First Strike

PROLOGUE

Islamabad, Pakistan. Awan Town

North of the Punjab Province

0416 hours

Fourteen members of the Punjab Elite Police Force, or the PEP, quietly approached a compound southwest of central Islamabad, just inside the sector of Awan Town. A two-story structure located upon a small rise afforded a complete view of the entire estate that was hemmed in by ten-foot walls.

Using darkness as their ally and dressed in black, the PEP wore domed helmets with a collection of gadgetry that marched up one side and down the other, including night vision goggles and thermal ware. Their faceplates were a convexity of opaque plastic with the overall ensembles having a ‘Robocop’ feel replete with custom designed composite shin and forearm guards.

Beneath a crescent moon that cast an eerie glow upon the landscape that was the color of whey, the PEP traveled along the wall’s base using their NVG scopes to guide them.

When they reached their designated point at the south side, the team leader made a series of predetermined hand gestures to communicate with his unit and mobilized two members of his team to remove piton guns from their backpacks. After loading stakes that were tethered to metal lines, they took aim and fired off two quick shots—the sounds no louder than a couple of spits—with the sharpened tips embedding deep into the wall's upper reaches.

The team began to scale the lines in coordinated effort. When the first two responders reached the top, they placed mesh-wire tarps over the points of the spikes to blunt them. Once they were up and over, others quickly followed.

As soon as the last man scaled the wall, the team leader examined the facility through the NVG lens of his rifle scope. Along the balconies on the second-tier, guards with assault weapons were stationed either as solo or paired teams.

He lowered his scope and signaled to his lieutenant: Team Alpha, advance and take out the guards.

Shooting him a thumbs-up, the lieutenant led Team Alpha forward with their weapons at eye level. When they were within range, Alpha Leader lowered his lip mic to communicate with a second unit.

Team Alpha to Team Bravo, we have four tangos in sight.

Copy that, Alpha, we see four, as well.

Coordinate termination in thirty, he said.

In thirty. We copy.

The members of Alpha Team began to acquire assigned targets by placing the guards within the crosshairs of their assault weapons.

In twenty, whispered Alpha leader.

"Copy that. In twenty."

As zero moment approached, their orders were clear: terminate everyone with extreme prejudice except for the high-value asset.

In ten.

In ten . . .

The snipers by the wall were scoping the area at ground level for guards walking the perimeter. So far, everything was working to their advantage; the area was clear.

In five . . . In four . . .

Adrenaline coursed through their veins like a narcotic, bringing on a dual sensation of euphoric bloodlust for the hunt and the anticipation of mission success.

. . . In three . . .

. . . In two . . .

Breaths became measured.

. . . In one . . .

Fingers began to pull back on the triggers.

. . . Zero.

Suppressed weapons fired in perfect synchronization.

On the balcony where the four hostiles gathered, eruptions of red mist exploded from the chests of two guards who immediately went down as boneless heaps. Before the other two guards could register what happened, bullet holes magically appeared in their foreheads, the shots dropping them just as quickly, the post completely sanitized. As the final body was making its fall—before it had a chance to settle upon the balcony floor—the Punjab Elite Police were already on the move to set a perimeter around the residence.

#

Ayman al-Zawahiri was at rest upon a mattress on the floor and reflected on the glory days of his past.

In 1998, al-Zawahiri was the leading principal of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad. During that year, he united with Osama bin Laden and together they merged their groups to become al-Qaeda. Although he was the leading lieutenant and bin Laden the financier, it was al-Zawahiri who truly governed the forces, since he was a man of military sophistication, which was something bin Laden lacked.

Plans for mass destruction were formulated and missions were carried out all over the globe, with the organization depending upon the personal sacrifices of their foot soldiers, as long as Paradise waited for them at life’s end. As these martyrs came and went and the body count rising in the name of Allah, Zawahiri—not bin Laden—became the architect behind the war effort of nine-eleven.

With a single attack against American sovereignty, a powerful nation had been brought to its knees. And in the following years as recuperation moved at a glacial pace, the national psyche remained as fragile as glass. America was no longer invulnerable.

Al-Zawahiri had never been so proud or vain or self-appreciative as he was on that day. He had become the David to the ‘Great Satan’s’ Goliath. But as he gloated in self-glory, he failed to realize that he had awakened a sleeping giant, as well.

On that day the United States had opened its eyes, stood tall, flexed its muscles, and moved relentlessly through troubled waters like a shark, looking to feed a hunger that could never be satiated. Then on May 2nd, 2011, after America had trolled the waters long enough, U.S. Special Forces invaded a compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, killing Osama bin Laden.

