The DMZ

  Also by Jeanette Windle

  CrossFire

  Jana’s Journal

  The Parker Twins Series

  The DMZ: A Novel

  © 2002, 2011 by Jeanette Windle

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  Contents

  Half-title

  Also by Jeanette Windle

  Title Page

  Copyright

  PREFACE

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  PREFACE

  I FINISHED THE ROUGH DRAFT of DMZ the morning of September 11, 2001, satisfied that my research had been as meticulous as possible, but comfortably aware that the book was only fiction. Then I turned on the news. A phrase I had recently written into the mouth of my protagonist took on sudden relevance. “Those who do not care enough to bleed and die for what they hold dear will always be held hostage by those who do.” Unless we who have inherited the awesome privilege of a free society are willing to sacrifice our very lives in defense of those freedoms, we will lose them—and deservedly so.

  But terrorism did not begin on September 11. Long before then, children cowered under covers, afraid that terrorists might blow up their world around them. Long before September 11, parents feared for the future of their children, dreading what fresh catastrophe tomorrow might bring. Long before September 11, fanatics were murdering innocent civilians to make a political statement or because they were of a different creed and ethnic background.

  And long before September 11, in every war-torn and dangerous corner of the globe, heroes—missionaries, doctors, aid workers, Peace Corps volunteers, humanitarian NGOs—were quietly combating the effects of terrorism and oppression of fellow human beings. I have had the privilege of crossing paths with hundreds of these heroes over the years, two of whom are my own parents. I have seen some pay the ultimate sacrifice of their own freedom and lives. To these heroes, with heartfelt thanks, love, and admiration, I dedicate this book.

  PROLOGUE

  APRIL 1991, THE PERSIAN GULF:

  He brooded.

  The top floor of the air control tower gave a clear view of war’s devastation. Craters pocked the concrete runways. Where buildings once had stood, hills of rubble thrust up surrealistic silhouettes. The burned-out skeletons of troop transports and aircraft lay scattered like scavenger-stripped carcasses. Even at this distance, he could smell the noxious clouds belching upward at a dozen points on the horizon—the burning refineries and factories that once had fueled his war machine.

  It was no consolation that other parts of his country—most of it, in fact—still lived untouched to fight another day.

  Cold fury etched its acid through his stomach and up his esophagus. What enraged him most was that his one-time allies had done this. The Americans before had been only too happy to help him build the finest offensive force in the Middle East. They had encouraged him to turn that force upon his neighbor to the east. He had done what they asked—neutralized that neighbor who had been such a thorn in the Americans’ flesh as well as his own.

  So why this?

  The answer was simple. The Americans were treacherous, lying, greedy manipulators. A people without honor.

  Well … they would learn that he was not some dog to be whistled for when they had a task to be done, then quickly kicked away when his objectives no longer matched their own.

  The Supreme Ruler of Iraq shifted his brooding eyes. A plane was coming in. In a moment, even in the fading twilight, he identified it as a Gulfstream, a small private jet of the type favored by millionaires and corporations and which once had been bought in wholesale lots by those favored with this region’s oil wealth. Touching down, the Gulfstream swerved violently around a crater.

  The Iraqi leader descended the tower, then stepped outside and strode out onto the runway.

  His visitor’s aircraft taxied closer and braked to a stop. The side door opened, and a solitary figure emerged.

  “Allahu akbar. God is great,” the visitor said quietly as he stepped away from the plane. His greeting was in Arabic rather than in his native Farsi.

  Unlike the Iraqi leader striding toward him, Akbar Javad Khalkhali considered himself a scholar, speaking five languages, including the English of their peoples’ greatest enemy.

  The differences between the two men went far beyond their learning. Khalkhali wore the flowing robes and black turban that befitted not only his position as a mullah, an Islamic clergyman, but his faithfulness as a believer clinging seriously to the true teaching of the Koran. In contrast, his apostate host was dressed in the clothing of the infidel West, and not just any clothing, but that of their warriors. True, practicality had forced his own country to adopt such attire for its own soldiers. But this was not a battlefield.

  None of these thoughts showed in the schooled impassivity of the mullah’s expression as he submitted to a hearty kiss on both cheeks.

  “Allah is great,” the Iraqi agreed. “Come.” He steered his guest toward a small, relatively undamaged hangar a short distance away. Despite cultural dictates, he wasted no time in small talk as they strode side by side.

