they specialise in counter terrorism and interrogation under torture. This process is usually carried out on foreign soil. The American people are not made aware of such procedures being utilised by their government. Countries with a broader moral outlook are used to extract information. Western populations cannot prove the use of torture if there are no western witnesses to tell the tale.


The black operations team reportedly captured Yasser Ahmed in Iraq. They interrogated him for two months in a prison in Chechnya. His heart had finally given in after eight weeks of intense torture and malnutrition. When Tank saw the autopsy pictures he recognised the bite mark on the cheek of the corpse. It wasn’t Yasser that they had captured and tortured. Mustapha had denied being Yasser Ahmed right up to the point where his heart stopped beating. The wrong brother was captured and killed. Tank felt responsible.


Chapter 39


 


Yasser Ahmed / Mustapha (Escaping Britain)


 


 Eighteen months ago when Yasser had watched the bogus police van explode, he had jumped at the opportunity to grab his concussed sibling. The big skinhead policeman was stunned by the blast, and people were running in all directions away from the bomb. Yasser grabbed his brother off the street where he lay and carried him away from the scene. He had a camper van parked a half mile away from the football stadium, and some kind hearted people who heard about the terrorist explosions had helped him to carry Mustapha to the camper and lay him down on the bed. Mustapha remained unconscious for two days, drifting into consciousness for only seconds at a time. Yasser had driven north from Liverpool to the east coast port of Hull. He had used his network of sympathisers, and had arranged for the camper to be craned onto a container boat, which had an Islamic crew from the Yemen, and was headed for the Middle East. By the time Mustapha awoke, the ship was in the middle of the North Sea, and he really didn’t have the heart to struggle against his older brother. Yasser was a very persuasive personality, and by the time they reached their destination Mustapha was resigned to returning home to his beloved Iraq.


They was welcomed into their family`s homes at first, especially Mustapha, who was a small boy when he was smuggled abroad for his own safety. Following the deposal of Saddam, Iraq had turned into a boiling pot of racial, tribal unrest. Law enforcement was nonexistent and life hung in the balance. Suspicion and betrayal were insipid in the indigenous population, as Sunni`s and Shia`s Muslims struggled against each other for political power. Rumours became rife that legendary Mujahideen leader Yasser Ahmed had returned home. Some saw it as a sign from God that they would be delivered from allied occupation, while others saw his presence as a powerful threat to their authority, and a financially lucrative opportunity. The allies would pay handsomely to know the whereabouts of Yasser Ahmed. Yasser began to plot again and at least a dozen roadside bombs attacks against the invading forces were attributed to him. Informants had passed on information to the Americans and they began to scour the local townships for him.


Yasser became concerned for his family`s safety and he left to join the Islamic struggles in Afghanistan and Chechnya. When the allies eventually got wind of his operations in Iraq he was already long gone. Weeks after Yasser`s departure a neighbour of different Muslim extraction mistakenly identified Mustapha to an American black ops team, as Yasser Ahmed. He was paid the equivalent of fifteen British pounds for the information. Mustapha was snatched later the same day, and his family was taken into custody with him. They were taken to a temporary airfield where they were briefly questioned. American secret services had sent the only picture they possessed of Yasser Ahmed to the black ops team, and they were in no doubt that they had the right man.


Mustapha and his family were placed inside a huge twin bladed Chinook helicopter, which was unmarked and had a crew of foreign extraction. Once over the desert the side doors were opened and Mustapha`s uncle was dragged toward the opening. The wind from the twin blades howled through the huge machine and the frightened family huddled together. The uncle was thrown from the door two thousand feet up. The foreign soldiers wore no identifying insignia on their uniforms. Mustapha pleaded with them when his Auntie was taken to the door and asked to identify Mustapha as Yasser; she refused to confirm that he was Yasser and followed her husband to her death. The process was repeated until only Mustapha was left in the helicopter sobbing for the loss of his innocent family. The memories of the screams of terror remained with him until the day he died under interrogation. Each family member denied that Mustapha was Yasser. Even though they had watched their kin thrown to their deaths they did not betray him.


 


 


 


 


 


Chapter 40


 


 


 


Chechnya/ Yasser Ahmed


 


 


In the 16th century the powerful Islamic Ottoman Empire controlled what are now the Middle East, North Africa and Asia. Under its control the small region of Chechnya was converted to the Sunni Muslim faith. Its conversion to Islam began a long religious struggle against its Jewish and Christian neighbours, which has lasted for centuries. It is the 76th largest federal subject of Russia, located in the Northern Caucasus Mountains. It borders Stavropol Krai to the North West, the republic of Dagestan to the east and north east, Georgia to the south and the republics of Ingushetia and North Ossetia to the west. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 it declared itself a republic separate from Russia, and despite numerous Soviet invasions it remains a rogue Islamic state. The only government to recognise the existence of the republic of Chechnya is the Afghan Taliban Council, who themselves are no longer a recognised government. Hundreds of thousands of Arab Mujahideen answered the call to arms to fight against the invading Russian Christian, Zionist aggressors in both Afghanistan and Chechnya.


 The Muslim defenders see the invasion of Chechnya as another attempt by the West`s Christian-Jewish alliance to control Islamic oil fields. Although a relatively small country it is a major hub in the oil infrastructure of the Russian federation, and would hurt the Soviet economy if it were allowed its independence. The armed struggle by Islamic insurgents has cost the Russian armed forces over seventeen and a half thousand deaths since 1991, despite their overwhelming manpower, weaponry and air support. According to Chechen rebel leaders the Russian army has slaughtered over thirty-five thousand civilians since 1994.


 Yasser Ahmed was an influential leader and inspiration to millions of would be Mujahideen fighters. He was the number one most wanted Islamic terrorist on the planet, and because of this he had travelled to the remote regions of Afghanistan, then Dagestan and Chechnya to fight the Kufur. Yasser became a religious hero within months as his exploits attacking targets in the US and UK became well known across the Soviet region. Upon his arrival Yasser began to organise the ragbag groups into effective fighting units, and advised and trained the Islamic guerrilla fighters how to manufacture `improvised explosive devices` or roadside bombs that could penetrate Russian tank armour. From Moscow the Chechen mafia donated millions of dollars from its illegal operations across Russia, into Yasser`s hidden bank accounts to finance weapons and munitions to aid the struggle for Islamic independence. Modern explosives are expensive so Yasser taught them how to use discarded ordinance or unexploded shells to manufacture `improvised explosive devices`. They were easily made by attaching conventional military explosives, such as an artillery round, attached to a detonating mechanism. Once fabricated the devices could be customised to incorporate destructive, lethal, noxious, pyrotechnic or chemical substances to destroy or incapacitate personnel or vehicles.


 Yasser also financed the purchase of four thousand RPG anti-tank weapons from Libya, which they had employed with devastating effect against low flying Soviet helicopter gunships. Rocket Propelled Grenades have been used by the Afghan Mujahideen for years in an anti-aircraft role. Helicopters are typically ambushed as they land or hover. Yasser taught the rebels to modify the grenade launchers for use against flying helicopters by adding a curved pipe to the rear of the launch tube. This addition diverted the exhaust gasses away from the user, allowing the weapon to be fired upwards at an aircraft from a prone position. This made the operator less visible prior to firing, and decreased the risk of injury from dangerous back-blast. Yasser was a veteran of Afghanistan and Iraq and he knew every guerrilla tactic in the book. The arrival of Yasser Ahmed turned the tide against the invading Soviet forces.


There was an interesting phenomenon, which became apparent during the Islamic struggle in Chechnya, the emergence of determined female suicide bombers known as the Chechen `Black Widows`. The use of suicide belts or, `Shaheed belts`, has been a tactic adopted by various terrorist organisations since its conception in 1991. The first documented use of this weapon was by the Tamil Tiger group in Sri Lanka who sent Thenmuli Rajaratnam, a 25-year old widow, to a government rally. She approached Rajiv Gandhi and detonated her device killing the target and herself. The suicide belts usually consist of several metal cylinders filled with explosive. The explosive is surrounded by a fragmentation jacket that produces the shrapnel, which causes most of the collateral damage. The jacket becomes a crude body-worn claymore mine. Once the vest is detonated, the explosion becomes similar to an Omni-directional shotgun blast. The most dangerous and most widely used shrapnel are steel ball bearings but many cheaper materials such as screws, nuts, bolts and barbed wire are often substituted. The bravery of the Muslim women was used as a devastating weapon to attack Russian targets, and Yasser planned to harness their uncanny determination in a new campaign of terror, both here and in the West.


On October 5th, 2003 a Chechen Islamic separatist leader conspired with the Russian invaders to organise democratic elections within Chechnya. His cooperation with the Christian, Zionist invaders was seen as treason and a direct insult to the Muslim population. Many separatist organisations boycotted the elections, and the Muslim militia groups started a campaign of fear, threatening people to vote against the traitor. The elections were monitored by an international inspection team, who reported incidents of ballot stuffing and voter intimidation by Russian soldiers. Several separatist parties were completely excluded from entering the elections by Russian officials.


Once the votes were counted Akmad Kadyrov was entrusted as the Soviet sponsored leader despite the allegations of corruption and vote rigging. He was the wealthiest and most powerful man in the republic and he surrounded himself with mercenary bodyguards to protect him from Islamic extremists. On May 9th, 2004 at his official inauguration, he was seated on a stage inside the Grozny football stadium watching a parade go past in his honour. A Chechen woman dressed in black clothing and wearing an Islamic headscarf or `hijab` approached the new president carrying a bouquet of flowers. Her name was Medna Bayrakova and she was a 26-year old resident of Grozny. She was married to her childhood sweetheart at the age of 15, which is the customary age in that region. Medna and her husband lived by strict Shari’ a law, but they were soul mates and very happy. They had survived two Russian invasions since 1991, but had lost most of their families during the conflicts. Their only regret was that they had never conceived a child, and in a poor country like Chechnya medical assistance was non-existent. Her husband had naively expressed his anger in public at the cooperation that Kadyrov had given to the Russians, and he had called it religious betrayal. Several days later he was snatched from the small blacksmith shop where he had worked since he was a child. Like thousands of others he never returned home, and had likely been tortured to death by the mercenaries. Medna was broken hearted and left destitute, because losing your husband also meant losing your livelihood. She couldn’t pay her rent and was evicted within weeks of her husband`s disappearance. Medna was living rough on the streets and surviving on what scraps she could beg or steal. One morning she was awoken by a Mullah from the local mosque and given hot sweet tea to drink. He fed her and gave her clean clothing and began the process of grooming her to become a Martyr. In just three days she was convinced that she could leave this life of grief and turmoil behind her, and go to a much happier place with her God, and her beloved husband. She saw the opportunity to extract revenge against Kadyrov as her ticket to heaven. The thought of eternity in heaven next to her beloved husband was far more attractive than a life of lonely destitution and poverty. Being hungry everyday soon takes its toll on the will to live.


 She slipped through the passing parade and headed for the stage were her nemesis was seated. As she stepped on to the stage and approached the president she tripped. Bodyguards stopped the woman, but the president waved her through flattered by the sight of the flowers she carried as a gift. As she handed the flowers to him, she triggered a remote detonator on her Shaheed vest, and blew herself and the Muslim traitor to pieces.


Chapter 41


Yasser/ Chechen Black Widows


 Yasser sat on a boulder next to the camp fire and stared at the flames as they flickered and danced. He and several hundred Mujahideen fighters were taking cover in a network of natural caves situated high in the mountains of Chechnya. As he watched the fire glow he thought about his dead sister Yasmine and how beautiful she was, and about his younger brother Mustapha, who had looked like his twin. Word had reached his mountain hideaway two months earlier that his family`s home in Iraq was deserted. Neighbours had told his spies that `ninja` soldiers dressed head to foot in black uniforms had taken them away in the dead of night, and that they had never been seen or heard from again. He knew that the soldiers were looking for him. Mustapha and his family would have been imprisoned and interrogated, at least that`s what he hoped, but in his heart he knew that no one returned when the `Ninja` soldiers came. The soldiers dressed in black were Special Operations men sent to assassinate him. They would have killed his family instead of him, trying to make them divulge his whereabouts.


Footsteps and hushed voices disturbed his thoughts as a group of Mujahideen fighters returned from their evening mission. The men were skinny from lack of food, and dirty from the wind borne dust that covered the mountains. They had their weapons and ammunition slung around their shoulders and the flames from the fire reflected on the dull metal. There were men sleeping around the cave floor and they sat up and moved to make space for the returning fighters. The nights were becoming cold enough for frost to form on the grey rocks. The returning Mujahideen gathered around the fire to report their mission to Yasser.


Earlier that day they had encountered a Russian patrol and become involved in a fire fight. Two of their men were taken prisoner, and several others killed and wounded. The number of wounded was increasing every day. Most of them didn’t talk much, exhausted from their journey. One of the younger men cleaned and checked a captured light machinegun while the others ate the remnants of a thin chicken stew that was cooked several hours earlier. Yasser was still well funded despite Western governments freezing the assets they could find, but the Russians monitored food sales looking for purchases that could be used to feed large groups of enemy soldiers. They had to purchase supplies from all over the country in small batches, and bring it to the mountains where only a handful of people knew where they would be hiding on any given day. Some days supplies didn’t arrive and rations were meagre. It was 3am and everyone knew that the bombing would start in about four hours, so it was time to get some sleep. The Russians knew that Yasser and his men were somewhere in this region of the mountains above Grozny, and they targeted a section every day for carpet bombing. At seven o`clock that morning the distinctive triple contrails caused by Russian bombers appeared on the horizon leaving straight white lines against the blue sky. Minutes later huge plumes of rock, flames and smoke would explode along distant ridges. Seconds after that, the noise and blast wave would reach them, tugging at their clothes. The blast would cause small dust devils to form and swirl around the caves. While the men slept Yasser stared into the flames and watched his plans taking shape. He stroked the matted beard that he had grown since arriving in the mountains, because it still felt alien to him. There was no running water here to shave or bathe.


As the bombs began to fall miles away across the misty valley, the men shuffled around the cave preparing for the day`s struggle against the Russian invaders. They hung ammunition belts around their necks and then wrapped thin blankets over their `shalwar kameez` or smock tops. The straps on their Kalashnikov rifles were hitched over the shoulder, and extra bullet magazines stuffed into homemade webbing pouches. Yasser mingled with his men and patted them encouragingly, kissing some on the cheek and assuring them that their God was fighting alongside them. The men were a mixture of Iranians, Jordanians, Egyptians, Somalia’s, Iraqis, Afghans, Uzbeks, Ingushes, Dags, Kumyks and indigenous Chechens. The sky had begun to lighten and Yasser could see long files of Mujahideen marching from the caves along the ridge toward the steep, dark, forested slopes that rose in the distance to snowy peaks. To the north he could see the city of Grozny through the lifting mists, and the mountains beyond. The Mujahideen left the caves to take up their combat positions and lie in wait for unsuspecting Soviets troops to ambush.


Yasser watched them leave and then returned to the fire and sat down on the boulder again. He had a canvas bag next to him, and he picked it up and reached inside. Yasser removed a bundle of old newspapers, tattered and torn around the edges, the paper was yellowed. He was looking at the front cover of the New York Times dated three months earlier. On the cover was the black and white image of a tickertape parade in Times Square, New York. Millions of pieces of coloured confetti floated from the surrounding buildings, and in the centre of the picture was a woman riding an open top bus through crowded streets. The woman had short sculptured black hair and perfect porcelain teeth, which she was displaying with a winning smile. Her name was Hilary Rice and she had made history by becoming the first black female President of the United States. The picture was taken when she had won the presidential by-election in the State of New York, on the way to The White House. She was pictured waving to an adoring crowd, surrounded by her election team, which consisted of thirty two people. Twenty eight of her closest associates were women, which had given Yasser his plan.


