Terror On Trial

By John Boyd

A SEAL team is ambushed deep in the mountains of Afghanistan trying to capture the terrorist known as ‘The Banker’.
The team members are thought dead, but LT CMDR Jose Carmona survives and is captured and placed in a cave to be held and interrogated.
Carmona is imprisoned with two others and leads them to freedom through a daring escape.
The United States President decides to begin closing Guantanamo Prison and start holding Terror Trials on U.S. soil. The U.S. citizenry and some members of the President’s cabinet are against the trials.
Many take measures in their own hands to stop them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329490154

Book preview

Terror On Trial

Terror on Trial

By

John R. Boyd

Four Pawns Publishing, Inc.

901 N. Gadsden St.

Tallahassee, Fl. 32303

www.fourpawnspublishing.com

© 2014, Four Pawns Publishing, All Rights Reserved

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To George  Modric my best friend, for taking time away from life to help mine.

To my team and friends, Robert Ray, Donna Carver, Bernard Daley, Audrey Graves, Lars Bjerga and, the continued effort you have put into my brand is amazing and humbling. Bonnie Hearn-Hill, for editing, advising and guiding this work, thank you, you’re a pro. Thanks for everything.

This book is dedicated to my wife Mariana, a cancer survivor, who never ceases to amaze and encourage me.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

PROLOGUE

Present Day

The mission go-ahead had already been given eighteen hours earlier. Lieutenant Commander Jose Carmona and his SEAL Team had been briefed by Harrison Hayes, a CIA Case Officer, and his boss Bill Nelson, Chief of Station, Islamabad Pakistan. The briefing had taken place on a U.S. Carrier off the Indian Coast in the Arabian Sea.

Lieutenant Commander Carmona and three other SEAL members began moving into position on a rough, craggy hillside near Jalalabad, Afghanistan. As they looked down into a valley, their target location, Derunta Camp, came into view.

Years earlier, the camp had been frequented by Osama bin Laden. Recently it had been hit by Predator Drones and other weaponry. The last time it was hit by the Americans or its allies was a little more than thirteen months ago. The NSA, the Drones, and the Pashtun tribal spies had kept watchful eyes on the camp since. Recent intelligence obtained by the CIA indicated that the Palestinian-born son of Abdullah Azzam, Mohammed Azzam, would soon show up here. Azzam, who’d headed al Qaeda’s precursor group until 1989, had arranged a meeting scheduled to take place in less than an hour. Besides Azzam, the rendezvous included a Taliban leader, and a high ranking al Qaeda member. What made Azzam so special was that he was known as the Banker, the man who coordinated all of the funding for al Qaeda’s worldwide terrorist network.

Hard intelligence, gained through interrogation of a number of detainees currently residing at Guantanamo, had finally given the CIA the Banker’s identity. Other than bin Laden’s whereabouts, it had been the most sought-after piece of intelligence obtained by the CIA since the war on terrorism had started. Now that it had been revealed, and Azzam’s location was finally tracked down, it was a seventh-floor decision from Langley to capture the Banker instead of sending cruise missiles into the camp in an effort to score a lucky hit.

Looking through NVGs from the rocky hillside toward their camp, Lieutenant Commander Jose Carmona studied the layout, comparing the situation with the intelligence supplied to him and his team earlier.

It was a fairly typical al Qaeda setup, a rough location with simply constructed buildings that were tough to approach unseen. The good news was they had decided not to assault the camp. Instead they’d wait and intercept the target after he left his meeting.

Carmona and his team continued to work their way down toward the dirt road, past the first bend, always out of the view of the camp. The plan was to take the Banker’s vehicle out of play by separating it from the caravan of the others.

They had been informed by the CIA that a GPS device would be placed on the Banker’s vehicle while he met with the others in the camp. That device had been given to a Pashtun tribal spy who had infiltrated the ranks of the Taliban. The spy would be one of the men providing security for the meeting.

The satellite device in his hand vibrated. Carmona looked at it and saw the text message.

Showtime, he said into the mic. This was to alert the rest of the team to spread out near the roadside.

Along with his men, he watched three well-worn vehicles pass their position. At this time, the SEAL Team was about a half mile away. As soon as they entered the camp, two of his team members continued moving down to the dirt road and went to work. He remained approximately forty yards up on the hillside facing the camp, and he kept searching for any unsuspected movement. Others concentrated on the dirt road just in case.

