Gauntlet (52 page)

“Bullshit, Jennifer. There’s nothing wrong with me other than the blinding pain in my head, thanks to a couple of shots from that bastard and smashing my own head into a stone wall back in that dungeon, oh, I’d say five or six times. I’ve had migraines all my life, and I’ve got one now. Don’t lecture me unless you’ve walked a mile or two in my shoes.” He shouted out the last words in a whisper, managing somehow to remember that they were trying to hide.

“Yes, that may be true. But it’s still one hell of a pile of meds, and powerful stuff to boot. Vicodin is addictive. I think you need some help,” she continued. “Your road’s going to lead straight to a heroin addiction if you’re not careful.”

“Go fuck yourself, Jen. We may be dead here. Look at the lights on the other side of that canyon. They’re looking for us. Those guys will have us for breakfast. I don’t know about you, but when that moment comes, I would like to be very, very stoned.”

“Richard, you cannot give up like that. You used to be the best of the best. I need you to get back to that. I need you alert and helping me, if we’re going to get out of this mess,” Jennifer snapped.

Richard knew she was right. He knew that he needed to stay sharp if he was going to come through this. If he was going to bring his partner through safely. But the pain and stress were overwhelming. He was squinting his eyes constantly now because it hurt too much to open them all the way. He could count his heartbeats by the surge of the blood pounding through his temples.

“Jen, I will come through when you need me,” he mumbled. “I can promise you that. I just can’t stay sharp every second. Give me a break, here.”

“Whatever,” she retorted, and continued to focus on the goat trail ahead of her.

Another hour passed, and the night sky started surrendering to a pink pre-dawn glow on their right. They kept driving — there was no time to rest or contemplate the beauty of the early morning. Jennifer was about to make a comment about the dawn when the Jeep’s engine missed a few beats, restarted, missed a few more strokes, and died. Richard, who appeared to be fading in and out of consciousness, roused himself enough to note the change.

“What’s up?” Richard asked. “Restart it.”

“Out of gas. It was inevitable. And dawn is just over the horizon. By now those drug guys will have searched every inch of that road. They’ll know we turned off. They may be on this trail as we speak. We’ve got to keep moving, Richard.”

“Which way?”

She looked up at a draw leading between two high hills. According to the sunrise, that would be east.

“That way,” she said, pointing up.

“No Jen, there’s very little vegetation up there. No cover that way.”

“It’s our only choice. When they find the Jeep they’ll send a team downstream, along this trail, right away. That would be the logical way for us to go,” she replied. “So logically, we can’t take it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “But before we start our trek, let’s hide the Jeep. See that little ravine, there?” he said, pointing. “Let’s push the Jeep down that way, and cover it up some. They’ll find it eventually, but it may save us an hour or two.”

“Good idea,” said Jennifer. Together they put their shoulders to the Jeep, and pushed it into the ravine. Jennifer hopped down after it, and arranged grass and brush to cover it. As she climbed out of the ravine, she was nearly knocked over by Richard, rushing down after the vehicle.

“Wait!” he shouted. “I left Zak in the Jeep. I can’t leave him. I can’t leave Zak.”

Before Jennifer could stop him, he had jumped back into the ravine where they’d hidden the Jeep. “Richard, you idiot! It’s just a bone. It might not even be Zak’s. We don’t have time for this. Please!”

He ignored her, and disappeared from view. She could hear him rustling and cursing at the bottom of the ravine. Ten minutes passed before he finally returned with his grisly memento.

Jennifer was jogging in place when he got back, itching to be gone. “Richard, I’ve been thinking. I got in a few words to Buckingham just before we were nailed. He knows that we’re in trouble. The cavalry’s coming. We just need to stay alive a few more hours. Let’s go. Please, PLEASE don’t waste any more time.” She grabbed his hand and, half pulling him, half supporting him, clambered up the hillside.

T
HE PATH had started as a gentle draw, but after about 15 minutes of walking it became steeper, and grew into low cliffs that had been invisible from the roadside. In the increasing daylight, Jennifer could see Richard’s decline more clearly. His shirt was covered in dirt and blood. He was sweating heavily and gasping for breath. Dried blood caked his temples. He suddenly looked 75, and she thought his hair had more gray in it now than it had 12 hours earlier.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “Jen, I need to rest. Just for a second. Please, I can’t go another step. Please.” Richard was sounding more pathetic by the minute.

