In the preamble to the new Iranian constitution in 1979 it was clearly stated that the nation's armed forces "will be responsible not only for safeguarding our borders, but also for accomplishing an ideological mission, that is Jihad for the sake of God, as well as for struggling to open the war for the sovereignty of the Word of God throughout the world." —Ilan Berman in
Tehran Rising

"It has always seemed to me ... probable that there would be a resurrection of Islam and that our sons or our grandsons would see the renewal of that tremendous struggle between the Christian culture and what has been for more than a thousand years its greatest opponent." —Hillaire Belloc in 1938

“
The fact that in Mohammedan law every woman must belong to some man as his absolute property… must delay the final extinction of slavery until the faith of Islam has ceased to be a great power among men.” —
Winston Churchill

“Islam cannot be defeated. Islam will be victorious in all the countries of the world, and Islam and the teachings of the Koran will prevail over the world."

Ayatollah Khomeini, 1980

PROLOGUE

DHAHRAN, SAUDI ARABIA

JUNE 26, 1996 - 10:30 P.M.

KOBAR TOWERS COMPLEX

Tewfik al-Hanbali surveyed the nearly deserted street. Two shadowy yet still discernable human figures lurked over a block away where they stood under a pale streetlight. The low wattage of the streetlight, the overcast sky, all contributed to the closeness of the murky darkness. Tonight, he knew he would strike the invaders.

“Wassif, are you ready?” al-Hanbali asked.

“Yes. Do you think that most will be in bed?” Wassif asked.

“I have been watching the complex for two weeks and I know their schedule. Have you prepared everything in the fuel tanker?”

Receiving an affirmative nod, al-Hanbali ordered, “Show me.” He took Wassif by the arm and led him to the back of the truck. Wassif jumped up on the tanker truck and climbed onto the round aluminum cylinder atop the bed of the vehicle. He opened the hatch and looked inside.

“There are five thousand pounds of high explosives and dual detonators,” Wassif said as he pointed into the truck, visually rechecking the deadly cargo. His voice did not tremble. “I have inserted the blasting caps into the casing inside this tank to arm the bomb. I have the detonator in my hand.” Wassif held it out for al-Hanbali to see and descended to the ground. “I can depress the ignition button at any time after I set the selector switch on the detonator. I’ll push that inside the compound as soon as I start the engine.”

“Remember to drive slowly as you approach the guardhouse,” al-Hanbali said and moved close to Wassif. “We don’t want anyone alerted before you get close. Then you must speed up to plow through. It’s time for you to go. Are you prepared?” Al-Hanbali looked straight into Wassif’s eyes. He saw no fear there.

“It is the will of Allah,” came the reply, and the man bowed his head.

“Allah be with you,” al-Hanbali said with intense fervor, grasping Wassif by the shoulders and touching each of his cheeks with his own. “Your family will be rewarded and cared for.”

Wassif climbed into the cab of the old dust-covered black Mercedes fuel truck. When he started the engine, the noise of the diesel ignition broke the night silence. He set the selector switch on the detonator transmitter and drove slowly towards the sentry post that guarded the residential complex where the American military maintained sleeping quarters for their personnel.

Al-Hanbali looked after the truck as it slowly rumbled down the street toward the building. Then he watched as it increased speed, heading directly for the sentry gate and the building immediately behind it. It was going as he had planned. All the weeks of preparation were now a few seconds from fulfillment. He did this for his family. The truck bore down on the concrete buttresses in front of the sentry at its maximum speed.

At that moment, gunfire erupted from behind the protective bollards of the complex.

Al-Hanbali’s heart started to pound. It was all going wrong! The suicide vessel needed to get closer. He couldn’t believe the truck was taking volley after volley of gunfire and it was not yet close enough to the building. How did the devils know to fire on the truck? His plan appeared to be thwarted, a failure. With that much firepower leveled at the truck he knew Wassif must be dead. All the bullets and the flares from the barricade made seeing the truck impossible. What had happened to his truck?

He prepared to retreat and run away in defeat. But his heart leapt as a tremendous fireball interrupted his feeling of failure. Wassif had detonated the thousands of pounds of explosives. Then, less than a half second later came the explosion’s deafening roar. He could not believe the force of the overpressure. Three blocks away he felt his body propelled through the air and slammed to the ground, the air savagely ripped from his lungs.