 On May 12th 2003 a pro-Moscow festival was organised by Russia`s President Putin as a tribute to the great Prophet Mohammed, in the town of Ilaskhan-Yurt. It was seen as a cynical attempt to quieten Islamic insurgents, and became the target of a Chechen rebel attack. Thousands of Muslim pilgrims attended the festival, which was to be addressed by the pro-Russian Chechen administrator, and senior religious figures who supported Putin`s peace plan. Shakhida Baimuratova was the forty six year old mother of three missing, presumed dead sons. Her sons were taken for questioning by the authorities six years earlier and were never heard of again. Her husband was wrongly identified as a Chechen rebel in 1999 and shot dead in front of her in the town`s local market. She arrived at the festival carrying twenty eight pounds of high explosives beneath her Muslim dress, and approached the stand where the officials were sitting. Shakhida detonated her suicide vest resulting in the deaths of 150 pilgrims. Putin was not injured but five of his bodyguards were killed, and he stated that he was concerned that there would be further attacks by a new breed of suicide bombers. He described the attacks as a frightening new form of rebel insurgency in a decade old conflict. A day after his reaction to the bombing another woman, in the usually peaceful north of the country, drove a truck packed full of explosives into a government compound killing seventy-five soldiers. Russia began taking the threat of the Black Widows seriously when the attacks were happening on an almost daily basis.


Thursday June 5th, 2003 at 7.36am, Masdika Korchnoi was waiting at a bus stop near the military air base of Mozdok, which is a major military installation in Russia`s North Ossetia province. She was a 25 year old widow, and mother of two missing sons. Masdika dressed in a white overall disguised as a nurse, and waited for the bus to arrive. She was surrounded by Russian soldiers and civilian support staff when the bus arrived. The bus had slowed down to allow a car to pull away from the bus stop, and when its doors opened there was only room for a few more passengers, which did not include the would be bomber. Madika threw herself underneath the bus and detonated her device. Fifty seven people were killed and seventeen seriously injured in the blast.


 Yasser knew that he could harness the hatred that these Black Widows harboured into a powerful asset. Hiding in caves and killing a handful of Russian conscript soldiers would not win Islam`s Jihad. Yasser wanted to reach into his enemy`s backyard again, and hit them where they were most vulnerable. Although his plan was not one hundred percent completed it was close to being put into action. He just needed a little more time to finalise details and recruit the assistance from abroad that he would require. The Russians were closing in on the Chechen rebels, and getting closer to the network of caves every day. They needed to move back across the border to Dagestan to regroup and rearm. Many of the Mujahideen needed medical attention, and there was a hospital facility forty miles across the border, which was sympathetic to the rebels cause. Yasser saw the white exhaust trail of a Russian passenger jet approaching Grozny airport and he aimed an imaginary rifle at it and pulled the imaginary trigger smiling.


Two Russian passenger jets crashed in 2004 causing huge embarrassment to President Putin, who had gained power on a promise to eradicate Chechen violence and bring renewed security to Russia. Officials discovered the remains and DNA of two Chechen women, thought to be suicide bombers, and Black Widows. Traces of explosives were found on the remains of the two women. The loss of the two Russian passenger jets was the first successful attack on airlines by Islamic extremists since September 11th. The smaller of the two jets, a TU-134, carrying forty four people, crashed near Tula in the south of Moscow. The Chechen woman on board this plane was identified as Amanta Nagayeva. She bought her ticket just one hour before the flight took off. Two fragments of her body were found two and a half miles apart, and she was the only woman not to have her remains claimed. Nagayeva was born in 1977 near Vadeno, which was the home of Islamic Chechen warlord, Shamil Basayev, and lived in Grozny.


 The larger jet exploded minutes later near the city of Rostov, killing forty six people. Experts found traces of the military explosive Hexogen in the wreckage, and on the remains of another Chechen woman called Djerbikhanova. She was originally booked on another flight but swapped it at the last minute to the evening flight, which carried more passengers. Djerbikhanova requested seat 19 f, nine rows from the tail, which is considered to be the most vulnerable part of the aircraft. Once again she was the only passenger to remain unclaimed by family. The attacks were brushed under the carpet by the Russians because of lapses in airport security, which had allowed the suicide bombers to gain passage onto the planes.


Many in the West didn’t know anything about the Chechen Black Widows or the wider Islamic struggles against the Russians in Afghanistan and Chechnya. Yasser Ahmed was going to change that in dramatic fashion. The West would know and remember the Black Widows for centuries to come. He took one last look at the picture of Hilary Rice and smiled. He placed the newspaper back into his canvas bag and hitched his Kalashnikov rifle over his shoulder before heading down the rocky slopes to join the Mujahideen.


Chapter 42


Special Operations Team/ Tank


Tank watched a team of United States Air Force technicians dismantling four MQ-1 Predator drones. Unlike the British unmanned helicopter drones the Predators were small pilotless airplanes. Each Predator air vehicle can be disassembled into six smaller components and loaded into a container nicknamed `the coffin`. This enables all system components and support equipment to be rapidly deployed anywhere in the world. The largest component is the ground control station which is designed to be rolled into the back of a C-130 Hercules transporter plane, and its associated twenty foot satellite dish. The drones need one hundred and fifty yards of flat ground to take off and land and are virtually silent when they are airborne.


 “How good are these drones Chen?” Tank asked his colleague, who was a mine of technical information.


 Chen frowned at Tank and his jaw dropped, and his mouth opened making him look a bit simple. “The MQ-1 has been used extensively in Afghanistan since about 2005,” Chen began, “it has participated in more than two-hundred and fifty separate raids, engaged one-hundred and thirty two different troop divisions, fired over five-hundred Hellfire missiles, surveyed eighteen-thousand targets, escorted forty convoys and flown over two-thousand sorties for more than thirty-three thousand, eight-hundred and thirty-three hours.” Chen shrugged his shoulders as if everyone should know that.


 “You really are a nerd,” Tank said patting Chen on the head with his big hand.


“You should read your e-mails Tank, I am just repeating information that you have also received,” Chen replied sounding offended.


“I seem to remember an al-Qaeda camp being taken out recently by one of these,” Tank recalled.


“That`s right,” Chen perked up at the opportunity to impart more useful information, “October 30th, 2006 the CIA launched a drone to strike an alleged training camp in the Bajaur region. They had received information that al-Qaeda`s second in command, Ayman al-Zawahiri was residing there. The religious school was hit by six Hellfire missiles, killing eighty-five extremists, including five senior al-Qaeda members.”


 “Well we will need all the back-up we can get on this trip,” Tank said, “as it stands, we can afford to deploy eighty men to attack the hospital in Kizlyar, and extract the Saudi. Apache special operation attack helicopters will take us in and take out any artillery in the surrounding area, but they don’t have airspace clearance to hang around. MH-53 Pave Low, long range helicopters will supply us with long wheel base armoured Land Rovers for our evac. Apart from the drone’s support our exit strategy is exposed, because we’re not supposed to be there, we will be on our own.”


The mission was dangerous. AH-6 `little birds` helicopters would drop in a reconnaissance squad to identify where the anti-aircraft positions were located. Combined with the information from the drones, which could pick up human signatures by tracking body heat from ten-thousand feet up, a clear picture could be analysed before the main body of the attack force was inserted. AH-64D Apache gunships would then destroy armoured positions and heavy machinegun posts before quickly returning over the border before they could be detected. The Apache gunships were crucial for destroying Iraqi tanks in the second invasion of Iraq. On March 24th, 2003 the US launched thirty-two Apache helicopters against the Iraqi Medina armoured division. The results were spectacular; seven Iraqi air defence positions were destroyed along with three long range artillery systems, five radar posts and seventy-five T-52 tanks. They virtually cleared the road to Baghdad.


“What information do we have about the minefields?” Tank asked Chen. During the siege of Kizlyar hospital Russian Spetsnaz had used cluster bombs to attack the Chechen rebels. They dispersed anti-personnel mines over a wide area to discourage enemy soldiers returning to the site. The mines varied in size and makeup. Some were metal and detectable, but others were made from wood and plastic, making them invisible to metal detectors, and stopping them from corroding so that they were active for decades.


“We know that we will need to clear paths through the minefield surrounding the facility, but the Dagestan border regions are also heavily mined and we won`t be able to go anywhere quickly or quietly,” Chen answered. British Special Forces had a tactical weapon called the `Rapid Anti-Personnel Minefield Breaching System` or RAMBS 11. It is adapted from a rifle grenade and provides an effective and flexible method of clearing a safe path sixty metres wide, and a half metre deep through mined areas. The obvious problem was the noise it generated and the length of time taken. Most of the borders around the mountainous region between the southern Soviet states and the Middle Eastern countries of Turkey and Iran have areas that are mined. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan all deploy mines on their borders. The mines are deployed by indigenous government forces trying to stop Islamic extremists groups and drug traffickers crossing into their country from the mountains.


 “Let`s hope that we don’t need to leave in a hurry,” Tank mused, “we have forty miles to cover before the helicopters can return to perform an extraction.” Satellite pictures monitored troops crossing the mountains from Chechnya into Dagestan sporadically. They were usually employed to focus on the mountains further east in the search for Osama bin Laden, because they knew he was there somewhere. Information about Yasser Ahmed was sketchy and based on rumour and uncorroborated hearsay. They couldn’t dedicate a satellite to the extraction mission because officially it didn’t exist.


“Once we have the Saudi I doubt the rebels will pursue us,” Chen said, “the number of rebels defending the facility seems to yo-yo when the Mujahideen leave Chechnya to resupply. Numbers can treble overnight because it`s so close to the Dagestan border. The satellite information we have shows hundreds of Mujahideen active in the mountains above Grozny, and as long as they stay that side of the border then we should be in and out.”


 “When was Yasser Ahmed last seen,” Tank asked, he knew the information was unreliable but any news was better than no news.


“Roughly three months ago,” Chen answered frowning, “I thought Jeannie Kellesh was our objective Tank. We won`t have the time or the resources to go on a witch hunt in the Chechen mountains.”


 “I have got a funny feeling that we might not have to look too far Chen,” Tank answered, “that facility is an essential part of the Mujahideen struggle. We know its bank accounts are supplied with money made in Russia by the Chechen mafia. If Yasser Ahmed is in Chechnya then he has been to that hospital, and if he has been there recently then I`m going to find him.”


Chen didn’t challenge Tank because the look on his face said it all.


Chapter 43


Roman Kordinski/ Chester High Court


 Roman was perched on a low wooden seat and handcuffed to a metal bracket, which was attached to the floor of the prison van. The prison van was white with blacked out reflective windows, which stopped the paparazzi from taking pictures of notorious criminals inside it. The prison van looked like a horse box with windows. Inside a central isle led to twelve holding cells, six on one side, and six on the other. The holding cells were three feet square and incredibly cramped, containing a narrow wooden ledge for a prisoner to perch on during the journey from prison to court, and back. Roman looked out of the mirrored window as the van slowed down to enter the access road, which led to the Chester City High Courts. He was arrested and charged under the terrorism act, which dictated that suspects must be committed to trial by jury. Committal to trial had to be carried out in the province where the alleged crime was committed, which required a trip north to Chester.


To his left, steep stone steps descended from street level down to Chester`s racecourse, which is called the Roodee. The manicured grass track was the smallest horse racetrack in the world, and is almost completely surrounded by the River Dee. Records show it as the oldest racecourse still in use in England, dating back to the early sixteenth century. Roman had enjoyed the races at Chester many times prior to his arrest, usually arriving by private helicopter as opposed to a prison van. His memory wandered back to sunny days stood in the huge white grandstand watching the well groomed thoroughbreds galloping toward the finishing post. The ancient 65-acre racecourse lies on the site of an old Roman harbour built during the Roman settlement of the city, which took place during the Dark Ages. Through the centuries the river silted up making navigation impossible. He looked to the east of the racecourse which abuts directly onto Chester`s ancient city walls, which were once used to moor Roman trading vessels. He longed to be free of the handcuffs and the locked doors, barred windows and prison guards. The racecourse looked so attractive in the sunshine that he yearned for his freedom.


The prison van turned into the grounds of the court and passed beneath a grey stone arch. The historic arch was topped with a full size statue of the female warrior Boadicea, riding in her chariot behind two huge bronze horses. Armed policemen lined the courtyard awaiting Roman Kordinski`s arrival. The fact that the oil tycoon was implicated in two high profile terrorist attacks made him a possible target for a vigilante attack. He also had the financial might to finance a prison break, despite the fact that his visible assets were frozen. It was widely believed by the security services that Kordinski had millions hidden from the government`s reach. The most vulnerable position that a guest of Her Majesty`s Prison Service could be in, was outside the prison walls. Transporting high profile prisoners to and from court was fraught with danger, especially someone of Kordinski`s means. The British prison service is armed only with batons. Armed support had to be provided by the police service to protect the convoy.


The van came to a halt and Roman heard keys unlocking the main door of the prison vehicle. The door was yanked open and bright light filled the gloom. He squinted his eyes as they became accustomed to the sunshine. The van swayed and rocked as three burly prison guards entered the vehicle.


“Stand up Boris,” said the first guard trying to be offensive. Roman`s face flushed with anger. If he got out of the British penal system he would make sure that the fat prison guard and his family were shot. He would make sure that his men killed him last, after making him watch his children die first. He knew that an escape attempt would be made but he didn’t know when or how yet. When it did come he would remember this man`s abuse.


 “I said stand up Boris,” the guard repeated angrily.


 “You seem to be confused about my name,” Roman answered still seated on the bench, “you must be thinking about when you can buy your next chocolate bar you fat bastard.”


The prison guard was furious and he reached through the bars and grabbed Roman by the hair. He pulled violently ripping tufts from the scalp and hitting the Russian`s head against the bars. Roman did not utter a sound. He waited for the guards grip to loosen slightly and twisted his head upward and sank his teeth into the fat guard`s thumb. His movement was restricted by his handcuffs, but he had no problem biting with crushing force into the warder`s digit. The guard screamed in pain and cursed through gritted teeth, but he couldn’t free his hand. His colleagues tried desperately to reach the prisoner but the main isle of the vehicle was too narrow to let them pass. The stricken guard was so fat that he completely blocked the access to the prisoner`s cell, and he was wedged against the bars. Roman bit harder and he felt his teeth contact bone. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin, but he wouldn’t let go of the vice like grip. He bit harder still and shook his head violently, feeling a tendon snap excited him further. Roman swallowed and the coppery taste of blood filled his senses. The two free prison guards grabbed the injured man and pulled him backward trying to wrench him free from the Russian`s bite. Roman felt the ligament rip as they pulled, and he bit harder still crunching through the cartilage between the knuckle of the thumb. The combined weight of the guards ripped the remaining flesh and sinew from the ruined thumb, and he bit the top two inches clean off. The screaming guard crashed backward, falling against his colleagues. He was staring wild eyed at the bloody stump where his thumb used to be. He cursed incoherently and started to blubber like a hysterical child. One of the shocked guards grabbed the injured man and dragged him from the vehicle by his feet. Armed police reacted quickly to the commotion from the prison van and they came to the aid of the guards.


 “Get pressure on the wound,” a police man said, “he needs a hospital immediately. Where`s the thumb?” The guards ran back into the vehicle and looked into Roman`s cell. They scoured the floor looking for the top of the guard`s thumb, but it was nowhere to be seen. Roman Kordinski sat staring out of the cell window at the beautiful racecourse in the distance laughing like a lunatic as he swallowed the fat guard`s appendage.


“Fucking hell I think he`s just swallowed it,” said one of the police men.


Chapter 44


Khava Bararayeva/ Black Widow


 Khava waited in line as the long white tourist train approached the excited crowd. The train engine passed and it made a hooting sound imitating a steam train. Children whooped with delight as the carriages came to a halt allowing them to scramble aboard. The Florida sun was shining and the temperature was already heading for the 90`s, even though it was only eleven o`clock in the morning. Khava climbed aboard the imitation passenger train which transported millions of tourists from their cars, to the theme parks, and back again.


“Good afternoon folks, and welcome to Disney`s Animal Kingdom on this beautiful morning,” said the train driver over the public address system. He was wearing white flannel pants and a bright yellow striped blazer. On his head was a red baseball cap emblazoned with the Disney logo.


