Abdul Khalil Kamsanni was sitting serenely amidst a sea of pillows listening to the quiet conversation going on around him. At least he hoped that he appeared serene, because the pain in his back was excruciating.

Kamsanni’s back had been in constant pain ever since that day back in 1993. He and all The Faithful had been elated when a new Parliament, devoted to the Law of Islam, had been elected. Their triumph had been short-lived. The army had overthrown the government, establishing a pro-western, military dictatorship. He and thousands like him had followed Imam Hammad Hassan in The Faithful’s attempt to restore the elected Islamic Government. But, a government soldier had crushed three of Kamsanni’s vertebrae with the butt of his gun. He had been hospitalized, and laid up in traction for weeks on end. Although the staff had recognized him, all of them were sympathetic to the Islamic cause. None of them had informed the secret police and he had escaped prosecution.

His back was least painful when he was lying down, and barely tolerable when he was standing. Sitting was torture. His pain was so excruciating that he always made sure that he was sitting, propped against a sturdy wooden frame and surrounded by pillows long before others arrived. He couldn’t tolerate the thought of anyone, other than his beloved wife, knowing how slowly and painfully he bent, and how long it took for him to regain his composure once he’d achieved this torturous position.

He would have his revenge upon them all. His years of pain would be avenged by his son and grandson, and Allah’s will would triumph throughout the land.

General Yusuf Kamsanni, Abdul’s son, was leaning comfortably among the pillows next to the open window high above the courtyard. As dedicated to an Islamic Republic as was his father, Yusuf had been groomed to the military since childhood. By the will of Allah, and with a good word from his father in the right ears from time to time, Yusuf had risen steadily, and now commanded Tunisia’s largest and most important military command, the First Division.

Yusuf was conversing quietly with his oldest and dearest friend, Imam Gamel Hassan. Gamel, following in his father’s path, was a well-known leader of the Faithful, and one of Tunisia’s foremost authorities on the Koran. In spite of his youth, he was already becoming known as an Imam, and had a large and outspoken following.

Imam Hammad Hassan, who was Gamel’s father and Abdul’s oldest friend, sat opposite him in a position of honor. Even though they were of the same age, the Imam appeared older than Abdul. Hammad had been the leader of The Faithful in its abortive attempt to overthrow military government.

A rifle butt had broken Abdul’s back, but Allah had smiled upon him. Hammad had not been as lucky. The secret police had seized him, and had tortured him for seven months. Allah’s strength had preserved Hammad’s mind and spirit, and he had not revealed the identity of any of his comrades. But, they had broken his body. From the day he was released, Hammad had to be carried everywhere he went. The Faithful knew and loved him, and so all things that needed to be done were done. In spite of his broken body and advanced years, Hammad’s eyes burned with a fire that would only be quenched when Allah’s kingdom was established throughout the lands.

Immediately to Abdul’s left sat his grandson, Tafid. Never had a grandfather been more proud of a grandson. Tafid was one of The Faithful, and had successfully combined his duty to Allah with his duty to his country. Tafid was slight, like his mother, but retained his father’s great strength. As a child, Tafid’s strength had surprised more than one of his youthful companions as they wrestled and played.

Tafid had joined the small, but efficient Tunisian navy because he loved the sea. He had started out in the small, Russian missile boats that seemed to dominate naval thinking along the North African coast. When the opportunity arose to ship out in Tunisia’s flag ship, an Italian-made destroyer, he had jumped at the chance. Now, after ten years, he had become the commander of that magnificent vessel, and one of the linchpins in Abdul’s master plan.

The sixth man in the small, cool room was the closest thing to a stranger that would ever be allowed in such a clandestine meeting. The dapper little man, who affected western style clothing and was the only one in the room to be seated stiffly in a western-style chair, was necessary for their success. Ahab Dingjatha was of Pakistani descent, but his family had lived in Tunisia for four generations.

Ahab Dingjatha was one of those people who were easily forgotten. He was small, and could not be considered handsome, although he was not homely enough to be remembered either. His light brown eyes always seemed to be ready to close as though in sleep, and his mouth was creased in the glimmer of a smile at all times. But, behind his quiet, unnoticed exterior lay one of the shrewdest minds in the entire country.

Ahab had risen to the heights of power and influence in spite of his foreign appearance and affectations. As Vice Minister of the Interior Department, Ahab controlled the Secret Police. No telephone, no letter and no form of communication was secure from his snooping eyes. No secret could be held, and no person could act without his knowing about it. And, Ahab was ruthless. When his secret police arrested a suspect, it had become customary to perform a funeral, for that person was dead, or would be after Ahab had pried any information he wanted from the hapless wretch.