He remained frozen in a supine position in the street for a few seconds, and then he scurried to a doorway and eventually caught his breath. When the dust started to clear, al-Hanbali gazed in disbelief at the devastated remains of the building. The entire front of the barracks had collapsed. The scream of many sirens broke the silence following the explosion. Time to get out of the area. Elated, defeat now turned into victory, he retreated.

Tonight he would celebrate the culmination of his initial effort to clear the homeland of the Prophet from the presence of the satanic invaders. His first endeavor to strike at the abominable occupation of foreign military personnel was successful, and he, Tewfik al-Hanbali, had carried it out. He praised Allah for his victory this night. Wassif, he knew, was now in paradise.

The morning after the attack, he read in the local paper that over nineteen U.S. servicemen had been killed and sixty-two had suffered injuries in the explosion. The pictures of mutilated bodies and body parts pleased him. Al-Hanbali headed for morning prayers at his local mosque.

“Forgive me for not killing all of the infidels.” While prostrating himself on his prayer rug, he voiced a promise to Allah. “I’ll do better next time.”

CHAPTER 1

MATT HIGGINS

THURSDAY, RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

1:10 A.M. – OFFICE, SAUDI CHIEF OF NATIONAL SECURITY

Captain Matt Higgins paced back and forth in the waiting room of General al-Hassam’s office at the Saudi Defense Department headquarters. He was still riding the adrenalin surge from his recent near-death experience. The general’s aide-de-camp entered the room and approached him.

“Captain, the general requests your patience and will be with you shortly. You must realize that after what just happened there are some things he must immediately attend to. Will you need any medical attention for your wound?” queried the clean-shaven young lieutenant dressed in a starched, neatly creased brown uniform.

“No, I’m okay, but thanks anyway.”

“Perhaps a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?” the young officer offered.

“I’m fine. I’ll just wait, if you don’t mind,” Matt said.

The aide turned and left him alone in the room; there were few people in this headquarters building after midnight. Matt scanned the anteroom. The light green walls were filled with pictures of Saudi generals, none of whom he recognized. One picture had the name of al-Hassam. At least now he would know what the man looked like. There was a Saudi flag in the corner behind a small desk and two plain wood chairs, neither of which looked comfortable.

Matt picked the larger one and sat back trying to rest his head against the wall. The right side of his face hurt, but at least the bleeding had stopped. It would not need stitches, he thought, just a butterfly bandage for a few days. He glanced down at his clothes and saw the suit was rumpled and the left knee of his pants had a rip. The blood had stopped seeping out of the slight scratch on his leg. His shirt sported multiple creases from the long flight from Washington. At least the dark blue of his tie complimented the light gray of his suit. Matt realized that it was a stupid thing to contemplate at present. He had knotted his tie just before landing in Riyadh, and he now reached to loosen the knot and unfasten the top button of the shirt.

This trip to Saudi had turned out to be far from the milk run expected. This mission had all started less than twenty-four hours ago. Captain Matt Higgins and Staff Sergeant Bridget Donavan, his second-in-command, had been at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, on a hand-to-hand combat training course, when they received the message to report to the Center for Organizations and Operations, commonly called “the Center” at the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA). Bridget had gone over to thank Captain Jim Cassidy for their hour-long instruction, while Matt gathered their gear from the wet ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt had observed Cassidy looking appreciatively at Bridget as she approached.

Bridget was a beautiful young woman with piercing golden brown eyes and flaming red hair, about five feet eight, with a slim build and ample endowments. Matt had heard them referred to as “great headlights” by a team member. An appreciative thought must have crossed Cassidy’s mind, Matt thought as he watched the man’s eyes trace over her. Cassidy surely remembered when Bridget had proven herself a formidable foe in this form of combat, demonstrating that she knew how to use her lean, well-toned body to maximum advantage in knife fighting during combat. In a practice session, Matt saw Cassidy make a slight mistake by turning to his left. With great speed, Bridget had moved her right foot behind his knee and flipped him so fast he had no chance to react while she placed the blade at his throat. Game over.

