Cobra tsf-4 Read online

  Alqahiray touched the right arm of the chair and chose the three-sequence combination of buttons to activate the mouse. He clicked on the northernmost arrow. Blinking words “Spanish 1st Infantry Division” lit up beneath the arrow. He slid the mouse over, clicked, and a list of Spanish military units scrolled down the screen, identifying several armor battalions and other known military elements associated with the arrow. The word more blinked beneath the last unit. More! This was not good!

  Spanish forces moving into Algeria?

  “What is that, Sergeant?” he asked the soldier technician manning the force status console to his left.

  “What, sir?”

  “The Spanish units moving across Algeria.”

  “Sir, a day after you were wounded, Moroccan units invaded Cueta. Cueta, like its sister city of Melilla, is a Spanish-owned city-state just inside the Mediterranean side of the Strait of Gibraltar on the North African coast. As you know, my Colonel, Morocco has always claimed Cueta, much like Spain claimed Gibraltar from the British. Spain landed its forces at those two cities and moved into Morocco a week ago. They have since moved eastward along the pipeline leading from our oil fields. Our army has abandoned its attempt to stop them from joining the loyalist forces of President Alneuf in Oran.”

  “Yes, I remember the incident, Sergeant. I ordered the Moroccans to retreat!”

  The sergeant stood and looked around at the other console operators, who immediately looked down at their computers or became busy with something else. He swallowed. “Sorry, my Colonel. The word never reached them or, if it did, they refused to obey. The events … the events surrounding the assassination attempt on you clouded the orders, sir. Colonel, I do not believe the order was ever sent.”

  The Spanish needed to stay on their side of the Strait. Alqahiray knew what they were doing and where they were going. Eighty percent of the natural gas Spain used came from Algeria. Pumped via a pipeline complex, the gas traveled from Algeria, through the Atlas Mountains, across Morocco, and then beneath the waters of the Strait of Gibraltar to the Spanish city of Algeciras. From Algeciras, the gas was distributed by pipeline, truck, and train throughout Spain. Alqahiray knew without that petrol, Spain’s economy would come to a standstill and the immense strides it had made economically would be set back decades. He had to convince the Spanish they had nothing to fear. Or should he? He slid the problem into a recess of his mind. It might benefit the new nation to have a weakened Spain across the Strait. He made a mental note to revisit the strategic implications of shutting down the pipeline.

  He moved away from the Spanish invasion and focused for the first time on the small symbol in southern Morocco. “The symbol showing a hostile element in southern Morocco? What is that? Do loyal Moroccan units still exist? I thought they had all surrendered or been annihilated.”

  “Yes, Colonel, Morocco is ours. This is the Americans. They have taken a vacant airfield and established a base there. We know they have helicopters, but we are still trying to determine the number of troops and what, if any, other types of aircraft are operating at the site.

  Units that have approached their position have been attacked by Cobra attack helicopters.”

  “So, our forces have yet to reach the airfield itself?”

  “No, sir. The helicopter gunships keep turning them back.”

  “I don’t believe that. Helicopters cannot stop a concerted army effort.

  What do we have out there? A bunch of cowards? Who is the senior officer here?”

  “I am, Colonel,” answered an older, gray-haired major, who moved out of the shadows where he had been observing everything silently to stand near the edge of the platform.

  Alqahiray wondered where the officer had been since he had returned. He stared at the man. He knew him. He was a Walid lackey. Must be.

  Otherwise, he would have fawned over him as the others did. A loyal officer in charge would have been the first to meet him upon his return; instead, he had to call for him. One more loose end to tie up later. He mentally added the major to his list of things to do. More important things required his attention now. He turned to the displays, smoke shifting and weaving around his head from the movement.

