Threatcon Delta (24 page)

W
ith just a single shot fired by a sniper, the activity on the Mountain of God hadn’t been a matter for the military.

It was now.

Lieutenant Adjo slowly moved the flashlight beam across fourteen twenty-liter drums marked
NAPALM
. That explained the mice, anyway. Whenever men on the river wanted to keep rats from boarding their ships, they would put open pans of gasoline on the deck. Apparently, the smell discouraged the rodents from approaching. He couldn’t imagine what someone was planning to do with the incendiary compound in the desert but then, they might only be storing it here.

There were also a few trunks containing weapons. The cases were unlocked. No one was expecting company. There weren’t enough weapons to stage a coup or revolt; they were small arms, mostly, with a few rifles, semiautomatics, and hand grenades. He guessed it was for defense, if needed.

Perhaps they plan to move all of this out with a mass of people following the prophet,
he thought. That was how jihadists and terrorists worked. They moved around among innocents, usually schoolchildren, so they couldn’t be easily targeted by aerial strikes. Pilgrims would serve the same purpose.
But to what end?

Whispered voices reached him from somewhere along the corridor. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but the words were clipped, urgent. Whoever was coming probably didn’t think their voices would carry this far.

Adjo checked his cell phone. Not surprisingly, there was no reception in the cave.

He had to get outside to report his findings.

He took a pair of hand grenades from one of the cases and put them inside his robe. Then he went to one of the walls and turned off the flashlight. He put his hand against the wall. The way back to the passageway was direct: it would be the first opening he’d encounter. Whoever was coming wouldn’t see him.

Adjo started back at a trot, hoping to reach the tunnel before the others arrived. Watching for any sign of illumination, he soon saw a growing cone of light in the distance. It helped to light his way. He saw the opening and knew that even if he got there first, he wasn’t going to be able to get far inside before the men were upon him. All they had to do was fire a few rounds down the tunnel and the bullets, even just ricocheting, would almost certainly get him.

Adjo slowed to a walk and called out, “I borrowed one of your hand grenades and will be returning it to you without the pin!” Echoing down the tunnel it sounded like the voice of God. “You have five seconds to withdraw!”

The flashlight stopped moving. Adjo resumed running ahead. The fact that the others weren’t retreating suggested that they didn’t quite believe him. He would have to convince them.

He withdrew one of the hand grenades and sent it hopping down the sloped floor.

He had not pulled the pin, but they would not know that when they heard it coming. The goal was to buy himself time to reach the opening.

Adjo got it. He heard shouts and footsteps receding down the tunnel when the grenade was spotted. The illumination vanished but Adjo was free to flick on his own flashlight now, and he bolted for the opening.

He stopped.

It occurred to him, suddenly, horribly, that he’d made a disastrous mistake. All the enemy had to do was recover the grenade and roll it in after him, without the pin. He’d be trapped. He couldn’t believe he’d been that stupid.

Swearing, Adjo ran past the opening and fired a burst at the ceiling of the cavern. Through the cottony near-deafness that resulted, he heard shouts and more footsteps going in the other direction. That was followed by the sound of gun safeties being clicked off as orders were given to take up positions at the bend. Adjo fired another short burst at the ceiling ahead. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He just needed to keep them back long enough to recover the grenade before they did.

Following the bobbing cone of his own light, he saw the explosive lying innocently against the cavern wall two meters ahead. He heard an order given to move forward. They saw his light, too. He shut it off and dropped to his belly, scurrying toward the grenade. He felt around for it, grabbed it, and hesitated—but only for a moment. He couldn’t afford to meet a larger force in a firefight.

He pulled the pin and rolled the grenade. Simultaneously turning and noting the location of the opening, he lay down his flashlight, pressed his hands hard against his ears, which were still ringing from the gunfire, and jumped to his feet. The blast should kick up a huge cloud of dust and blind the enemy long enough for him to get away.