“Richard, they’re behind us, somewhere. They’re coming. Every second you delay is a second closer to death. We need to keep moving.”

“Every second I climb this cliff face is a second closer to death,” he gasped, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.

“OK, Richard. Go back to when you were 20. Go back to basic training. Your original training wasn’t to fly Tomcats, or do housekeeping assignments for the CIA. Your training was for this moment. For right now. Take a deep breath. Reach inside you. The strength is there. It must be there. Tap it. Reach for it. Take another breath. Now let’s go.”

Richard did just that. He reached. And just like in the movies, he went. For another five minutes.

“That’s it, Jen. I’m done. I’m going to sit right here, in this spot. I’ll sit here, and for five minutes, Zak and I will enjoy the view. Or I will follow you, and be dead from a heart attack five minutes from now. Go on if you want to. I’m not moving. Zak and I are now sitting,” he proclaimed to the world, as he sat down on a rocky ledge, holding Zak’s tibia tightly to his chest.

Jennifer sighed. “Alright, Richard. We’ll sit for a second.” She could see that there was no point in trying to push him any farther. He was well beyond the point of rational discourse, and had descended once again into a state of babbling, drugged psychosis. It was noon, local time. Midnight, in Arizona.

I
CAN’T BELIEVE THIS,” said the President. “The arrogant bastards have actually announced which city they’re going to destroy? Before destroying it?”

His new Secretary of Defense nodded. “Yes. That’s what the fifth message says. They’ve named the city. Las Vegas.”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was also with the President and his chief advisors in the Situation Room. “We need to put major assets on the ground and in the air, sir. We can do that. We can create a 50-square-mile no-fly zone around the city. We can mobilize battalions of Marines in there. Say the word, sir, and we’ll move immediately.”

The President looked around the long boardroom at his many advisors. They seemed to be of one mind about this, and the President finally agreed. “Yes. Create the no-fly zone. Put our assets on the ground.”

The Chairman reached for his cell phone and gave some cryptic instructions. He put the phone away and nodded at the President in affirmation.

“I guess we need to consider one other issue,” said the President slowly. “Do we go to Threat Level Red and evacuate the city?”

At this point, Admiral Jackson weighed in. “We need to look at what we have here, starting from the beginning. Our best agent in Afghanistan, Goldberg, told us that a huge terrorist strike was in the making. He got killed before he could tell us anything more specific. We have this Emir character delivering messages, which have been broadcast around the world. He would never make those threats if he couldn’t deliver, we all know that. The loss of face would be too great. But if he promises to attack a specific target, and then does so, that’s big-time power for him. Then we have the aborted telephone call from Jennifer Coe, on Richard Lawrence’s mission. They found the sixth message, and the impact is obviously huge. But they were captured or killed before they could relay its contents. Put together, these things are of huge concern, and certainly justify going to Threat Level Red, at least in the Southwest.”

“I think you’re right,” answered the President. “What do you make of this Semtex thing?”

The Chair of the Joint Chiefs answered. “Maybe this is the Semtex, maybe it’s something else. At this point, I don’t think it matters anymore. Some kind of weapon is apparently now aimed at Las Vegas. Given what the NSA and TTIC are uncovering, I think it’s likely to be nuclear.”

“My opinion is that it’s a dirty bomb,” said the Secretary of Defense. “Somehow, a large volume of radioactive material is going to be combined with the Semtex, and it’s going to be detonated, somehow, somewhere, close to the strip. Could make the city uninhabitable forever.”

“I agree,” said the President. “Four and a half tons of Semtex could topple a building, even a couple of buildings. It can create a lot of mayhem all right, but from what I’ve been told, it can’t destroy an entire city on its own. There is only one way that I know of to do that, and that’s through the use of a nuke or a dirty bomb.”

“A dirty bomb will create a large radioactive area well beyond the range of the blast itself. It would certainly destroy the entire area,” agreed the Chairman.

“What about specific targets?” pushed the President. “Things like nuclear facilities, large chemical plants, that sort of thing. Do we have anything like that in the area, that could be a more specialized target for the attack?”

