Nightcrawler
Member
Inauguration
"So when did you get your first real assignment?" Jeff asked me. We'd already been talking for three hours, and the sun was up.
"I'm kind of hungry," I said.
"I'll get something from the fridge. Keep talking," he said, and got up.
Our first assignment came in late September. Gordon called Tailor and I into the classroom that was set up in the villa used exclusively for such purposes. He had an overhead projector set up. Tailor and I sat down.
"Good morning," he said. "Ready for the big time, guys? This is it. Your first assignment should be an easy one, but it's still an important one. Up until nowl, Dead 6 has been doing reconnaissance only. That's about to change."
A picture appeared on the screen. It was of a middle-aged Arab man, with a bushy moustache and traditional head dress.
"This is Ali bin Ahmed Al-Falah. He's a Saudi national by birth, but has lived in Qatar since 1994. He's a wealthy, influential landowner, and has connections to the Qatari Royal Family. He's also a player."
The picture changed. It was now a younger Al-Falah, dressed in camouflage and holding an RPD machine gun.
"This is Al-Falah in 1982. At the age of twenty-six, he dropped out of a Saudi religious university to join the Jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan. He fought with the Mujahadeen for three years before being wounding and returning to Saudi Arabia. He now walks with a cane."
The picture changed again. This time Al-Falah was shaking hands with an all-too-familiar man, and smiling.
"We believe this picture was taken in 1997 or so. Yes, that is Osama Bin Laden. As I said, Al-Falah is a player. He's very wealthy, both from his father and from his dealings in the natrual gas industry. He's respected, considered pious, and has an enormous family. Though polygamy is rare in Qatar, he's got three wives and probably nine children. He lives in a large walled compound outside of Doha. Nice place; fountain, palm trees, you name it. He's got many servants and quite a few Indonesian slave girls as well."
Tailor and I were taking notes. Gordon told us that wasn't necessary, and handed each of us a fat manila envelope.
"Everything you need is in here," he said, and continued his briefing. "Al-Falah never does anything himself. He's always the behind the scenes man, the one pulling the strings and providing the funding. We believe his experience with being wounded in the 'Stan probably led to this attitude.
"At any rate, Al-Falah raises enormous amounts of cash for all of the terrorist groups. He has several influential charities in Qatar, Kuwait, and the UAE that are all fronts for donating money to organizations like Hamas and Al-Qaeda.
"Fortunately for us, this is one of the rare occasions where removing the man will remove the means. Al-Falah does what he does through force of personality. He's well liked and respected, as I've said. His family name is respected. He goes to Friday services at Mosque...well, religiously. He always fasts during Ramadan. People are happy to do business with him.
"Which is why we're required for this. The Qatari government flatly denies that this guy has any dealings with the bad guys. US intelligence knows better, but the political situation is tricky. Can't touch him through regular channels. This works to our advantage, though. We believe he's gotten complacent. Complacency kills.
"Your mission, gentlemen, is to eliminate Ali bin Ahmed Al-Falah. You can use any means you see fit, though use of third-party weapons is mandated. We don't want the bad guys to know what's going on quite yet. You are to keep collateral damage to an absolute minimum, lest the Qataris start getting too antsy. You can request any equipment you wish, but no extra personnel will be allotted to you. You have ten days to complete this assignment, starting right now. If you fail or are captured, you're on your own. Any questions?"
We didn't have any questions. Gordon dismissed us, and we headed back to my villa. Sitting on my couch, we laid out our packets on the small coffee table and discussed options over cold Dr. Peppers.
"How you wanna do this?" Tailor asked. "Hard to hit him at home. He's got plenty of security, and the cat hardly ever leaves his house. He even has his office at home."
"Yeah...two of us, probably more than a dozen guards, most ex-Saudi Special Forces. That won't work," I agreed.
"Wait..." Tailor said, thumbing through documents. "Look. Intel says that every Friday night, at nine, he goes to this...coffee house, tea house, whatever the hell it is."
"Hey...yeah...smokes his hooka, has his coffee and tea, and jawjacks with the good ol' boys. This might be the best time to do it."
"Intel says he takes two bodyguards with him."
"Yeah, but look...they sit at one of the outside tables. Not enough status or street cred or whatever to get in, I guess. The old velvet rope. That's rough."
"Yeah," Tailor laughed. "But it makes things easier. They'll be outside, he'll be inside. They can't be too heavily armed, either. Probably pistols, maybe a rifle in their car. They drive him in a...damn. You believe this? A school-bus-yellow Hummer H2."
"Heh...that's funny. So our boy rides the short bus, eh? That'll make his ride easy to spot."
