In The Battle for your Mind, Dick Sutphen writes:
Never underestimate the potential danger of these people (converts). They can easily be molded into fanatics, who will gladly work and die for their holy cause.
Pakistan
A three-story compound stood secluded at the end of a dusty dirt road in Abbottabad, Pakistan, about 2.5 miles northeast of the town center and 100 miles from the Afghanistan border to the East. Shahin Ysar sat inside a small room on the third floor and peered into the blackest of nights. It was 12:55 a.m., and still too hot to sleep. He had spent a useless day arguing with Osama bin Laden about the merits of his plan—a plan that he believed would deal a crippling blow to American confidence, and cause its citizens the embarrassment before the world that they so richly deserved. Osama had listened, but did little to hide a smirk, as he ran his fingers through his beard. Without asking so much as a question, or giving a nod of approval, the Al-Qaeda leader had chuckled at the proposal, and waved his hand to dismiss Shahin and his companion, Habigh Salahuddin.
“This is of no interest to us,” Bin Laden’s son interjected. He too stood to leave. “We do not waste our time bombing American toys, Shahin. Your plan causes them no substantial harm. It accomplishes little more than a bit of humiliation. I am sorry, my friend, but this is not a good idea.”
“He's right,” Osama had agreed, placing his hand on Shahin’s arm in a placating way. “Using American citizens to bomb their own beloved playgrounds and places of honor makes no sense. Why would they do it? We wage Jihad for Allah. If we die, we die in His name, in glory, but them…achh. Unlike us, they have no burning reason to kill their fellow Americans. Please understand, I admire your enthusiasm, Shahin, and even your creativity; but go now with your plan and listen to those who know what they are doing.”
Bin Laden then turned to one of his wives, Amal Ahmed Abdul Fatah, and pulled her to him. He nuzzled her neck, while she feigned annoyance.
Shahin decided to allow the Leader time to consider his proposal. He had nodded to the group and said, “As-salaam 'alaykum, Master. I will take my leave—peace be upon you.
“May God's blessings be upon you,” Osama answered, with an amused smile.
Shahin reluctantly turned away from the man whose help he sought. Walking along the short corridor that led to their room, he murmured to Habigh, “He doesn’t understand, even as great a man as he is, he doesn’t know the Americans; at least not like I do. I lived in Connecticut most of my life—I lived inside the beast. I went to their schools and university. Then I trained with the CIA. I know their thinking. Everything is symbolism to them. Strike at those symbols and you strike at their heart and soul. My very name, Shahin, meaning hawk, says why I am able to spot their weaknesses.”
Later they had dined on a light dinner as the night deepened with little relief from the heat.
Shahin and Habigh seated themselves on two dilapidated chairs outside of their room on an abbreviated balcony, trying to find a breath of cool air. Habigh fanned himself with an English edition of Newstime. He couldn’t read it; in fact, if it had been written in Arabic he wouldn’t have been able to read it either. But by reputation, he knew it was favorable to their cause, and that, plus the colorful pictures, made it his favorite magazine.
The two young men sat enjoying the peculiar peace that seemed to radiate off the desert once the heat of the day had passed. In the distance, heat waves that wavered from the darkened hills, streets and houses in the distance became suddenly transformed.
Shahin tried to focus his eyes. He wondered why the trees and fields on the horizon were changing form and density. Then he saw a minuscule light reflect from a moving object in the sky. His mind scurried to interpret what his eyes were seeing. In horror, he began to retreat toward the balcony doors.
The sound was faint and muffled, the distinct whup—whup— whup of helicopter blades. The sound of aircraft wasn’t unusual here. The compound was located not far from a Pakistani Air Force base. However, choppers flying at night was highly unusual, Shahin knew, because it was too risky. Their pilots were not that good.
The two turned their heads in the direction of the sound, glimpsing the silhouette of an aircraft outlined against the brilliant canopy of stars. Out of the darkness came a black helicopter shooting over the wall. It flared out so abruptly that Shahin thought it would slide back and drive its tail into the ground. “We must go, Habigh, we are under attack. They are coming with silenced helicopters, maybe Blackhawks, several of them approaching from the direction of Jalalabad.”