  “It was good of you to grant my request to come,” he said. “Our countries have been estranged too long. After all, we are brothers, worshiping the same God. In a world full of infidels who wish to destroy us, we should not allow small differences that have divided us in the past to stand between two peoples bound together by the one true Faith.” He and many in his country had in fact paid little more than lip service to that Faith for a good many years, and the religious differences between their two countries had been significant enough to spawn a decade-long war that brought both countries to t
he brink of financial ruin and caused the deaths of a million and a half of their citizens—but all this was left unmentioned.

  “Yes, we are brothers,” the mullah agreed cautiously. “And it is time we stood together as brothers.”

  He glanced ahead to the hangar they were approaching. Though it was less damaged than nearly everything else around him, much of its roof had caved in, and the rear of the building was reduced to rubble. “The Americans,” observed the mullah; “they have not been kind to you.”

  The Supreme Ruler’s lips curled back in a snarl of hate and rage. “The Americans! No, they have not been kind—they with their smiles and hand of friendship, and all the time with a knife poised to stab one in the back. Was it not they who with their lies and provocations first caused the conflict between our countries? Your former master was right when he called them the Great Satan!”

  “Ahh!” For the first time, the mullah thought he was understanding his host. Halting his measured stride, he raised a hand in an admonishing gesture. “I must warn you now that however much we share your distaste for those sons of Satan, my country cannot—will not—involve itself in your conflict here.”

  Khalkhali conveniently neglected to touch on the fact that his countrymen hated the man at his side little less than they did the Americans, shared faith or not, and would gladly have seen the apostates finish the job they’d started. “Perhaps,” the mullah continued, “we could assist you toward negotiations …?”

  His host shook his head impatiently. “Do you think I am so foolish as to bring you here for talk of negotiations with the Great Satan?”

  The mullah wisely made no reply.

  “No,” the Iraqi continued, “I will never again underestimate the will of the Americans. No, not their will—their toys! My armies have great will to fight and to die as the Americans have not. But there is no denying that the technology of the decadent West is beyond anything of which I dreamed. So when you return home”—his voice thickened to bitterness—“you may tell your masters they need not fear. The humbled lion will remain within its borders.”

  They reached the door of the hangar. A soldier stood at attention beside it.

  “That does not mean I am finished,” the Iraqi continued. “The Americans have hurt us. They have trampled our pride into the sands of the desert. But they will learn at great cost that a wounded lion may still have claws. And Allah himself has given us the weapon with which to strike back. Come and see!”

  At the snap of the Supreme Ruler’s fingers, the sentry hurried over to finger a control panel. With a groan, a heavy metal portal slid upward. Inside they walked to where a second soldier tapped another control panel. A smaller door panel slid open, revealing an elevator. Following his host, the mullah stepped inside, and the elevator plunged downward.

  Long seconds later, they came to a stop. The door opened on absolute blackness, and they stepped from the dim light of the elevator cage. The door slid shut behind them.

  Annoyed, the mullah stood stock-still in the darkness. Beside him, with what Khalkhali considered unnecessary theatrics, his host intoned loudly, “Behold! The lightning bolt of Allah.”

  Blue-white lighting glimmered overhead. The mullah blinked as the fluorescent tubes brightened suddenly to full power, revealing a vast subterranean cavern. The shape before him swam into focus, and he blinked again. Containing with supreme effort a gasp unseemly to his position, he walked forward. The hand he put out to touch the smooth surface trembled slightly. No, this was not one of the mirages so common to the desert sand overhead.

  He took a moment to rearrange his expression before turning slowly. “Is this …?”

  Khalkhali knew well that it was his position as head of his country’s intelligence service that had prompted today’s startling summons. That he knew precisely what he was seeing made it only more unbelievable. “But how …?”

  His host made an impatient gesture. “That does not concern you. It is the one piece of this war that went our way. What concerns you is that we now have a weapon that can bring the Great Satan to its knees.” He nodded, his own less-than-stoic features mirroring his elation. “The weapon with which the Americans brought my country down. And now it shall be turned back against them.”

  Khalkhali reached out a hand again before snatching it back, cursing himself for having betrayed his eagerness. He, as much as his host, knew what an incredible opportunity Fate—or Allah—had dropped into his grasp, and behind his outward composure, his mind was racing with the possibilities.

  “So what is it that you request of me?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  His host’s upper lip curled again. “The Americans have hemmed me in like a caged beast. I cannot move without tripping over their spies. If it were otherwise, do you think I would ask for this alliance?”

  The two men locked gazes in a sudden flare of antagonism, the vestige of an ancient enmity that passed through countless generations, all the way back to the days when soldiers of rival Babylonian and Persian empires faced each other across these same lands.

  The mullah relaxed first.