"I dunno, man, I've seen a few of those things around here. Overpriced piece of crap."
"Well, it'll probably be the only one there. We can try to hit him on the way there or on the way back, but...his drivers probably vary their routes, and there's nothing near his compound for us to hide behind. We try to stake the place out, it'll be obvious. It's best to hit him while he's there."
"Agreed," Tailor said. "Gotta keep it clean, though."
"Yeah...hey, hand me that map," I said. "Look at this. Directly across the street is a halfway-built building. Construction stopped about three months ago for one reason or another. Six floors, walls in place, windows and such aren't. We could hop the fence, make our way up to the second floor, and use a rifle. Range is less than two hundred meters."
"You any good with a rifle?"
"I'm plenty good with a rifle. Need something third party, though. Wonder if the armory has an SVD in its inventory? I've got a little bit of trigger time with an Dragunov."
The next day, I went to the small armory in one of the villas. Apparently, Dead 6 had such armories and safehouses all over the city, but I didn't know much about them yet. The armorer was a moustachioed man named Frank.
"Hey Frank," I said. "I need an SVD. You got one?"
"Oh yeah. Check this out." He went to the back, and returned with not just an SVD, but a tricked out one.
"Little project I've been working on. Put on a longer synthetic buttstock, cleaned up the trigger a bit, and machined my own scope base. The optic is a Valdada two-point-five to ten power, and with my scope base it sits perfectly centered over the barrel. The stock is good for lefties and righties. Has the receiver-mounted bipod and everything."
"Sweet...can I borrow it? Need a spotting scope, too."
"Sure, kid. Let me get you some mags and some ammo. You just make sure you bring that one back, okay? You want a disposable one you let me get you a beat-up PSL, alright?"
"Don't worry, Frank, I'll bring it back to you."
And so, we got our gear together. Tailor, being my spotter and back-up shooter, drew a brand new Russian made 7.62x39 AK with a PSO 4x scope. We borrowed a white Toyota Landcruiser, a very versatile vehicle, and one so common in Qatar as to be ubiquitous.
It would've been hard to inconspicuously walk down the street with the rifles we'd be carrying, but the building from which I was going to take the shot had a narrow alley behind it. We'd park the Landcruiser there and hop the fence. Best of all, we could get out of there in a hurry, too. We'd need to; Frank didn't have a suppressor for the Dragunov. Within short order every cop in Doha would be all over that part of town, and we'd have to get out of there before they set up roadblocks and check points.
Friday night finally arrived. At 8:35PM, we parket the Landcruiser in the alley and climbed out. We had a duffel bag with all of our equipment in it; aside from that we were dressed in regular civvies. The usual 'I'm a westerner in the middle east' attire. Bluejeans, khakis, t-shirts.
We found a hole in the fence, and made our way into the building. Using a Mini-Maglite flashlight with an LED bulb, we navigated our way through the empty, unfinished building, and climbed two flights of stairs to the second floor. We were both nervous, and neither one of us said anything.
We found the perfect spot to take the shot from on the second floor. It looked like it was going to be an office or cubicle park or something. At any rate, it had those large windows that went all the way to the floor, but the glass wasn't installed yet. We set down the duffel bag and got set up.
I laid on the floor in the prone position, setting up the custom SVD on its bipod and shouldering it. Tailor, to my left and slightly further back from the window than I, laid in the prone also. He used the spotting scope to observe the front of the coffee house that our target frequented.
The place was small, but lushly decorated. The entire front wall was glass, and you could see the entire front half of the place, but...hell, I thought. He could disappear inside. I'd have to get him going in or coming out, and waiting until he came back out was too risky. Fortunately, the entry doors were faced my position exactly. It'd be an easy shot. The distance was only one hundred and five meters. The street was a narrow side street, not a main thoroughfare, so it wouldn't be a long shot.
We waited in silence. I watched through my rifle's optic, Tailor through the spotting scope. After a seemingly endless twenty two minute wait, a yellow Hummer H2 pulled up to the curb and parked. Two rough looking men with suit jackets and bushy moustaches got out. Each had what looked like an MP5K or somesuch subgun concealed beneath their suit jackets. One of them opened the door on the back right side. As I watched, I was so nervous that I was almost shaking.
Onto the street stepped a heavy-set Arab man in traditional white thobe and head dress. He slowly made his way towards the doors of the coffee house, walking with a cane.
"That's our boy," I said. "You confirm?"
"I confirm," Tailor said. I felt that familiar calm wash over me, and the shakes diappeared. With the scope set to six power, I watched Al-Falah turn right and walk towards the coffee house doors. I placed the illuminated crosshairs on the upper half of the back of his head, and held my breath.