 “Please move all the way across the bench seats, and allow the other folks to climb aboard. Five people per bench,” he continued his well rehearsed safety guidelines, “Your children must sit in between the adults and must not be seated next to the doors. Keep your hands and heads inside the vehicle at all times and please remain seated. You have joined the train at the Zebra car park folks, so don’t forget where you`ve parked your vehicles. We will have you at Animal Kingdom in just a few minutes and I wish you all a wonderful day, because it`s your day.”


The train jerked as it pulled away and began the short journey to the theme park entrance. Khava didn’t know why she had picked this one to visit, because they all seemed the same to her. She had driven the rental car down Buena Vista drive and passed Down Town Disney, where four of her Mujahideen brothers had taken the lives of hundreds of Kufur (non-Muslims), two years earlier. They had disguised themselves as Disney characters and then detonated their suicide vests inside the crowded resort. The political repercussions were colossal then, and they would be again this time. A mile further on she saw the sign for Animal Kingdom and decided that it would be her target. Animal Kingdom was the fourth theme park to be built on Lake Buena Vista, Florida. When it first opened its` gates in 1998 it became the largest Disney theme park in the world, covering over five hundred acres. Khava`s dark sunglasses hid the tears that welled up in her eyes, as she stared at the thousands and thousands of cars parked as far as the eye could see. It was a national holiday and children were enjoying a week off school. Disney was a Mecca for families the world over to visit. Khava looked at the giant `tree of life`, which was situated in the centre of the theme park, its branches towered above the park in the distance. The tree was carved with the shape of hundreds of species of animals, from top to bottom. Only as you approach it can you start to distinguish the carvings from the trunk. The huge tree was once the icon of Animal Kingdom but is now dwarfed by the artificial snow topped mountain that encapsulates a rollercoaster ride called `Expedition Everest`. Khava was amazed at the sheer scale of the theme park. She wiped a tear from her cheek and tried to be brave. The truth was that she was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been before.


 Four days before she was resolute that her destiny was to kill herself, and as many Westerners as possible, but now she wasn’t so sure. Khava was selected for this mission from a group of female volunteers, and then groomed with the details of the plan by the legendry Muslim warrior Yasser Ahmed. Yasser spent hours with her alone reciting historical events and milestones from times past. The struggle Islam had faced since its conception was now more prevalent than it had ever been. Yasser had convinced her and others that their own existence was absolutely crucial to the global status of Islam. Their actions here on earth would be rewarded tenfold when they arrived to greet their God. When the time to leave had come, Khava was driven to Grozny airport, and sent on a flight to Moscow along with two other Chechen women. They were never introduced to each other even though they knew of the others existence. During the journey to the airport they had sat in silence, each one of them lost in their own thoughts of what was to be. At the airport they were separated and given tickets and documents that would keep them apart to protect each individual mission. Khava had never been on a plane before, now she had four flights in front of her. From Moscow she had flown to Amsterdam where she changed planes to fly to Chicago. She was amazed at the size of Chicago airport, especially when she had to board a train to travel from one terminal to another. Khava felt lost and alone in the huge international terminus, and it was there that her doubts started to eat at her. Standing on a long moving walkway she bypassed boarding gate after boarding gate. They all looked alike, just the faces of the people waiting were different.


 Khava passed a waiting area designated for an American Airlines flight to New York. The passengers were forming a line at the gate as they were called to board. Near the back of the line was one of the women that she had travelled to Grozny airport with. One of Yasser Ahmed`s Black Widows. She caught her eye as she walked and they stared at each other for a moment. Khava saw recognition in her eyes along with something else. There was a deep sadness there too. Khava recognised the emotion in her, and it was an empty desperate feeling of hopelessness. The travelator carried her away from the New York boarding gate and the moment was gone. Khava was alone again. She waited forty-five minutes in line to pass through security checks before she boarded her flight to Florida. Khava was picked up from the airport by Yasser`s affiliates and taken to a Best Western hotel in Kissimmee. There she was given the keys to a hire car, a one day Disney pass and her instructions. She had never felt so alone in her short miserable life than she did now. Not even when her husband had his throat cut in a bar in Grozny by a Russian soldier, who had made a drunken pass at Khava. Her husband had obviously sprung to her defence and paid with his life. Khava was hysterical as she watched her husband bleeding to death on the filthy wooden floor. Before he had even stopped twitching the Russian soldiers dragged Khava through a fire exit and raped her in the alleyway outside. The authorities recorded the death of her husband as a bar brawl for which no one was arrested or charged, and rape was never registered. Destitute and disgraced she became filled with a bitter hatred. Giving her life to aid in the struggle against the Christians and Jews was a natural option. They had taken everything she had ever loved from her and now was her time for revenge.


“Please leave the carriages from the right hand side folks, and check that you have taken all your belongings, especially the children with you!” the train driver interrupted her thoughts as they arrived at the gates to Animal Kingdom.


Chapter 45


New York


Zareta Katharina walked slowly along a promenade on the shores of the mighty Hudson River. She was heading for Battery Park where she was going to take a New York water taxi to Ellis Island, and the Statue of Liberty. Zareta had arrived in New York late the previous evening; too tired to even eat she had slept through until midday. The flights from Chechnya had taken twenty-seven hours in total, leaving her drained of energy. The connecting flights were uneventful except for catching a fleeting glimpse of another woman from Grozny, at Chicago airport. She too was to become a Chechen Black Widow and a martyr of Islam. Zareta had thirty-six hours until she completed her mission, and she decided to spend them exploring the colossal metropolis that was New York. She had never experienced anything like it before, and she never would again.


Battery Park was vibrant when she arrived. The twenty-one acre green space is the southernmost tip of the New York, borough of Manhattan, facing the harbour. The park is named after the artillery battery that was built by the British Army to protect the city in the seventeenth century. Zareta drifted through the busy park toward the pier, which was once a fireboat station, and she sat and watched the ferries whilst drinking frothy American coffees for an hour before she boarded one herself. A medium sized latte cost more money than she had needed to feed herself for a week in Chechnya, but she was given money to spend and she couldn’t take it with her so she intended to spend it. There are no pockets in a shroud. Once onboard the ferryboat Zareta headed for the rear viewing deck. She stood there looking at the buildings in awe of the sheer scale of the city. As the ferries sail closer the Statue of Liberty the true size of Manhattan Island and its huge skyscrapers becomes apparent. The skyline is a truly amazing site to behold, especially for an untraveled eye. Zareta stared at the Chrysler building in wonder, and she thought it was difficult to believe that it was once dwarfed by the twin towers of the World Trade Centre. The sun glinted from its` glass exterior. The thought of the towers brought her back to earth with a mental bump. The true purpose of her mission returned to her and it made her stomach turn. Chechnya and the constant state of war now seemed so far away. Yasser Ahmed`s well rehearsed rhetoric had cemented her resolve, but now alone in this incredible city the Jihad was no longer as crucial as it had once seemed. Doubts niggled at her faith. Two young boys chased each other around the passenger deck laughing, and they reminded her of her own lost children. As she looked at the city from the harbour there is an invisible space where the towers once stood, which is hidden by the surrounding buildings. The events of 9/11 returned to her to challenge her doubts.


Zareta felt that the decision to commit an act of terrorism had not been a simple one for her. When the Russian-Christian, Zionist invaders committed atrocities in her homeland then she felt that their attacks were wrong. The crusades had never ended. Islam was constantly under attack from Western cultures determined to annihilate the Muslim faith. `What was the difference in that, and what she was about to do?` asked the voice in her head. Most of us would agree that terror attacks of any type are wrong; killing people, especially defenceless citizens with no political or religious inclinations is unacceptable to any human being. The problem comes when the injustices suffered by Zareta and her people are perceived to be worse than their revenge attacks. Cries for the death penalty as the ultimate deterrent in the legal system are heard more clearly by the relatives of a murdered victim, than an impartial bystander. Zareta, and Chechen women like her was robbed of their sons, fathers and husbands for two decades. The phenomenal size and power of the Russian armed forces left Chechen Muslims with no other military options than to use ambush, guerrilla tactics and suicide bombings to force their struggle onto the world stage. If Zareta`s mission was completed successfully then it would stop the Western world in its tracks. Muslim terrorists had demonstrated repeatedly that the enormously complex global transport system that we now share, which carries literally millions of people around our planet, ironically offers freelance terrorists more opportunities for sabotage abroad than at any other time in history, especially if those terrorists are prepared to commit suicide in pursuit of their goal. Zareta thought about the devastation caused by two groups of terrorists armed only with box cutter knives, who flew those planes into the twin towers. So twisted was her interpretation of Islam that their sacrifice steeled her resolve. She could not turn away from her people`s struggle now, and there was nowhere else for her to turn but to her God.


 Ellis Island came into view and the ferry slowed as it approached the dock to allow passengers to disembark. The Island had become a magnet for tourists who wanted to visit the museum there for nostalgia`s sake. The ancestors of America`s diverse population mostly entered the country through the immigration processing centre, which was based on the Island. Many of America`s Italian, Jewish and Irish population would be able to trace their ancestry through Ellis Island. The engines went into reverse and the water behind the boat boiled and foamed white as the propellers thundered.


Zareta was reminded of the day her sons were killed by invading Russian soldiers. They had entered her village to look for the perpetrators of a road-side bomb attack, which had killed nine Soviet soldiers the previous day. The culprits were miles away high in the mountains near the border of Dagestan, when the soldiers arrived looking for recompense. The Chechen men from the village were lined up and questioned by the Russian officers. No one imparted any useful information to them, which frustrated them further. Zareta`s teenage sons were led away from the town square, with a group of boys of a similar age, to a small stone bridge, which separated one side of the village from the other. The small bridge had room enough for one vehicle at a time to pass over it. Beneath it the River Yagi flowed through a deep gulley thirty-feet below. The water was a torrent as it passed beneath the bridge, where it entered a deep water hole becoming almost still before flowing over the next series of falls into the valley below. The deep water hole was clear, and the rocks it contained were visible beneath the surface. Despite her hysterical pleas for clemency the soldiers tossed a local boy from the bridge to entice information from the villagers. The sad truth was that the local inhabitants rarely knew anything of the whereabouts of the rebel Mujahideen. The presence of Arab Muslims amongst the Chechens fighters raised suspicion from the indigenous Muslim community and vice versa. The twelve year old plunged into the deep freezing water below the bridge and he disappeared from sight. Long seconds passed until he surfaced again, but he was face down and still. Blood coloured the water around him seeping from a deep wound on his skull, as his body headed toward the next waterfall. His clothes snagged on the sharp rocks at the edge of the pool and he remained snagged on them for a moment, before the current finally tipped his body over the edge and out of view. His mother had screamed like a banshee, and she had hammered at a Russian soldier with clenched fists only to be pistol whipped to the ground, losing two decaying teeth in the process. Her husband had long since been taken away from the village by the Russians never to return, and the rest of the villagers remained silent. They were too scared to come to her defence.


 The soldiers grabbed Zareta`s eldest son Akmad and they wrestled the skinny little kid toward the wall. A big Russian soldier picked him up by his ankles and dangled the terrified teenager over the opposite edge of the bridge above the raging torrent. Zareta`s younger son picked up a tree branch and attacked the offending Russian with it. The branch struck the soldier in the mouth, wiping the sick smile from his face, and splitting both the top and bottom lips simultaneously. The soldier was furious and he swung the dangling boy in a vicious arc toward his younger brother. Their heads collided at speed and the force of the impact shattered the younger sibling`s cheek bone. He was knocked headlong over the low wall. The soldier bellowed in rage and tossed the older boy over the bridge onto the rocks below, just yards away from where his brother had landed. Despite the thirty-foot drop onto the jagged rocks, which had twisted and cracked their bones, they managed to cling onto the rocks, and each other as the raging torrent tore at them. The water seemed desperate to drag them from the purchase that they held on the slippery rocks. The Russians laughed as the young brothers clung on for dear life, and one of them offered a bet as to which would succumb to the power of the waterfall first. Zareta jabbered uncontrollably attracting the attention of the cruel Russian soldier, who had tossed her beloved offspring from the bridge, as if they were garbage. She screamed abuse at him as she was dragged to the edge of the wall by the Russian with the broken lips. He forced her against the stone bridge and bent her over the wall, forcing her to watch her injured children clinging to the rocks. He barked questions to her about the whereabouts of the insurgents but she did not have any answers for him. Zareta felt as if her heart would break as her youngest boy`s strength failed, and the river dragged him away from the gulley and tossed him like a leaf down the rocks into the deep water beneath the bridge. The soldier laughed in her ear, and the bristles on his unshaven face scratched at her neck and cheek. She felt sick as his feted breath reached her nostrils. The world seemed to freeze and she felt like she was no longer an active participant on planet Earth. Zareta stared at her son and felt nothing but numbness inside her. She felt the material of her dress ripping but her muscles refused to respond, even when she realised his erect penis was pressed against her. Her eldest son maintained his grip on the rock while the Russian took her there, bent over the wall in front of the whole village. She felt nothing but the pain of a bereaved mother, and thankfully the ordeal didn’t last long. None of the other soldiers joined in the rape, which was unusual in this war where the systematic dehumanising of the female Chechens was implemented on a daily basis. No one tried to help her because no one really could, without risking their own lives. The rape of Chechen women by Russian soldiers was a much an everyday occurrence as Chechen men disappearing. They were just casualties of war. When he had finished he zipped up his pants and pulled out his pistol. Then he shot the boy that was still clinging to the slippery rock twice, once in the shoulder, and again in the back of the head. He tumbled down the waterfall to join his dead brother in the pool below the bridge.


“All aboard ladies and gentlemen please, stand away from the guard rails. The next stop will be at Battery Park, New York City,” said the voice of the ships pilot over the speaker system. The voice made her jump and brought her back to reality. Zareta had watched the foaming water at the back of the ferry for forty-minutes while she remembered that horrific day. She had completely missed the ferry stop at the Statue of Liberty, lost in her memories. Her heart felt cold and empty again. The hopelessness of a decade of war against Christians and Jews returned to her. Hilary Rice the first black female president of the United States of America was arriving in New York tomorrow. She was to address the first ever Ethnic Minority Women`s Action Group at their conference, which was taking place at the world famous Madison Square Garden the next day. Zareta would be there at the conference, and she was desperate to meet the new President in person.


Chapter 46


Roman Kordinski/ Liverpool


 Roman heard the metal panel in the cell door slide open. He felt stiff and bruised as he sat up on his cot bed. The prison guards had used Taser guns to subdue him in the van, when he had bitten the fat guard`s thumb off. The weapons were introduced to British law enforcement officers as a less than lethal option. They were used to control belligerent or potentially dangerous subjects, by hitting the prisoner with thirty thousand volts. The voltage had floored Roman rendering him unconscious. When he woke he was lying in a small cell, and was restrained with a straight jacket device. Roman looked around the cell and decided it was just a holding facility, probably situated in a police station or beneath a court room. There was no toilet, which ruled out a conventional penitentiary.


The face that appeared at the hatch was that of his solicitor. He heard angry muffled voices outside the door, and then the noise of keys being inserted into the lock. The series of metal bolts slid back into their housing noisily and the door squealed open. Two armed policemen entered the cell, and roughly pulled Roman from the cot. Armed policemen did not work in police station custody suites, he thought, it was not a good sign.