“Anything like that could create a lot of damage,” said Admiral Jackson. “But to destroy an entire city, he’d almost need a nuke of some kind, wouldn’t he?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said the President. “But our Intelligence Agencies are getting nowhere with that. We do appear to be piling up an incredible amount of material from Internet sources, but nothing concrete.”

The debate went back and forth. The Vice President suggested playing the fifth message once more. One of the technicians present obliged them by doing so. A screen descended from the ceiling, to display the powerful aura of the Emir, giving his message of hate and destruction.

“Joe, what’s the state of things on the ground in Vegas right now?” the President asked his FEMA director.

“Not good, sir. I have concerns that riots or looting might break out soon. The TV channels are playing the fifth message nonstop. There’s definitely panic. Look at some of the television feeds we’re getting,” he said, motioning to the plasma screens located on most walls of the Situation Room.

The FEMA director wasn’t exaggerating. Incidents of road rage were breaking out throughout the city, as people rushed to get out. Traffic gridlock had set in. The airport terminal was jammed, as were the bus stations and freeways. Mass chaos and fear reigned, and the social structure of the city seemed to be falling apart.

“Well, that’s that,” said the President, shaking his head. “Impose martial law on the city. Bring in the troops. We need to evacuate. We need to do it now. Get on it, gentlemen,” he said. “Get on it now.”

M
ASSOUD AND JAVEED were still immersed in their meditations. They had remained in the facility, reading the Koran, and in focused and passionate prayer, preparing for their voyage to Paradise. The other eight men were working at moving the pallets of Semtex from the rear of the cube van to the floor beside the Ark. The first pallet had already been moved onto the powered tailgate, and to the floor, and the men were in the process of unwrapping the individual bricks and packing the plastic explosive into the Ark. Yousseff occasionally saw one or another of the men stop to look more closely at the polished surface of the Ark. It appeared to be a multi-colored mirror, reflecting random objects back into the interior of the building. It was a beautiful creation, and could indeed have passed as art in many communities. He knew that the men were probably also thinking about the damage the device would wreak.

“How do we connect it to the PWS-14?” asked Yousseff. “After all, we have more than four tons of explosives, plus the weight of all that metal. Together there’s got to be about five or six tons.” He looked at Kumar expectantly, raising one brow.

“It won’t weigh that much in the water, Youss. We’ve counterbalanced the Pequod. Its tail extends to account for the extra weight. The sub has to be in the water before we set the Ark on top of it. The only moment of concern is when the Ark is actually put on top of the roof assembly you see there. The Pequod will need to be sinking at that moment. If the timing is exactly perfect, everything will be fine. I’ve oiled and lubricated the gantry crane. Did that shortly after the Semtex was hijacked.”

“And if the timing is not perfect?” asked Yousseff.

“I’d rather not talk about that,” said Kumar, nonchalantly.

“And I guess that’s where the two lads come in,” said Yousseff softly in English, motioning toward Massoud and Javeed.

“Yes. They still believe in that Paradise shit. It’s one of the most tragic things I’ve ever seen. The Emir has to find boys to do his dirty work. Traumatized, orphaned children. Because no one over the age of 20, or with any family, would put stock in his bullshit. It’s an ugly business,” said Kumar.

Kumar was right, of course. It troubled Yousseff that these two would die. Usually he was able to remain detached from such issues. He had worked hard to build a wall in his mind, to make sure that emotion was never involved in any of his endeavors. But with these two boys...

He cleared his mind and brought himself back under control. He should know better than to let himself become emotional over such things. He had taken great pains, over the years, to ensure that his world operated in a purely utilitarian manner, and didn’t take moral absolutes into account. In the end, these two children would die, whether he was involved in the equation or not. If not here, and in this manner, it would be in Iraq or Afghanistan, in a suicide bombing or in some mischief on Jerusalem’s West Bank. Although he hated that it was so, the boys’ deaths were a certainty, and just a matter of time. This was all that mattered, in the end.

Hence, Yousseff, with his elegant risk and cost calculus, felt justified in doing what he did. It was his own personal life formula. He often went to great pains to explain to others the difference between him and Marak. Yousseff said that he had a conscience, of sorts. Marak didn’t. He tried not to think about why his path still ran parallel with the other man’s.

While Yousseff reflected on the mission, Kumar was mumbling something under his breath and beginning to pack Semtex farther into the base of the Ark, taking a long time to ensure that the five upwardly angled copper prongs were evenly encased by the explosive. He too was attempting to keep the image of the two teenagers out of his brain.

