Then came the guidance section, where so much work had been done; then the pitch gyro to keep it stable in its brief flight; the autopilot electronics package that made sure everything worked when it had to work and in synchronicity, and then the propulsion section, a solid-fuel rocket motor with a three-second burn, from there on controlled by the vanes of its fins, torquing this way and that on computer mandate to bite an atmosphere whistling by at 1.4 mach and guide it to its target. Time in flight from launch to strike would be about seven seconds. Nothing could stop it; no one would see it coming. It would be over almost before it began.
Professor Khalid climbed into the space in the van just under the shaft of the missile, and using a flashlight in his teeth and a sharp knife, cut through the yards of tape that had secured the one-hundred-pound weapon into stability for the long trip. Freeing it, he slid it back on the double rails that were milled into its upper torso on the launch armature until it clicked in place on the launcher housing, and when he heard it click, he knew that the plug on the missile had locked into the socket, establishing communication between the missile and its controls.
Now he had to turn the missile “on.” It was really that primitive, a unit designed for simplicity, to be used under battle conditions in rough situations with time of the essence, as hordes of red T-72s were racing across the Fulda Gap and the NATO missileers would be the ones who had to stop them. This rocket happened to be Norwegian, and had once patrolled the northern NATO defensive perimeter aboard a Norwegian tank-destroyer vehicle.
Khalid went around to the front of the van—a cool breeze refreshed his moist brow as he went and now took from under the rear seat the heart of his improvisations upon the system, the original Norwegian control box, a military-strongbox with cable and a blunt, functional keyboard, ran the cable to the missile launch module, and plugged it in.
“Dr. Faisal, please run your program,” he said, “and make your system checks.”
Faisal came to the device, took out a small disc, found the input slot, and inserted the disc and pushed a certain number of keys. His information, concealed in Norwegian encryption that had taken him months to penetrate, flowed into the central processing unit of the missile. It held but one meaning: not to search for a specifically designated laser coding as the system had been originally designed to do, but for something much more primitive: a unique radio signal. No laser need apply; within the seeker module, behind the lenslike nose aperture, was not a laser seeker but a highly sensitive miniature FM receiver that was prelocked on to a unique frequency and would then only recognize an encoded tone. Old technology but very reliable. It would cause very tiny deviations from the path by sending signals to the servos that controlled the rocket’s fins. As the signal increased with proximity, the servos continued their adjustments. They sought the strongest signal and kept making it even stronger and rode the trolley toward detonation.
Now, at the control box, facing the launch menu in glowing Norwegian, Khalid designated a trajectory: the LOAL-DIR or Lock-On After Launch-Direct mode, meaning the missile would launch blind into the stratosphere at a relatively low angle, and when it found the encoded tone on the designated frequency the CPU aboard would tweak the servos and keep adjusting the angle of attack, then plummet directly to the target on that vector.
And all it would take to—
“We are ready,” he said to Faisal.
Faisal, with a police-frequency scanner purchased from Radio Shack, hunted for the signal. In the space where it should have been was nothing but static. He looked at his watch. It was 7:46:30. Not a noise anywhere on the immediate spectrum.
“Not yet,” he said.
“I wonder how long we can stay here before we are discovered.”
“Where is he? What is going on?”
“Agh,” said Faisal. “To come this far and fail. Aghhh—Allah will not allow it.”
“But will the FBI?” asked the anxious Professor Khalid.
At that point, the Park Services patrol car came slowly down the road to the parking lot.
THE WHITE HOUSE
EXECUTIVE DRIVE
WASHINGTON, DC
1938.12 HOURS
A Hellfire missile,” said Nick, incredulous. A missile? A missile. His mind seemed to fill with torrents of thick sludge as he struggled with the concept.
“It’s Norwegian,” said Hollister. “Came on the black market in Serbia, Zarzi paid for it on behalf of Al-Q. They have two scientists—an Indian rocket guidance expert and an Egyptian software genius—to decrypt it and make some basic changes. Instead of new-fangled laser it homes in on an old-fashioned FM tone at a specific frequency.”
“What FM tone?”
“Zarzi’s got a miniaturized FM transmitter in his wristwatch. The Russians built it for him. He pushes a button, it’s good for ten seconds of broadcast, missile flying through its cone reads it, locks on, and bang. They’re launching from the Iwo Jima Memorial. It will be in the air less than seven seconds. They’re going to detonate it on Zarzi. It’ll cut down everyone on the podium and half the audience. Now, I’ve told you, please, get me out of here.”
Nick suddenly achieved clarity, and understood exactly what had to be done and in what order. First Zarzi. Stop him or at least lock him in place so the president could get away from him.
“Sniper, hit Zarzi, take him down hard. Do it now!” Nick snapped.
Now: clear the fucking area.
He went to his unit, hit broadcast, held the button down.
“Break-break, all units, all units, emergency, incoming missile, clear the area, clear the area, this is no drill. Incoming missile, evacuate!”