“No one can attack this place. There are armed guards stationed about. They would maybe drop bombs, but how would anyone come inside?” Habigh tried to reason and make sense of what was happening.
Before Shahin could answer, there was a horrific crunching sound and the compound shook in the wake of it. Lights suddenly came on from the sky above, and he watched in horror as many copters converged outside the walls. He could hear men shouting to one another, and see lights attached to soldiers who were being lowered to the ground, starting to crawl over the supposedly impenetrable walls.
“They are here; probably the world forces, and the Americans. I hear English words being shouted,” Shahin exclaimed, trying to get Habigh to heed his warnings to flee.
There were Black Hawks, stealth versions, that were no doubt weighted and equipped to fly quietly while skimming below the radar. The crafts leveled off, ropes were tossed over the sides, and men rappelled down the ropes with unbelievable speed. Two… four… eight… twelve… they kept coming. The instant each man touched the ground he sprinted to what was obviously a predetermined position. They seemed to know the compound even better than he did.
Floodlights flashed on and small arms fire began to erupt from the rooftops. The defenders would either fire one round at a time, or start spraying bullets in random directions. Shahin couldn’t decide which technique was less effective. The attackers, on the other hand, were firing “triple taps,” three round bursts, with deadly accuracy. At that moment Shahin knew that these were highly trained, disciplined professionals. He suspected that they were equipped with Heckler & Koch 416 carbine military assault rifles with suppressors and he could see they wore night-vision goggles.
Shahin ran to a closet and grabbed two AK-47s, guns he had secreted there for this kind of emergency, and handed one to Habigh along with ammo clips. The two returned to the balcony and joined the defenders, returning fire as best they could. Shahin tried to mimic the American’s ammunition conserving triple taps, or even a double tap, but he didn’t have the experience to get it right. He flipped the AK on full automatic, but had no idea how long the trigger had to be depressed to fire three rounds, and only three rounds. The Americans were masters at it.
Everywhere was confusion, absolute chaos. Where were the primary threats? Where should he be shooting? Was there someone out there at this very moment taking aim at him? He kept firing, not knowing or even caring if he was hitting anyone. His head was reeling from the smell of cordite emanating from the weapons. His eyes watered from dust and gunfire. His brain was not properly processing what he was seeing. He looked to his right to see how Habigh was doing, and beyond him he spotted a man firing from the next balcony. The man’s lower jaw suddenly exploded into a mist of blood and bone fragments, as he was hit by an enemy round.
“We’ve got to get out of here, Habigh. If we can make it to the place I know of, we can escape.”
They hurried to the door of the room and checked the hallway. “Quick, no one’s out here; we must hurry.”
Habigh was close on his heels, as they shuffled along with their backs flattened against the hallway wall, silent and hopeful of escape.
Osama Bin Laden’s door was open and, as they passed, they were relieved to see he was alive. He was still in his night wear, having on a tan shalwar kameez and a prayer cap, with a loose-fitting tunic and pants called kurta paijama, which Shahin thought to be a rather ironic name. Having grown up in the United States, if he felt any kinship with Americans at all, it was on this inconsequential point—they wore pajamas, just like he did.
Several children could be heard in the hallways below, screaming and calling to one another to run and hide. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was everywhere, both outside, and now inside the building. For an instant Shahin’s eyes met Osama Bin Laden’s, and the graying leader nodded to him. His eyes seemed to say, you do whatever you want against that loathsome enemy, son. You now have my blessing. Then, Shahin and Habigh ducked along the hallway, leaving the door ajar.
Shahin could hear the cries of Bin Laden’s wife, Amal, and from a young girl, from within the room. Then the sound of footsteps, men running up the stairs to the floor where he and Habigh still huddled against the wall.
“Let’s go back into our room and hide. It is too late to run now.”