“I must insist that my client is released from that straight jacket immediately,” mumbled the lawyer to the armed guards. They didn’t respond to his request at all, in fact they hadn’t spoken to him once since he had arrived. The lawyer, Alan Williams, was waiting for his client at the High Court in Chester. When his client had not arrived he enquired about his whereabouts. Alan was informed that his celebrity client had bitten the thumb from a prison guard, and was transferred to the holding suite at the Terrorist Task Force headquarters, Canning Place, Liverpool. The fortress style building had underground access to secret government facilities miles across the city, and fortified tunnels, which led to the Crown Court building in the city centre. They were originally built to facilitate the incarceration and prosecution of Irish Republican terrorists, without fear of prison break attempts. Fears of Roman`s criminal network attempting to free him was highlighted by Major Stanley Timms. British law insisted that Kordinski must be committed to trial in the county where his crime was committed. Unless the safety of the prisoner was threatened, which the Major now insisted that it was. Having caused grievous bodily harm to a popular prison warder would make Roman a target for revenge by vigilante officers. The Major had no real concerns for the Russian`s safety, but he had applied the letter of the law to ensure the Terrorist Task Force gained control of Kordinski`s whereabouts. It would take an army to attempt to release him from the cells beneath Canning Place.


“I have noted your lack of response to my request, and I need both your names and ranks please, so that I can present a formal complaint,” the lawyer blustered, flushing red with frustration. He looked at the policemen and realised that they had no registration numbers on their shoulder lapels. British police wear an identity number on their uniforms unique to each officer. These officers had no such identification on them, which worried Alan Williams greatly. His client was to be charged with involvement in acts of terrorism, which at first glance was incredulous. He was one of the richest oil tycoons in the world, not a terrorist. The fact that he was being held in a secret facility beneath the River Mersey by British policemen, who wore no identity marks testified to the gravity of the situation. The officers opened a door, which led into an interview room and roughly sat Roman in a plastic chair. The room held two grey plastic chairs either side of a small metal table. All the furniture was bolted to the ground. The walls were bare except for a two way mirror fitted into the left hand wall. Romans straight jacket was attached to the chair, which prevented him from rising. There was barely enough room for the four men, who occupied its space. It was a deliberate tactic by the designers to cause claustrophobia.


“I really must insist that my client is freed from these restraints officer,” the lawyer tried again, “why is he being treated in this manner?” “He is innocent until proven guilty.” Alan Williams had to try to defend his client, but the truth of the matter was that he was disgusted by the charges being brought against the Russian businessman. If they were proved then he would be locked up for the remainder of his life. The evidence pointed to his involvement in two of the worst terrorist incidents ever witnessed on the British mainland. That itself was bad enough, but anonymous information was passed to Alan`s office, which indicated that the motive was monetary. The fact that there was no tangible political or religious purpose seemed to make it worse.


“Your client is being held under the Terrorist Act, which means you have exactly thirty-minutes to communicate to him, starting from now. He is being restrained because he attacked an officer of Her Majesty`s Prison Service, which resulted in him losing his thumb. You now have twenty-eight minutes.” The guard looked at his watch.


“Well I am certainly going to require more than thirty minutes officer, whatever your name is. Also I will require privacy please,” Alan Williams was at a loss with the situation. Roman Kordinski was a golden goose of a client. His practice had literally disposed of its other clients six years ago to service Roman and his legal requirements. There were some serious accusations against the Russian tycoon, but nothing that couldn’t be made to disappear with enough money thrown at it. This was a different kettle of fish altogether. Tax evasion and accusations of mafia connections was one thing, this was another.


“This is where you will hold your communication sessions with the prisoner. We will remain present at all times, and you have twenty-six minutes remaining.” The Task Force officer looked at his watch again.


Alan Williams flushed purple with anger, but there seemed little to be gained by protesting at this time. He would have to use the courtroom to air his grievances.


“Did you assault a prison guard?” Alan asked Roman in a whisper, shaking his head in disbelief. Roman eyes brightened at the memory, but only for a second. Then he seemed to withdraw again. Roman Kordinski had always been in control of his life, and the life of those around him. Incarceration was magnifying the cracks in his schizophrenic personality.


 “Roman are you alright?” Alan pushed his client for a response, “I can`t help you unless you talk to me, did you assault a prison officer?”


“Yes I bit the fat fucker`s thumb off,” Roman shrugged off his reply as if it were just par for the course, “he attacked me in the prison van, I was defending myself.” Roman lowered his head to show his lawyer bloody bald patches where the guard had ripped his hair out. Alan Williams frowned at the guards and removed a small silver digital camera from his scruffy briefcase. He flicked open the lens and snapped four pictures of Roman`s injuries.


“They knocked me out with Taser guns,” Roman added, and he lifted his chin up from his chest to reveal a deepening blue bruise just below his neck, which disappeared beneath the straight jacket.


The lawyer snapped three more pictures of the electric shock injuries and tutted audibly for the policemen`s benefit. Taser is a trademark name, and is an acronym for `Thomas A. Swift`s Electric Rifle`, named after it`s science fiction teenage inventor. They were still controversial experimental law enforcement weapons because of the injuries and deaths they had caused.


“I want it noted that I am formally complaining about my client`s injuries, reasonable force has not been applied in this case,” Alan Williams said for the benefit of whoever was behind the two way mirror. It would not be the first time a dead cert guilty client had walked free from a courtroom because of a technicality. Alan had to try to find every chink in the police evidence. The problem was that the evidence looked solid. Failure to apply proper policy and procedure was the only weakness that Alan could see at the moment.


“What`s happening to my business outside,” Roman asked, “when will you get me out of here?” Roman stared at an enlarged mole on his lawyer`s forehead as if he had never noticed it before. He studied it with a vacant look in his eyes.


           “There have been some serious issues with your Russian portfolio of business interests, but you should be more concerned with getting out of here right now,” Alan Williams replied.


 “What issues?” Roman snapped back at his lawyer, trying to stand up but forgetting that he was restrained. He looked down at the straight jacket as if it just suddenly appeared, with a look of concerned surprise on his face.


“We don’t have much time Roman, and we need to go through the rebuttal evidence before your committal hearing,” Alan said matter of factly, trying to avoid the issue of Roman`s Soviet interests. There was something very different about his client`s behaviour, he couldn`t put his finger on what it was, just something missing.


 “I asked you, what issues?” Roman leaned forward as far as the straight jacket would allow him to move, and snarled the words toward his lawyer emphasising each syllable, making his accent more pronounced.


“Because you have been incarcerated there seems to be an issue with your legal right to operate businesses within Russian borders,” Alan answered rubbing his hand through his thinning hair.


“What are you saying Alan. Spell it out, what issues?” Roman stared at his council with angry eyes. They were cold eyes like a shark has.


 “The Russian government has confiscated your companies and has taken over the running of them,” his lawyer blurted out, as if saying it quickly wouldn’t sound as bad.


“What did you say?” Roman was not used to being so helpless. His liberty was taken, now it sounded like his main income stream was terminated irreparably.


“You heard what I said Roman, look it`s more important that we get you out of the legal system so that we can appeal their decisions. We cannot do anything whilst you are behind bars,” Alan raised his voice a little trying to gain control of the situation.


 “Shut up you fucking idiot, which business have they confiscated?” Roman jerked violently in his seat, but the straps held him. The lawyer looked briefly at one of the policemen but they stared uninterested at the wall beyond. Alan was becoming concerned that Roman might snap his restraints, but the nonchalant expressions on the armed policemen reassured him that he was safe.


 “I said which businesses have they confiscated?” This time Roman was screaming. Spittle flew from his teeth, and dribbled down his chin as he began to fight against the restraints more vigorously.


“Calm down Roman,” his lawyer said in a hushed voice, but he was beginning to see the man behind the celebrity mask. The man behind the smiles and press shoots was very frightening indeed, and the more Alan could see the more he believed his client was indeed guilty.


 “Answer the fucking question, you useless piece of shit,” Roman gritted his teeth together and hissed the question. “Which business have they confiscated?” he screamed. The Russian`s face was purple from excursion, and the veins in his neck and temples were pumped up to busting point. Alan was past the point of being offended by Roman, as he often lost his temper and became rude to his employees.


“All of them Roman,” the lawyer sat back in his chair, shocked and afraid at the mental state that his celebrity client was displaying. “The Russian government have seized all your businesses that are within the Soviet Union. They have also frozen your assets and bank accounts.”


 “The bastards can`t do that, stop them,” Roman was almost hysterical now and a long globule of saliva dribbled from his chin. His head was shaking from side to side in denial of the facts. “That`s what I pay you for useless prick, stop them. Sell my oil reserves. That`s what you must do. Sell my oil reserves before they seize them, cash them in immediately.”


 “The Saudi`s have slashed the price of a barrel of crude to the lowest level for decades Roman. The OPEC countries and Russia have followed their lead. Your reserves aren`t worth a penny,” Alan Williams had tried to consolidate Roman`s assets prior to this meeting, but it seemed that invisible hands were pulling important strings in the world of politics and espionage. It was as if an international conspiracy was manipulating the financial markets to destroy Roman`s criminal empire. He was literally penniless apart from secret stashes of money and investments, which only Roman would know about.


“What, the Saudi`s have done what, I`ll fucking kill her. That`s it, the Saudi bitch is dead,” Roman started rocking in his chair violently. Alan Williams sat open mouthed at the implication of what Roman`s ranting had pointed to. The two policemen looked toward the mirror in unison, clinically aware of the strength of the damming evidence they had just witnessed.


“Roman be quiet!” Alan Williams regained his composure and tried to stop his client from putting any more nails in his own coffin.


 “I won’t be silenced, that Saudi bitch is as good as dead! They have double crossed the wrong man! Those fucking Arabs have crossed the wrong man!” Roman screamed a tirade of Russian swearwords. He looked like he was about to go into a seizure when the door opened and Major Stanley Timms entered the room. Behind him was Graham Libby, who was the Task Force pathologist and all round medical expert.


“I think that your client needs sedating,” said Graham Libby to Alan Williams. He placed a gentle hand on the lawyer`s shoulder sympathetically. The lawyer just nodded completely lost for words. He had never seen anyone having a psychotic episode before. He didn’t think that too much damage was done legally because the implication of the killing of a Saudi girl was purely coincidental evidence. His client`s mental state would be taken into account too, he thought, when Roman shouted again.


“That Muslim bitch Kellesh is dead, she`s fucking dead!” He was still screaming her name when they injected him with a strong sedative, by which time Alan Williams was being escorted from the custody suite into the long subterranean corridor, which led to an adjoining court room. He would have no choice but to change his client’s plea to not guilty on the grounds of insanity. Alan Williams thought that a trial would be a long drawn out process, at the end of which there was only one outcome. What Alan didn’t know was that he would never see Roman Kordinski alive again.


Chapter 47


Yasser Ahmed/ Kizlyar


 Yasser and his men were resting deep inside a cave, high in the mountains above Grozny, Chechnya. Russian bombers were carpet bombing the ridge directly above them, in a vain attempt to kill the Mujahideen fighters that plagued their operations on the ground. The mountain shook violently and the constant deafening explosions made their ears ring. Incredibly the majority of the rebel fighters still managed to catch some sleep. The atmosphere in the cave was almost cosy. A fire burned in the centre of the floor space, and its orange glow flickered on the stone walls, making hypnotic shadows dance. As the men dozed a symphony of snoring and farting echoed softly from the vaulted rock ceiling. The lack of running water and appalling food hygiene caused an almost constant state of gastric poisoning amongst the Mujahideen. Wind was one of the unfortunate side effects that they all had to tolerate. It was definitely time for them to cross the border into Dagestan. Once today`s bombing ceased Yasser would lead the bulk of his fighting force 40 miles to Kizlyar, a small town just across the border. The small town was capable of resupplying the rebels and its` hospital could treat the injured Mujahideen. In Kizlyar they could eat fresh food, and bathe, luxuries not readily available to guerrilla fighters. It was also the current abode of the Saudi Princess Jeannie Kellesh, who was in a drug induced coma state for two weeks and three days since her capture.


A lone fighter entered the cave, having made his way up the mountain trying to avoid the rock falls created by the Russian bombs. He was wearing Western trousers and a pair of battered Nike training shoes. On his head he wore a loose scarf, which looped, beneath his chin and round his neck, which was known locally as Lungees. A Kalashnikov hung from his right shoulder, and a canvas bag hung from his left. He spotted Yasser in the glow of the fire and carefully stepped over the sleeping Mujahideen fighters to reach him. He opened his canvas bag and handed Yasser a bundle of recent newspapers, which he had purchased at Grozny Airport two days earlier. Yasser nodded his thanks and kissed the man once on each cheek.


“Shukraan, As-Salaam alaykum,” Yasser said greeting the man, thank you, greetings and may peace be with you, was the rough translation.


“Our sisters have reached their destinations, and have all been contacted by our friends abroad,” the man informed Yasser whilst bowing his head to pay homage to his leader.


 “You have done well brother,” Yasser replied. He filled a bowl with watery chicken stew, making sure that he found plenty of white meat. He handed the bowl of food to the man. Being handed food by a superior is considered a great honour in the Arab world. The man sat and ate his prize noisily. Yasser scanned the newspapers looking for information from abroad. The Chicago Tribune reported that Yasser Ahmed was spotted in Syria, and was the potential target of the Israeli Special Forces, Mossad, who were allegedly hot on his tail, which made him chuckle to himself. The Israeli special operations division is called the Metsada, and is involved in assassination, paramilitary operations, sabotage and psychological warfare. Reported sightings of himself always amused him, but the piece went on to report the more serious assassination of a legendary Muslim fighter in Damascus. Convicted murderer and terrorist Mohammed Ali Hammadi was a key member of the military wing of the Palestinian political group Hezbollah. He was the ringleader of the hijacking of TWA flight 847 in 1985, during which American diver Robert Stetham was executed and thrown onto the tarmac runway at Beirut Airport, in front of the world`s media . Through the 1980`s, long before the names of Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda were known, Hammadi was the most wanted terrorist on the planet. On 13th February 2008 his car exploded in the Syrian capital, Damascus, killing him instantly. Israeli`s Mossad and America`s CIA were blamed for the assassination. Half the world celebrated the death of a murdering terrorist, whilst the other half mourned the death of a legendary freedom fighter.


Yasser whispered silent prayers for the soul of his dead Mujahideen brother. He also prayed to his God for luck and support, the strength to fight on against the Christians and Jews. Yasser knew that the forces of Israel, Britain, and America would pursue him forever as they had perused Hammadi. There would be no court or court-martials, just the violent death and ensuing peace that a car bomb or bullet brings to its target.


Yasser read on with dismay, an article written from an interview with Sayyed Imam al-Sharif, who was one of the al-Qaeda`s most senior theologians. Speaking from his prison cell in Saudi Arabia he was calling for his followers to end their violent Jihad against Christians and Jews. He was quoted as saying that the 9/11 attacks were a catastrophe for all Muslims, and that Osama bin Laden had betrayed the Taliban leader Mullah Omar in Afghanistan. The lapsed Jihadist called for the formation of a special Muslim court to try bin Laden and his deputy Ayman al-Zawahiri for their crimes against Islam. Yasser was aware that the popularity of bin Laden was waning, but he also wandered what tortures Imam al-Sharif had endured in his Saudi prison cell to have such a dramatic change in conviction.


Osama bin Laden and his deputy al-Zawahiri were blamed by many conservative Muslims for the American invasion of Afghanistan, and the defeat of the Taliban. They were also blamed for the insurgency that raged in the north of Pakistan and Kashmir.


On the 26th December 2007 former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto was assassinated in a suicide attack. She had just addressed an election rally in Rawalpindi when an al-Qaeda gunman shot her in the neck, before exploding his suicide bomb, killing himself and 20 of her supporters. Several al-Qaeda web sites claimed responsibility for the murder of what they called, `America`s most precious asset`. The pro-Western Bhutto had vowed to rid her beloved Pakistan from Islamic extremists, if she gained power in the upcoming elections. The Islamic struggle was gaining momentum across the globe. Yasser was going to up the ante and make sure that Islam was protected from the Christian, Jewish aggressors.