  He must sew up the ripping seams of Jihad Wahid before dealing with the den of traitors who ousted him. The Spanish were a big threat, but Alqahiray believed the larger threat lay with the reopening of the Strait of Gibraltar, allowing the Americans unfettered access to the Mediterranean. The thirty day smart mines, laid by the Algerian Kilo submarines, failed to keep the American aircraft carrier out of the Med, but they had slowed passage and in some cases stopped other vessels. He had counted on keeping the American Navy out of the Mediterranean long enough to consolidate his position and the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa. He had not counted on the United States Sixth Fleet being able to mount an offensive with its limited number of ships. His intelligence officers had eagerly agreed with him when he had doubted that America would be able to deploy a carrier battle group in less than three weeks.

  Alqahiray stroked his chin a couple of times and twisted the ends of his mustache. The Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa. The Islamic moniker would serve as an additional shield against the heretical West, who would fall over itself to make sure that everyone knew this wasn’t a war against Islam. The good news was that no one in the Moslem world would believe it.

  He inhaled and grinned as he recalled how the Algerian Kilo submarine torpedoed and sank an American destroyer, a destroyer that had intentionally put itself in front of torpedoes to save the aircraft carrier USS Stennis. As much as he hated the Americans for killing his parents, he respected the bravery of the skipper who gave his life and the lives of his crewmen in battle. You may hate your enemy, but warriors must respect bravery. If the Kilo had stayed and fought, it might have survived instead of being blown up by its own mines.

  “Major Bahar, I did not see you when I came in,” Alqahiray said menacingly to the Libyan officer standing beside the platform. He watched the major in his peripheral vision. “I am surprised you would still be here.”

  “I believe the colonel knows that I would be no place else. I have been standing here, Colonel. Welcome back. We are pleased your wounds were not serious,” he answered, his voice calm and methodical. “It is truly Allah’s miracle that has healed you so fast. As you can tell, the troops are happy over your return.”

  “And I presume you are, too, Major.” It was hard to tell with Bahar what he truly thought. The man’s face never betrayed his feelings. That was another reason Alqahiray distrusted the officer.

  Bahar bowed his head in an exaggerated nod. “Of course, Colonel. We are all pleased.”

  He moved the major’s name up a couple of notches on his list. “Thank you, Major.” He pointed to the map of Morocco displayed on one of the intelligence screens. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Bahar looked up at the place on the screen that Alqahiray had highlighted. “Yes, sir. That is a small abandoned airstrip in the Moroccan desert. The Moroccan Air Force used it decades ago in their fight against rebels in that area. It has been abandoned for many years.

  Last month, a new American Amphibious Task Force, led by USS Kearsarge, arrived off the Atlantic coast of Morocco. They mounted an airborne assault and captured the airfield from the weeds and sands that defended it. The airfield is near the border with Algeria. The unopposed assault took less than a day. Afterward, with the exception of an unknown number of helicopters and troops, the remainder of the assault force reboarded the amphibious carrier Kearsarge and sailed with it through the Strait of Gibraltar a week ago.”

  “Why would they want to put troops there? There is nothing there. It is nothing but sand and grit and heat.”

  “Colonel Samir believed they have either vacated the airfield or are preparing to vacate. An American ship passed through the Strait of Gibraltar yesterday and turned down the coast of Morocco. We think it is hurryin
g to a position off the coast so that the Americans can abandon the airfield.

  The Marines are at the airfield to rescue Americans stranded in southern Algeria. Reports from Algeria show two of the rescue helicopters were destroyed by our forces when they touched down near an oil drilling site.” He reached down and touched a button. A red light lit up inside Algeria about 400 miles from the captured airfield. “Here. According to the last report, two days ago, the American Marines and their evacuees disappeared into the Sahara in two humvees and an old oil rigging truck.

  They are attempting to drive out with their evacuees. We lost contact with both them and our forces, which were pursuing them, two days ago.”

  Alqahiray grunted. “Good. Let the desert bleach their bones as it has bleached others who have tried to conquer it.”

  Major Bahar nodded.

  Alqahiray pulled another Greek cigarette out and butt lit it from the one nearly burned to the filter. He then tossed the still burning butt toward the ash can, missing again. Major Bahar followed the track of the cigarette and watched it roll onto the floor. He took two careful steps to the right and ground the cigarette out. His face showed no expression. A mask, thought Alqahiray as he observed the officer.

  Bahar gazed up at the colonel.