Following the beam of light but running outside it so they couldn’t shoot at him, Adjo ducked and swung into the gash in the cave wall. Behind him, the world flashed gray-white and loud. He dropped to his belly, holding his ears until the thunder died, then clawed ahead with desperate fingers while pushing along with his feet. His raw knees scraped the walls with every movement, but he didn’t dare stop. He needed to reach the turn ahead before any survivors came after him.

He scrambled in a way he hadn’t since trench drills when he was a new enlistee. He couldn’t see and didn’t need to; there was only one way to go, and this time gravity gave an assist. Adjo anticipated that the men had already radioed to the monastery and that his exit was being cut off. But he didn’t intend to have to fight anyone at the base of the tunnel.

The young officer heard scraping sounds behind him, of metal—like a knife or gun barrel—on rock. Obviously, not everyone had been taken out by the hand grenade. Moreover, someone apparently wanted his share of the glory.

It bothered him that he could die here, of course. What bothered him more was that he could die without making a report. He did not know if anyone outside the mountain would have heard the explosion. For all the MFO knew—or cared, which was even less—the muffled blasts were coming from somewhere else, perhaps artillery being tested across the Suez in Ras Gharib. In any case, it would take time for them to report the matter to the Ministry of the Interior, which controls and dispatches the Central Security Forces. By then Adjo would no longer have need of their protection.

There was a faint shine on the walls ahead, one he had seen from the other direction. It was the air duct.

Perspiring and bloody, and coughing as the fringes of the dust cloud crawled down the tunnel, Adjo flipped onto his back and crab-walked to where he was directly beneath the hole. He stood so that he was inside the narrow vent. It was just the right size to accommodate the drums of napalm. They must have been brought up individually at night, by car or cart, and lowered into the tunnel so they could be hauled to the cavern for storage.

His breathing was rapid, his movements anxious as he tore off his shirt as well as the shredded sleeves of his robe. He dropped them between his legs and used his feet to form them into a small mound that was thicker on the downward slope. Then he began to climb. It was only about ten meters to the top, but that was too high to jump. He had to find himself fingerholds, toeholds, and try to crawl upward. When he found it impossible to grip the relatively smooth walls with his hands, Adjo used his feet and knees to edge upward. He kept himself from backsliding by pushing against the rock with his forearms. It pained the already torn flesh, but it was the only way to ascend. When he was finally able, the officer threw his trembling, weary arms over the lip of the vent and pulled himself free.

The sun nearly blinded him, and he was forced to shut his eyes.

Quickly untying his belt—as fast as his shaking fingers would work—he cracked one eye slightly. He slipped one end of the sash through the pin of the remaining hand grenade and lowered it halfway down the airshaft. Then, holding the other end, he lay on his belly overlooking the opening. Adjo didn’t bother waiting until the pursuers were nearer. He gave the belt a hard tug. He felt the fabric grow light as the explosive dropped off. He heard a muffled
thunk
as the hand grenade landed on the piled cloth. He needed it to stay there. If it didn’t, he was a dead man.

Swinging away from the opening, Adjo scrambled down the mountainside, half rolling, half crawling, putting as much distance between himself and the air vent as possible. He was still moving when the ground shuddered beneath him. There was a muffled roar—it really did sound like distant thunder—which died quickly. He lay panting on the earth, sprawled unevenly on rocks and thistles, which were more annoying than painful. The fresh air told him just how full of paste his mouth was. He spit it out as best he could, then pinched his nose with his fingers to expel the dust with a series of snorts.

Opening his eyes no more than a slit, and still feeling the sun punch the back of his eye sockets, Adjo flopped onto his backside and slumped forward. Breathing more regularly now, he gazed toward the edge of the vent.

It was much larger than before. As he had hoped, the blast had weakened the walls and caused them to fall in. A bulb of dust was filtering from within, like Aladdin’s genie not quite taking form. There was very little of it, however, which meant that the opening had effectively been sealed.

