Quantico

by Greg Bear

  Al-Husseini nodded.

  ‘I will shoot you if you make a sound, understood?’ Fouad said.

  Al-Husseini tossed his head, Does it matter?

  ‘Dignity matters. Timing matters. I know that you will do anything to stop us. And we truly are here to prevent an abomination. So…I can shoot you now, without dignity, trussed up like a sheep…’

  Al-Husseini nodded slowly. He had been in bad situations before, Fouad suspected. Close to death, as well; though not so close as he was now.

  Fouad loosened the gag.

  ‘This is awkward,’ Al-Husseini said, his voice low. ‘I have lost everything—my family is in the Netherlands, the Custodians of the Holy Mosques have fled, and I am guilty of many crimes. If you are to be my executioner—’

  Fouad said, ‘We are not so far from the Mount of Mercy. You have done Hajj?’

  Al-Husseini nodded. ‘My family has lived in Jeddah for many decades. I first went as deputy to an old Hajji when I was fourteen. I performed Hajj myself when I was a young man, just married. My wife went with me.’

  ‘I have not,’ Fouad said, and sat beside Al-Husseini, drawing up his legs. ‘This will not count, even if I die here.’

  Al-Husseini regarded his killer with both wonder and growing alarm. ‘I have always asked others to die with dignity. Now…I am weak. Can you not let me return to my family? I will say nothing.’

  ‘My father would not have let you. And I cannot,’ Fouad said. Both were speaking Arabic now.

  ‘Forget our fathers and our history,’ Al-Husseini said, starting up. Fouad pushed him gently back. ‘This is no joke, no play-act!’

  ‘The world is sick,’ Fouad said. ‘Dignity is the only answer. Here, at the heart of the world…God is surely great and most merciful, God understands all and forgives…’

  Al-Husseini’s lips moved in prayer but his eyes were searching for escape. There was no way around it, and no delaying. Fouad brought up his pistol and with one hand turned Al-Husseini’s head.

  At the last the older man went limp and let loose his water and closed his eyes. Then he apologized and began praying earnestly. Fouad gave him a few more seconds.

  ‘Jesus,’ William said, cringing at the single shot coming from the windowless minibus. Amir looked at him with narrowed eyes. The streets were almost deserted now and none of the few stragglers seemed to notice his exclamation.

  ‘We’re three long blocks from the first truck,’ Rebecca said. ‘Jane says there’s an underground walkway nearby. Pilgrims are trying to get out of Mina as fast as possible.’

  The mass of pilgrims had already shifted to the main roads through the center of Mina. Thousands had dropped their supply of pebbles as they fled. Small piles and scatters littered the street. Buses and cars had been abandoned, some blocking access to the smaller roving armored vehicles.

  In the distance they heard the rumble of a tank chewing up pavement. A thick, ugly belch of diesel exhaust curled above the square gray blocks of new concrete apartments. The wind had died. Rebecca was watching the tank’s filthy plume curl lazily in the still morning air. This would not be the best time to launch the rockets—even if the trucks had survived and were still on the move. But if Jane was right, and Winter had died, the rest of the Israeli extremists might be in disorder, desperate.

  Jane directed them down a warren of alleys. William stumbled on a cobble and skidded on some pebbles, nearly falling. He caught himself and slammed up against a concrete wall. The sound of his harsh breath echoed from the gray buildings. Overhead, an old woman threw open a window and stared down on them, but quickly withdrew. Fresh bullet holes had pocked the walls.

  ‘They’ve all gone mad,’ Amir whispered as they passed an elderly black man, his ihram stained with blood, one leg crushed and impressed by a tire tread.

  Fouad spoke to their shipboard guides. ‘The walkways are almost empty, just bodies. We see no truck.’

  ‘We’re updating,’ Dalrymple said. ‘Fresh UAV image coming in now. You should be seeing our midges. We see you.’

  They all looked up. Four bird-like craft zipped overhead at roof level, then curved out of sight. They heard the distant roar of a crowd on the move, more armored vehicles.

  The plume from the tank had shifted. The wind was changing.

  Rebecca and William stayed close to a wall of stones set in plaster. Rusted spikes topped the wall. A midge flitted over the wall and down the street. The images in their gogs flickered. Rebecca heard only digital slices of Jane saying, ‘…see you. Next street—heavy…’

  Grange ran across the street and whipped off his gogs in disgust. ‘Mine are useless. Getting anything?’

  Rebecca shook her head, frowning. ‘Hold on.’

  ‘…there’s a truck that meets…—scription…street east…’

  ‘Maybe something east,’ William said, ‘next street over.’

  Fouad had gone around the corner and now he came back long enough to wave his arm. The cross street, empty moments before, filled with the frontrunners of the crowd they had heard earlier, being harried by an armored vehicle that chugged and veered. A soldier in a green army helmet leaned back from the vehicle’s open hatch and fired an automatic weapon into the air.

  Rebecca kept close to William, with Grange right behind. They approached the cross street carefully as men in ihram and an old woman in gray broke away from the flow and ran back to where they had been, by the body of the old man—turned in confusion—and then ran again, jumping for the sidewalk as an old Mercedes roared along the narrow passage, tires squealing.

  Clear as could be, Jane’s voice was back in their ears: ‘Jannies have cornered a suspect truck,’ she said. ‘Meets the description. It’s a block east.’

  Periglas broke in. ‘We can target an OWL. You have a cluster coming up on prime position.’

  Dillinger added, ‘If this is the truck, we should take it out now.’