  “Major, order the Moroccan forces to take the base back. There cannot be many troops there, and with the ship in no position to help them, they are stranded. How foolish and stupid can the Americans be to leave a sacrificial lamb like this! Well, let’s take their offer to our new republic.” He laughed. Did the Americans think they could come with impunity and establish a base inside the Republic of Barbary and North Africa? “Send the orders immediately!” He slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair.

  Major Bahar nodded and saluted. “Yes, sir. It will be done.”

  The sound of combat boots marching down the corridor echoed off the tile floor outside of the operations room, capturing Alqahiray’s attention.

  The sound brought back memories of how they marched him, wounded and bleeding, into his home in Tripoli, where they held him prisoner for nearly four weeks. The roles were reversed now.

  Six soldiers turned the corner. Two half dragged, half pushed a short, dumpy man between them. The sleeves were torn on the man’s suit, and specks of blood dotted the ripped white shirt. The tie lay askew across his right shoulder with the knot pulled down several inches below the top two opened buttons, exposing another double chin and a chest full of white hair. Two officers in gray uniforms walked between four soldiers outfitted in camouflage utilities. Alqahiray recognized the two officers in gray as intelligence aides to Samir, an added bonus with the capture of President Mintab. The eyes of one of the intelligence officers shifted back and forth as if looking for an escape. Even from across the room, fear gripped the man’s face, a caged desire to run evident in legs that seemed to bounce slightly. A bullet in the kneecap would stop those thoughts. The eyes of the other officer, standing ramrod straight, met Alqahiray’s stare. Alqahiray’s eyebrows bunched. The man should be frightened, ready to beg for his life like his comrade. Alqahiray took another deep drag on the harsh Greek cigarette. Here was a man deserving of respect. Too bad he had to die.

  Alqahiray looked away from the intelligence officer and back to President Mintab, the man in the suit. Mintab must have fought, thought Alqahiray, from the condition of the man’s clothes and the bruises on the side of the short man’s face. He had more spunk than he thought.

  Four soldiers remained in the corridor, guarding the two intelligence officers as two others shoved the civilian prisoner around the consoles to the raised platform where Alqahiray sat. Alqahiray stood as they approached. The nearby guard tightened his grip on the AK-47 and slammed it into Mintab’s back, knocking the man to the floor. Mintab moaned. He spread his arms out and began to push himself up onto all fours. The operators concentrated on their consoles while snatching quick glimpses of the terror near Alqahiray’s platform.

  Alqahiray sauntered down the metal steps, the sound of his boots echoing slightly in the quiet of the operations room until he stepped onto the rubber antistatic mats that covered the raised metal floor. He stopped over Mintab who had managed to pull himself up onto his hands and knees.

  Alqahiray put his boot lightly on Mintab’s back.

  Mintab looked up at the Libyan mastermind. He begged quietly, “Please, please, Colonel.”

  Then, again, his first impression was correct. The man had no spunk. No pride. Even when Walid and Samir had overthrown him in the operations theater, he had retained his pride. A true man maintains his honor, even in the face of adversity. Most politicians would find that a hard concept. Mintab was no different.

  Alqahiray lifted his foot a few inches and stomped as hard as he could on Mintab’s spine, knocking the older politician back onto the floor.

  “Hello, Mintab, my friend. Remember me?”

  Mintab nodded, his head forced away from Alqahiray. His arms and legs, spread apart, shook on the rubber matting.

  “Who designed and planned Jihad Wahid? Who brought you from obscurity to lead the political effort?”

  Mintab turned his head toward Alqahiray; his face rested on the floor a few inches from the colonel’s boots. The out-of shape politician clenched his eyes shut as a wave of pain racked his body. He lifted his head slightly to stare up at Alqahiray. Tears trickled out of dilated, bloodshot eyes. The blue lighting cast shadows across the deep recesses of Alqahiray’s eyes, creating two dark caverns on the colonel’s face where normal men’s eyes would have been visible.

  Blood trickled out of Mintab’s nose to drip on the rubber matting, building a small puddle beneath the man’s head.

