Al-Qa'ida: Unholy Dogs of War

AL-QA’IDA

Unholy Dogs of War

Ray Roddy

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Al-Qa’ida

Unholy Dogs of War

All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Raymond N. Roddy

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-32438-X

ISBN: 978-0-5957-7231-5 (ebk)

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Beginning Of The End

Chapter 2 The Devil Incarnate

Sudan

Chapter 3 Jack Mulcahey

February 26Th, 1993, 1400 Hours

Chapter 4 Somalia—Bite The Hand That Feeds It!

Chapter 5 ‘Blackhawk Down’

Chapter 6 Undercover

Mulcahey’s Revenge

Chapter 7 Operation ‘Free-Jack’

Langley Headquarters, Virginia.

Chapter 8 The Storm Clouds Gather

Chapter 9 If At First You Don’t Succeed…

Chapter 10 Wake The Sleeping Giant

Chapter 11 The Hunt For Al-Qa’ida

Chapter 12 Justice Is Done

Chapter 13 A Good Day To Die!

Chapter 14 A Fine Friend…Goodbye

Author’s Note

Introduction

Born in 1957, the seventeenth child of a family of fifty-two, Osama bin Muhammad bin Awad bin Laden was a bomb awaiting a detonator. He was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth and his family owned the wealthiest construction company in Saudi Arabia, but bin Laden had a missing cog or two. Recently, his sister told of him being frozen, almost comatose, when he saw her without her veil! His religious fervor laid the foundation for the beginning of his associations with Islamic fundamentalist Muslims in 1973, which set him on the path he follows today. After his involvement in the Afghani wars in the early eighties, he became a radical fundamentalist with a withering hate for the West and anything or anyone who did not see religion his way.

A tall, thin man with burning eyes and a beginning as obscure as the next horizon in the gray light before the dawn, he is the most feared terrorist we have ever known. His name, even though most of the world presumes him dead, still sends a clear message to the people he led to destruction. His message is one of hate and anger, ofbigotry and wounded pride, and to continue to let this message spread is a sin so great that not one religion anywhere should pass it off as otherwise.

His name is Osama bin Laden, and this book is about him, about his message and about his evil deeds against the people whom he has shamelessly subverted to his cause, a cause that he believes is true, and just and good, while the rest of the world looks on in shock and terror. This book allows the reader to truly view his hatred for all of mankind; like Hitler before him, he abhors all that is different from him, from what he believes to be good and true.

His hypnotic voice and smooth, flowing words entranced thousands of men to his cause, and if he is not stopped, if his message is not erased, more innocents will die, and more people will be enslaved to a cause that never should have been.

To state that this book is fact-based fiction is possibly a contradiction in terms, but the reality is that truth is stranger than fiction, and when you wind the two of them together with characters and issues; when you throw in the black secrets of the Saudi Government, and the Iraqi’s with their master butcher and ‘Yankee’ hater himself, Saddam Hussein, you end up with a blockbuster filled with hate, sorrow, sadness and, for some, entirely too much reality.

The dawn rose ponderously over the scarred hills of a town that seemed too battle-weary to do anything other than blink at the rising sun. But there was a shadow falling over the town, a darkness that was blacker than the night that the sunlight was chasing away. The blackness was thick and cold, but it was not something that one could see, as one can spot the shadows that a building thunderstorm brings. This darkness was deeper than that; it went beyond the senses of sight, scent and sound, or touch and taste. Even the houses seemed to shiver at this imperceptible chill, despite the incredible heat that already burned away at the thick mist of an Afghanistan summer’s night.

There was a man coming here, a man who would make the onslaughts of the Russian army look like boys playing at toy soldiers. As he drew closer, the inhabitants of this tortured town would cringe and shy away at shadows without knowing from what it was they shied.

That encroaching darkness lay within the soul of the man who rode calmly on his white stallion, completely belying the initial thoughts of saviors and heroes that the combination of a tall man on such a pure steed might bring to mind.

It was that terrible gloom that cast such a pall on the sunlit streets, and caused such dread to spring forth in the hearts of the men and women who beheld him as they passed on their way to completing their daily tasks.

His dark, blazing eyes watched them with little or no expression within their intelligent depths, and then he turned back to one of his team with a muttered order to increase their pace.

A peasant man scurried out of the brush across the path before the convoy of men, causing the lead white stallion to rear and whinny in alarm. The man astride the horse flicked his eyes disdainfully over the cowering man, and there was silence on the path for a moment.