 A two week old copy of the New York Times had front page coverage of the upcoming visit of the new President of the United States of America. Hilary Rice was going to address a women`s conference in Madison Square Garden. Much excitement was attached to the President`s visit, and Yasser smiled. He wandered what the headlines would read the day after her visit. He would enjoy reading them. The schedule they had received from their affiliates in New York was still intact, and the plan was running like clockwork. Yasser remembered the world-wide furore following his `Soft Target` campaign and he knew this new wave would dwarf that in comparison. The current plan was to activate the Disney cell three days before the President visited New York. Hilary Rice had won the Presidency, on a tough on terrorism ticket. Yasser was counting on her stoic response to the imminent bombing, including not changing her schedule. Displaying a stern unaffected exterior to terror attacks weakened their effect, and strengthened the American people`s resolve. Yasser hoped that her bravery would cost her dearly. Everything seemed to be going to plan until he read the headlines of London based newspaper, the Guardian.


Prominent Russian Jewish oil tycoon, Roman Kordinski, was arrested and charged with offences under the terrorism act. The article gave a brief summary of the facts that was released to the press, which did not allude to any kidnap plot. The reasons behind the bombings appeared to be racially motivated, in that they was orchestrated to cause racial violence, between immigrant Muslims and the wider Indigenous British public. The ensuing civil unrest, which included riots, racially motivated vigilante attacks on people and property, were a welcome distraction. The law enforcement agencies were so focused on the bombs and the aftermath that organised crime families were given free rein to operate unchallenged. It was alleged that several huge consignments of drugs was smuggled into the country during the nationwide unrest, which had followed the bombs. The price of heroin and cocaine had dropped to its lowest level for decades, indicating that massive shipments had arrived under the radar, whilst the law enforcement agencies were busy addressing internal issues.


The story was like waving a red flag to a bull. Yasser had Roman Kordinski on his hit list a decade ago, when he was still Moscow`s leading Mafioso. He epitomised everything Yasser was fighting against. Decadence, greed and the exploitation of Islamic nations by Western Christians and Jews were the root cause of his struggle. Since the early Crusaders arrived in Jerusalem they had done nothing but exploit the region for financial gain, controlling trade routes and looting religious treasures. Then came the discovery of oil, God`s gift to the Arabs. Chechnya could never be recognised as an independent country by Russia because of rich oil reserves. Decades of war between the Muslim countries of Iraq and Iran were caused by the oil rich region of southern Iran called Khuzestan. Both regimes claimed sovereignty over the region because of the oil reserves beneath its sand. Saddam Husain’s invasion of Kuwait was fuelled by his desire to capture and control its rich oil fields. Iraq was virtually bankrupt following years of armed struggle with Iran, so Saddam targeted Kuwait as a new income stream. China and Britain`s contributions to the corrupt government of Sudan runs into billions of dollars every year, because it has huge oil reserves beneath its` deserts. America`s repeated incursions into South America, Grenada and conflict with Venezuela are all oil related. The war for the Falkland Islands between Britain and the Argentine Junta are ultimately because of the potential oil reserves close to its shores. The small islands are situated thousands of miles away from Britain in the Southern Atlantic Ocean, yet they still claim sovereignty over them. Would any one bother if they were just volcanic rocks in the middle of an ocean on the other side of the world? Yasser didn’t think that they would.


Roman Kordinski was being held in the English city, Liverpool. Yasser was there before during the `Soft Target` campaign. He lost his sister there, when she was mistakenly shot by British Special Forces. She was wearing a crash helmet and the snipers thought she was Yasser. There was still a score to be settled in Liverpool and Yasser had just the plan to send a little message. If Kordinski was being tried there, then he would be in one place every day for months. His only protection would be British police, who would be concentrating on foiling any escape attempt. There was an `Axe` cell already in Britain, because he had originally planned to target London, using a Chechen Black Widow. His plan had just changed.


 The Russian aerial bombing subsided outside, and Yasser knew that it would be followed up with ground troops looking for evidence of successfully killing Mujahideen. The Russian troops would be here in a couple of hours. There was enough time to set a dozen booby traps around the cave areas, and remove all evidence of them ever being used by rebel forces.


 “Wake up my Muslim brothers,” Yasser shouted standing up and clapping his hands to rouse his men, “we leave for Kizlyar in an hour.”


Chapter 48


Kizlyar/Tank/ Special Forces


Two dust covered Mujahideen characters approached a road block, which was two-hundred yards away from the hospital facility in Kizlyar. They were wearing local dress, and looked like they had spent weeks in the mountains, unfed and unwashed. They wore Lungees scarves around their heads and tucked them around the neck area. On their heads they had Pakols, which was a type of turban, and long baggy Chapans, which were long cotton coats that were covered in dust and dirt. The guard at the road block eyed them suspiciously as they approached. The rebel on the left had black shiny skin, similar to natives of Sudan or North Africa. His teeth were blackened with decay, and he was leaning heavily on an improvised wooden crutch, limping badly. There was a blood stained field dressing wrapped around one foot. The other had slanted eyes and olive skin, indicating that he was of Tajikistan or Far Eastern origin. He carried his companion`s weight on the opposite side of where the crutch was. The guard looked at his face beneath the Lungees and cringed. The man with the slanted eyes wore a patch over one of them. His forehead and cheek were badly burned and blistered, the skin was hanging in flaps, and the injury ran down the neck beneath his clothing. The guard recoiled at the sight of the wound and allowed them to pass through to the hospital.


“Ahlan Wa Sahlan,” said the guard welcoming them. “Keep to the left to avoid the mines.” The road beyond was little more than a dirt track pitted with bomb craters.


“Ahlan Wa Sahlan Beekum,” said the fighter with the eye patch, and the black skinned man just nodded his head in acknowledgment. The cratered road turned to the left through scrubland, which was pitted like the surface of the moon. Shell holes of every conceivable size could be seen stretching into the distance. The hospital facility came into view and it looked starkly out of place in this landscape. It was a modern style two storey building fabricated from a metal framework, which was filled in with breeze block. The roof was long and low with just the slightest slant to it, and made from a corrugated metal sheet design. The left hand side of the building was still under construction. It looked like it was an afterthought.


The injured men hobbled through the entrance into the building. The reception area was chaotic and smelled of disinfectant and vomit. Injured fighters were strewn all over the large entrance hall and staff in once white overalls rushed about prioritising the casualties. There was a wide open area past the reception, which held a modern cafeteria type facility. There looked to be about forty seats there, which were all full of Mujahideen sitting in groups, drinking hot sweet tea and eating luxury items like chocolate bars, and pieces of fruit. Rifles and machineguns were discarded to lean against walls and pieces of furniture. The two new arrivals went unnoticed as they headed to the left, through swinging fire doors, and into the unoccupied sterile corridor beyond. They continued along the corridor quickly. The black skinned man`s limp was suddenly much improved, and the two moved much quicker. At the end of the corridor was a deserted nurse`s station, and behind that was an empty office. The nurse`s station looked like a long reception desk, but there were no telephones or clipboards to be seen anywhere. There was a film of pinkish dust that covered the surfaces, which was in fact saw dust. The part of the hospital they had entered had only recently been built and had never been occupied or utilised yet. Half seemed to be completed and other sections were still under construction, but there didn’t seem to be any particular pattern to the building progress. They stood in the empty office and crossed to the window. The floor was still just a concrete base and the walls were yet to be plastered.


Grace Farrington put down her fake crutch and removed a small transmitter from her dirty clothing. Chen lifted the eye patch from his face and placed a thin wire antenna to the window ledge. Chen`s blistered scar was a compound called Collodion which is widely used in the film industry to create horrific looking burn injuries. Nightmare on Elm Street`s Freddie Kruger was the result of its stunning effects.


“Pilgrim one, we are in the building,” Grace said into the transmitter, “the hospital has around seventy unexpected guests. There is at least a battalion of Mujahideen in the casualty area.”


 “Roger that Pilgrim one,” Tank replied from an armoured Land Rover one mile away, “do you think you can extract the target without being identified Faz?”


 “That depends on the condition of our patient when we find her,” Faz replied, “we will progress to stage two and establish coms shortly.”


The two Task Force agents replaced their disguises and headed back into the empty corridor to find Jeannie Kellesh. They had argued black was blue with Tank and Major Stanley Timms about their plan. Faz and Chen were correct when they said that they were the only ones who could walk into the facility undetected, with the help of some special effects. A full frontal attack was out of the question, without endangering the target`s life and losing men. Tank was furious and tried to scupper the plan at every opportunity, but the more he tried the more determined Grace became, and it did make perfect sense. Inserting two of the best special ops agents in the world into the hospital facility to provide reconnaissance, and possibly extract the girl without firing a shot was an opportunity not to be missed. Major Timms noted the over protective response from Tank, and decided that the issue of his alleged personal relationship with Grace must be dealt with following the mission. One of them would have to leave the Terrorist Task Force.


Faz and Chen limped through a series of unfinished corridors that they had studied from stolen plans prior to the incursion, which was provided by MI6. Anything in the former Soviet Union could be purchased for the right price. They reached a door with a round glass porthole fitted to it, and they peered into the corridor beyond. Medical staff buzzed around a modern hospital ward, which was decked out with hi-tech fixtures and fittings. The staff wore clean starched uniforms, which were very different from the employees at the front of the building.


“Pilgrim one, we are in the private sector of the building,” Faz whispered into the coms. “There is no sign of our patient yet.”


“Roger that, Pilgrim one, have you found access to the first floor yet? It should be directly to your left,” Tank replied through their ear pieces. He was following their progress via minute trackers fitted into their shoes and clothing.


 Faz nudged Chen toward a stairwell on their left and they limped toward the doorway maintaining their disguise. The doorway had no frame fitted to it yet, and a strip of yellow tape formed a cross to prevent anyone entering. The stairwell on the plans had not been built yet. There was just an open concrete shaft.


 “Pilgrim one, there is no access to the primary stairwell,” Faz whispered into the coms, “it hasn’t been built yet, we need an alternative route Tank.” Her request was answered by static in her ear. The seconds dragged while they waited for a response.


“Pilgrim one, there should be a lift fifty yards down the corridor to your right,” Tanks voice crackled, “the only other stairwells are in the occupied sectors of the hospital.”


 “That leads us back to the reception area. The corridors there are full of gurneys carrying wounded rebels,” answered Chen, “that`s a negative Tank it`s too dangerous.” Chen tapped Faz and nodded his head back toward the way they came. They limped quickly back toward the deserted nurses station. Chen pointed to a newly built cleaner`s cupboard. The door was wedged open with a half used bag of cement, and inside leaning against the wall was a double step ladder. Within thirty seconds they were climbing up the empty shaft toward the first floor. Grace reached the next level first, and she reached behind her to pull Chen up into the empty first floor corridor. The corridor mimicked the one beneath it so they were just yards from a set of double doors containing the same round glass windows as the ground floor had. There was a ward along a corridor but it was completely empty. At the far end of the corridor stood a solitary guard next to a door, which looked like it led to a single room, or side ward. His gun was not a Russian made Kalashnikov. It was an Israeli made Uzi 9mm.


“Bingo Pilgrim one, we`ve located our patient,” whispered Grace. “We`ll establish her condition.”


“Roger that Pilgrim one, what`s the security like?” Tank answered anxiously. He was answered with two static clicks, which indicated that a verbal response wasn’t possible. Faz and Chen were already moving into the private sector of the hospital.


Chapter 49


Khava Bararayeva/ Animal Kingdom


 Khava stood patiently in line waiting for the security check at the gate to the largest Disney theme park in the world. She had a rubber new born baby doll strapped to her chest in a baby harness. The dummies are so realistic that it`s almost impossible to distinguish them from the real thing. The Disney security guard cooed at the rubber child and commented on how beautiful it looked, after distinguishing what sex it was. That always seems to be the first question. What is it, a boy or a girl? Then it becomes he or she, and they are always beautiful. Has anyone ever been told their baby is odd looking? Or does anyone say how come the baby is not the same colour as your husband? New born babies bring out the innocence within us all, and that was exactly what Yasser Ahmed was counting on. The security guard checked Khava`s bag, but found only baby milk and spare nappies amongst the usual necessaries carried by parents the world over.


 Khava breathed a sigh of relief as she passed through the gate into the park. A wooden sign post stood in the centre of a tarmac area. To the right hand side was a mobility station, which rented electric scooters to less able people, to help them navigate around the huge theme park. That was what the scooters were for in theory. In truth the majority of its customers were fat people, who really needed the exercise, but couldn’t be bothered, walking in the heat. It often left the real less able people waiting ages for scooters to be returned. Khava thought that the large number of overweight people was just another example of Western decadence, as she watched them queue for the electric carts. Straight ahead of her was a section of dense tropical trees dissected by a wide pathway. She headed up the path into the trees. To the left were beautiful grey Macaw parrots perched in the trees. Kava stopped and stared at them open mouthed. She read the sign again and couldn’t understand why anyone would call them grey, because they were the most stunning parrots she had ever seen. They were the only parrots she had ever seen more to the point. Someone stood close to her and asked her what sex the baby was, prompting her to move away quickly. Khava could see the exit out of the trees up ahead, when she was struck by a powerful odour. To her right hand side was a rock pool, which acted as a barrier to prevent four pot bellied pigs from escaping into the general population of Animal Kingdom. The four fat pigs snuffled around their enclosure in what looked like a six inch layer of their own excrement. The smell knocked her sick and she gagged at the thought of eating pork. Christians ate it every morning, she thought, some of them will not eat it tomorrow morning, that`s for sure.


As she left the wooded area she crossed an ornately carved bridge that spanned a man made canal. A mock steamboat was passing beneath her, occupied by the whole Disney clan playing musical instruments, conducted by the famous Mouse himself. Children pointed excitedly at the costume band and stood in awe of their first sighting of Mickey and his pals. Khava saw the sign for a roller coaster ride called Expedition Everest, which towered above the theme park across an artificial lake. The colossal imitation mountain stood three hundred feet high, and could be seen from miles around. A long rollercoaster appeared from a dark aperture at the top of the mountain and then roared down a terrifyingly steep slope before disappearing into the mountain again. She could hear the terrified screams of the ride`s passengers echoing across the lake. It seemed the obvious place to explode her bomb.


Khava walked into the ladies restrooms and opened the door to a baby change cubical. She pulled the baby unit from the wall and placed her bag on it. After unzipping her carrier bag she removed three bottles of prepared baby milk, and then twisted off the teats. The bottles did contain milk, but it was added to a water gel explosive called Tovex. The majority of commercial blasting agents used for mining or demolition are now saturated aqueous solutions. It is the rapid displacement of solid explosive substances such as Semtex or dynamite, which has led to the banning of liquids being taken onboard commercial airlines. Water gel explosives can simply be poured into the bomb casing, and hey presto, you have complete devastation.


 On August 11TH 2006, British counter terrorist agencies discovered the worst terrorist plot ever encountered in the United Kingdom. The suspected plot involved targeting multiple aeroplanes simultaneously, using water gel explosives. Had the plot not been discovered it would have led to the most catastrophic loss of innocent civilian lives since the 9/11 attacks in New York. It is believed that al-Qaeda operatives planned to smuggle water gel explosives onto passenger aircraft using sports drink bottles. The foiled plan involved the terrorists dyeing the liquid explosive red to match the sports drink inside, and then sealing the top half of the bottle, so that on close inspection the bottles would appear to be unopened. The bottom half of the bottle would have water gel explosives injected into them. A detonator could be made by something as innocent as a camera flash or a mobile phone. Their plan was to explode the bombs while the planes were airborne over densely populated areas. England was immediately placed on red alert and airport security became chaotic as hand luggage was banned from all passenger aircraft. The investigation led to the arrest of twenty-four suspected terrorists, but it also highlighted the global shift to the use of liquid gel explosives.


Khava twisted the head from the rubber doll, which was still strapped to her chest in her harness. She poured the liquid explosive Tovex from the baby bottles into the body cavity of the doll, and then she placed the empty bottles back in her bag. Gently she placed the head back on the rubber baby. Khava crossed the cubicle to the toilet, where she lifted the lid from the cistern. Taped inside the cistern was a plastic bag, which she removed. The bag was left by an accomplice, who was probably an employee at the park. She dried it and then placed it back onto the baby change unit. She ripped open the bag and spread the contents out. There were six bags of twenty-five cents coins, or quarters, each bag containing twenty dollars worth of metal coins. That made a total of four-hundred and eighty shiny pieces of shrapnel, which she poured into the doll to mix with the liquid explosives. She caught her reflection in the mirror and froze. Khava was amazed how old her reflection had become since losing her husband. The fine laughter lines around her blue eyes that her husband had found so attractive were now deep wrinkles. Dark circles curved under her eyes, and her face looked gaunt and grey. Her forehead was creased with deep lines, which furrowed when she frowned. She frowned a lot and rarely laughed nowadays.