  “When two men—or two countries—face a common enemy, old misunderstandings must be put aside. In the name of our common Faith, let us forget the past and see how we can use this gift to do the will of Allah.” He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his beard. “This will not be easy. You must know that we do not have the means to employ the weapon from this distance. Not without a system of support that neither we nor you possess. If we are to use this gift from Allah to greatest effectiveness, it must be moved closer to the target.”

  “I am versed in the tactics of war,” the Iraqi snapped. “Why do you think I came to you and none else? Do you imagine I am unaware of your little friends in every part of the world?”

  The mullah nodded, acknowledging the effectiveness of his host’s intelligence service. Although they generally suspected, few governments knew conclusively that his position as minister of intelligence of his country’s security forces was a pseudonym for his greater responsibilities. He coordinated a worldwide network of covert-action groups (“terrorist” was a term applied only by their enemies) with the holy purpose of destroying the enemies of the Faith—of whom the Great Satan was chief.

  “Yes,” Khalkhali replied cautiously, “we have friends who dwell much nearer to the Great Satan—many friends. Infidels and pagans they may be, yet they hate the Americans as much as we do, and they will carry out what they are asked. But their situation is unstable, and this is a project that will require time. Time and much preparation. We cannot afford to move until the moment is propitious.”

  “Time.” The Iraqi snapped his fingers contemptuously. “What matters if it takes time, so long as our ultimate purpose is achieved? At last the enemy of our Faith and of both our peoples will lie humbled in the dust, and the way will again be opened for the banner of Islam to march across the world; may Allah grant victory to his holy jihad.”

  “Allahu akbar,” Khalkiali replied.

  Twilight had thickened to full night when the two men reemerged above ground. As they walked together across the runway, they could distinguish flickers of flame on the horizon at the base of lingering towers of smoke. Lights were blinking on in those fortunate areas where electric power had been restored.

  The mullah mounted the steps of the Gulfstream without a backward glance. And he was gone.

  Moments later, climbing the stairs to the observation window of the abandoned control tower, the Iraqi watched the visitor’s plane lift into the air. His gaze followed its lights until they disappeared over the horizon.

  Then His Excellency, the Supreme Ruler of Iraq, turned his brooding gaze again to survey the shattered panorama of his once-powerful country. But this time, beneath his mustache was a thin smile of satisfaction.

  * * *

  A DECADE LATER:

  COLOMBIAN LEADER PULLS BACK TROOPS FROM VAST GUERRILLA-INFESTED REGION

  BOGOTA, COLOMBIA (R
euters): Paving the way for intended peace negotiations with his nation’s largest guerrilla movement—the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—President Andres Pastrana has agreed to withdraw government forces from a Switzerland-sized swathe of jungle in southwestern Colombia. Opponents quickly derided FARC peace intentions, pointing out that guerrilla attacks have actually increased since the latest treaty was signed. Pastrana has assured the Colombian people that the troop withdrawal will last no longer than three months.

  MOROCCO SPEARHEADS COLOMBIAN INVESTMENT

  RABAT, MOROCCO (Reuters): Moroccan Prime Minister Armal Hussein has agreed with Colombia’s new president, Ariel Batallano, to spearhead Batallano’s new economic proposal, Plan Colombia. The plan is designed to attract foreign investment into an economic infrastructure plagued by guerrilla warfare and accusations of mismanagement and corruption. The Moroccan prime minister will promote investment opportunities in Colombia among other nations of the Mediterranean basin and Middle East.

  IRAN AND COLOMBIA AGREE TO ECONOMIC COOPERATION

  BOGOTA, COLOMBIA (Reuters): Iranian President Kamal Azadi and top Colombian officials signed today an agreement of economic cooperation. Iran has pledged to pump more than 100 million dollars into the Colombian economy, including agriculture, commerce, and the petroleum industry. Colombian President Ariel Batallano lauds the agreement as a sign of the effectiveness of his controversial new economic program, Plan Colombia.

  SYRIA SELLS MISSILES TO COLOMBIAN GUERRILLAS

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA (Reuters): Reliable sources confirm that Colombian guerrillas recently took delivery of a shipment of RPG-7 surface-to-air missiles from a Syrian arms dealer. The Soviet-manufactured, rocket-propelled grenade launchers were sold to the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia apparently with full approval of the Syrian government. Syria remains high on the U.S. State Department list of nations alleged to sponsor terrorism and has long been accused of supplying military training to FARC members. The shoulder-held rocket launcher is capable of bringing down low-flying aircraft—bad news for counter-insurgency and counter-narcotic-interdiction efforts in Colombia.