A sword flashed in the sunlight as it wove its terrifying dance through the air, and the earth received what it had given forth thirty years before as Ahmad Abdul Hafeez tumbled in death to the ground, his tired eyes shining with a terrible, eternal fear.

He had seen the face of death in a man, and had not escaped.

Osama bin Laden intoned a prayer to Allah, wiped the blade on the dead man’s body, turned calmly and led his band towards the little border town of Khojak without ever looking back.

Chapter 1

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

The world should remember the day that true terror began to establish its hold on the world, but sadly did not. Nor the people paid to do so.

That day began in the manner of most Afghani summer days—the heat seemed to come from everywhere as soon as the sun crested the horizon. By noon, the temperature exceeded one hundred degrees in the shade, and it was the shade that the waiting men clung to as they watched the eastern pass through sun-blinded eyes.

It is the rich one, Omar growled laconically as he gestured towards the group of Arabs galloping up the stone strewn pass from the east that led into the city. On the lead white horse, there rode a tall man with a beard that flowed as liquidly as his robes in the wind and dust. Two bandoleers criss-crossed his chest and an AK 47 hung loosely at his left side. He led about twenty men, all fully armed, some with rocket launchers, and others with heavy machine guns and pistols. Several miles behind came a caravan of mules and camels loaded with ammunition, supplies, water and mortars.

Omar Al Farouq, his black turban with its silver markings showing his sign of office as a Taliban leader and head of the town of Khojak, sharply bade everyone to stay where they were.

With a groan, he hefted his overweight frame out of the seat he had occupied since dawn, awaiting the arrival of’the tall one’. The government of Kabul had instructed him to offer anything the man required. Though, what was here to offer in this blasted shell of a town, Omar didn’t know. But orders were orders, after all, and the man had come to Khojak seeking something.

Omar crossed the Town Square; the heat bore down on him as he passed the ruins of the fountain blown up by Russian helicopters just days before. Sweat trickled down his fleshy back, and he suddenly wished that he were anywhere but here in this dung-heap of a Pakistani border town, awaiting this man. Without knowing why, he stopped a safe distance away from the newly arrived band and their fearsome leader, his hands extended palms up in greeting.

You are Omar? He offered no return greeting, no pleasantries. His voice was soft and cold, making even that simple question seem like a death threat. His sinister, smoldering black eyes gazed down at the city leader with no hint of emotion at all.

Omar shuddered as a cold wave ran up his back through the hot sweat, turning it into ice. But he recovered quickly, seeming to gather the confidence to speak from within the markings of leadership that he bore. Yes, I am Omar Al Farouq, lead Taliban minister for the southeast region. I have been instructed by Kabul to give you all you need. I understand you have fought and won great battles against our Russian invaders and we appreciate your help in Allah’s great name…Osama bin Laden. Omar smiled through crooked teeth, but received no response from the tall one, who simply nodded and looked around him at the bombed-out shell of the town.

We will take that compound over there. bin Laden pointed to a relatively unscathed area across the square that had tents set up in the walled compound and windows still intact in the three-story building it was attached to.

But…I… Omar began to protest, but bin Laden flicked his dead eyes contemptuously over his squat, fat form, and he clamped his lips shut over the babbling apologies that threatened to spill forth. Not a problem, it is just a visiting family and their servants, here to escape the destruction of Kabul. I shall instruct them to pack their tents and move to another area.

The tents stay. Have food and water brought for my men now. We shall need further supplies once our caravan arrives. See to it!

The tall one turned away and handed the reigns to his horse over to one of his men. With his turban on, bin Laden stood a full foot taller than any Afghani Omar had ever seen, but his men were recruited from, he had been informed, mainly Saudi Arabia, and were of normal height and size.

Omar quickly waddled off to give his council orders for the food and movement of the servants and family from the compound.

Dusk descended as bin Laden’s caravan arrived and was attended to, then settled into the tents left behind.

Omar had invited bin Laden to his house for the evening and had been very surprised to find him warm to the idea. As the evening wore on and the supplies of olives, dates, sweetmeats, tea and coffee flowed, so did his conversation.

The man loved to talk; he loved the sound of his own voice and glared at any interruption. Fortunately, there were few.

Osama bin Laden captivated his audiences. It was a captivation that gleaned its power mostly from the fear of the man who possessed it, but bin Laden’s audiences were often also caught because of his habit to speak quietly and slowly, using his hands in an almost hypnotic way. His enthusiasm was shown in the use of his hands and the penetrating stare of his dark eyes.

