Terminal Guidance. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
subdued manner, his educated personality and his gentle coaxing were powerful weapons at his disposal.
When he employed them all on Anwar Fazeel, he hooked the young man quickly. He began to see him one-on-one, choosing quiet cafés where they could sit and talk for long periods. Later, as Fazeel allowed himself to be seduced by radical thinking, Qazi introduced him to other individuals who, working to plan, made Fazeel believe he was special. That his way forward was with the group. With Rahman, who wanted to steer Pakistan onto a better path, away from the influence of those who were allowing the country to become little more than an American pawn.
An arranged meeting where Fazeel was brought face-to-face, via video link, with Colonel Rahman himself was the final push that propelled the young man to the forefront of the upcoming campaign. The encounter took place in the home of a close friend of the colonel. Once the connection was made, Rahman and Fazeel were left alone. Slightly overawed by being in the great one’s presence, albeit via satellite, Fazeel felt awkward as he sat in his chair. Rahman, noticing his nervousness, spoke to him with encouragement.
“Anwar Fazeel, this is a great day for me. I am honored to be meeting you, a young man who will be instrumental in orchestrating the great crusade against our enemies. Without your skill and knowledge our plan would not come together, but with your help we will achieve our victory.”
Fazeel stared into the benevolent face of the man he worshipped.
Jabir Rahman.
The leader of the cause.
“No, sir, it is I who consider myself honored. Through you I will be able to contribute my part. Whatever you need from me, just ask.”
“Soon you will start on a journey that will bring you to Pakistan,” Rahman replied. “Have you ever been here?”
“Once, to visit with my father’s family.”
“Then you have stepped on our soil and breathed in the air of our spiritual home. This time, Anwar Fazeel, you will go on a special journey. You must prepare yourself for this. Pray for guidance. For strength. There may be a need for sacrifice. You will have to sever all contact with your family, here and there. Can you do that?”
“My relatives have given themselves over to the non-believers. They have abandoned Islam for the ways of the West, so are no longer my family.”
“Good,” Rahman said. “Now, listen to me, Anwar. Tomorrow is the start of the weekend. Qazi will take you to see what you will be working with. You must familiarize yourself with all the data. Learn everything about it. But there must be no talking about it outside of the group. You understand?”
“Of course, sir.”
“If anything leaks out, then our plan will be compromised. I cannot stress how important it is that nothing—nothing—gets out.”
“When will I leave for Pakistan?”
“Very soon—a pleasant flight that will allow you study time. When you arrive, I want you to fully understand the equipment, so that when we deploy there will be no hesitation.”
“It will be done, sir.”
“Qazi chose well. You are to be an important part of our plan. I have every faith in you, Anwar Fazeel. We may not see each other again until you reach Pakistan. Until then, may Allah smile upon you.”
When the conversation ended, Fazeel was joined by Qazi again.
“He is well pleased with you.” Qazi handed over a folded paper. “Can you be here at eight in the morning?”
“Of course.”
“Tell no one where you are going. No one.”
QAZI PICKED FAZEEL UP at the rendezvous spot, then pulled the silver SUV into the traffic and drove on. Fazeel knew nothing about this part of the city, but Qazi negotiated the streets with ease. Eventually they arrived at an area sign-posted Tilbury, which Fazeel vaguely knew was a seaport and container base. He spotted cranes and warehouses edging the river, truck depots and sprawling storage yards.
Qazi eventually stopped at a pair of manned gates, leaning out to speak to a security guard and show him a pass. The gates opened and Qazi drove to the dock, which had a number of seagoing freighters moored alongside. Being a weekend, there were few people about.
Again Qazi seemed to know exactly where he was going. He rolled along the line of warehouses and stopped outside one that bore the name Saeeda Hussein Import-Export.
The warehouse was large. The main doors were closed, but Qazi took Fazeel to a side door, tapped in a code at the small panel and led him inside. The interior was full of crates, and racks holding smaller items. Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as they approached a row of offices along the far wall.
“Good to see you, brothers,” Qazi said to the two men occupying the first office.
They returned the greeting, then turned their attention to Fazeel. “Is this the one chosen?”
“Indeed. This is Anwar Fazeel. Anwar, this is Ahmad and Shiran. They will guard and protect you. When you leave for Pakistan, they will go with you.”
Fazeel inclined his head. “I am happy to meet you, brothers.”
Ahmad laughed as he noticed the way Fazeel was looking around the office. “He is so eager to see his new toy. Come, Anwar, let us introduce you.”
He was ushered through a connecting door into a larger office, where only the soft hum of an air conditioner broke the silence. In the center of the floor stood a large piece of equipment partly covered by a dust sheet. When Shiran slid off the sheet, Fazeel’s electronic unit was revealed.
The other three stood back, smiling, as he examined it, first walking around it, then focusing his attention on the detail of the control console. He was familiar with the keyboards and monitors. Though some of the other components were new to him, his keen intellect absorbed the layout, quickly assimilating the schematics.
“Can you understand it all?” Qazi asked.
“I will learn. It will not be difficult.”
“I think he’s fallen in love,” Shiran said.
“Will it do what we require?” Qazi pressed.
“I would be able to give you a better answer if I knew exactly what it was for.”
“A mystery to be revealed,” Qazi said. “Come.”
They took him to the far end of the warehouse, where a plastic-sheeted section had been constructed. The closest panel was pulled aside and they all stepped through.
Fazeel got his first look at the Barracuda.
It had a sleek aerodynamic configuration. A slim fuselage, with a generous wingspan. The engine was mounted at the rear, encased in a smooth pod of metal. Fazeel noticed immediately there was no facility for a pilot. No cockpit. A number of antennae and probes extruded from the smooth, silver-gray finish. It stood on a fixed, slender undercarriage and wheels.
“A UAV,” Qazi explained. “An unmanned aerial vehicle. Also called drones.”
“A robotic aircraft,” Fazeel said. “They can be programmed via a control center.”
“Like the one you have just seen,” Ahmad said.
“And with this machine we will bring about the colonel’s plan?”
“I believe the colonel prefers to call it his operation,” Qazi said. “He is very precise about these things.”
“Where did you get this thing?” Fazeel asked.
“We acquired it,” Qazi said. “For now that is all you need to know. What you must do is study all the manuals that came with the machine. Learn to master the complexities of the control module, because, brother, one day you will sit at that console and make the drone do what we want.”