The two men quietly closed the door to their room, stuffed their travel bags into a closet and squeezed inside. Shahin huddled into a corner and arranged boxes of paper supplies around them. Stacked high, these were enough to hide them from a cursory inspection of the closet, but not if dogs were brought in to sniff out humans. They waited as the pop of gunfire continued. At one point they thought they heard the voice of Amal cursing at someone, followed by the dreaded triple tap. Then came the sound of Amal shrieking…followed by eerie silence.
“For God and country…Geronimo. Geronimo. Geronimo. We got the bastard!” came a cry in English that Shahin recognized. It sounded like a victory call. Then they heard the sound of boots descending the stairs away from the hallway.
They remained silent, holding their breath and praying, and wondering what would happen next. Time ticked by and they could hear more orders being shouted in the distance. Women were wailing, and children were crying or screaming. Many more minutes passed; helicopters hovered outside; lights probed into the windows; and, except for an occasional flare-up, the sound of small arms fire ceased; muffled sounds began to dim.
“If we are to live, we must find a way to get out of here,” Shahin whispered in the dark.
“You are correct; but how?” Habigh asked.
“We’re going to have to go back into the hall and look around. It’s risky, but I see no other way.”
Shahin pushed aside the heavy boxes that had protected them, grabbed the bag into which he had stashed his few belongings, and they crawled to the door, cracked it open a few inches and peered out. The hallway was still dark, and no one was in sight. The two men flattened themselves to the floor; using knees and elbows, they belly-crawled to the room where they had last seen Bin Laden.
The door was open, and a dim light came from within. Shahin peeked around the door frame. What he saw caused him to gasp. Bin Laden’s other wife was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, her hands tied with thin plastic strap. Her head was lowered against her chest and she was sobbing. Lying on the floor was Bin Laden’s twelve-year-old daughter, Safia. Her hands were also tied with zip ties, and she was bleeding from her ankle. A man lay close to the door, unmoving. A handgun and rifle were abandoned nearby. There was a large pool of blood in the middle of the room, and it was obvious that a body had been dragged across and out the door. Whether the body had been dead or alive at the time, they didn’t know, but it was easy to guess whose it was.
A three-story compound stood secluded at the end of a dusty dirt road in Abbottabad, Pakistan, about 2.5 miles northeast of the town center and 100 miles from the Afghanistan border to the East. Shahin Ysar sat inside a small room on the third floor and peered into the blackest of nights. It was 12:55 a.m., and still too hot to sleep. He had spent a useless day arguing with Osama bin Laden about the merits of his plan—a plan that he believed would deal a crippling blow to American confidence, and cause its citizens the embarrassment before the world that they so richly deserved. Osama had listened, but did little to hide a smirk, as he ran his fingers through his beard. Without asking so much as a question, or giving a nod of approval, the Al-Qaeda leader had chuckled at the proposal, and waved his hand to dismiss Shahin and his companion, Habigh Salahuddin.
“This is of no interest to us,” Bin Laden’s son interjected. He too stood to leave. “We do not waste our time bombing American toys, Shahin. Your plan causes them no substantial harm. It accomplishes little more than a bit of humiliation. I am sorry, my friend, but this is not a good idea.”
“He's right,” Osama had agreed, placing his hand on Shahin’s arm in a placating way. “Using American citizens to bomb their own beloved playgrounds and places of honor makes no sense. Why would they do it? We wage Jihad for Allah. If we die, we die in His name, in glory, but them…achh. Unlike us, they have no burning reason to kill their fellow Americans. Please understand, I admire your enthusiasm, Shahin, and even your creativity; but go now with your plan and listen to those who know what they are doing.”
Bin Laden then turned to one of his wives, Amal Ahmed Abdul Fatah, and pulled her to him. He nuzzled her neck, while she feigned annoyance.
Shahin decided to allow the Leader time to consider his proposal. He had nodded to the group and said, “As-salaam 'alaykum, Master. I will take my leave—peace be upon you.
“May God's blessings be upon you,” Osama answered, with an amused smile.