Cruz rolled from the car, saw he didn’t have a shot because of a screen of trees, rotated around the iron fence until the angle came clear. He brought up the rifle, his finger ticking off the safety, and with his fine offhand skill he caught the face of Zarzi quadrasected by the crosshairs, and heard, “I lase two thirty-five, make it two and a third mil-dots above the hairs, one quarter value left windage,” and felt Swagger next to him, on the laser ranger, and as the slack came out of the trigger he saw Zarzi with a hand at the watch and though he hurried, he had to hurry smoothly and even as the shot broke and the scope image leaped after leaving a nanosecond’s view of shattered face, he knew he was too late.
“And so, Mr. President and my American friends,” Zarzi said in his fine baritone, “I stand before you, my honor regained, and I bring you greetings from my country and the bosom of my faith,” as his fingers played with the button on his watch. He smiled. He was happy. God is great. He was home. The years of debauchery, the lust for women and boys, the pleasures of alcohol and drugs, the addiction to the smoothness of silk, the softness of fine wool, the glitter of beautiful jewelry, it was all behind him.
“Incoming missile!” someone screamed. “Run, run, incoming missile!” And the crowd began to scream and disintegrate as panic filled the hearts, minds, and legs of those before him while at the same time men were tugging on the president. At that moment he touched the button on his watch, felt it click, and stepped through the gates of paradise, and then the Black Hills 168-grain Match bullet cracked into his cheekbone beneath his left eye and turned his brain to atomized jelly.
IWO JIMA MEMORIAL
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
1938.13 HOURS
As the policeman stopped and started to get out of his car, Bilal fired an AK-47 burst into his front tire, ripping it up, the percussion of the burst driving all tourists into panicked terror and the cop back into his car.
“Hurry up,” he screamed. “More will be here in seconds.”
“There is nothing,” screamed Dr. Faisal.
“Oh, Allah, I beseech thee,” implored Khalid, “send your sinning son a signal so that he may complete a—”
The blinking red light on the scanner signified success.
“It’s there,” screamed Dr. Faisal. “Yes, it’s—”
Khalid pushed the key.<
br />
Nothing happened.
“Oh my God!” shrieked Faisal.
His mind blanked, then came back and he remembered the launch sequence, repeated it, felt resistance in one of the keys, examined it, saw some piece of debris in the mechanism, scuffed it away, continued the sequence. Then he pushed the launch key again.
The missile’s engine fired and in .0005 seconds it acquired the 800 pounds of thrust necessary for flight and it fired from the van, appearing to rip the fabric of the universe, affording a glimpse into one of hell’s furnace rooms so hot no eyes could stand it, and all who saw it looked away as the rocket motor burned through its three seconds of solid fuel and in 300 yards had acquired enough velocity to arm itself, but still it accelerated, reaching 1.4 mach in another second or two.
It climbed to 800 feet and there acquired the message from Zarzi’s Casio watch, for it peaked as it skidded through the air, the vanes of its fins adjusting accordingly as its CPU solved the differential calculus necessary to guide it to its destination, then it yawed, bent around the sky, and began to hammer downward.
The two old men could follow it in the dark air from the slight trail of smoke, though no eyes were fast enough to focus on the missile itself. It seemed to ride a diagonal plumb line down to earth, without deviation, hesitation, qualm, or mercy, and it disappeared behind some trees, and then a flash lit the night sky over Washington and a second later the noise of the blast reached their ears.
“Allah Akbar,” said Khalid.
“You have returned to the faith, oh my brother,” said Dr. Faisal. “It is a night of miracles.”
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
1938.20 HOURS
A screaming came across the sky.
Two hundred thirty yards out, at the foot of the wrought-iron fence, Swagger turned on the noise just in time to see a streamlined blur incoming at a speed which has no place in time, turned again, and threw himself on Ray, driving him to the ground. In another instant the detonation cut the sky in half with a blade of light that reached the stars and simultaneously drilled a tremor through the earth and seemed to drive a nail into each eardrum. Then the blast wave struck, momentarily crushing everything erect in its mighty rush to infinity, sucking all the air from the planet. Next, an almost eerie silence, until someone began to scream.
Swagger rose.
Next to him came Ray, rising from the ground, and then Nick.
They saw the zone of destruction from 230 yards out. The missile had hit the podium and cratered a 20-foot gap in the earth, smoking now. All the windows on the walkway from the West Wing to the main residence were shattered, as were those of the West Wing, and many of the window frames were blown askew. The building’s famed white flanks were seared with the ochre of extreme but brief heat. Trees everywhere were toppled or shattered and shrubbery was torn out by its roots. Flames licked out of one of the Oval Office windows, and another fire announced its presence in a line of bushes closer to the main residence.
Across the lawn, in the flickering light of the fires, the bodies lay, flattened, twisted, smashed to earth horribly. But then . . . movement. Then some more movement. One by one, then ten by ten and twenty by twenty, the frail sacks of flesh stirred and began to pick themselves up, the stronger aiding the weaker; they climbed to their feet or rolled to sit up, groggy, shaky, hair a mess, unbelieving and begrimed.
A voice crackled over the radio, “The president is unhurt, the president is unhurt,” and then others, “Break-break, get emergency medical here fast, goddamnit, I have many people down,” and the sirens began to sound.
