Read Online Strike Force Delta by Mack Maloney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mack Maloney
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close associate of the Diamond Prince, and an experienced jihadist. Osama bin Laden himself had approved Faheeb for the prison job.
Born poor in Saudi Arabia and just 30 years old, Faheeb was one of Al Qaedaâs top operatives in West Africa. No surprise, he was a ruthless, sadistic individual, someone who had directed suicide bombings in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and post-Saddam Iraq and had gleefully blown up women and children on his own, all in the name of Allah, of course. Faheeb was also an expert at security, with an eye to perception. He knew that this prison ran as much on its reputation for being impregnable as it did on its 12-foot-thick walls. Impossible to break into. Impossible to break out of. Impossible to bomb. It was his job to maintain that reputation.
Trouble was, Faheeb hated the smell of gasoline. Heâd grown up near the great refining fields in northeast Saudi Arabia, and when he was a child his nose was always filled with the stink of gas. That was one reason he liked it here in Africa. All he could smell here was the jungle and the fish and the sea.
Except every other day when the fuel truck rumbled up to the prisonâs front gate and he had to supervise its scheduled delivery of a couple hundred gallons of gas.
And today was a delivery day.
Faheeb had awoken late this morning, hungover after drinking too much elephant wine the night before. As he stumbled out of his quarters into the bright hot African sun, he imagined he could already smell the odor of gasoline even though the truck was probably still down on the docks getting filled for the trip up to the prison.
He made his way down to the guardsâ meal hall, where a huge kettle of tea was steaming away as usual. There was no food available yet; the food deliverywould be concurrent with the fuelâs arrival. But Faheeb wasnât hungry anyway, not yet. What he headed for was the hookah pipe that sat next to the teakettle and, like it, was always smoking away.
There was a mixture of tobacco and hashish in its bowl and Faheeb took two deep gulps, enough to chase his hangover away. Feeling better, he stepped over two guards who were lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, praying in the general direction of Mecca, and headed downstairs.
He found his way to the bottom level of the five-story prison, soon arriving at his master sergeantâs post. The man jumped to his feet and greeted Faheeb with a deep bow. Faheeb replied with a hard slap to the manâs face. This was his way of asking the sergeant a question: How are our guests? The Delta soldiers? Are they still alive?
The sergeant covered his head and began yipping. â
Yes! Yes!
â They had survived the night, despite the repeated torture sessions.
âAnd everything is on videotape?â Faheeb bellowed.
âRecorded in color,â the sergeant replied in Arabic.
Faheeb slapped him again, but this time less hard, almost affectionately.
âGood dog,â Faheeb told him. âYou get to eat and sleep and breathe, for at least one more day.â
Faheeb started off again for the front entrance, and this time his nostrils did detect the faint stink of gasoline.
The fuel truck was near.
The front of the prison was just 20 feet from the edge of the town. The local Africans were wise enough to stay clear of the area at this time, on this dayâeveryone knew when the gasoline truck made its delivery. Theprisonâs guards were known to drink heavily while on duty. They also had itchy trigger fingers. The tension that could arise when the fuel truck arrived made these two things a bad combination. So every other day when the gas truck arrived from the docks a half-mile away, the streets were usually empty.
It got a bit tricky security-wise on delivery day. This was really the only instance when outsiders were allowed into the otherwise impregnable fortress; thatâs why Faheeb always had two daysâ worth of food delivered at the same
Born poor in Saudi Arabia and just 30 years old, Faheeb was one of Al Qaedaâs top operatives in West Africa. No surprise, he was a ruthless, sadistic individual, someone who had directed suicide bombings in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and post-Saddam Iraq and had gleefully blown up women and children on his own, all in the name of Allah, of course. Faheeb was also an expert at security, with an eye to perception. He knew that this prison ran as much on its reputation for being impregnable as it did on its 12-foot-thick walls. Impossible to break into. Impossible to break out of. Impossible to bomb. It was his job to maintain that reputation.
Trouble was, Faheeb hated the smell of gasoline. Heâd grown up near the great refining fields in northeast Saudi Arabia, and when he was a child his nose was always filled with the stink of gas. That was one reason he liked it here in Africa. All he could smell here was the jungle and the fish and the sea.
Except every other day when the fuel truck rumbled up to the prisonâs front gate and he had to supervise its scheduled delivery of a couple hundred gallons of gas.
And today was a delivery day.
Faheeb had awoken late this morning, hungover after drinking too much elephant wine the night before. As he stumbled out of his quarters into the bright hot African sun, he imagined he could already smell the odor of gasoline even though the truck was probably still down on the docks getting filled for the trip up to the prison.
He made his way down to the guardsâ meal hall, where a huge kettle of tea was steaming away as usual. There was no food available yet; the food deliverywould be concurrent with the fuelâs arrival. But Faheeb wasnât hungry anyway, not yet. What he headed for was the hookah pipe that sat next to the teakettle and, like it, was always smoking away.
There was a mixture of tobacco and hashish in its bowl and Faheeb took two deep gulps, enough to chase his hangover away. Feeling better, he stepped over two guards who were lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, praying in the general direction of Mecca, and headed downstairs.
He found his way to the bottom level of the five-story prison, soon arriving at his master sergeantâs post. The man jumped to his feet and greeted Faheeb with a deep bow. Faheeb replied with a hard slap to the manâs face. This was his way of asking the sergeant a question: How are our guests? The Delta soldiers? Are they still alive?
The sergeant covered his head and began yipping. â
Yes! Yes!
â They had survived the night, despite the repeated torture sessions.
âAnd everything is on videotape?â Faheeb bellowed.
âRecorded in color,â the sergeant replied in Arabic.
Faheeb slapped him again, but this time less hard, almost affectionately.
âGood dog,â Faheeb told him. âYou get to eat and sleep and breathe, for at least one more day.â
Faheeb started off again for the front entrance, and this time his nostrils did detect the faint stink of gasoline.
The fuel truck was near.
The front of the prison was just 20 feet from the edge of the town. The local Africans were wise enough to stay clear of the area at this time, on this dayâeveryone knew when the gasoline truck made its delivery. Theprisonâs guards were known to drink heavily while on duty. They also had itchy trigger fingers. The tension that could arise when the fuel truck arrived made these two things a bad combination. So every other day when the gas truck arrived from the docks a half-mile away, the streets were usually empty.
It got a bit tricky security-wise on delivery day. This was really the only instance when outsiders were allowed into the otherwise impregnable fortress; thatâs why Faheeb always had two daysâ worth of food delivered at the same
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