Shahin reluctantly turned away from the man whose help he sought. Walking along the short corridor that led to their room, he murmured to Habigh, “He doesn’t understand, even as great a man as he is, he doesn’t know the Americans; at least not like I do. I lived in Connecticut most of my life—I lived inside the beast. I went to their schools and university. Then I trained with the CIA. I know their thinking. Everything is symbolism to them. Strike at those symbols and you strike at their heart and soul. My very name, Shahin, meaning hawk, says why I am able to spot their weaknesses.”
Later they had dined on a light dinner as the night deepened with little relief from the heat.
Shahin and Habigh seated themselves on two dilapidated chairs outside of their room on an abbreviated balcony, trying to find a breath of cool air. Habigh fanned himself with an English edition of Newstime. He couldn’t read it; in fact, if it had been written in Arabic he wouldn’t have been able to read it either. But by reputation, he knew it was favorable to their cause, and that, plus the colorful pictures, made it his favorite magazine.
The two young men sat enjoying the peculiar peace that seemed to radiate off the desert once the heat of the day had passed. In the distance, heat waves that wavered from the darkened hills, streets and houses in the distance became suddenly transformed.
Shahin tried to focus his eyes. He wondered why the trees and fields on the horizon were changing form and density. Then he saw a minuscule light reflect from a moving object in the sky. His mind scurried to interpret what his eyes were seeing. In horror, he began to retreat toward the balcony doors.
The sound was faint and muffled, the distinct whup—whup— whup of helicopter blades. The sound of aircraft wasn’t unusual here. The compound was located not far from a Pakistani Air Force base. However, choppers flying at night was highly unusual, Shahin knew, because it was too risky. Their pilots were not that good.
The two turned their heads in the direction of the sound, glimpsing the silhouette of an aircraft outlined against the brilliant canopy of stars. Out of the darkness came a black helicopter shooting over the wall. It flared out so abruptly that Shahin thought it would slide back and drive its tail into the ground. “We must go, Habigh, we are under attack. They are coming with silenced helicopters, maybe Blackhawks, several of them approaching from the direction of Jalalabad.”
“No one can attack this place. There are armed guards stationed about. They would maybe drop bombs, but how would anyone come inside?” Habigh tried to reason and make sense of what was happening.
Before Shahin could answer, there was a horrific crunching sound and the compound shook in the wake of it. Lights suddenly came on from the sky above, and he watched in horror as many copters converged outside the walls. He could hear men shouting to one another, and see lights attached to soldiers who were being lowered to the ground, starting to crawl over the supposedly impenetrable walls.
“They are here; probably the world forces, and the Americans. I hear English words being shouted,” Shahin exclaimed, trying to get Habigh to heed his warnings to flee.
There were Black Hawks, stealth versions, that were no doubt weighted and equipped to fly quietly while skimming below the radar. The crafts leveled off, ropes were tossed over the sides, and men rappelled down the ropes with unbelievable speed. Two… four… eight… twelve… they kept coming. The instant each man touched the ground he sprinted to what was obviously a predetermined position. They seemed to know the compound even better than he did.
Floodlights flashed on and small arms fire began to erupt from the rooftops. The defenders would either fire one round at a time, or start spraying bullets in random directions. Shahin couldn’t decide which technique was less effective. The attackers, on the other hand, were firing “triple taps,” three round bursts, with deadly accuracy. At that moment Shahin knew that these were highly trained, disciplined professionals. He suspected that they were equipped with Heckler & Koch 416 carbine military assault rifles with suppressors and he could see they wore night-vision goggles.
Shahin ran to a closet and grabbed two AK-47s, guns he had secreted there for this kind of emergency, and handed one to Habigh along with ammo clips. The two returned to the balcony and joined the defenders, returning fire as best they could. Shahin tried to mimic the American’s ammunition conserving triple taps, or even a double tap, but he didn’t have the experience to get it right. He flipped the AK on full automatic, but had no idea how long the trigger had to be depressed to fire three rounds, and only three rounds. The Americans were masters at it.