This is a Holy Land with a history and a stark beauty, he enthused that night in Omar’s house. "A land of a quarter of a million square miles, bisected by the magnificent and rugged Hindu Kush Mountains. A land where history lies in every crevice. Conquered by Alexander the Great, taken by our great Arab culture of Islam four hundred years later, only to be stolen from us by Ghengis Khan to establish his Mongol Empire into India and beyond. This is where, one day, my empire will begin spreading the word of Islam from the direct doctrine of Mohammed. I, Osama bin Laden shall be his voice against the infidels. We shall launch a Jihad the size and fury of which the world has never witnessed." He paused and the room was enveloped in silence. Insects made their calls into the night, and camels moaned and muttered in their pens, but none of the men made any move to fill the silence in the crumbling stone house. It would possibly cost them their lives if they did. Even Omar, as stupid as he was, knew that, and filled his mouth with food instead of words.

His spiritual advisor and personal physician, Ayman Al-Zawarhi, nodded and smiled at everyone in the room, as if praising them for their decision. The little Egyptian, totally loyal to bin Laden AND his money, watched for any signs of disagreement in the room along with his compatriot, Saif Al-Adel, bin Laden’s closest security advisor.

The dark one ate and drank quietly for a while, then continued. The decadent infidels will pay for their non-religions. They will pay for defacing the name of Allah, and all that is good. First, we shall destroy the Russian invaders, and then we shall turn our attention to the great Satan, America, and its ally, the British. When the Russian stranglehold on this continent falls, as surely it will, led by the non-believers as it is, we shall acquire weapons of such power that all will succumb to the will of Allah. Silence fell again in the dilapidated little room, and bin Laden smiled. It was a proud little smile, the smile of a man who knew he had great power, and used it in any way he wished. The silence was as enthralling to him as his words were to his men—that enraptured quiet meant that he controlled them, and if there was something better in this world than control, Osama bin Laden had yet to find it.

He had totally captivated his audience; this skinny twenty two-year-old rich boy with the quiet, almost shy bravado had knowledge beyond his years. The boy had training, and fervor for power that far superseded anything his egregious father could imagine. Bin Laden had stood out, but in a family of fifty siblings, even his impressive height and keen intelligence rarely caught his father’s eye. The rumors of his own mother being an American, non-believing whore had hurt bin Laden and affected him mentally. The thought of an impurity in his blood drove him to distraction at times. The truth of his roots is still unknown to anyone, except, of course, his father and his nanny, but she died under strange circumstances about the time his physical difference from normal Arabs and his siblings began to show.

He clenched his hands briefly as those terrible thoughts filled his head with their endless, hateful whispers once again, muttering desperate pleas to Allah for some distraction. His men saw their leader’s lips moving, and drew back from the inaudible murmured words as if bin Laden was a witch delivering a horrible curse.

The distraction came seconds after, and the tense atmosphere seemed to melt away with Omar’s simple words. Osama’s eyes flicked over the obese little man’s form, and for the first time since the two had met, there was emotion within them—relief?

Unaware of the tension that infiltrated the room, Omar didn’t wait for approval from Osama, but spoke his shallow thoughts with the ease that the previous conversation had afforded him. "You say you are declaring a Jihad against our present allies? Did the American Secret Police not train you? Do they not help us in our fight?"

Bin Laden’s eyes met Omar’s for just a moment as he tilted his chin down and peered at Omar as if over a pair of spectacles. His dark eyes flashed for a moment and then his smile reappeared. My good, but poorly misguided friend… He nodded, eyes now downcast, staring at the intricate woven patterns in the rugs beneath his feet. "It was the American Central Intelligence Agency, and the training was in matters of security…Yes, they appear to be our friends now with their dollars and fine weaponry, but listen, my friend. When we have defeated the Russians, the true enemy of the Americans, we shall be dropped like so many lumps of camel shit! We are your only true friends, the Maktab al-Khidimat, my coalition of fighters from all over the true Arab world. We are from Egypt and Turkey. We are Lebanese and Palestinian. We are the MAK; we number more than 3,000 and we join you, our Afghan Muslim brothers, in your struggle against an ideology that spurns religion of all kinds. From there, we shall see what we shall see. Buccra buccra fi mish mish."

With that, he stood up and waved for everyone to leave.