“Good God,” said Ray.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Nick.
“Where’s Susan?” said Bob.
They walked back to the SUV as the howl of the sirens rose and the first of the emergency services vehicles roared by.
The SUV wasn’t there.
Susan lay in the grass. She was so beautiful. Her hair was slightly mussed, which made her even more beautiful. The wise, serene diamond eyes were open, the face calm, the cheekbones taut under the alabaster skin.
Her throat had been cut.
PART FIVE
JAMESON
MARRIOTT RESIDENCE HOTEL
WILSON BOULEVARD
ROSSLYN, VIRGINIA
1108 HOURS
TWO DAYS LATER
He awoke in a stupor. Brain foggy, memory shot, limbs in pain. Only one dream, obvious. Handsome Prince tries to save the world but forgets to save the Beautiful Princess. Part of Prince, fool of fools, played by Bob Lee Swagger. Princess played by Susan Okada, St. Louis, daughter of oncologist; Yale University; career CIA; best, brightest, most beautiful; thirty-eight years old now and forever. What was the point of saving the world if there was no Susan Okada in it?
Fuck, he thought. If I had to do it again, I’d trade her life for all those guys in suits who think they’re so important. The generals, the admirals, the president, his cabinet officers. Let the devil have them all for an eternity of punishment and take me along for good measure, torture me, it’s fine, if it could spare Susan Okada’s life. Fuck ’em, he thought. Fuck ’em all to hell forever, and me too, fuck me, just fuck me to hell.
God, how it sucked hard and long. He wished he could sink back into dreamless nothingness. If only one of the thousands of shots taken in his direction over the years had been better aimed or untouched by wind he would not have this nearly unendurable thing festering in his brain. He just lay there for a long, long time, hoping to die, but death seemed to be off duty. Where was it when you needed it? Come on, motherfucker, take me, not her. Okay. Me, I’m the one you want, the one you been trying to nab all these years. But death didn’t answer.
Finally, he looked around the hotel room, remembered the debriefing, the statement, the medical check, remembered that Ray and Nick were somewhere else. He wasn’t sure what time it was or what time he’d gotten back, but he’d crashed hard and slept straight through after something like seventy-two on his feet. A message light blinked on the phone, and he picked it up, had twenty-six of them, dumped through them fast until Nick came on, saying, “We’re going to debrief again in the director’s office at one thirty today. Let me know you got this.”
He tried to figure out the coffee machine, finally got it going. He looked at his watch. It was 11:17 on the first day of a rest of his life he did not want. He went to the door, opened it, and found a Washington Post.
He glanced at it. About three-quarters of the front page seemed to be bullshit: spin, counterspin, counter-counterspin, blame, recrimination, disavowal, analysis long term, analysis short term. What the Administration said, what the opposition said, what the English and the French said, what Al-Jazeerah said. Where the fuck were the facts? One story seemed to be the update, and he pressed through it.
Six dead, the rest contusions, sprains, a few broken bones, a few heart emergencies, and some feeling very hurt. No big guys had gone down. Sing hallelujah. Decorate the tree. Hide the painted eggs. Get out the funny masks. Fuck all suits, uniforms, and the men who thought they deserved them. Theirs, ours, it was all the same.
As far as the launch team at Iwo: the two dead-by-police scientists were Khalid Biswa, who worked guidance in the Indian rocket program, though he was a Muslim. Indian Secret Service suspected him of passing secrets to the Pakistanis, and he had disappeared about three years ago. The other guy was Dr. Faisal Ben-Abuljami, University of Alexandria, computer sciences, consultant for years to various bad apple groups who wanted to take their jihad into cyberspace. And the final guy, the one who survived, a real world-class Palestinian operator named Bilal Ayubi, a thousand ops, wanted all over Europe and especially by the Israelis. Evidently the sort of guy you wouldn’t want to mix with on a dark night.
The phone rang.
It was Cruz.
“Hey, spotter,” he said. “How’s the old guy?”
“I feel like shit.”
“I’m sorry about Okada, G
unny. I know she was special to you.”
“You lose people. It’s wrong, it’s sad, it’s the cruelty of the goddamn process, but it ain’t ever going away. You lose people. I’ll go to the funeral, I’ll get over it, or at least figure out how to keep going. Anyway, hell of a shot you made.”
“That was Whiskey Two-Two’s shot. It’s the one I was born to make. It’s the one Billy Skelton died to get done. In the end, it was easy. Some old dog ranged it for me. I was just the triggerman.”
“Ray, let me just say it: you’re the goddamn best. Nobody ever pays the IOUs that guys like you—”
“And guys like you—”
“And Susan Okada. Whatever. Nobody pays the IOUs that guys like you and she rack up, so you end up doing it for free, for nothing. They even forget to say, hey, thanks, you saved the world, or at least a little neighborhood of it. But you and her, you saw what nobody else saw and you figured out what nobody else figured out and had the guts to move on it. Because of the two of you we’re going to live in one kind of a place instead of another.”
Dead Zero Page 35