Allah's Scorpion

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Under an overcast moonless sky, a rubber raft came ashore three hundred meters east of the U.S. Naval Base Guantanamo Bay’s outer security fence. Four men dressed in U.S. Navy SEAL night fighter camos, their faces blackened, Heckler & Koch suppressed baseline carbines strapped to their backs, jumped out of the boat and quickly carried it ten meters up the beach to some tall grass. They moved swiftly, efficiently, as a well-practiced team.

Their leader, who’d entered Cuba with his operators ten days earlier under a French passport identifying him as Pierre Halille, raised a pair of Steiner Mil Spec binoculars to his eyes and scanned the beach in the direction of the U.S. Navy Base and the sprawling Camp Delta detention facility situated on a bluff that rose nearly fifty meters above sea level. He was sweating lightly even though the night was relatively cool. He was not used to the humidity, and a great deal was at stake this morning, not the least of which was his life and the lives of his men.

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