The two SEALs at road level quickly set their packs down and removed the small shovels and explosive devices. Each man planted a device in the center of the dirt road. It took them four minutes to accomplish this, and then find suitable places to hide.

Jose Carmona continued to replay in his mind every possible option that could happen on this operation. This mission termed as a snatch and grab wasn’t unusual for his team. He’d successfully completed three such operations in the last year alone. What was unusual was the complete lack of planning and training for the mission. He’d been given very little time. His satellite device vibrated again, and he saw the flashing blip of a GPS signal on the screen. He had hoped for air surveillance, but a winter storm had moved in quickly, so he knew that satellite or drone support wouldn’t be available. They depended on the GPS signal to activate on Azzam’s vehicle.

Waiting, he calmed his anxiety by thinking of what had gone right so far. Their 50-mile chopper ride from Bagram had gone smoothly. They had to travel a mere five miles on foot to their current location. Before the chopper ride, his team had flown eleven hundred miles from the carrier over Pakistan into Northern Afghanistan without incident.

If things were to proceed as planned, they’d reverse the trip with the captured Palestinian in tow. The only difference would be the direct pick-up by chopper. They’d found an extraction point less than a click away from their current location and had placed a GPS marker for both them and the chopper crew.

The rest of the team had satellite hand-helds to allow communications and GPS tracking, and they had all signaled earlier that they were in place and ready. The only problem with the waiting part was the rapidly dropping temperature. They had donned arctic gear to be on the safe side. Lying still with a minimum of movement caused the joints to stiffen. At age thirty-five, Lieutenant Commander Jose Carmona felt the wear and tear on his body from all the years of hard training and completing countless missions.

He continued to lie in position, using night-vision binoculars to watch the camp and to scan the adjacent area for anomalies. He and his team had been together for a long time. This most likely would be his last mission in the field. He’d been tapped for a promotion and was offered a position in Naval Intelligence. It meant joining a new group tasked to better utilize U.S. Navy assets in fighting global terrorism.

Nicknamed Einstein because he always had his nose in a book, he’d finished first in his class at Annapolis. He also was known for his photographic memory. But there was no mistaking his prowess as a SEAL. At six-foot two inches, two hundred twenty-five pounds, and nine percent body fat, he was admired by all his subordinates. He always carried his load, and never shied away from the use of force when necessary.

We’ve got movement, he said into the mic.

Got `em,’ responded one of his men hidden along the side of the road.

Our boy’s vehicle is in the rear, reported his other man along the dirt trail.

By the book, Jose demanded.

That meant just as planned. With Mohammed Azzam traveling last in the caravan, they would allow the two leading vehicles to pass the first planted charge. By remote they’d detonate the forward charges to cut off Azzam’s vehicle from the others. The place they had chosen for the ambush was perfect. The dirt road had narrowed to about fifteen feet wide. Once they arrived, it was clear that the dirt road actually was a creek bed at the base of two small hillsides. It weaved and wound its way naturally along the converging hill’s bases. Once the vehicles were in the narrow area, they’d be trapped.

The charges set were killing charges. The team wanted no one able to assist Azzam. Once his vehicle passed the last charge, they’d blow that one as well to close the trap.

Carmona continued to watch the approaching vehicles and switched to the scope of his sniper rifle as they continued toward their position.

At fifty yards away from the first planted charge, all three vehicles skidded to a complete stop. Carmona instinctively knew that their operation had been compromised. His words of warning were caught in his throat as he felt his body being slammed by a tremendous force. His world began to go black as he tumbled down the hillside.

Sniper bullets found the three remaining SEALs, killing each of them instantly. The last thing that Jose Carmona heard was a muffled explosion in the distance.

CIA mercenary Mack Long acknowledged on his secured radio that the team had been taken out. In his earpiece, his man told him the chopper had been destroyed, but the sound of the explosion had already confirmed it.

Mack backed away from his hiding place. His job was done. Damn, it’s cold, he thought as he moved toward his planned rendezvous spot. As he began to pick up the pace, he was glad the vehicle had a heater.

Once inside, his man put the vehicle in drive and placed the secure satellite phone to his ear. It’s done, he said. Then he disconnected the call.

The man driving turned to him. Damn nasty business, Macky Boy.

Long looked over at his friend who was an ex-SAS Sergeant.