TO BE CONTINUED
"So when did you get your first real assignment?" Jeff asked me. We'd already been talking for three hours, and the sun was up.
"I'm kind of hungry," I said.
"I'll get something from the fridge. Keep talking," he said, and got up.
Our first assignment came in late September. Gordon called Tailor and I into the classroom that was set up in the villa used exclusively for such purposes. He had an overhead projector set up. Tailor and I sat down.
"Good morning," he said. "Ready for the big time, guys? This is it. Your first assignment should be an easy one, but it's still an important one. Up until nowl, Dead 6 has been doing reconnaissance only. That's about to change."
A picture appeared on the screen. It was of a middle-aged Arab man, with a bushy moustache and traditional head dress.
"This is Ali bin Ahmed Al-Falah. He's a Saudi national by birth, but has lived in Qatar since 1994. He's a wealthy, influential landowner, and has connections to the Qatari Royal Family. He's also a player."
The picture changed. It was now a younger Al-Falah, dressed in camouflage and holding an RPD machine gun.
"This is Al-Falah in 1982. At the age of twenty-six, he dropped out of a Saudi religious university to join the Jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan. He fought with the Mujahadeen for three years before being wounding and returning to Saudi Arabia. He now walks with a cane."
The picture changed again. This time Al-Falah was shaking hands with an all-too-familiar man, and smiling.
"We believe this picture was taken in 1997 or so. Yes, that is Osama Bin Laden. As I said, Al-Falah is a player. He's very wealthy, both from his father and from his dealings in the natrual gas industry. He's respected, considered pious, and has an enormous family. Though polygamy is rare in Qatar, he's got three wives and probably nine children. He lives in a large walled compound outside of Doha. Nice place; fountain, palm trees, you name it. He's got many servants and quite a few Indonesian slave girls as well."
Tailor and I were taking notes. Gordon told us that wasn't necessary, and handed each of us a fat manila envelope.
"Everything you need is in here," he said, and continued his briefing. "Al-Falah never does anything himself. He's always the behind the scenes man, the one pulling the strings and providing the funding. We believe his experience with being wounded in the 'Stan probably led to this attitude.
"At any rate, Al-Falah raises enormous amounts of cash for all of the terrorist groups. He has several influential charities in Qatar, Kuwait, and the UAE that are all fronts for donating money to organizations like Hamas and Al-Qaeda.
"Fortunately for us, this is one of the rare occasions where removing the man will remove the means. Al-Falah does what he does through force of personality. He's well liked and respected, as I've said. His family name is respected. He goes to Friday services at Mosque...well, religiously. He always fasts during Ramadan. People are happy to do business with him.
"Which is why we're required for this. The Qatari government flatly denies that this guy has any dealings with the bad guys. US intelligence knows better, but the political situation is tricky. Can't touch him through regular channels. This works to our advantage, though. We believe he's gotten complacent. Complacency kills.
"Your mission, gentlemen, is to eliminate Ali bin Ahmed Al-Falah. You can use any means you see fit, though use of third-party weapons is mandated. We don't want the bad guys to know what's going on quite yet. You are to keep collateral damage to an absolute minimum, lest the Qataris start getting too antsy. You can request any equipment you wish, but no extra personnel will be allotted to you. You have ten days to complete this assignment, starting right now. If you fail or are captured, you're on your own. Any questions?"
We didn't have any questions. Gordon dismissed us, and we headed back to my villa. Sitting on my couch, we laid out our packets on the small coffee table and discussed options over cold Dr. Peppers.
"How you wanna do this?" Tailor asked. "Hard to hit him at home. He's got plenty of security, and the cat hardly ever leaves his house. He even has his office at home."
"Yeah...two of us, probably more than a dozen guards, most ex-Saudi Special Forces. That won't work," I agreed.
"Wait..." Tailor said, thumbing through documents. "Look. Intel says that every Friday night, at nine, he goes to this...coffee house, tea house, whatever the hell it is."
"Hey...yeah...smokes his hooka, has his coffee and tea, and jawjacks with the good ol' boys. This might be the best time to do it."
"Intel says he takes two bodyguards with him."
"Yeah, but look...they sit at one of the outside tables. Not enough status or street cred or whatever to get in, I guess. The old velvet rope. That's rough."
"Yeah," Tailor laughed. "But it makes things easier. They'll be outside, he'll be inside. They can't be too heavily armed, either. Probably pistols, maybe a rifle in their car. They drive him in a...damn. You believe this? A school-bus-yellow Hummer H2."
"Heh...that's funny. So our boy rides the short bus, eh? That'll make his ride easy to spot."
"I dunno, man, I've seen a few of those things around here. Overpriced piece of crap."
