there, we will then perform a direct action strike against this asshole.” Mark paused, causing everyone in the room to narrow their focus on his face. “Remember, this new threat may not be coming from the Al-Jaazeez network. I cannot stress this enough. None of you have the luxury of going into this next op thinking that you know everything you need to know about the situation. Keep your eyes wide open because it could be a completely different threat. We won’t know until we make the identifications ourselves. Now, the group I’m sending will be composed of Clarke, Denison, Kincaid, Avery, and Russo. You’ll be wheels up by the end of the week. Everyone else will be heading to the base at Camp Harding until otherwise instructed.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
C ommander Mark Dewitt really needed a stiff drink. He was a Scotch man, and on occasion enjoyed imbibing in a glass of the amber liquid on the rocks. But at this particular moment any drink would do.
The past few months had been one holy shitstorm after another in the world of international counterterrorism. First, a nearly month-long siege of American hostages at an oil plant in Somalia. And then right afterwards, two fucking U.S. embassy bombings in as many as weeks. The bombings had taken place in northern Africa, and AnSawar had taken the credit for both. Unreal. Mark had been chewing down Tums like they were going out of style.
Just when he thought they were finally starting to get everything under control, bam . More crap hit the fan. Glancing up from the recently delivered intelligence briefing, he found the other men in the room looking just as perplexed as he felt.
“How many killed in the Chad embassy bombing?” Mark asked Morgan Henson, the newly appointed director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Mark and Morgan went way back, from their green Navy years before they’d both joined the SEALs.
“Twenty-eight embassy workers,” Morgan supplied. “They were mostly administrative staff with two diplomatic officers also killed in the attack.”
“We have to quickly get a handle on all of this shit,” Michael Gerard announced, exasperation apparent in his voice. “Washington is breathing down my neck right now. And we don’t have an acceptable answer for them about what the hell is going on.”
“How is AnSawar getting enough money to finance these attacks?” Gerard said. “The last news I heard from your analysts, Morgan, was that these assholes didn’t have a pot to piss in. Let alone the ability to launch attacks that would bring body counts. Now they’re firing U.S. military grade, mid-range ballistic missiles into our embassies? What the fuck?”
Mark happened to agree. None of this was quite adding up.
Letting out a slow breath, Morgan attempted to answer Gerard’s barrage of questions. “Okay, here is what we know about AnSawar. They started out as an Al-Jaazeez offshoot in the early 2000s. Originally based in a small village in Iran, they started to spread like an airborne virus two years later. Recruiting for their organization occurs at the normal places: prisons and schools. They have taken credit for a number of small bombings and shootings before this recent spate of incidents. None of their previous attacks were accompanied by a high number of fatalities. Their membership numbers are also unclear. The group could have anywhere between twenty to sixty members.”
Motioning, Morgan signaled to one of his assistants to start up the computer slides. Two images appeared on the conference room screen.
“These two men seem to be the central figures in the group,” Morgan continued, “Mohammed Kareem and Faizal Shariff. Mohammed is the older, stout man on the right. He handles the group’s Middle Eastern operations and Faizal handles the group’s operations in Africa. Faizal Shariff is most likely Ms. Westlake’s ‘Hazel Eyes.’ He was born in Bogotá, Columbia to a Danish mother and an Iranian father.
CHAPTER
FOUR
C ommander Mark Dewitt really needed a stiff drink. He was a Scotch man, and on occasion enjoyed imbibing in a glass of the amber liquid on the rocks. But at this particular moment any drink would do.
The past few months had been one holy shitstorm after another in the world of international counterterrorism. First, a nearly month-long siege of American hostages at an oil plant in Somalia. And then right afterwards, two fucking U.S. embassy bombings in as many as weeks. The bombings had taken place in northern Africa, and AnSawar had taken the credit for both. Unreal. Mark had been chewing down Tums like they were going out of style.
Just when he thought they were finally starting to get everything under control, bam . More crap hit the fan. Glancing up from the recently delivered intelligence briefing, he found the other men in the room looking just as perplexed as he felt.
“How many killed in the Chad embassy bombing?” Mark asked Morgan Henson, the newly appointed director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Mark and Morgan went way back, from their green Navy years before they’d both joined the SEALs.
“Twenty-eight embassy workers,” Morgan supplied. “They were mostly administrative staff with two diplomatic officers also killed in the attack.”
“We have to quickly get a handle on all of this shit,” Michael Gerard announced, exasperation apparent in his voice. “Washington is breathing down my neck right now. And we don’t have an acceptable answer for them about what the hell is going on.”
“How is AnSawar getting enough money to finance these attacks?” Gerard said. “The last news I heard from your analysts, Morgan, was that these assholes didn’t have a pot to piss in. Let alone the ability to launch attacks that would bring body counts. Now they’re firing U.S. military grade, mid-range ballistic missiles into our embassies? What the fuck?”
Mark happened to agree. None of this was quite adding up.
Letting out a slow breath, Morgan attempted to answer Gerard’s barrage of questions. “Okay, here is what we know about AnSawar. They started out as an Al-Jaazeez offshoot in the early 2000s. Originally based in a small village in Iran, they started to spread like an airborne virus two years later. Recruiting for their organization occurs at the normal places: prisons and schools. They have taken credit for a number of small bombings and shootings before this recent spate of incidents. None of their previous attacks were accompanied by a high number of fatalities. Their membership numbers are also unclear. The group could have anywhere between twenty to sixty members.”
Motioning, Morgan signaled to one of his assistants to start up the computer slides. Two images appeared on the conference room screen.
“These two men seem to be the central figures in the group,” Morgan continued, “Mohammed Kareem and Faizal Shariff. Mohammed is the older, stout man on the right. He handles the group’s Middle Eastern operations and Faizal handles the group’s operations in Africa. Faizal Shariff is most likely Ms. Westlake’s ‘Hazel Eyes.’ He was born in Bogotá, Columbia to a Danish mother and an Iranian father.
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