Yeah, those were SEALs, and the reason they’re dead is way over our pay grade. You’re right, it’s a nasty business, but at least, it pays well. Let’s get our asses somewhere warm for a while until things blows over.

I’m with you, Macky, his pal said. Somewhere warm sounds good to me. The snows are about to hit here.

ONE

September 27, 2001

The vacation was coming to an end. Malik Al Sawani, nicknamed Danny, hadn’t been looking forward to using his time off to visit his extended family. But after graduating from Belleview High School in Newark, New Jersey, he’d begun a journey at his father’s insistence to Islamabad, Pakistan. There he’d spend time with relatives, and he’d have a chance to see more of the world, as his father had put it. He’d been here once with his parents when he was three years old, so he really had no memory of that trip.

His mother and father had immigrated to the United States a year before Danny’s birth, and they basically had lived the American Dream. So much so, thought Danny, that they’d picked him to suffer the trip.

His father owned a successful import/export business that catered to thousands of immigrants flooding to the U.S. every year. Relatives back home had shipped goods to help them settle in their new world. His parents had made sure to send some of their hard-earned money back to help the ones left behind.

At first, Danny had refused to go. He would have to leave his friends and the comforts of living in the United States. As usual, his father won out in the end. Now, he had mixed reservations. His regret turned to anticipation. After all, he’d be meeting two of his cousins and others in his extended family.

After flying from New York to London, then on to Islamabad, he was met by his uncle and two cousins at the airport. From there, they traveled west by truck though Margalla to Peshawar, Pakistan. The almost one hundred mile trip through the roughest terrain Danny had ever seen took eight hours to accomplish.

His uncle was five years younger than his father, but he looked at least ten years older. Even though he had a thriving carpet business, Danny could tell that his life was hard. Danny and his family came from the Pashtun tribe, and having learned how to speak Pashtu at an early age helped Danny communicate with his Pakistani relatives. He also spoke Dari, Persian, and Arabic, so communication wouldn’t be a problem.

As his uncle drove, he sat between his two cousins. His uncle was cold at first but quickly warmed up after Danny spoke with him respectfully and joined the cousins in prayer on the side of the road. He knew from his father that his uncle was a devout follower of Islam and a practicing Muslim. Danny himself was a Muslim, but far from devout. This was one of the things that troubled his father. His mother had told him that his father hoped this trip would help him embrace his roots and religion. Danny had told her he had an open mind, unlike his father, and that most of his friends weren’t religious.

His two cousins spent the whole truck ride asking questions about America. Once he was settled in at his uncle’s house in the heart of Pashawan, it hadn’t taken him long to make friends. His two cousins were about the same age as he was, and they involved him in their routine. Besides working in their father’s store, selling handmade Afghan and Pakistani rugs, they attended school at a Madrassa located in a historic downtown Mosque in Peshawar.

After class, Danny would join his cousins and others in the Madrassa’s courtyard. There they discussed the world. Of course many were interested in his American point of view. Most of the other teenagers had never traveled more than the one-hundred miles to Islamabad. What they knew of America they’d gotten by watching television. Danny learned that during the Afghanistan war against the Soviets, Peshawar, the provincial capital, had been headquarters for the Afghan Rebels. He learned that being of the Pashtun tribe, his family had many close ties to the Afghanis.

While spending his vacation in Peshawar, he bought many trinkets to take home for his family and friends. He had purchased a DVD that showed a suicide bomber going through the preparations to kill himself and anyone near him. It shocked Danny, but his cousins said it was not uncommon for such DVDs to be found in the small shops near their school. Danny decided he’d take it back to show his friends how many crazies were over here. Maybe his father could see what religious fanatics were capable of. He also had taken hundreds of photos during his trip. Some of the most spectacular were taken from the top of Khyber Pass when they traveled from Peshawar to Kabul, Afghanistan. The pass was well known over the centuries to travelers, especially the very area where armies of Alexander the Great had passed through in 320 B.C. Its narrowest point he’d learned, rose to elevations in excess of thirty-five hundred feet.

As they crossed the thirty-mile stretch, his uncle told him that their ancestors were the Afridi, a Pashtun tribe that once had surrounded the pass. Danny couldn’t see how any species other than goats could live in this rough terrain. In Kabul they had spent the last week in his uncle’s bazaar selling carpets.

About this