direct hit is virtually guaranteed to destroy a 747 or any other passenger jet.’ He patted the tube. ‘It has an optional friend-or-foe system so that it cannot accidentally shoot a friendly plane.’ His smile widened. ‘Not that we will be needing that function, of course.’ Several of the men chuckled. ‘The missile system is also equipped to combat infrared countermeasures and to minimise the effect of decoy flares and jammers, though generally such things are not fitted to passenger aircraft.’
‘Will that be our target, back in England?’ asked Rafiq.
Hammad looked at him for several seconds before replying. ‘Your targets will be given to you nearer the time,’ he said. ‘All you need to concern yourself with now is how to use the equipment.’
‘Sure,’ said Rafiq. ‘It’s just that you keep talking about planes. I thought …’ He left the sentence unfinished and looked away.
‘Brother, you are a jihad warrior, there is no need for you to think,’ said Hammad. ‘The thinking will be done for you so that you can best serve Allah. Plans are being laid and you will play your part. That is what this training is about, to prepare you so that you can fulfil your role.’
‘I understand,’ said Rafiq.
Hammad surveyed the group. ‘I realise that you all have questions, that you all want to know what lies ahead.’ He put his hand over his heart. ‘Brothers, I too would like to know the future, but my part is to train you, nothing more and nothing less. That is my role and I will do what is asked of me. You in turn have your roles to play. It is as if we are all pieces in a giant jigsaw puzzle. As individual pieces none of us can see the complete picture, but I can assure you it will be glorious.’
The men gathered around him nodded.
‘Allahu akbar
,’ said Rafiq. ‘God is great.’
‘Allahu akbar
,’ said Hammad.
‘Allahu akbar
,’ repeated the others, in unison.
Hammad bent over the missile and waved his hand over it. ‘The system comes in four parts,’ he said. ‘There is a ground power supply source, a launching tube, the launching mechanism and the missile itself. I shall explain to you first how to aim the weapon, then we shall practise.’
A small transceiver on the table burst into life and Hammad picked it up. It was one of the spotters in the hills to the west. ‘A bird is on the wing,’ said the spotter. ‘With twenty feathers.’
‘Understood,’ said Hammad. He slid the transceiver inside his man-dress. ‘There is a drone on its way, brothers. Coming this way at twenty thousand feet. Help me take everything inside.’
Hammad picked up the missile launcher and took it over to the goatherd’s cottage. Rafiq picked up one end of the table. One of the Somalians – a lanky six-footer called Asad – took the other end and together they carried it over to the cottage. KC grabbed the whiteboard and hurried after them.
The cottage stank of goats. There was a bare concrete floor and the walls were made of clay bricks that had been covered with a layer of brown plaster. The ceiling was flat planks of wood with earth piled up on top.
Hammad sat down cross-legged and motioned for the men to do the same. The transceiver crackled again. ‘The bird with twenty feathers is flying east.’
‘Is it a Predator?’ asked Rafiq. The Predator was one of the most feared American unmanned aircraft. It was usually fitted with two Hellfire missiles with more than enough firepower to destroy the cottage they were huddled in. The United States Air Force operated most of the Predators in Afghanistan and Iraq, but the CIA had also been flying them across the border to attack targets in Pakistan’s federally administered tribal areas.
‘If it was a Predator, the spotter would say eagle, not bird,’ said Hammad. ‘Bird means it is a surveillance drone. It is nothing to worry about, the Americans fly them over the border all the time. We simply have to wait until it passes and then
‘Will that be our target, back in England?’ asked Rafiq.
Hammad looked at him for several seconds before replying. ‘Your targets will be given to you nearer the time,’ he said. ‘All you need to concern yourself with now is how to use the equipment.’
‘Sure,’ said Rafiq. ‘It’s just that you keep talking about planes. I thought …’ He left the sentence unfinished and looked away.
‘Brother, you are a jihad warrior, there is no need for you to think,’ said Hammad. ‘The thinking will be done for you so that you can best serve Allah. Plans are being laid and you will play your part. That is what this training is about, to prepare you so that you can fulfil your role.’
‘I understand,’ said Rafiq.
Hammad surveyed the group. ‘I realise that you all have questions, that you all want to know what lies ahead.’ He put his hand over his heart. ‘Brothers, I too would like to know the future, but my part is to train you, nothing more and nothing less. That is my role and I will do what is asked of me. You in turn have your roles to play. It is as if we are all pieces in a giant jigsaw puzzle. As individual pieces none of us can see the complete picture, but I can assure you it will be glorious.’
The men gathered around him nodded.
‘Allahu akbar
,’ said Rafiq. ‘God is great.’
‘Allahu akbar
,’ said Hammad.
‘Allahu akbar
,’ repeated the others, in unison.
Hammad bent over the missile and waved his hand over it. ‘The system comes in four parts,’ he said. ‘There is a ground power supply source, a launching tube, the launching mechanism and the missile itself. I shall explain to you first how to aim the weapon, then we shall practise.’
A small transceiver on the table burst into life and Hammad picked it up. It was one of the spotters in the hills to the west. ‘A bird is on the wing,’ said the spotter. ‘With twenty feathers.’
‘Understood,’ said Hammad. He slid the transceiver inside his man-dress. ‘There is a drone on its way, brothers. Coming this way at twenty thousand feet. Help me take everything inside.’
Hammad picked up the missile launcher and took it over to the goatherd’s cottage. Rafiq picked up one end of the table. One of the Somalians – a lanky six-footer called Asad – took the other end and together they carried it over to the cottage. KC grabbed the whiteboard and hurried after them.
The cottage stank of goats. There was a bare concrete floor and the walls were made of clay bricks that had been covered with a layer of brown plaster. The ceiling was flat planks of wood with earth piled up on top.
Hammad sat down cross-legged and motioned for the men to do the same. The transceiver crackled again. ‘The bird with twenty feathers is flying east.’
‘Is it a Predator?’ asked Rafiq. The Predator was one of the most feared American unmanned aircraft. It was usually fitted with two Hellfire missiles with more than enough firepower to destroy the cottage they were huddled in. The United States Air Force operated most of the Predators in Afghanistan and Iraq, but the CIA had also been flying them across the border to attack targets in Pakistan’s federally administered tribal areas.
‘If it was a Predator, the spotter would say eagle, not bird,’ said Hammad. ‘Bird means it is a surveillance drone. It is nothing to worry about, the Americans fly them over the border all the time. We simply have to wait until it passes and then
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