Bridget joined Matt and they slogged through the thin layer of mud to where she had parked her Ford 150 pickup. They dumped their gear into the back, and headed towards the Center. Matt guesstimated it would take about forty-five minutes to get there at this time of day.

They rode in silence. Matt remembered when the army assigned Bridget to his team. She had come up in the army ranks quickly. He inquired shortly after her arrival as to why she had joined the army. Her answer surprised him. She needed to get away from an abusive relationship at home and especially to remove herself from contact with her brother. She believed he had ruined her future.

Matt pressed to get some answers on the details, but she clammed up. The only other statement she made was the she needed to learn how to be strong and how to defend herself. The army provided both goals, and after 9/11, she also adopted a new mission. She wanted to heap retribution on the ones that inflicted the devastation on America. At least on that point Matt could empathize. In his own mind, he realized that she was indeed a strong, tough woman with a definite goal to achieve. She was, however, a bit testy on many occasions and often overconfident, but still a superb soldier. She was also a beautiful woman.

On arrival at the Center, Sergeant Peter O’Leary, sandy haired with a wrestler’s physique and a Boston Irish accent, greeted them. His expertise included many black operations for the DIA.

“Captain, got a message for you from the general. Before she left, she told me that you are to go in civilian clothes to the office of the Director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, for further orders. The general didn’t say anything else, except that you would be gone a couple of days. Also, she said to tell you that all your instructions would be given to you at NSA,” Peter finished.

“Any idea what it is about?” Matt asked.

“I have no friggin’ idea. She didn’t say. You know her. Good luck, sir.”

Matt and Bridget walked toward where he had parked the Honda 1500cc Goldwing motorcycle. This was his “freedom machine” when he just wanted to get away and feel the air and speed. He stopped beside the touring bike and turned to her.

“Bridget, keep the schedules for counter surveillance training going over the next few days. This has to be one of those shit details handed out on a rotational basis and my name just came up on some roster,” Matt said.

“No problem,” Bridget offered. “Good luck. See you when you get back.” She saluted and moved off.

Matt rode the bike to his townhouse in Arlington and changed into civilian clothes. He thought his lanky six-foot-one-inch frame didn’t really fit his Brooks Brothers suit, but then, on captain’s pay, there weren’t likely to be any Giorgio Armani pinstriped suits in the closet. While tying his tie, he noticed in the bathroom mirror his dark suntanned face, the dark tan on his already deep complexion a result of his last mission to the Middle East. He ran his hand through his thick black hair. It was well over the acceptable length for a military officer, but a skintight haircut would instantly scream “military” in any area of the world where he was likely to travel as part of a clandestine DIA operation, especially in his area of specialization: the Middle East.

Most of his training for in-country operations emphasized the need to look as much as possible like the locals. The Center encouraged its members to fit easily into the areas of possible future operations. Except for field training and some exercises where combat gear made better sense, he usually wore civilian clothes.

After packing a small overnight bag, he drove to Fort Meade. Arriving at the office of the Director of the National Security Agency, he was directed to the desk of the admiral’s administrative assistant, Captain Thomas Mattowski, U.S. Navy.

“Sir, I am Captain Higgins. General Bergermeyer ordered me to report here.”

“Welcome to the NSA, Captain. Here are your orders. You will find the items you are to deliver in room 214. If you go out the door you just came through and turn right, the room will be on your left down the hall. Master Sergeant Webb will assist you there. Good luck.”

Matt thanked him, turned and headed for room 214 without reading the order. A shit detail they couldn’t get anyone out here at NSA to volunteer for, he thought. All he’d have to do would be deliver the packages, get back, and continue the interrupted training of his team.

When he arrived at the designated room, he knocked and entered. There was no one there. Two large boxes sat on the floor of an otherwise empty room. Matt grumbled to himself. He needed to read the order to find out what this all-important delivery was about.

He ripped the large envelope open. The order specified that he was to take the two packages to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia on a flight leaving from Dulles in four hours. Among the papers in the envelope were a ticket for him from Dulles International Airport to the International Airport in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and a separate return ticket. In addition, there was a ticket for 500 pounds excess accompanying baggage. He was to deliver the two packages to the office of Major General al-Hassam. It listed an address and telephone numbers. A military escort would meet him on arrival. The order specified that the general himself must sign the attached receipt, and that Matt was required to deliver that receipt to the office of the director at the NSA immediately upon his return to the United States.