 “I look like a woman who is damned,” she whispered quietly to her reflection in the mirror. Modern Islamic terrorists are shaped by the world around them. They are not born terrorists. A hopeless feeling of injustice seeps into them over a period of time. If you then add the introduction or reinforcement of an ideology into the process, then people can be groomed and moulded into suicide bombers. The individuals feel that they can then overcome any feelings of wrong doing. The taking of innocent lives becomes the righting of a wrong and nothing more. Poverty and deprivation, combined with constant military invasion and injustice create real life Chechen Black Widows like Khava every day. For Khava it was time to leave this world and its constant pain behind.


`The bad things she had seen were carved into every line on her face` she thought as she turned from the mirror and opened the door.


As Khava left the restroom the heat of the Florida sun struck her, like walking into a brick wall. The rubber baby had become very heavy now that it was filled with its deadly cargo. She passed a theatre called Bug`s Life and walked toward Dinoland, on her way to Expedition Everest. Khava jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand on her arm and she froze.


“Sorry if I startled you ma`am but you seem to have left your bag in the ladies room,” said a Mexican lady, who was pushing a stroller. She handed the bag that contained the empty milk bottles and diapers to Khava, but Khava was still a little shocked. She just looked at the Mexican lady blankly, and she started to shake.


“Your bag, I think that this is your bag,” the lady repeated smiling, “how old is your baby? Is it a boy or a girl?”


“Oh thank you,” Khava composed herself, “it`s a boy. I mean he is a boy.” Khava grabbed the bag smiling and tucked it under her arm. She nodded twice and walked off quickly into Dinoland.


The Mexican woman pulled her husband`s arm to attract his attention.


“Did you see that baby? Its head was twisted the wrong way, I don’t even think that was a baby. We need to tell the police,” she ranted as the scenario dawned on her. Why would anyone have an imitation baby? It looked real except its head was at an impossible angle. Her husband didn’t have a clue what she was ranting about as she stormed off pushing the stroller through the crowds, looking for a policeman.


There were no policemen in Disney but she saw a female security guard and her heart sank. The woman was dressed in a green safari uniform, which included a khaki safari hat with corks dangling from it. Donald Duck was emblazoned on the front of her hat. The female officer looked like she ate the Grand Slam breakfast at Denny`s diner every day, followed by pancakes and syrup, then lunch. She was sweating as she waddled through the crowd holding a large coke.


 “Officer there is a suspicious lady in the park. She has a rubber baby. At least I think its rubber. It could have been plastic, but anyways the head is twisted. That`s how I know it wasn’t a genuine baby. Don’t you think that’s weird? I mean who has a rubber baby unless there’s going to be trouble? You have to stop her at least,” the Mexican woman blurted out. The officer took a long sip on her coke and looked at the woman.


“Could you say all that again for me one more time, but real slow so that I can understand,” she said, knowing that today was going to be one of those days, rubber baby indeed.


 Khava crossed the bridge over the lake that took her to the entrance gate for Expedition Everest. There was a sign, which explained that no food or drink was allowed, and also no children. Khava stopped in her tracks. The rollercoaster thundered out of the mountain above her. Its arrival was announced by the screams of its passengers. What next? Her thoughts were interrupted by a commotion on the bridge. Khava watched an overweight woman wearing a cork hat trying to run over the bridge. She was running alongside a Mexican woman who was pushing her stroller at thirty-miles an hour whilst pointing toward Khava. The woman in the cork hat looked like some kind of Disney policewoman. She had a themed uniform to blend in with the atmosphere, but Disney didn’t make guns and the policewoman had hers drawn. Khava turned to look for an escape, but she could see men in uniforms running through the crowds from the other direction toward her. They too had their guns drawn. Bystanders watched open mouthed as the scene developed. No one was sure whether or not this was real or just another Disney show time performed by actors.


 “Don`t move lady, put your hands up where I can see them,” the female officer shouted. She was out of breath and really wanted her coke back, but she had dropped it when she realised the potential gravity of the situation. Khava turned slowly in a circle and assessed her options. The crowds had now parted around her leaving her exposed and isolated. The majority of the tourists were now running away from the scene in a panic. Memories of the Down Town Disney bombings the year before were still raw in people`s minds. Khava put her hand into her right hand pocket and removed a disposable camera. There was a thin wire filament running form the flash bulb into the body of the rubber baby bomb. A voice came from behind her demanding that she remain still but she ignored, and she started to edge slowly toward a group of tourists who were trapped in the queuing system that fed the rollercoaster.


 “Drop it now, you have three seconds,” another group of officers had cleared their way through the crowds, and she was now surrounded. She edged closer to the panicking tourists and they began to climb the barriers that penned them in. Chaos broke out as normal everyday people started to panic. Self preservation took over, and men trampled on women and children to escape. One man pulled another from the railings to speed his own escape, and the fallen man was swallowed beneath the panicked crowds and crushed to death.


Khava felt an explosion of pain and blinding white light as a high velocity bullet smashed through her skull, and liquefied her brain. The momentary pain was indescribable, and the shock stunned her body into inactivity. She knew that all she needed to do was press the flash button and her mission was completed. She could join her beloved husband in heaven, and never be hungry again. For a moment her motor neurons reconnected, and she felt a twitch in her fingers. It wasn’t enough to detonate her bomb though, and the second, third and fourth high velocity bullets ripped what was left of her head from her shoulders. Her headless body slumped to its knees on the ground and remained in a bizarre kneeling position, with her hands around the rubber baby. She was still there when the bomb squad arrived forty-minutes later.


Chapter 50


Kizlyar/Mujahideen `vs. Terrorist Task Force


Grace and Chen limped down the corridor toward the mercenary soldier, who was guarding the room that they wanted to enter. The mercenary stood straight and lifted his Uzi 9mm machinegun as soon as the two Mujahideen entered the corridor. This part of the hospital was designated to predominantly Russian cliental, exuberant prices were paid to treat patients, mostly gangland shootings or the odd plastic surgery procedure. The Mujahideen and local Dagestan casualties were treated on the lower floors for a few shekels. The rebels came to the hospital to have their wounded treated and to eat and rest. The nearby village helped them to rearm and resupply.


 Many of them brewed a noxious substance, which they drank to relax. It was opiate based and could have a hallucinatory effect if drunk to excess. The mercenary thought these two men that were approaching him had had too much to drink, and had wandered into the private sector by mistake. He knew that a number of Mujahideen fighters had arrived earlier that day under the cover of darkness. They always brought trouble with them.


Grace pushed Chen gently away from her, and leaned her weight against the wall as if she were resting her injury a moment. The mercenary walked toward them curious as to what they were doing. Suddenly she hurled the crutch like a javelin, which struck the guard in the middle of his forehead knocking him over backward. Chen pounced on him like a cat and dropped his knee across the man`s throat smashing his larynx. There was a brief gurgling sound from his throat then he was still. They picked him up by his legs, and dragged him into the first floor cleaner`s cupboard. They bundled him and closed the door to hide the body. Faz tucked the Uzi into her waistband. They rushed to the doorway and peered inside. The man in the bed had had facial surgery recently, and lay unconscious attached to a drip feed. There was no sign of Jeannie Kellesh. Faz nodded to Chen and they moved as one down the corridor to the next room, which was empty. There was a double doorway leading into the next sector and Chen peeped through it. Two more mercenaries stood guard either side of a door, on the right hand side of the passageway.


Faz pointed her index finger at the man on the left and then ran it across her throat in a slow slashing motion. The covert military language for I`ll kill the one on the left, you kill the other. She counted her fingers down in front of Chen`s face, three, two, one and they moved swiftly and silently. They pushed through the doors with Special Forces Glock pistols drawn. They were fitted with a three inch noise suppressor to the business end of the barrel, which quelled the sound of a high velocity round being fired. Faz`s gun spat three times, chest, chest and head. It`s called triple tap shooting and absolutely guarantees that your target will not get up and shoot back at you. Chen`s target collapsed in a heap next to the other mercenary with identical bullet holes in him.


A quick glance through the door revealed the Saudi Princess. She was sedated and attached to a methadone drip. They dragged the dead soldiers into her room and stuffed their bodies behind the bed curtain, out of sight. Chen grabbed a towel from a white porcelain sink and mopped up the smeared blood trail with it.


“Pilgrim one, we have located our patient,” whispered Faz into the coms, “she is heavily sedated and will need assistance during evac.” It was the worst possible scenario because they couldn’t take her out undetected. Faz looked out of the first floor window, which was situated at the rear of the hospital facility, over what looked like a lunar landscape. The land to the rear was heavily cratered with shell holes, and scattered with razor wire at irregular intervals.


“Pilgrim one, we need a pathway made directly beneath this room for approximately four-hundred yards in a westerly direction,” said Faz, “I can see the road at the top of the next ridge. If you clear the minefield and position an evac helicopter on that ridge we can get her out of here. You will have to keep our rebel friends busy at the front though.”


 “Roger that Pilgrim one, take cover,” Tanks voice sounded more guttural than usual, adrenalin was thickening the saliva in his throat, “attack will be launched on my mark, three, two, one.” An almighty explosion rocked the building and Faz dived for cover. Chen had the Saudi safely against the wall below the window. The explosion was a Hellfire missile fired from a circling unmanned drone, which destroyed the reception area of the facility and thirty of the Mujahideen that had occupied it were blown to pieces. Two more explosions rocked the building as heavy machinegun posts close to the hospital were destroyed by the drone. Faz heard the unmistakable rotor blades of an American Apache gunship approaching from the back of the hospital close to where they were. Two air cannon machineguns, which were attached beneath the Apache`s chassis roared into life. They sounded like two Harley Davidson motorbike engines as they unleashed an avalanche of red hot high velocity 50 calibre bullets. The expert pilot combined with an expert gunner raked the minefield behind the hospital creating a safe pathway across the wilderness. Huge plumes of dirt and dust exploded into the air as the machinegun bullets detonated buried ordinance. The hospital`s windows blew out, showering Faz and the Saudi girl with splintered shards of glass.


The whooshing sound of air to ground rockets indicated to Faz that someone had foolishly started firing back at the Apache gunship. The gunship responded and half a dozen colossal explosions could be heard to the east of the hospital, where the road block was situated. She glanced out over the window ledge and saw a smouldering crater where the checkpoint had once stood.


“Pilgrim one, it`s time to go,” Tanks voice boomed over the coms. They could hear machinegun fire in the background as if Tank`s position was taking fire.


“Roger that, Pilgrim one,” Faz said as she headed for the window. She removed a synthetic knotted rope from her webbing and wrapped it beneath the Saudi`s armpits. Chen lifted her legs over the window ledge and they quickly lowered her to the dusty ground beneath them. She hit the floor with a bump and folded into an awkward position, but at least she was free. Chen and Faz vaulted the window and rested their weight on a narrow ledge just below the opening. They were perched twenty feet above the ground, too far to jump without sustaining an injury. Machinegun bullets smashed into the breeze block walls close to Chen, shattering the block into dust and splinters of concrete. A two inch shard stuck into his cheek and he cried out as it chipped the bone beneath, but he clung onto the ledge.


“Pilgrim one, we are taking machinegun fire,” Faz screamed into the coms, their position was desperately exposed without support. The gun fire was coming from a machinegun nest, which was well hidden from view beneath a copse of trees. The nest was dug into the scorched earth, but Faz could see the dull metal of the huge 50 calibre barrel finding its bead on them. The machinegun nest opened fire and three rounds ripped into the ledge they were clinging to. Suddenly the machinegun nest erupted in a boiling plume of flame that climbed skywards before folding in on itself to form a huge mushroom cloud of flame. The Apache helicopter that had fired the Napalm missile roared overhead at low altitude, it almost seemed close enough to touch. The pilot banked the aircraft and hovered in the air for a moment, and he waved a thumbs-up sign to them. Faz and Chen dropped from the ledge to the ground and grabbed the girl. They had to cover four-hundred yards to make it to the ridge.


Tank opened the door to the armoured Land Rover that he was in, and dived out. They were taking heavy machinegun fire from a ridge two-hundred yards to his right. The wheels of the vehicle had become trapped in the shifting sand dunes that blow across the border regions. They were sitting ducks for the machinegun team. There was a Task Force man firing a turret mounted 50 calibre machinegun at the ridge, but the insurgents were too well dug in. Tank sprinted behind a rock outcrop, keeping low and moving quickly for a big man. Air support was tied up providing cover at the hospital, and he had to sort this problem out on his own. The Land Rover was a sitting duck. His other units all seemed to be in similar positions taking heavy incoming fire all along the ridgeline. Tank circled the rocks and flanked the machine gunners. He could see three men. One was firing the 50 calibre, while one loaded the bullet belt into it to stop it from jamming. The other was the spotter using binoculars to locate targets. Tank carried a 40mm, M16 machinegun, which was fitted with the M203 grenade launcher beneath the main barrel. He chambered a grenade and fired, aiming for the middle man who was loading the bullets into the troublesome machinegun. The grenade left the rifle with a whooshing sound and landed right on target. The three rebels had heard the grenade launching, and turned in fear to look behind them. Three sets of terrified eyes looked into Tank`s for just a second before the grenade exploded. Before the dirt had settled Tank emptied a magazine of thirty bullets into the dead men, just to make sure. The directional effect of rifle grenade`s shrapnel was erratic, and many a soldier was killed because his targets had survived the blast and returned fire. Best to be sure, kill them twice, that was Tank`s motto.


He ran to the ridge and waved to the driver of the Land Rover. The men exited the vehicle and pushed it clear of the sand. They drove up the ridge and picked up Tank. He was sweating and covered in sand. He grabbed a metal flask of water and gulped greedily.


“Let`s move out,” said Tank over the coms.


Up until ten minutes ago you would have been forgiven for thinking today would be a normal day at the office. The early morning ride across the mountains was tranquil enough. The Baby Bird helicopters had taken Grace and Chen ahead as the reconnaissance team. Tank and the others had driven slowly across the border in the Land Rovers bringing the main strike force with them. The air was filled with dust, which seeped into the vehicles through every aperture. Within minutes of being in the country the dust had invaded your nose, mouth, underwear and socks. The vehicles were cramped to make room for extra ammunition and water, but Tank already wished that they had brought more. They weren`t expecting to encounter aggressive resistance so soon in the operation. They had ten vehicles carrying eight men apiece. Four of the vehicles had turret mounted 50 calibre heavy machineguns, which could bring down aircraft, and destroy enemy armoured vehicles. At the top of the ridge Tank signalled the Land Rover to stop. He counted only nine vehicles, so one was missing.


“Beagle one, sound off all Beagles,” Tank ordered over the radio, “request a drone on a search mission, we are one vehicle down.”


The Land Rovers cleared the tree line onto the ridge, one at a time.


“Beagle two, clear. Beagle three, clear.” The other platoons sounded off in numerical order. All except Beagle eight, that was positioned nearest to the town, about half a mile west of the hospital.


“Pilgrim father here, the drone can`t find any trace of Beagle eight,” came the voice from mission control, “its trackers can`t be found.” Each vehicle was fitted with a chip so that mission control could locate them at all times in case someone became separated from the main battle group.


Tank was becoming worried when his thoughts were interrupted by a rocket propelled grenade exploding underneath Beagle six, one-hundred yards to his left. Two more exploded close to the vehicles along the ridge and at least a dozen AK-47`s and Kalashnikovs opened fire on their position. The convoy was exposed and coming under increasingly heavy fire.


“Pilgrim one, I think they know that we are here,” Tank boomed jumping from the vehicle, “evasive action and full assault.”