Osama bin Laden and his MAK fighters were indeed a fearsome group, and with American technology and intelligence, were forces to be reckoned with. He had the mind of a brilliant planner and strategist, and by using American intelligence, he was about to strike a major blow to the Russian occupying forces in Qandahar. It was Russia’s deepest incursion by land into Afghanistan, and their base was being supplied by air and land via Kabul. Qandahar was an essential base for the Russians if they were to defeat the Afghanis for good. The Russians’ mission became more difficult with each day that passed, since their foe was gaining more support from the Arab world, as well as the Americans, every day.

Major Solyin had ordered the city captured and had begun to supply and build the largest Russian base so far in this war-torn county. Remind me, comrade. Why are we here? He asked wearily of the man standing nearby him. His eyes no longer saw the tattered countryside that surrounded his base, or even the primitive barracks which housed his men and stood out like ugly scars on a landscape whose face had once been sparsely beautiful. He longed for the pristine chill of his mother country—even the bread lines, and the tired, worn faces of starving people would be more welcome to him than this dry, alien world.

I am just a lowly Captain, Major, replied Ostashevski, in the fatuous way of a lower-ranked soldier. Maybe we should ask Putin, our political officer?

That lowly piece of ass-licking camel shit wouldn’t know to answer if it was day or night without first talking to Moscow! They both laughed heartily and drew heavily on the overfilled glass coffee cups filled with Vodka. The two men were the most experienced battle-weary officers Russia had in Afghanistan and this was to be their last serious push. Moscow and Russia grew weary of a war they had started with little to gain and so much to lose. The border incursions into Turkestan were mere flea bites on a wolfhound’s back, but the numbers of flare-ups in various states were beginning to show a lack of resolve in the men who invaded little by little.

Moscow had decided, in all its wisdom, to attack and destroy a neighboring country it had declared a terrorist state. The idea had backfired hugely; first Pakistan had used its resources to back the Afghanis. Then the Americans, seeing a base they could use to flex their muscles and show India, Iran, and the Middle East as a whole, what powerful weapons they had, stepped up to the plate. Even Russia’s legendary dragon of the skies, the all-powerful HIND helicopter, was no match for such a huge conglomeration of enemies.

The once-total air superiority that the Russians had enjoyed with the mighty HIND helicopters was wearing away with every day that passed. The huge helicopter with its incredible blade span, 50, 60 and 70 Caliber guns, rocket launchers and armored cockpit, had won more battles and killed more Afghanis than all the Russian ground troops combined, but now, their reign in the sky was coming to an end.

Major Solyin had based his entire strategy on this craft being able to protect them, as the base was supplied by huge Antonov freighter planes loaded with tanks and land equipment that could be used in the flatter lands south of Kabul. His reasoning had been that if they could take the southern third of Afghanistan over to the Pakistan border near Quetta, their main supply route, they would stop the interference from the Americans and win the war for this barren wreck of a country. Leaning back on his heels and wiping his face clean of the sweat and dirt which smeared it, he sighed. Well Ollie, once the runways are finished, we will have two divisions of tanks here and we shall sweep across this God-forsaken country like the Germans in their Blitzkrieg. Nothing will stand in our way.

Except winter, the Kapitan replied morosely.

Ollie, Ollie. Do I look like a fool? Refill this glass and we will drink to history and what we have learned. The Major stood to his impressive height of six feet six inches and stuck out his barrel chest. He was a giant of a man in every way, including ego, but his bravery was never in doubt. He clinked glasses with Captain Ollie Ostashevski, his trusted second in command for the three years they had spent there in Afghanistan, and continued. Hitler was a brilliant strategist, a brilliant planner, but he was too vain, too confident. He paused to wet his throat with a hefty sip of his vodka, and then continued with the same fervor of before.

"There must be confidence in everything one attempts in order for it to succeed, but Hitler took this doctrine to extremes. He was too vain; his arrogance stopped him from pursuing the beaten British across those few miles of water and finishing the war completely. Without the British land, the Americans would not, could not, have entered the war. But instead of finishing what he had set out to do, for some reason, Hitler turned to the east and came after us, against the signed treaty—and he would have won, had he not listened to his Generals. He delayed his attack for thirty-six critical days. Thirty-six days that cost him the war and his life. We had no chance to beat the Germans ourselves, unless you count old man winter as our main defense division. Hitler was rolling across the Motherland as if he were on a Sunday stroll, but winter came early and cruelly. Now, without his delay, this fact would have made no difference. Winter would have come to