Everywhere was confusion, absolute chaos. Where were the primary threats? Where should he be shooting? Was there someone out there at this very moment taking aim at him? He kept firing, not knowing or even caring if he was hitting anyone. His head was reeling from the smell of cordite emanating from the weapons. His eyes watered from dust and gunfire. His brain was not properly processing what he was seeing. He looked to his right to see how Habigh was doing, and beyond him he spotted a man firing from the next balcony. The man’s lower jaw suddenly exploded into a mist of blood and bone fragments, as he was hit by an enemy round.
“We’ve got to get out of here, Habigh. If we can make it to the place I know of, we can escape.”
They hurried to the door of the room and checked the hallway. “Quick, no one’s out here; we must hurry.”
Habigh was close on his heels, as they shuffled along with their backs flattened against the hallway wall, silent and hopeful of escape.
Osama Bin Laden’s door was open and, as they passed, they were relieved to see he was alive. He was still in his night wear, having on a tan shalwar kameez and a prayer cap, with a loose-fitting tunic and pants called kurta paijama, which Shahin thought to be a rather ironic name. Having grown up in the United States, if he felt any kinship with Americans at all, it was on this inconsequential point—they wore pajamas, just like he did.
Several children could be heard in the hallways below, screaming and calling to one another to run and hide. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was everywhere, both outside, and now inside the building. For an instant Shahin’s eyes met Osama Bin Laden’s, and the graying leader nodded to him. His eyes seemed to say, you do whatever you want against that loathsome enemy, son. You now have my blessing. Then, Shahin and Habigh ducked along the hallway, leaving the door ajar.
Shahin could hear the cries of Bin Laden’s wife, Amal, and from a young girl, from within the room. Then the sound of footsteps, men running up the stairs to the floor where he and Habigh still huddled against the wall.
“Let’s go back into our room and hide. It is too late to run now.”
The two men quietly closed the door to their room, stuffed their travel bags into a closet and squeezed inside. Shahin huddled into a corner and arranged boxes of paper supplies around them. Stacked high, these were enough to hide them from a cursory inspection of the closet, but not if dogs were brought in to sniff out humans. They waited as the pop of gunfire continued. At one point they thought they heard the voice of Amal cursing at someone, followed by the dreaded triple tap. Then came the sound of Amal shrieking…followed by eerie silence.
“For God and country…Geronimo. Geronimo. Geronimo. We got the bastard!” came a cry in English that Shahin recognized. It sounded like a victory call. Then they heard the sound of boots descending the stairs away from the hallway.
They remained silent, holding their breath and praying, and wondering what would happen next. Time ticked by and they could hear more orders being shouted in the distance. Women were wailing, and children were crying or screaming. Many more minutes passed; helicopters hovered outside; lights probed into the windows; and, except for an occasional flare-up, the sound of small arms fire ceased; muffled sounds began to dim.
“If we are to live, we must find a way to get out of here,” Shahin whispered in the dark.
“You are correct; but how?” Habigh asked.
“We’re going to have to go back into the hall and look around. It’s risky, but I see no other way.”
Shahin pushed aside the heavy boxes that had protected them, grabbed the bag into which he had stashed his few belongings, and they crawled to the door, cracked it open a few inches and peered out. The hallway was still dark, and no one was in sight. The two men flattened themselves to the floor; using knees and elbows, they belly-crawled to the room where they had last seen Bin Laden.
The door was open, and a dim light came from within. Shahin peeked around the door frame. What he saw caused him to gasp. Bin Laden’s other wife was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, her hands tied with thin plastic strap. Her head was lowered against her chest and she was sobbing. Lying on the floor was Bin Laden’s twelve-year-old daughter, Safia. Her hands were also tied with zip ties, and she was bleeding from her ankle. A man lay close to the door, unmoving. A handgun and rifle were abandoned nearby. There was a large pool of blood in the middle of the room, and it was obvious that a body had been dragged across and out the door. Whether the body had been dead or alive at the time, they didn’t know, but it was easy to guess whose it was.
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