“Why be so careful with that area?” asked Yousseff.

“These copper spikes will act as detonators. The plans were very strict with respect to the angle, length, and diameter of these rods. If things are not perfectly accurate, the blast may deflect sideways. It could lose its focus very easily. The blast needs to cut, Yousseff, and this object will act like a magnifying lens, narrowing the blast until it is almost completely flat. Anything less than perfection on the angles won’t give us that.”

“I presume that a powerful electrical charge will be flowing through those at the critical moment,” said Yousseff.

“Exactly. The charge will come from the Pequod itself. The underside of the Ark contains a series of indentations that will be connected to copper and gold connectors on the roof of the Pequod. You can see the connectors there,” he said, motioning to the Pequod. “I’ve already checked. They are perfect mirror images of one another. It will be a perfect fit.”

T
HEY HAD BEEN UNPACKING the Semtex for some time already. Yousseff’s mind was already moving on to the next stage of the plan. “So we will pack this stuff into the Ark, and head back to the airport as rapidly as possible,” he said. “We must move as quickly as we can. Get those two to stop reading the damn Koran and help with this,” he barked at Ba’al. “Time is critical now.”

Ba’al did as he was ordered, and went to Massoud and Javeed to ask them to assist in what would be the final reload. He also had Izzy back the truck up a little further, to minimize the distance between the Ark and the truck, so that the reload would be more efficient.

Izzy hopped into the back of the van again, to bring a second pallet of Semtex down to the unwrapping and packing crew. He looked at Ba’al, who was standing idle, and asked in Urdu, “Did you piss yourself there, old friend? Was the load so heavy that you let your bladder go?”

“Screw off Iz. I did nothing of the sort.” In fact, Ba’al was becoming progressively more troubled by what was occurring. He felt as though he was watching the end of their world, being stacked and organized in the strange metal contraption of Kumar’s. After seeing even this much of the mission, he knew that they would be flying back to Afghanistan, hoping to stay under the wire of the American pursuit. He would never return to the lifestyle he had grown to love in Canada. His wife and children would be forced to find their own way home, for Ba’al would be far away and unable to help them. With this one action, everything in his life would change for good, and against his wishes. Realizing that, he had very suddenly lost his motivation for working toward this mission.

Izzy grabbed Ba’al’s arm, shaking him from his thoughts. Both men jumped to the ground and began to assist the others in unwrapping the bricks and stuffing them into the Ark. Even though the explosive would have to be ignited to cause damage, and was relatively harmless until that happened, no one was inclined to run with it, or be overly hurried or reckless with their movements. Everyone could see that the job would still take a good hour or two, even with ten men working. Yousseff was concerned when Ba’al reported to him that the Semtex story was still dominating the news channels and that the media, and specifically radio stations, were reporting that there was still a danger. The Americans were right on their heels, and one way or another, they would have this sniffed out by morning. Yousseff pushed them on, by example and by chastising them if they were too slow. “You are working slower than a Pashtun great grandmother,” he said to Ba’al at one point. “Move along. Faster.”

The men were intently focused on their work, and none saw the almost imperceptible movement of the canvas tarpaulin. Catherine was peeking through its oily folds, surveying the scene. What she saw frightened her. Ten men, or rather, eight men and two teenagers, were unwrapping the bricks of Semtex, and putting the putty-like substance into a large and peculiar container that was sitting below a sliding gantry crane. Beside the peculiarly shaped container was an even stranger craft — a boat of some kind, with fins and stubby wings, looking like some gigantic mechanized shark.

Catherine couldn’t understand how the men could be totally oblivious to her presence. Apparently they were old friends becoming reacquainted. They were chattering on as they worked, and every so often one of the men clapped another on the back in apparent affection. But their preoccupation with each other didn’t make her feel safe. The tarps barely covered her figure, and she was sure that one of her sneakers was poking out beneath them. Sooner or later someone would smell urine, and thereby smell a rat. She didn’t know that Izzy and Ba’al already had, but had failed to realize the implications.

It was 2AM, local time, on September 3. Catherine continued to peak through the tarp, watching the rapid reloading of the Semtex from the pallets into a strange, glassy smooth container, and planning her next move.