The Land Rovers deployed their men and spun their wheels in tight circles heading back into the cover of the tree line. The 50 calibre machine gunners opened fire and laid down a deadly covering fire. Empty brass cartridges showered the dusty earth as the Task Force returned fire. Tank approached the Land Rover that was hit by the RPG and discovered its occupants returning fire from behind the cover of the machine. One man lay prone being attended to by a medic, and he was holding a bloody swab to his abdomen. As Tank approached the medic shook his head and removed the swab to reveal the wound. Intestines were clearly visible and he was bleeding profusely.


 “We need to get him to that evac helicopter or he`ll not make it,” the medic said.


“Roger that, Pilgrim one, we need air support east of the hospital. We have one more passenger for that evac,” Tank ordered, “All units prepare to follow my spearhead. I repeat, follow Beagle one.”


Suddenly over the coms came an Arabic voice, and then what sounded like a reply in the same guttural dialect. Tank looked to his Lieutenant and they exchanged concerned glances. Someone had captured one of their coms units.


 “I guess we know what`s happened to Beagle eight,” the young officer said, “poor bastards.” Tank nodded as the Apache gunship roared overhead. It hovered above their position and its weapons carriage thundered into life. Hellfire missiles screamed across the sky heading toward enemy positions unseen from the ground. Air cannons pounded out thousands of rounds every minute, stripping the trees and vegetation from the earth like a huge invisible strimming machine. Tank pointed an empty hand forward and his Land Rover jerked toward the evac point, followed in an arrow formation by the other Task Force units.


Chapter 51


Roman Kordinski/ RIP


 Roman`s case was adjourned while psychiatric reports were compiled. He was diagnosed as a recessed paranoid schizophrenic. He was capable of blending into society normally until emotional pressure was applied, and then the repressed violence surfaced. This type of personality is completely driven by whatever motivates them, and they would focus obsessively on achieving their goals, to the extent that nothing else had a value, including human life. Roman had mentally imploded, losing his businesses, his riches and his football team, which was put into administration when his bank accounts were frozen. He just couldn’t cope mentally. He sacked his long time legal advisor Alan Williams in favour of a Jewish firm. He also refused to communicate in English with the police or legal representatives from the courts. Translators were being brought to assist, but he had already attacked two of them because they had not translated what he had said exactly.


Now he was sat at the back of a special high court in Liverpool enclosed in a bullet proof compartment. The protective prison dock was made of thick clear plate-glass, which is used to glaze limousines. The agency that was tasked with helping him was struggling to find translators who were willing to work with Kordinski.


Natasha Rasht was sent to try to get near Roman to assess the chances of sending an assassin to kill him. She was a Muslim from Kosovo. Kosovo was a satellite state of Serbia, which in turn was part of the old Soviet Union. The Serbians were Christians, while the Kosovan people were Islamic. After the breakdown of the Soviet Union in 1991 Kosovo declared its independence several times from Serbia. Each time Serbia responded by invading Kosovo and enforcing rule upon them. Ethnic cleansing and the wholesale slaughter of Muslims was commonplace. The United Nations eventually intervened by providing a protective umbrella using American and British Air Forces. The air cover attacked Serbian ground forces repeatedly until they withdrew its soldiers from the tiny country. Natasha was a small child orphaned by the war and given refuge in Britain. She grew up in foster homes, a foreign orphan in a foreign land. Her hatred of Christians festered over the years. When she left the social service system things became worse. She had failed miserably at school and had no qualifications. She couldn’t find a job and soon realised that the only skill she had was attracting men. Her new found occupation was well paid, although not the most hygienic career. She became involved in a Chechen prostitute ring and finally felt part of a family. They were subversive, and sent finance for the Muslim rebels at home to purchase arms with. There were several Chechens being hidden amongst them who were called sleeper cells. Suicide bombers just waiting for the order to strike. Natasha wasn’t one of them though, she had no intentions of killing herself, but she was more than willing to use her sexuality to gather information that aided the global Jihad. She had acquired a press pass by giving its previous owner a blow job, which gave her access to the courtroom, where she had spent two days thinking of ways to reach Roman behind his bulletproof screen. The only other people inside the dock were two burly armed policemen, and his interpreter, when they turned up. The courtroom door opened and in rushed a young woman, who was very red faced and flustered. The young woman was a part time interpreter sent by an agency, in the employee of Roman Kordinski. Natasha recognised her but she couldn’t place where she had seen her before. The interpreter removed her jacket as she was ushered into the plasti-glass dock and Natasha saw the blue insignia on the pocket of her white blouse. It was the `Golden Arches`, the most recognised brand in the world. The interpreter worked full-time for McDonalds Restaurants as a shift manager. That`s where Natasha had seen her before, and it was the opportunity that she was looking for.


Christina Renilsonski was a Polish immigrant. She had travelled to the Uk when the European Union had dismantled Britain`s borders, along with a tidal wave of Eastern European migrants. Christina settled in Liverpool and began her search for work. Her first two weeks were bitterly disappointing, as she was refused work at every place that she asked. Every day she bought the city`s daily newspaper, the Liverpool Echo, and every day she trawled through the situations vacancies section. Every day she received the same disappointing response, and she was beginning to wonder if the long journey west was the right move. After a particularly gruelling day job hunting around the city, in freezing rain and high winds, she walked into the city centre McDonalds on Lord Street. It is situated just a few yards from the road that the Beatles made famous, Mathew Street. She ordered a hot cup of tea to warm her weary bones, while she dried off. The restaurant was bright and warm. The atmosphere was vibrant and exciting as tourists and locals came and went through the busy doors. Large murals of local historic tourist attractions adorned the walls, which gave the store a strong identity. It was proud to be part of the city in which it traded. Christina watched the staff working on the front counter and was amazed by the synchronicity of the operation, as the service team worked in unison to serve hundreds of hungry customers every hour. The staff seemed to be having such fun. It made Christina feel all the more isolated.


 As Christina was finishing her tea a hostess approached her dressed in a red waistcoat, and carrying a tray.


 “Would you like a top up dear?” said the smiling hostess whose badge introduced her as Rita. “You look soaked through, you poor thing.” Surprised and impressed by the kindness she was shown, Cristina struck up a conversation with the hostess. She was told that there were several vacancies available in the restaurant and a week later she started her first shift as a McDonalds` employee. Christina worked all the overtime that she could. She was amazed at the structured training that everyone was given, and within three months she was qualified to work on every station in the restaurant. McDonalds is a company that returns whatever is put into it tenfold, and Christina learned quickly. Within twelve months she had completed health and safety training, food hygiene programmes and management training courses. She spent the next six months learning to be a shift manager. A month after that was the proudest day of her life when she opened the restaurant`s doors with her shift running manager`s keys. Managing her first day shift she had to fire up and calibrate all the major pieces of equipment used in the preparation of food. She checked the use by dates of every item of stock, and checked that all the cooking and refrigeration temperatures were correct. There are a myriad of regimented systems applied to every restaurant that operated under the Golden Arches brand. That was the secret to the food giant`s success, motivated staff with enthusiasm and passion. Christina positioned all her staff, checked that the trading tills all had the right money in them, and then she proudly opened the doors to her hungry public. All this was achievable at the dizzy age of nineteen. Christina loved her job and had a great relationship with her regular customers. It was whilst chatting to one regular customer one morning that she was offered extra part time work acting as an interpreter. Polish was her first language but she was also fluent in Russian. Her grandmother was Russian and spoke to her in Russian from an early age. She worked regularly for the agency as migrant numbers were steadily rising. The need for interpreters grew accordingly, and the money was a welcome supplement to her income.


 The job of translating for a Russian criminal at the Crown Court was offered to her at short notice, but because it`s situated just a hundred yards from the restaurant, she agreed, finished her breakfast shift at McDonalds, and headed to the court with her coat on over her work uniform. Christina was five minutes late when she rushed into the courtroom.


 The morning session was dull as the opposing barristers argued legal technicalities to and fro. Christina translated the narrative into Russian for her client, who appeared to be disinterested to say the least. He also seemed to be following proceedings himself anyway, which confused her. At lunch time the prison guards led Roman Kordinski downstairs to his holding cell and unlocked the plasti-glass dock to allow Christina to leave. She headed for the square outside and grabbed a coffee from a kiosk there. She sat down at a small table and lit a cigarette. Christina smiled at a face that was vaguely familiar to her. The woman returned her smile and walked toward her table. Christina noticed her press pass, and remembered her from the courtroom gallery.


“Hi there, you`re from McDonalds aren’t you?” the woman smiled and took a seat opposite Christina.


“Yes I am,” Christina answered recognising that her accent wasn`t local to Liverpool or England. The two women got chatting about their various adventures arriving in the UK, and how they were enjoying their new home. Natasha obviously lied through her pearly white teeth as she gained Christina’s trust. The hour adjournment flew by as the women chatted beneath the stony faced statue of Queen Victoria, which dominated the square outside the Crown Court. They finished another cigarette each and then headed back into the courtroom.


As they approached the courtroom doors Natasha grabbed Christina’s elbow.


 “Listen we should meet up for a glass of wine after the session this afternoon,” Natasha said smiling.


 “Definitely, I`d like that,” answered Christina, opening the courtroom doors. The guards were leading Roman up the steep steps from the cells below. They spotted Christina and opened the side panel of the plasti-glass dock to allow her entry to her seat.


“Look, I think this afternoon will be a long session, take this I`ll get another one. You can’t leave the dock once you’re in,” said Natasha handing Christina a bottle of red Gatorade.


 “Thanks, that`s a great idea,” said Christina as she entered the dock. The guards locked the bulletproof panel behind her. She took her seat next to Roman Kordinski, between two armed guards in the transparent plasti-glass cubicle. Christina took her coat off and noticed her new friend Natasha had left the courtroom already, which she thought was odd. Maybe she had gone to replace the drink that she had thoughtfully given to her. Never mind, she would see her later. She picked up her drink bottle and thought she could feel a minute vibration for just a millisecond, before the liquid gel explosive inside it detonated. The two guards, Christina and Roman Kordinski died instantly. The armoured plasti-glass cubicle remained intact which concentrated the blast-wave inside, it looked like someone had put a giant frog in a massive liquidiser and then switched it on.


Chapter 52


Yasser Ahmed/ Kizlyar


Yasser was returning from the small town centre of Kizlyar when he spotted the Land Rover in the trees. There was a glint of sunshine reflecting off metal or glass in the distance that caught his attention. Whatever it was, it shouldn’t be there. He and a small group of Mujahideen were buying munitions and other supplies. Arranging drinking water and a sustainable food supply for the coming weeks in the mountains was difficult. The bulk of his force had remained nearby the hospital. The hospital was heavily guarded and his men could relax safely. The Land Rover that he had spotted was unmarked, and the soldiers inside were wearing non-descript uniforms without any identifying insignia. Yasser knew that they weren’t Russian troops for certain. Their weapons were too modern. Yasser and his men took cover behind a low stonewall and watched the soldiers through binoculars. Yasser whispered an order to a lieutenant and he scurried off toward the village. Five minutes later he returned with three young boys, who looked about seven or eight. The boys were spoken to sternly and they nodded their dirty faces in agreement. They were even more compliant when Yasser broke a chocolate bar and shared it amongst them.


The three amigos skipped along the dusty dirt road toward the foreign soldiers, who were still sat unaware in their vehicle. The chattering boys were only spotted by the soldiers when they were yards away, and they weren’t deemed a serious threat. It was only when the first boy threw a primed hand grenade into the open window that the soldiers realised that they was duped, and by then it was too late.


Yasser and his men picked through the wreckage of the Land Rover. One of the soldiers was still alive, and despite shooting him five times in the legs he wouldn’t divulge his mission before he died from shock. Yasser knew they were Special Forces, there were not even wristwatches to indicate their origin. They carried nothing that would divulge their nationality. Beneath the rear wheel arch Yasser found the vehicle identification tracking device and he smashed it with a rock. They removed their weapons and the radio coms unit, and headed overland toward the hospital facility. Yasser knew there would be more soldiers, although he couldn’t really understand how they knew that he was here. That`s the only reason anyone would send special forces into Dagestan, to capture or kill Yasser Ahmed, he thought.


As they neared the minefields the sound of a fierce fire-fight reached them. Heavy machinegun fire and loud explosions retorted across the hills in the distance. Yasser scanned the ridgeline in the distance through his binoculars, and he saw the familiar shape of unmanned drones above Kizlyar. The huge wasp like shape of an Apache helicopter gunship appeared into view with its guns blazing. Whoever they were looking for they had sent a formidable force to find them. He signalled his men and they moved forward carefully picking their way through the minefield. Yasser`s guide skipped over the ground with a confident gait, because he had travelled this path many times before. They reached the top of a low hilly knoll and watched the battle raging below them, lying in the dirt on their bellies. A convoy of armoured Land Rovers was speeding across the dusty hills toward a road that ran along a rocky ridgeline. Roof mounted 50calibre heavy machineguns were tearing up Mujahideen positions all along the ridge. An Apache gunship was wreaking havoc firing its deadly payload with frightening accuracy. The Mujahideen were being blown to pieces.


 Yasser turned the glasses toward the hospital building and saw two Mujahideen carrying a casualty across a shell hole ridden plateau. He focused the glasses and gritted his teeth in anger as he realised that the men weren’t all that they first appeared to be. The casualty was a woman of Middle Eastern appearance, and it dawned on him that she was the focus of this incursion. The Land Rovers reached the road and parked in a circular formation. They continued laying down covering fire with the 50 calibres. The soldiers inside the Land Rovers exited the vehicles and adopted positions of safety to fire from, to protect Faz and Chen as they approached the evac site. There was little resistance left. The Apache flew low over the ridgeline and landed in the centre of the Land Rovers, and the side door was slid open. Two Special Forces men carried their injured colleague and placed him on a stretcher inside the helicopter. They ducked low beneath the rotor blades as they returned to their vehicle.


 Yasser scanned the Land Rovers and stopped suddenly on the lead vehicle. Stood by the passenger door holding an M16 on his hip was the big agent that he had seen with his brother Mustapha. He had seen them near the Anfield football stadium in Liverpool. Yasser thought he was killed in a bomb blast, but he was obviously alive and well. He stared at the bald agent and saw the look of concern on his face. The bald man was looking worriedly toward the two disguised men, who were carrying the girl, and shouting encouragement to them as they neared the Land Rovers. Yasser focused again on the trio in the minefield. The black skinned man was a woman. He could see that clearly now. Her attractive chiselled features were exposed as the downdraft from the rotor blades blew her headscarf from her face. Three agents broke cover and grabbed Jeannie Kellesh. They rushed her into the waiting helicopter were she was taken by aircrew and laid in a canvas gurney. Grace Farrington ran toward Tank`s position, where she crouched down next to him against the Land Rover. Tank squeezed her arm tightly and they exchanged a glance, which communicated their affectionate concern for each other in the face of danger. Chen scurried next to them and nodded at Tank. Tank nodded back to him and smiled. They had done well so far, they had the girl. Even though they had lost men they had removed several dozen extremists from circulation. As Tank was assessing their situation he saw a muzzle flash from a knoll in the distance. A second later Grace Farrington was slammed into the Land Rover`s door by a high velocity bullet which hit her in the chest.


Chapter 53


New York/ Zareta Katharina


Madison Square Garden, 2008, is the third incarnation of the world famous sporting venue. Situated above the Penn Street railway station in the centre of Manhattan, it`s the ideal venue for a large political rally. Political rallies don’t get any bigger than when the President of the United States of America is attending. She had the remarkable role of being the first female president, and the first black president combined. If she was gay too, then all the bases would have been covered. Hilary Rice had achieved the top job in American politics by appealing to the electorate`s desire for change. The majority of her voters were America`s female population, and a large percentage of the country`s black vote.