"Well, it'll probably be the only one there. We can try to hit him on the way there or on the way back, but...his drivers probably vary their routes, and there's nothing near his compound for us to hide behind. We try to stake the place out, it'll be obvious. It's best to hit him while he's there."
"Agreed," Tailor said. "Gotta keep it clean, though."
"Yeah...hey, hand me that map," I said. "Look at this. Directly across the street is a halfway-built building. Construction stopped about three months ago for one reason or another. Six floors, walls in place, windows and such aren't. We could hop the fence, make our way up to the second floor, and use a rifle. Range is less than two hundred meters."
"You any good with a rifle?"
"I'm plenty good with a rifle. Need something third party, though. Wonder if the armory has an SVD in its inventory? I've got a little bit of trigger time with an Dragunov."
The next day, I went to the small armory in one of the villas. Apparently, Dead 6 had such armories and safehouses all over the city, but I didn't know much about them yet. The armorer was a moustachioed man named Frank.
"Hey Frank," I said. "I need an SVD. You got one?"
"Oh yeah. Check this out." He went to the back, and returned with not just an SVD, but a tricked out one.
"Little project I've been working on. Put on a longer synthetic buttstock, cleaned up the trigger a bit, and machined my own scope base. The optic is a Valdada two-point-five to ten power, and with my scope base it sits perfectly centered over the barrel. The stock is good for lefties and righties. Has the receiver-mounted bipod and everything."
"Sweet...can I borrow it? Need a spotting scope, too."
"Sure, kid. Let me get you some mags and some ammo. You just make sure you bring that one back, okay? You want a disposable one you let me get you a beat-up PSL, alright?"
"Don't worry, Frank, I'll bring it back to you."
And so, we got our gear together. Tailor, being my spotter and back-up shooter, drew a brand new Russian made 7.62x39 AK with a PSO 4x scope. We borrowed a white Toyota Landcruiser, a very versatile vehicle, and one so common in Qatar as to be ubiquitous.
It would've been hard to inconspicuously walk down the street with the rifles we'd be carrying, but the building from which I was going to take the shot had a narrow alley behind it. We'd park the Landcruiser there and hop the fence. Best of all, we could get out of there in a hurry, too. We'd need to; Frank didn't have a suppressor for the Dragunov. Within short order every cop in Doha would be all over that part of town, and we'd have to get out of there before they set up roadblocks and check points.
Friday night finally arrived. At 8:35PM, we parket the Landcruiser in the alley and climbed out. We had a duffel bag with all of our equipment in it; aside from that we were dressed in regular civvies. The usual 'I'm a westerner in the middle east' attire. Bluejeans, khakis, t-shirts.
We found a hole in the fence, and made our way into the building. Using a Mini-Maglite flashlight with an LED bulb, we navigated our way through the empty, unfinished building, and climbed two flights of stairs to the second floor. We were both nervous, and neither one of us said anything.
We found the perfect spot to take the shot from on the second floor. It looked like it was going to be an office or cubicle park or something. At any rate, it had those large windows that went all the way to the floor, but the glass wasn't installed yet. We set down the duffel bag and got set up.
I laid on the floor in the prone position, setting up the custom SVD on its bipod and shouldering it. Tailor, to my left and slightly further back from the window than I, laid in the prone also. He used the spotting scope to observe the front of the coffee house that our target frequented.
The place was small, but lushly decorated. The entire front wall was glass, and you could see the entire front half of the place, but...hell, I thought. He could disappear inside. I'd have to get him going in or coming out, and waiting until he came back out was too risky. Fortunately, the entry doors were faced my position exactly. It'd be an easy shot. The distance was only one hundred and five meters. The street was a narrow side street, not a main thoroughfare, so it wouldn't be a long shot.
We waited in silence. I watched through my rifle's optic, Tailor through the spotting scope. After a seemingly endless twenty two minute wait, a yellow Hummer H2 pulled up to the curb and parked. Two rough looking men with suit jackets and bushy moustaches got out. Each had what looked like an MP5K or somesuch subgun concealed beneath their suit jackets. One of them opened the door on the back right side. As I watched, I was so nervous that I was almost shaking.
Onto the street stepped a heavy-set Arab man in traditional white thobe and head dress. He slowly made his way towards the doors of the coffee house, walking with a cane.
"That's our boy," I said. "You confirm?"
"I confirm," Tailor said. I felt that familiar calm wash over me, and the shakes diappeared. With the scope set to six power, I watched Al-Falah turn right and walk towards the coffee house doors. I placed the illuminated crosshairs on the upper half of the back of his head, and held my breath.
TO BE CONTINUED
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