Sahara Saifi

The Post today contains a tale of the gallant, made-for-Hollywood side of the War on Terror.

In February 2003, a band of Islamic extremists began scouring the desert expanse of southern Algeria for kidnap victims. The sparsely populated region's colored sand dunes and craggy mountains were a magnet for European tourists. Soon, foreigners began to vanish, two or three at a time. Within a month, 32 Europeans...had been rounded up.

The leader of the cell, [Amari] Saifi, was a tall, bearded man who dressed in shabby robes and worn-out sneakers; often he wore black eye makeup to ward off the sun's glare. Known as Abderrazak al-Para, or "the paratrooper," he had deserted from the Algerian army in 1991

Cameras pan across the Saharan mountains. They focus on a mysterious desert-dweller esconced in rocks and focusing his telescope on a cloud of dust that eventually disgorges a touring jeep. A few gutteral commands later, guerrillas in cotton robes spring upon the unsuspecting Europeans.

Flash to a control room in Northern Virginia. Angry, constipated commanders are convinced by some young free thinker that this represents a golden opportunity to salvage the place of Free America among the Saharan governments.

Satellite cameras, 700 U.S. special forces, and the armies of six nations careen across the striking red and brown barrens of the Sahel in search of Saifi. Gun battles erupt; Saifi always slips away. Finally, another rebel group captures him on their terrain, and months of tense, secretive negotiations finally result in Saifi's imprisonment. A few years later, perhaps, he is freed as a sadder and wiser man, repentant and wishing only to return to the free air of his desolate mountains.

This one's for you, Hollywood, including the terrific photo gallery.