Today Hilary Rice had a dilemma. She was the key speaker at a woman`s rally, which was attended predominantly by ethnic minorities. The problem was that a foiled attack on Florida`s Disney parks had raised security status to critical. The successful assassination of a Jewish Russian exile that was in the custody of, and under the protection of the British Counter Terrorist Agencies, underlined the seriousness of the situation. It appeared that liquid explosive was used in both bombs. There was no way to stop all liquids coming into proximity with the president. It was also widely believed that the attackers were of Chechen origin, and female. The general consensus of opinion was that the attacks were of the genre favoured by Yasser Ahmed and his `Ishmael`s Axe` group.


 The president could not abort the conference speech as too many sections of the community would be offended, or made to feel isolated. She most definitely could not take the risk of becoming Yasser Ahmed`s sitting duck either. Video presentation teams were brought in and a ten minute film was produced. The President narrated the film which incorporated successful women in America`s industries with, community, business and judicial role models. The short film was designed to be a shot in the arm for the audience. A heart thumping sound track was added, and fireworks would be arranged as a finale to the film. The plan was to stamp the president`s presence on the memories of everyone that attended, without her actually saying a word. The key to the plan was deploying the president`s stand in look-alike. With everyone focused on the big screen the stunt double would be not be scrutinised by the audience. Stunt doubles was used throughout history to keep important leaders safe from assassination attempts. Churchill, General Montgomery and Adolf Hitler himself all used look-alikes several times through the Second World War. More recently Saddam Husain used several doubles to ease his paranoia. Sometimes it was because an assassination attempt was imminent, but the plan was not known. Other times it was used to flush out co-conspirators from within their own ranks.


 While Hilary Rice made her movie and prepped her look-alike, Zareta was making preparations of her own in a motel room. She was given money and detailed plans to follow. She had begun by going to a supermarket and buying a roll of polythene ice-cube bags, and some duct tape. Zareta filled the ice-cube bags with Tovex liquid gel explosive, and then taped it around her breasts and back. Beneath her clothing the lethal polythene roll felt like fat. If she was to be frisked then nothing untoward would be suspected. She wore a bright red ornate silk robe and head scarf to match, which was the traditional formal attire of Indian Hindu women. Zareta painted a red spot on her forehead and glued a tiny diamante stud into the centre of it to finish the disguise. She felt nothing as she prepared herself. Zareta had long since lost her self esteem, and everyone she loved was dead, stolen from her. Her heart was numb, cold and cruel. Any compassion that she had was ripped from when she watched her sons murdered. Now all she wanted was to join them, and this last act of destruction was her passport to everlasting peace.


 Zareta placed a mobile phone into her purse, placed a silk shawl around her shoulders and stepped out of her hotel. The hotel was called the Penn Towers, and was across the street from the station that shared its name. Taxis and limousines lined the street dropping off their passengers. The steps, which led into the Madison Square Garden, were fifty yards away, and were awash with women from every continent. There was a heavy uniformed police presence all around the building. National dress and formal costumes were the order of the day and every effort was given to this prestigious occasion by its attendees. Zareta saw the women arriving, all excited and chattering to each other. She recognised several women wearing the traditional dress of her country, and it saddened her. She felt incredibly alone as she pulled her shawl tightly around her. The wind chilled her to the bone as she stepped into the road. Tyres squealed and a car horn blared making her jump backward in fright. The car stopped just inches short of Zareta, and the driver opened his window and hurled abuse at her. Zareta stared at the driver blankly before setting off again on unsteady legs. As she passed the bonnet of the car confused and frightened she stepped blindly into the next lane. Traffic screamed to a halt again as another car stopped just short of hitting her. Zareta realised that she was getting the jitters. She was walking aimlessly to her death, but she was putting her plan in jeopardy. She had to get a grip, but her mind felt like it had turned to fudge. She couldn’t think straight because she was so scared.


 A traffic cop noticed the commotion and walked toward the stationary cars.


“Are you ok lady?” the cop asked brashly, “do you have a death wish or something? The pedestrian crossing is just ten yards away for cripes sake.”


He approached the vacant Asian woman and grabbed her roughly by the arm, trying to guide her back to the pavement. A symphony of different car horns blared again as drivers lost their patience with the woman. The policeman held up his hand to the angry drivers as he pushed Zareta back toward the hotel side of the road. She allowed herself to be pushed by the lawman, and it took her back to that day on the bridge when she had lost her sons and her dignity. Zareta had had enough. She couldn’t go on any more. She felt like she was walking through treacle. The policeman leaned close to her face and she smelt stale cigarettes and whisky. Although she saw his lips move she couldn’t understand what he was saying. He sneered at her with a twisted smile, and Zareta looked into his soul as she triggered her bomb, ending her sadness forever.


Chapter 54


Grace Farrington/ Tank


Tank opened his mouth in a silent scream as Grace was blown off her feet by the bullet that smashed into her chest. Her battle vest took much of the impact and spread the shockwave through its specially designed material. The bullet was an armour piercing 76mm round and it compromised the vest, and had penetrated her chest just above the left breast. The bullet was flattened as it impacted with the battle vest, making the wound beneath it wider and more ragged. Dark blood poured from the wound, which indicated that the spleen was ruptured. Chen quickly pulled a field dressing from Tank`s webbing and applied pressure to the wound. Faz`s eyes were wide open in shock. A second bullet ripped through her right bicep muscle and pinged off the Land Rover door. The ricochet looped high in air before dropping onto Tank`s leg. The sight of the flattened slug covered in Grace`s blood and tissue shocked him into action. Grace`s eyes started to glaze over and her dark pupils were dilating.


“Stay with me Grace,” he said as he picked her up in his big arms and sprinted to the Apache. The medics jumped from the departing helicopter and went to work on her wounds while Tank held her. They took her from him and put her into the aircraft. Tank watched through tears as the rotor blades increased their speed and the Apache climbed steeply hundreds of feet every second, taking his Grace with them.


“Put everything we have onto that hill,” Tank ordered with a venom in his voice that defied question, “Pilgrim one where is the drone? Put everything it has got onto the knoll 300 yards due east of the evac zone.”


The truck mounted 50 calibres turned their deadly barrage onto the knoll, and the first two foot of rock and soil was blown to dust and smithereens in seconds. The drone flew over their position and two Napalm filled Hellfire missiles screamed from beneath its wings. The knoll turned into a plume of boiling flames, which tumbled and rolled upward to form a familiar mushroom cloud.


“Pilgrim one the drone is picking up four fugitives one hundred yards from the knoll, seeking permission to engage,” said the voice from mission control. They were here to extract Jeannie Kellesh by any means necessary. Enemy soldiers taking flight were not legitimate targets.


“Negative pilgrim one,” Tank replied, “they`re mine.”


Tank climbed into the Land Rover, and his men did likewise in silence. The sight of Grace Farrington taking two hits had knocked the stuffing out of every soldier there. The Land Rover wheels span in the dust as the driver gave it full torque, and it lurched toward the escaping Mujahideen.


“Pilgrim one, the other side of the knoll is charted as minefields Tank,” said the static voice from mission control. Tank didn’t reply. The driver of the vehicle glanced at Tank momentarily, but he chose not to comment. Tank chambered a new clip into his M16 and filled the grenade slide. Chen and the men in the rear were doing similar in silence.


“How long have we got that drone for?” Tank asked Chen. He looked at a radio control panel fixed to the rear bulkhead of the vehicle.


“Ten minutes at the most,” Chen replied. The drone was running low on fuel and at 15 million dollars apiece it needed to return safely. They rounded the knoll and Tank sighted the men running across barren brush land. There was very little cover, and although it was some distance from the hospital, bomb craters pockmarked the area. The men seemed to be following a narrow trail through the mined scrubland. From their elevated position Tank and his men could see the route that was carved through the scrub clearly. To stray from the path would be fatal. Tank chambered a grenade and fired. The grenade whooshed over the heads of the escaping men and exploded fifty yards in front of them, on the path. The men crouched to take cover, and they turned to see where their attackers were firing from. Tank raised his binoculars and looked directly into the dusty face of Yasser Ahmed. The veins in his temple filled to bursting point and the muscles in his jaw twitched visibly. Yasser and his men stood and scrambled forward again, running for their lives. Tank pointed both fingers along the line of vehicles and then made looping signs with his hands. He had communicated that his men should fire in front of them. Grenades whizzed skyward and 50 calibres raked the wilderness in front of the escaping men. Without deliberating the four men ran in separate directions, leaving the safe path through the minefield.


Anti-personnel mines fall into two categories, blast mines and shrapnel mines. The majority are called bounding Omni-directional mines. Usually about the size of a shoe polish tin they are triggered by the weight of its victim standing on it. Once triggered a small charge ignites a propellant, which launches the mine upward to around waist height, where it explodes causing the maximum damage to whoever is in the shrapnel range. Blast mines are different in that they remain beneath the earth when they explode, and rely on a directed shaped charge causing horrific injuries to one combatant.


Yasser`s guide stumbled through the scrub terrified by the barrage that was laid down in front of them. Sweat trickled into his eyes stinging them and blurring his vision. He wiped his sweaty brow and tripped over a tree root. He fell headlong onto the dirt jarring his elbows painfully as he landed. He tried to stand up. The last thing he heard was the click whir sound of a fragmentation mine. The small metal disc jumped out of the ground and exploded next to his face.


One of Yasser`s men saw and heard the explosion and froze, frightened by the sight of the guide`s sticky end. He held his hands above his head in surrender. Tank saw the man gesturing that he was surrendering and he looked at him through the binoculars. It wasn’t Yasser Ahmed. Tank fired half a dozen bullets around the feet of the stationary man, forcing him to take flight again. He made it exactly twelve feet before he detonated a blast mine, which tore both his legs off at the knees. His screams could be heard a long way off as he rolled in agony in the dirt. He rolled over a second mine, which launched his shattered body twenty-foot into the air, and silenced him permanently.


Yasser was close behind, but to the right of the remaining rebel, when he appeared to complete an involuntary cartwheel in the air. The blast wave hit Yasser and knocked him from his feet into the dust. Tank held his hand in the air and the barrage ceased. Only Yasser remained alive in the killing field. He picked himself up slowly and dusted the dirt from his face and mouth. Tank focused on him through the binoculars. It was Yasser, no doubt about it. He appeared to be smiling. Yasser removed a 9mm Luger from his belt, and chambered a round. Tank dropped to his knees and raised the M16 to his shoulder in what seemed like slow motion. Yasser raised the pistol toward his own head. If this was where it was going to end then it would be by his own hand, not that of the Kufur. Tank steadied the M16 and took aim. The Luger arced passed Yasser`s shoulder and the barrel twisted toward his temple. Yasser closed his eyes as Tank fired.


Chapter 55


Terrorist Task Force/ Liverpool


(Six months later)


 Grace Farrington hadn’t opened her eyes since she was placed on the Apache helicopter. The surgeons had removed what was left of her spleen, which left her susceptible to infections. The shattered bones in her arm and chest had knitted together months ago, and would cause no more problems if she ever regained consciousness. She had lost a chunk of bicep muscle, but even that had healed well enough. The problems were internal. Her kidneys were weak from blood infections, and despite all the drugs and treatment she was still in a coma. Tank visited her every day before and after work. He talked to her for hours on end about work and life in general, but he mostly talked to her about what they would do together when she woke up. He had never said I love you enough when she was awake, and now he couldn’t stop saying it. His heart felt heavy with regret for the things they hadn’t done yet. In the back of his mind he suspected that his one true soul mate was gone forever.


“I won’t ask you to marry me,” he had whispered to her with a tear in his eye one day, “because then you’ll never wake up! And I want you to wake Grace, wake up and talk to me babe.”


He missed her and wished that he had never agreed to the mission. She probably would have shot him if he had protested anyway, but he felt responsible.


The Saudi girl Jeannie Kellesh was returned to her family, which eased tensions in the Middle East. They had lost good men in the process, and Grace Farrington was very poorly. She was critically ill in fact, and the longer she stayed unconscious the less chance she had of making it without incurring permanent brain damage. Tank knew in his heart of hearts that a full recovery was unlikely if she lived at all. Whether she lived or died was in the lap of the gods and only time would tell.


Chapter 56


Yasser Ahmed


The American government had legal claim to Yasser Ahmed despite the fact that it was British Special Forces that had captured him. They still had first claim on him for his planning and execution of the first Soft Target campaign. In the minefield at Kizlyar, Tank had put three rounds into his arm and shoulder, stopping his suicide attempt. He was flown to a military hospital in Istanbul, and handed over to the Americans. Tank sat next to him on his stretcher all the way through the flight. Every time Yasser looked like he was about to pass out or drift to sleep Tank punched him in the wounded arm. Eventually the medical staff attended to him, doing their best to patch him up. There was extensive damage to his upper arm and shoulder, and despite several attempts to knit the bones with metal pins there seemed to be little improvement. Not long afterward Tank was informed that Yasser had contracted gangrene in his wounds, which resulted in the amputation of his arm at the shoulder.


From there, the art of extraordinary rendition was applied to its extreme by his American captors. Yasser was processed for six months into what was called his debrief. Bad luck or good fortune brought him to be held for a time at a political prison in the north of Chechnya. He was in the same cell that his unfortunate younger brother had occupied before his death. Yasser was there for days before he had noticed the scratching in the plaster on the wall. The names of dozens of poor souls were carved at various angles around the dark dank cell, some carved, and some smeared in excrement or blood. There was a circular deep stinking hole cut into the floor in one corner of the room, which ran into an open sewer. The waste and excrement of a hundred prisoners flowed through his cell on its way to a cess pit beyond the thick walls of the medieval prison. He spent his waking hours being tortured by methods he had never dreamed of in his worst nightmares. His sleeping hours were spent dwelling on the pain his amputated arm still caused him and the myriad of new injuries that they added to every day.


One morning daylight entered through a small barred window, which was set high in the wall of his cell. They usually came for him soon after but today they hadn’t come at all. The dull light illuminated the inside of his cell, and for the first time he read the desperate graffiti on the walls. There were several different languages, some he understood and some he didn’t. He focused on two words and a name written in Arabic. He couldn’t turn his gaze away from it, as hot stinging tears ran down his cheeks.


BAKRAH AK`E


Mustapha Ahmed


In English it read I HATE MY BROTHER. By Mustapha Ahmed, it appeared to have been written smeared with his own blood.


Epilogue


(Five years on/ Liverpool)


Dave Simmons was drunk and broke. He had spent most of life the same way, but he was approaching rock bottom. Simms had once owned a share in a busy wine bar in the Preston area, which suited his drinking habits, until his unscrupulous partner had screwed him. Left bankrupt and destitute Simmons soon found that his friends weren’t his friends at all; they had just been hangers on. The fat happy faces that crowded around him when he was buying a round of drinks were gone. In the space of six months he lost his business, his wife and children and his pride. Since then he had drifted from crap job to crap job, crap relationship to crap relationship. The few good people he ever met soon tired of his self loathing alcoholism. Simmons sought solace in the bottom of a cider bottle.


Dave Simmons staggered toward a large brick building that was undergoing renovations. He was near the River Mersey and the building looked like one of the old motor housings that used to hold the exhaust fans that serviced the traffic tunnels. The wind was howling and rain was driving horizontally into his stubbly face. He pulled his coat tighter to keep out the wind, and noticed the vomit down the front of it. Things were getting desperate, because he couldn’t remember being sick at all. Simmons climbed over the hoardings to escape the rain, and found himself in what must have once been the control room. He pushed the broken door closed trying to keep the wind out and looked for somewhere cosy to sleep. To the left was a narrow access tunnel. He headed for the tunnel, thinking that he could sleep there out of sight of any patrolling security guards. Fifty yards down the tunnel he found an equipment cupboard, which was covered in dust, and opened the door. The door creaked as he pulled it, and inside covered in cobwebs was a fire blanket, and he shook it before wrapping it round his shivering body. He stared past the cobwebs into the dark and saw there was a holdall in the corner. He pulled it free of the dust and spider webs. He opened the zip and stared inside. His eyes widened at the contents of the bag. Inside covered in dust was exactly three hundred thousand reasons why his life had just got better.


Soft Target II: Tank
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