ONE DAY LATER
NEAR BAGHDAD AIRPORT, BAGHDAD, IRAQ—JANUARY 25, 2020—13:30 / 1:30 P.M. AST
The warehouse was less than half a mile from Baghdad Airport, which made Abbas a little nervous. Surely there was no way anyone could know about his rendezvous or the cargo he was about to pick up, but the last time he’d been here an American UAV had fired Hellfire missiles from the sky and murdered General Soleimani.
There was irony in the situation, though. He was here to pick up UAVs that would soon be employed to kill many others, and, inshallah, some Americans would be among them. It would be a just vengeance upon them in the name of the general.
Two of his soldiers had come with him. Mohamed Hassan was driving the battered, tan Toyota pickup, and Omar Ali rode behind Abbas in the back. Battle-tested and loyal to a fault, these two men had been with him from early on in his time with the KSS, and he trusted them completely. Wherever he went, these two men were sure to be close by.
As Hassan pulled up, one of the sliding garage doors began to ascend. An Iraqi man stepped out once it was high enough and walked toward their pickup. From his peripheral vision, Abbas watched as Hassan rested his hand on his Kalashnikov rifle. Abbas reached out and touched Hassan’s arm, giving a small shake of his head. Hassan’s hand withdrew.
“As-salamu ‘alaykum,” said the man upon reaching Hassan’s window.
“Wa-‘alaykum salam,” said Abbas.
“I am Mohamed al-Mohamed. Hurry, please come and follow me. Our friends from the IRGC are a little testy this afternoon.” The man said this with a smile and an eyeroll.
“When are they ever not?”
Ali stepped out of the truck with Abbas while Hassan remained in the driver’s seat. He always stayed with the vehicle in case there was ever a need to leave quickly as there had been in the past. Numerous times.
“The delay in your arrival has them angry,” al-Mohamed said. “They were talking about leaving, but I convinced them to give you a little more time.”
“Shukran,” Abbas said, grateful.
“The tall one looks the meanest, but I worry more about the short one. His eyes are dead.”
Abbas just nodded as they made their way through the warehouse toward two ancient IFA W50 trucks that looked like they’d seen action way back in the war with Iran. The IRGC officers stood next to the nearest truck, one bearing the rank of captain and the other first lieutenant. As al-Mohamed said, the captain was tall and the lieutenant was not.
“Why are you late?” the captain asked before al-Mohamed had an opportunity for introductions.
“We were delayed at a security checkpoint.”
The captain waited as if he were expecting an apology or some groveling. Abbas wasn’t giving it to him, though. For once, when dealing with the IRGC, he was actually in a position of strength. He could imagine the reaction of General Qaani if this man went back to him saying he didn’t make the delivery because Abbas had delayed him by 30 minutes.
Finally, the captain said, “Follow me.”
They walked to the back of the first truck, which had a large canvas tarp laid over its framework. Pulling back a flap, he revealed that the cargo area was filled with small, black, hard plastic cases.
“One hundred and fifty in this truck and a hundred in the other.” The captain pulled out one case and laid it on the ledge of the bed. He flipped clasps on either end, then lifted the top. Inside was a small drone. Abbas recognized it as an Intel Shooting Star. “These are all programmed and ready to go. All you need to do is to lay them out and start the sequence.”
Abbas nodded. This was all straightforward so far.
The captain then reached for another, larger case. When he opened it, Abbas saw a bigger, more intricate drone inside, this one encased in foam. Abbas had seen one of these before, but he couldn’t place the name.
“This is an Aurelia X6 Standard. It can carry a 5 kilo payload. You have ten of these. Also, at the front of this first truck are two crates with a total of ten 1.4 kilo blocks of C4 surrounded by one kilo of nails and metal balls each. Each one has a detonator also. Once you power them on, they will automatically arm when they reach an altitude of 25 meters. Then, when they descend at their destination, they’re programmed to go off at an elevation of 1.3 meters.”
The thought both thrilled and appalled Abbas. The devastation would be horrific yet well-deserved.
As the captain closed the cases, the lieutenant gripped Abbas’s arm tightly and turned him so they were face-to-face. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is. Nor should I need to remind you of the consequences to you if you should fail.”
“No, you shouldn’t have to. But for some reason you chose to anyway.”
“Listen, I don’t need to hear from the smart mouth of a desert militia monkey.”
“And I don’t need the threats of a middle-aged lieutenant.”
The officer turned bright red as he snatched the front of Abbas’s desert camouflage shirt with both hands.
“Enough!” the captain shouted. “Both of you stand down.”
Abbas stepped back. Inside, he was relishing the confrontation with the Iranian. Seif Abdel Abbas is nobody’s desert monkey.
The captain approached him. “The keys are in the trucks. On this thumb drive is everything you need to know about venue, timing, and operation.” He placed a small black retractable drive into Abbas’s hand. “If you have any questions, there’s also an email process you may employ. But do so only if completely necessary. Any communication from here on out only puts the operation more at risk. Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t.”
“Then bismillah.”
The captain turned and walked away. The lieutenant continued to glare at Abbas. But Abbas held his eyes until the Persian was forced to turn and stride off.
Ali walked up next to him. “Well, he was nice.” He lit a cigarette, then offered one to Abbas, who waved him off just as he always did.
“Persians.” Abbas spit on the ground.
Al-Mohamed stepped near. “See, I told you about that short one. He’s crazy.” He twisted his open hand next to his head.
“You take the other truck,” Abbas said. “I want the one with the explosives. That way, if I go out I’ll go out with a bang.”
Abbas climbed up into the cab. The truck showed every one of its more than four decades of life in its interior. The seats were covered with duct tape, and a large crack angled from the top center of the windshield all the way to the bottom of the passenger side.
Turning the key, however, he was encouraged to hear the big 4-cylinder diesel kick right to life. After a minute or two, it settled into its idle and actually sounded fairly stable. Putting it into gear, Abbas turned the truck around and exited the warehouse. A wave to Hassan brought the pickup behind Ali’s truck. He’d drive third in line in case there were any problems with the IFAs along the way.
The mission was still three weeks out, and while that seemed a long time, it really wasn’t. He had his team to train. Drills to run. Then there was the travel—a 1,500 km drive to Bandar Lengeh, Iran. From there, they would catch a fishing trawler that would take them across the Persian Gulf to where they would launch the attack.
Death was coming to the United Arab Emirates. And when it did, it would come in a manner talked about for decades to come.