Dingjatha was also one of The Faithful. He had worked secretly with Imam Hammed for over twenty years. It was Ahab who had informed Imam Gamel of the impending change in command. The Chief of Staff of the Army, who was nominally Tunisia’s Premiere, was about to step down. Although he had named a successor, there were three different sects within the ruling body, and each had their own favorite. Ahab had carefully spread rumors and liberally sprinkled falsehoods to each of these groups, further undermining any potential support or compromise between the sects.

Abdul cleared his throat, and the others, respectfully, fell silent. "Allah be praised," he intoned. "According to His faithful servant, Vice Minister Ahab Dingjatha, the time we have awaited has come. It is now the time when we should talk about our final plans to overthrow this pack of dogs, and to return our people to the True Faith. Allah be praised, and his servant Mohammed, who brought us His enlightenment."
The time had come to strike! The six men gathered in that little room would decide the fate of the nation and the world.

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1.1.2 General Kamsanni

His red security phone rang and the voice on the other end said, "Allah be praised. It will begin tomorrow at 03:00 hours, and will be announced at the morning prayers." The line went dead, and General Yusuf Kamsanni smiled broadly. His division was ready to do Allah’s will.

General Kamsanni had spent the past five years developing his command structure. He had carefully culled officers he could not trust and who were not of The Faithful. Yet, in doing so, he had been careful not to undermine either his division’s fighting skills or its command authority. Each of the officers he had promoted had come from a good family and had the required military skills to handle his assignments. More importantly, each of them was under the influence of an Imam known to his father.

Just days before, he had warned his senior officers to be prepared for extensive maneuvers. He had told them that the exact timing would remain a secret in order to test their reactions to an actual state of emergency. Still, by forewarning them, he had prepared them and their units for the rapid deployment of his division.

The Tunisian First Division had been patterned after the old Soviet model, and had retained that structure ever since the mid-70’s. By western standards, the 6,600 troops under his command rated only as a brigade. But, they were the elite military force in Tunisia, and by far the most powerful.

His division was composed of three regiments, each reinforced by an armored company equipped with Russian T-90 Main Battle Tanks. Two of his regiments were follow-up troops, which were more lightly armed and were transported by truck. However, his lead regiment was fully mechanized and rode into battle in BTR and BTM fighting vehicles. To support this impressive force, he had batteries of 200-mm self-propelled howitzers, 57-mm and quad 23-mm AAA and teams armed with Grail, shoulder-held anti-aircraft missiles. There was no force within 500 kilometers that could deter his division.

The general called his second in command, issuing terse orders to begin the exercise at exactly midnight. He counted on the fact that the colonel would inform each of the regimental commanders as soon as they had broken their connection. After all, it would not be politic to keep such an important operation a secret. In fact, the general counted on having all his troops ready to roll in order to be in the outskirts of Tunis when the jihad began just after sunrise.

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1.1.3 Commander Kamsanni

The Tunisian destroyer and flagship, Admiral ben Ahmeed, rode quietly at anchor beneath the hot May sun. As is traditional in most navies, the time was kept in the old-fashioned way, and eight bells had just been rung throughout the ship. As the last echo of the last bell reverberated to extinction, the ship-to-shore phone rang in the Captain’s quarters. Commander Tafid Kamsanni lifted the receiver, and listened. "Allah be praised. It will begin tomorrow at 03:00 hours, and will be announced at the morning prayers."

Tafid smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Today was going to be special for more than one reason. This was also his thirty-sixth birthday, and his senior officers had planned a small surprise birthday party for him in the middle of the afternoon watch. Kamsanni could neither overdress nor underdress. Photographs would be taken and perhaps even published in the papers. Yet, if he wore something too formal, his officers would then know that their plans had leaked, and he would destroy their surprise.

At 12:05 hours, Commander Kamsanni arrived on the bridge. Officers and ranks snapped to attention as the ancient ritual of the captain’s appearance demanded. Since they were in port, rather than at sea, the normal bridge complement was reduced. About one-third of the crew had been carefully selected to go ashore. The remaining men and officers were completely loyal to their captain and were prepared to follow his orders with blind obedience.

But, a ship has its own rhythms and rituals which must be honored. Regardless of the momentous news he had received, or the upcoming party, it was time for the weekly inspection of the ship by its commanding officer. Each section had polished and cleaned its assigned areas. It was a source of pride to the ship that the CO should inspect it with white gloves, and, if the crews were successful, they would receive his high compliments.

The inspection began on the bridge. The Navigating Officer, who was third in command, was responsible for that space. Yet, the bridge was always under inspection so this was the easiest part of the routine.

Kamsanni descended the short ladder just aft and below the bridge towards the heart and soul of his ship, the Combat Information Center. As he stepped over the coaming and parted the heavy curtains, he was enveloped by its icy cold and enshrouded within its inky blackness. He smelled the dankness that seemed to be an intrinsic part of air-conditioning and shuddered at its unclean odor tinged with ozone. He heard only the quiet hum of electronics, and saw only the cameo of the technicians who worked in the eerie green glow of their displays. He hated the cold and the dank darkness -- he hated the CIC.