It was also the day when Zawahiri discovered that the world—as big as it was—was too small of a place to hide in. And with a twenty-five-million-dollar bounty on his head, he went into seclusion in Islamabad, realizing that the United States would not attempt another invasion on Pakistani soil without proper authorization from the country’s top principals. Such an incursion would diminish diplomatic ties between the two nations, who were straining to gain diplomatic traction with their already tenuous relationship. And because of this, al-Zawahiri felt safe inside the heart of Pakistan.

As he lay there with images of the past moving through his mind’s eye, he started when he heard a crash coming from below. Explosively loud, as though a concussive wave had passed through the house, concussive ripples shook the walls and floors to the roots of their foundations.

Al-Zawahiri got to his feet and grabbed his gun, an AK-47. He barked commands for his guards to take position along the tops of the stairwells and to ‘fight in the name of Allah.’

But Allah would not side with Ayman al-Zawahiri on this night.

#

The front door to the residence appeared incapable of being breached. Made of thick wood pieced together with black bands and rivets, it was like something from medieval times; perhaps it even was from medieval times, but the detonation specialist who prepared a partial brick of Semtex couldn’t care less. He set the locking mechanism, attached the small detonator, and with a remote the size of a cigarette pack, he flipped the switch.

The door exploded inward as pieces of wood and metal skated across the floor of the residence. Black smoke billowed from the entryway, providing enough cover for the PEP teams to press forward with their weapons held at eye level. Within seconds they fanned out and looked for targets.

Insurgent forces on the lower floor took up positions of engagement, but the members of the PEP were too fast, too efficient, their weapons going off with precision shots that killed the insurgents before their bodies hit the ground. Other guerilla forces were dropped immediately as bullets stitched across their chests and abdomens, ejecting gouts of blood in bold arcs and splashes that decorated the walls with gaudy Pollock designs.

When the first level was clear, Team Leader took inventory of his units as they reassembled. Nobody from the PEP had been downed.

He then pointed to the base of each stairwell—there were three altogether—with his fore and middle fingers and directed his team to break up into three separate units and wait for his command.

Once positioned, Alpha Leader spoke through his lip mic. Flash bangs on five.

"Flash bangs on five. All units copy."

On four . . . On three . . . On two . . . Engage!

A series of non-lethal explosions detonated in quick succession. Blinding light lit up the entire second level that turned night into day, the concussive waves immediately crippling all sense of cognition in those who were standing at the top.

With time-of-opportunity limited to split seconds, the teams rushed up the stairwells with the points of their weapons raised.

#

Al-Zawahiri saw the flash of blinding light filter in from around the seams and cracks of his bedroom door. He held his weapon tight with the mouth of the barrel directed to the door and waited.

He had heard a volley of gunfire below, the commotion muted behind the closed door. But he knew that the enemy had pushed through his forces and were making their way towards his rest area.

As everything moved with the slowness of a bad dream, he remembered the moments when he issued a call for suicide bombers, those who were willing to martyr themselves and become legacies. But he did not share that inclination of sacrificing his life for his own cause. Unlike those whom he had called upon to pay the price of admission to Paradise by wearing bomb-laden vests, in the end he wanted to live.

Closing his eyes and praying to Allah, he listened as the PEP forces edged closer.

#

The light was blinding. The concussive waves were a powerful blow to the senses to the al-Qaeda forces who lost all capability to coordinate their thoughts. They moved blindly about with their minds and judgment too fractured to make any sense of what was happening.

When the members of the PEP topped the stairs, targets were immediately acquired and brought down with the threat of imminent danger quickly erased. Bullets continued to find their marks, all kill shots, either to the head, heart, or to the center of body mass.

In less than twenty seconds, nearly every room had been cleared. Bodies of al-Qaeda lay everywhere.

The high-valued asset, however, was not among them.

At the end of the hallway stood a single door.

The PEP moved slowly forward with the points of their weapons raised and centered.

The ensuing silence was just as disturbing as the sound of battle.

Since no sound broadcasted from beyond the door, team leader set his weapon to grenade mode, aimed, and set off a mortar round. The shell exited the barrel and corkscrewed through the air until it impacted with the door, the resulting explosion decimating it into innumerable shards and splintered pieces.

As a wall of smoke moved about in lazy swirls and eddies, another flash bang was tossed into the room. In the explosion's aftermath, the PEP forces found al-Zawahiri huddled against the corner with his mind in disarray from the grenade, and his AK-47 lying on the floor in front of him.

This man, who was once a kingpin of terrorism and sat upon one of the most fearsome thrones in the Middle East, was now in the custody of the Punjab Elite Police Force.

The high-value asset had been attained.