His energy returned, the will to move took hold, and Adjo found the strength to push himself from the sweet brown earth. Wincing against the still-bright glare, he knew he had to get away lest anyone—from the monastery or the MFO—came to investigate the rumbling in the mountain. They would probably attribute it to God and stay away, but he was not going to count on that.

He rose. His bruised feet throbbed from the pain of just standing on them; it would have been easier to crawl, but his knees were too raw for that. Adjo looked around and staggered toward a slope some six meters off, neither up nor down, hoping he could remain erect until he could fall against it.

He succeeded, barely. He dropped his right shoulder against it, the part of his body that hurt the least, and gently rolled onto his back. Able to reach his water skin now, Adjo gratefully washed out his mouth and took a short drink, just enough to reinvigorate himself. The drink was like an electric shock, sending little waves of strength in all directions. He started to move away, toward the east—away from the sun—concluding that whether the enemy came from below or on the surface, they would converge on this spot. He wanted to put lateral distance between himself and the explosion.

Adjo was unprepared for his legs giving out, causing him to roll down a gradual slope to a rough but cushioned fall against a clump of bushes.

Thank you, God,
he thought. Not just for the soft landing but for the fact that none of them was burning.

He lay there limp and exhausted, in a robe more rag than garment, with eyes glad to have the upper cliff blocking the sun and a mind that wanted only rest. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He reached into his robe for his cell phone. The case was cracked, but the damn thing still worked. He punched in the direct line to Lieutenant General Samra. It seemed the most absurd partnership imaginable. Adjo was physically and emotionally spent, but this little gadget was full of pep and chirpingly eager to please.

Samra answered quickly. Adjo tried to speak, blew out air, swallowed, and tried again.

“Sir,” Adjo said, “they are storing drums of napalm inside the mountain. Also guns and close-proximity weapons.”

“What? Who is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you?”

“Mountainside,” he answered, but his sluggish brain was still chewing on the previous question. “Wait, sir,” he said. He had remembered the wallet of the man he had hit in the cave. “I took a wallet from a monk—I’m checking.”

“A monk?”

“Only dressed as one, I’m sure. He was carrying a firearm and a flashlight.”

Adjo reached deep into his robe and pulled it out. With slippery, torn fingers he withdrew an identification card. He had to rub it on his sleeve to wipe away his own blood before he could read it.

“Egyptian-issued,” he rasped. “Phut Eid.”

“I’m looking it up,” Samra said. “Are you all right?”

“A little bruised and torn,” Adjo said. “Nothing life-threatening except that men are after me. I must find a place to rest. Oh, and thank you for the supplies. They were a great help.”

“I’m sorry it couldn’t have been more,” Samra said. “Do you want an extraction team?”

“No,” Adjo said, despite the exhaustion and odds against him. “We need to know more. I must let this play out.”

“Only until tomorrow,” Samra said. “I’m reading reports from the MFO now. They heard two explosions and informed Interior. I will tell the minister that you need more time to investigate lest these lice go into hiding. However, I can’t get you more than that. The crowd out there is growing. Something has to be done.”

“By us,” Adjo said.

“What do you mean?”

“Obviously, someone else is doing something very, very well,” Adjo said.

“I have tremendous faith in you,” Samra said. “Nothing is turning up on Phut Eid. It could be a false document or he may not be on any of our watch lists.”

“It would be terrible if he really was a monk,” Adjo said. “I hit him pretty hard.”

“I’m sure he was an imposter,” Samra said. “Were there any distinguishing marks on the drums of napalm?”

“Not that I could see,” Adjo said. “It was dark and I only had a moment.”

“Very good. You need to rest now. Call me when you can and I’ll let you know if I turn up anything on the name.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Well done.”

The lieutenant turned off the phone and put it back in his robe. He took another swallow of warm water, then snuggled himself as low as he could go in the wild foliage. With the sun behind the mountain, the shadow and branches should protect him from casual observers.