Kamsanni hated the very essence of the place. Everywhere else he went on his ship, officers and crewmen jumped to attention, showing their respect for him. Here they sat self-absorbed in mystic rituals and ignored him. He hated the magic stored in the black boxes and his dependency upon it. He yearned for the days when a captain commanded his ship from the bridge and shouted orders to the crew. Perhaps this vigilance was worthwhile. Perhaps the magic was necessary. But, Kamsanni was not sure.

He emerged from the dank hole onto the foredeck -- the section of his ship he loved the most. Immediately, he walked to his pride and joy -- the great white, dual 5.38-inch gun turret that dominated the ship’s bow. Regardless of missiles, electronics and other more fashionable weaponry, it was the big, rifled guns that could hurl a 30-kilo shell for twenty kilometers that filled him with awe. No enemy within that radius was safe from his mighty warship.

Further aft, above and behind the twin-gun turret, was the single-arm missile launcher. Below it was the rotary bin that held his ship’s antiaircraft and other missiles. But the sterility of the single arm poised upon a stark pedestal held no emotional impact for him. Neither did the snaking coil of rocketry in the magazine one deck below it.

The inspection progressed amidship, to other areas of the ship Kamsanni loved. The crew’s quarters were clean and orderly. The well-dressed young men stood respectfully in the presence of their superior. The galleys were spotless and shining. The larders were well-stocked. The aroma of coffee lingered pleasantly.

However, as he went further aft, he was forced to abandon his delight in his ship and crew. The stench of petrol assaulted his nose as he inspected the helicopter deck and the launch/recovery area. After that came the part of the ship he hated most of all. The engine room and engineering spaces reeked of oil and lubricants. Although the spaces were clean and orderly, he had no respect for the officers or the men who served here. They were mechanics and people who worked with their hands. They were hardly deserving of being called human.

Kamsanni brusquely addressed the Chief Engineering Officer and fled to the clean air of the fantail, with its naval pennant dangling limply in the afternoon stillness. As always, he turned to look the full length of his beautiful vessel, and to breathe deeply of the sea air. His gaze swept beyond his ship to the edge of the harbor and into the sweltering city of Tunis. He smiled inwardly. There was no escaping from the fury of his guns. And woe be to the Air Force should they dare to interfere!

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1.1.4 Ahab Dingjatha

Vice Minister Ahab Dingjatha was preening himself as he sat behind his ornate desk. He had made two phone calls, one to General Kamsanni and the other to the Admiral ben Ahmeed anchored in the harbor. Everything was underway. If it were Allah’s will, he would be the Premier of Tunisia ... eventually.

Oh, he’d have some trouble with the Holy Men. They had no understanding of the real world. They thought the answer to everything was prayer and sacrifice. Dingjatha knew better. The answer was power. Yes, all power came from Allah, but one must also have power here on Earth. His control of the Secret Police gave him more power than any of them would ever realize, until it was much too late.

For years, he had maintained control by working from behind the scenes. He had spread lies to dissemble his adversaries. The more they distrusted each other, the more they came to confide in him. His power begot power. Allah be praised!

He needed to place one more phone call. He couldn’t let that pompous general who styled himself as the Premier address the Ruling Council. That man was an orator and a demagogue. He was capable of cajoling and persuading. If Dingjatha were to allowed it, the Premier would announce a successor. He had to be stopped. One call would silence him.

Dingjatha had a man who was perfect for the job. The man had a grievance with the Premier. Dingjatha had even forgotten what it was. It didn’t matter. The man wanted revenge, and Dingjatha was ready to use him. Ahab’s secret police had held the man incommunicado while training him for this mission.

Upon receiving Dingjatha’s call, the police plucked the would-be assassin from his cell, and dressed him as a beggar. Carefully, they concealed a gun and a hand grenade within his rags. As they drove him to the prearranged spot, they reviewed his orders. They left, only to return and take up concealed positions, ready to fulfill their own mission.

The afternoon prayer ended. The nearby market, which had been closed during the heat of the day, suddenly sprang to life. Vendor’s voices filled the air. Men argued prices. Women searched for bargains. The squeals of children at play rang out.

A black, stretched limo pulled up to the curb. The tall, obese Premier dressed in formal robes stepped out just feet from the beggar. As dictated by Islamic Law, the Premier extracted a few coins from his purse, and dropped them into the beggar’s palm, thereby receiving Allah’s blessing.

A gunshot rang out! The Premier fell, grasping his stomach. The security men leapt out from their hiding places, their guns blazing. The assassin’s body was torn to shreds under the impact of dozens of 9-mm bullets. Within the folds of his blood-soaked rags, they discovered not only the murder weapon, but also a hand grenade.