Matt took out the receipt which was stamped “Top-Secret, No Foreign, except Major General Rashid al-Hassam.” The wording specified that the general acknowledged receipt of two packages from the NSA, not specifying the contents. Matt immediately noticed that Admiral Kidd, the Director of the NSA, had personally put his signature on the order. Matt stood still for a few minutes taking in the instructions. As he was starting to think of how he might get 500 pounds from this room to the airport, the door opened and a sergeant entered the room.

"Captain Higgins? Master Sergeant Webb. May I see your identification, please?” Matt handed him the NSA guest badge with his name on it. “Thank you, sir. I'm here to take you and the packages to the airport."

"Sergeant, you have any idea what's in these packages?"

"Can’t say, sir, but since you’re at the NSA, my guess is it must be some high tech stuff,” Webb replied and pointed to the door. “I’ve a dolly outside that we can put them on and I’ve got a van waiting at the loading dock. May I take the letter now that you have read your instructions? The admiral said it wasn’t to leave the building. You are to keep the receipt and the tickets."

Matt handed him the letter and the sergeant departed. While he was gone Matt walked over to take a closer look at the packages. The labels and custom declarations described the contents as “automotive parts.”

In a pig’s eye, Matt thought; that sergeant sure as hell knows what’s in the boxes. God, he hated this type of spook delivery service. Since the NSA was not using one of its own members to make the delivery, and he’d been handed this job, it had to be something that the NSA wanted to keep quiet even within its own ranks.

Was this what he had been trained for? No, it definitely was not. Surely, they could have shipped these through the usual channels, or this sergeant could have delivered them. But what the hell? Get on with it, and get it done. Orders were orders, and then Matt could get back to his primary job—training in anti-terrorist operations.

At Dulles airport in Washington, he turned the packages over to the airline baggage people who grumbled at their excess weight. Matt went over to the ticket counter, checked in, and requested a window seat; he wasn’t going to have people climbing over him to go to the restrooms. He intended to sleep as much as possible on the long flight. Once on board, he settled as best as he could into the cramped seat in the cattle car section of the plane.

“No first class for courier duty,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

It was not common, but sometimes when he was feeling sleepy, like now, Matt’s thoughts wandered, seeking almost in spite of himself the starting point that always seemed to be the same when he fell into that space between consciousness and near sleep. That starting point, a dreadful day three years after his wedding, and that day seemed like yesterday.

* * * *

While the plane settled into its cruising altitude of 37,000 feet, his mind swung back with crystal clarity to that dreadful day. Matt and his wife, Susan, traveled to Washington DC on vacation. The first real vacation they had taken in two years. Alone and with no one to interrupt them, they intended to spend the week in the Nation’s capitol to see all the sights. Matt took Susan to the Pentagon to see his old Professor of Military Science, Colonel John Forsman. After a short visit to his office, the colonel, tall and erect with almost snow-white hair, had suggested that he take Matt to see some of the classified areas that concerned army matters. He recommended that the petite, blonde-haired Susan would find it boring to listen to all the military jargon and topics and might like to view the artwork in the outer ring of the Pentagon instead of going with them. They would join her in about fifteen minutes. Matt gave Susan a hug and a light kiss; then she left.

She was on the east part of the ring when her cell phone rang. It was Matt.

“Hi, hon, sorry we ran over on time. The colonel was showing me some interesting things. Could you meet me at the east exit, say at 9:45? We’ll be there in a few minutes and then we can go on over to the Smithsonian.”

“Don’t worry, it’s okay. I’ll be there by the time you are,” Susan said. “I just strolled the halls of the outer ring, viewing the military artwork that depicted various scenes from the far-flung battlefields the American soldier had fought and died on. It is really quite a moving experience. I’ll meander on over to the exit now.”

It was 9:42 in the morning.

At that moment American Airlines flight 77, a Boeing 757, smashed into the Pentagon less than twenty feet from where she stood. Susan died instantly in the catastrophic explosion and fireball that engulfed the corridor on the outer ring of the building on September 11, 2001.

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