CHAPTER ONE

The Oval Office, Washington D.C

2012 hours

Two Hours after the Raid in Islamabad

The Oval Office, located in the West Wing of the White House, is the official office of the President of the United States and serves as the nerve center of discussions that do not require input from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Two hours after the extraction of al-Zawahiri, President John Meacham, Vice President Connor Madison, Secretary of State Jenifer Rimaldi, Chief Presidential Advisor Simon Davis and Defense Secretary Steven Cayne, were gathered for a closed-door session to discuss matters regarding Ayman al-Zawahiri in depth.

Secretary of State Rimaldi was an attractive middle-aged woman with raven hair and striking blue eyes that sparkled like precious gems. On her lap sat an accordion binder containing numerous photos, paperwork and dossiers.

Approximately two hours ago, Mr. President, she began as she rifled through the folder, the Punjab Elite Police Force successfully procured the high-value asset of Ayman al-Zawahiri in Pakistan. She handed the president a series of photos. Right now, he’s in an undisclosed location fifty miles outside of Islamabad.

President Meacham examined the 8x10 black-and-whites. They were pictures of al-Zawahiri in captivity with time-dated stamps at the bottom of each photo. He looked worn and weary—certainly not like the man that martyrs often bowed before.

Very good, Meacham said. He laid the photos down. It’s about time that Pakistan made the decision to stop playing both sides of the fence. Either they stand in league with the worldwide community, or they can become a pariah of it.

I don’t think they had a choice, said Vice President Madison. He was referring to the political arm-bending of Pakistani officials who knew that al-Zawahiri was hiding directly under their roof. Surveillance photos from the CIA taken over the past six months showed political principals and captains of industry entering and leaving the compound. One photo was enough to clearly identify Zawahiri through facial recognition software. It depicted him speaking with Ali Nawaz, a high-ranking official within the Pakistan Muslim League, the PML, which was ironic since the PML supported a strong and friendly relationship with the U.S.

When the photos were proffered to PML dignitaries, their political arm had been twisted nearly to the breaking point by U.S. Intelligence. Either Pakistan complied with bringing al-Zawahiri in, or the United States would provide evidence to the international courts and plead their case to recognize Pakistan as a country that harbors terrorist factions, which in turn would set forth crippling sanctions. As an addendum, the United States would send aid to India to shore up and defend the borders along Kashmir as a show of support.

Didn’t you think that offering to send aid to the Kashmir border was too strong of a commitment? Meacham asked Rimaldi.

She nodded. It was a gamble, Mr. President. But with all due respect, we do have al-Zawahiri in custody.

That we do, said President Meacham as he fell back into his seat. What are the plans for extradition?

Right now, Pakistani officials are being very careful regarding possible retaliation by al-Qaeda insurgents. So, they’re proceeding with extreme caution in the matter. In the meantime, we’re sending delegates to question al-Zawahiri as we speak.

Company men.

She nodded. Then: We’re looking at possibly five, maybe six days until Zawahiri is in the States.

Do we anticipate problems within Pakistan of al-Qaeda forces trying to remove al- Zawahiri from custody? asked Vice President Madison.

There may be an attempt, she answered.

If that’s the case, said the Chief Advisor, then we do the right thing and support Pakistan with military support, if need be.

I agree, said the President. The war on terrorism may have just escalated a few notches. Both here and abroad. He turned to his advisor and continued. Should the media get hold of the fact that al-Zawahiri is to be extradited to the U.S., how do you rate the likelihood of a heightened threat on American soil?

His response was immediate. "Extremely high. That’s why we need to get him to Gitmo, so that we can mine him for information in a secure environment and develop a course of defense."

But that won’t make us safe, at least not completely. Al-Qaeda will still hold us responsible.

A hush fell over the room as the president got to his feet and stood before the center window of the three windows behind his desk. He looked out over the nighttime skyline as he spoke.

Cells are here in the homeland. There’s a reason why we need to keep our enemies close. Watch all Internet sites, all telecom lines. Get all agencies involved to monitor insurrectionist thinking and attitudes. Identify those willing to use this event as an excuse to take up the march in the name of Allah. We're always funding those research grants to develop software to identify these people before they strike. Now's the time to put those apps into practice. Is all that clear?

There was a chorus of agreements, mumblings really.

The president went on. We have al-Zawahiri, and because we do, we need to be at the top of our game. He just may be the key to bringing down al-Qaeda for years to come.

He turned away from the window to face his audience of friends, people whom he had come to trust with his ideas and agendas over the term of his presidency. There will be retaliation, he stated evenly. Let’s not forget who we are and what we’re capable of.

VP Madison nodded smartly. Understood, Mr. President.

Keep me posted.

The Secretary of State spoke before everyone moved to leave. This is a great victory for us, yes?

Meacham nodded. But deep in the back of his mind he knew that victories could be short-lived. It was the war that they needed to win,