  “Please, please, don’t,” whimpered Mintab. “I did not know. Walid never told me.” “Walid never told you what, Mintab?” Alqahiray nudged the man’s face with the edge of his boot. “What did Walid never tell you?”

  “That you were okay,” Mintab stuttered. “That you were still in charge.

  I am still loyal to you, my Maadi. I love you. Please, please believe me. If I had only known the circumstance. These men—”

  Alqahiray laughed. “Mintab, you are such a poor liar. Even I could think of a better argument. Or does fear cloud your political mind?”

  Mintab slid his left arm beneath him, and pushed himself up to a near sitting position. He might be able to talk his way out of this. “No, Colonel Alqahiray. I am still loyal to you. Walid forced us to go along.

  None wanted to. Our loyalty remained with you, the leader of the revolution.”

  Alqahiray drew his foot back and kicked Mintab. The president rolled once, landing on his stomach. Mintab moaned, his hands over his face, blood running out between his fingers. Alqahiray stomped the frightened man’s back twice. Mintab jerked his hands away from his face, spreading his arms out. Alqahiray brought his boot down, planting it neatly in the small of Mintab’s back. He put his full weight on the boot and twisted the heel, causing Mintab’s head to involuntarily bounce off the thin matting as the boot dug further into the nerves of the spinal column.

  The man’s arms flapped ineffectively as he fought to reach the tyrant’s leg.

  Alqahiray heard the air rush out of Mintab’s lungs and smiled as his captive fought to catch his breath. Alqahiray laughed. He moved his foot to the top of Mintab’s back, leaned forward, and put all his weight on the foot holding the prisoner down, keeping him from drawing a breath, enjoying the squirming beneath his heel. Mintab fought to free himself, fighting for air. The guards laughed.

  Sergeant Adib, who led the group, drew back his foot and kicked Mintab in the side, drawing a cry of pain from the man and forcing out the last air in the man’s lungs. Alqahiray leaned away, taking his weight off Mintab. The gasping sounds of Mintab searching for breath brought a wider smile to Alqahiray’s lips. Not a healthy sound, thought Alqahiray.

  “You should have taken better care of yourself, President Mintab. Maybe if you had visited me
and seen for yourself, I might be inclined to believe you. However, not one word have I heard from you since your speech at the United Nations declaring the entire North African coast a new nation — which, by the way, was very good. Too bad for your health that you neglected to stick with making speeches. You politicians are alike; so fluid-flowing wherever you think the waters are best for you.

  Saying whatever will help retain the power you so cravenly desire and possess. What are you now? The interim president of the Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa? How impressive, Mintab! No, don’t say anything. I am truly impressed how far you have risen in such a short time. Would it surprise you if I told you that I thought someday that I would be the president or prime minister of the Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa?” He leaned over the man. “No? I didn’t think it would. And where are your cohorts who shot and kidnapped me — Walid and Samir?”

  Mintab raised his head; his lips moved silently a couple of times before his head fell back onto the floor. Tears mixed with the blood flowing from his nose. Torn lips had turned his teeth a sickly red, causing them to appear black in the blue light.

  The ammonia smell of urine reached Alqahiray, causing his nose to wrinkle.

  Mintab finally realized he was going to die. If he knew where Walid and Samir had fled, he could bargain. Maybe he could delay. “I don’t know, Colonel. I don’t know. I saw them last night when we met to discuss the situations … ” he said weakly, gasping the words out. Think, Mintab, he said to himself. Make something up to give him. Anything to save your life. However, fear, pain, and fatigue clouded his mental faculties, and he felt himself fading into a deep blackness.

  Alqahiray put his foot on Mintab’s head and shifted his weight onto it and smiled as Mintab’s weak struggle to free himself ceased. “Shut up, traitor!” he shouted. “You have pissed yourself, Mintab. What real man pisses himself, even when he knows he is going to die? You missed seeing how heroes die. When the junta died, not one of them pissed themselves. They stood straight and strong, waiting for their deaths, knowing their deaths were good for the country,” Alqahiray lied. “You should have been there. You would know how to accept death.”