  They pushed through the last of the pilgrims fleeing northwest. In a roundabout half-circled by new apartments of brick and concrete, opening to the north and affording a view of the shadowed mountains and the tent city, they saw a large white Volvo truck with a canvas cover. The windshield had been crazed by bullets and a body hung from the open driver’s side door. Fouad, Amir, and Mahmud were exchanging pistol shots with two young men on the back of the truck.

  Dalrymple said, ‘We see a second vehicle about a klick east of you. It’s stopped on a side street. Some of your men are in that vicinity and have called down a strike. That’s what you’ll hear in three minutes.’

  William tried to find the tank exhaust. He couldn’t, but the wind was increasing and blowing from the southeast. ‘Where are the pilgrims?’ he asked.

  ‘Most seem to be passing the Al Malim mosque,’ Jane said. ‘There might be ten or twenty thousand along the Jamarat overpass.’

  Rebecca and William took up a position behind a low ornamental wall fifty yards from the Volvo truck. Two of the young men—olive-skinned, black-haired, they looked and dressed Arab—had rolled back the canvas covers from the side opposite, trying to keep out of the line of fire. They had revealed three large crates, the wooden tops pulled aside and stashed between.

  A matter of seconds. One young man waved a small white rectangle in his hand.

  Simultaneously, three bright red dots zipped across the front of the truck—laser pointers from Fouad’s men. Across the roundabout, a second group of Jannies emerged from behind a wall and began firing.

  Fouad ran and waved his hand frantically for everyone to get back.

  ‘Look away and cover!’ Grange shouted. ‘OWL descending.’

  There was no sound, simply a foreboding, a silent presence like a huge finger pushing aside the air. William felt his breath catch. The ground bucked and an unimaginable noise caught him mid-air and made the flesh of his legs and arms strain back from the bones. Out of the corner of his eye, through the fingers of his right hand and tightly closed eyelids he saw the flashbulb brilli
ance of the explosion that punched the truck through the pavement and concrete and deep into the earth. The searing heat from the fountain of white fire raised blisters on his face and hand. He hit the ground several yards back. His shirt caught on fire and he rolled and felt Rebecca and Grange slapping down the flames.

  ‘Move back!’ they were shouting, and William got to his feet and ran. He could not help but look back—and the image, though much reduced, still half-blinded him. A whitehot smoking volcano had broken through the pavement and buildings and filled the roundabout with simmering waves of heat and light. Showers of burning white metal spewed from the hole and stuck sizzling against the buildings, cracking concrete, stones and plaster.

  Another explosion rocked them. Looking east through a gap in the buildings, William half-saw, through dancing voids of after-images, a second column of brilliance ascend over the tent city.

  Two down, William hoped, and then realized he had lost Rebecca and the others. He couldn’t see them—he could barely see at all. His ears were ringing and he had burns over much of one side of his body.

  Fouad came up beside him. ‘Hey, classmate,’ he said. ‘You’re injured.’

  ‘Sunburn,’ William said.

  Fouad had similar burns across half his face. ‘When in the desert, wear sunscreen. I do not see the others.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Then it is you and me, bro’.’ Fouad behaved as if in mild shock; pupils dilated, face pale behind the burn. ‘One more truck. Did you hear where it might be?’

  William shook his head. The earnodes were quiet. He looked down at a small winged thing that lay on the asphalt before them—a midge. It had been knocked from the sky by the blast. He was about to nudge it with his toe when Fouad grabbed his arm. He winced at the touch—he stung all over. They backed off. The midge erupted in white flame and exploded with a sharp pop. ‘Det cord,’ Fouad observed.

  William heard Jane Rowland, her voice again clicking in and out. ‘We see you. Can’t find others. There’s a—’

  William bent his head toward the sky, as if that might help, and covered his ear with a cupped hand. ‘Say again, Jane.’

  ‘Now I see both of you.’

  Midges whistled between the buildings. Fouad was keeping his eye on lines of men in white robes walking with purpose down the broad boulevard. Some had been burned and were moaning. Drivers were returning to their cars and buses but there were loud shouts and the sirens of ambulances and a fire truck nearby, trying to get through.

  ‘Third truck, Jane,’ William said. ‘One more to go. Any sign?’

  ‘Something…an alley. There are troops between you and the alley. I’ll pass directions to your gogs.’

  ‘I’m not seeing anything in my—’ But then he did have a map image, as did Fouad, who touched his glasses with a look of boyish delight. ‘So fine,’ Fouad muttered. ‘We must buy her flowers.’

  An armored vehicle pushed through cars and swung onto their street, ignoring shouting pilgrims and outraged drivers. William counted twelve uniformed men on foot following the multi-axle armored vehicle. The troops were wearing black berets and khakis—similar to their own. They spotted William and Fouad and immediately the observer in the vehicle held his hand over one black earphone, getting instructions. Other men aimed automatic weapons.

  Crowd sound and the roar of the fire from the roundabout made it difficult to hear. Fouad could not translate. ‘Wave cheerfully and let’s get inside,’ he said. They waved and smiled and pushed up to a doorway flush in the concrete wall. The door was not locked. In the holiest city, why would anyone lock their doors? Just like at the Academy, William thought. Fouad entered second. ‘They’re not convinced. Hurry.’

  The darkened hall took them past more apartment doors, some opening on deserted rooms. No lights. Power was out in the residential neighborhood. They were in an alley when they heard the first door being opened again and saw sun pouring in from that direction.

  The men in pursuit were shouting angrily in Arabic—and then in English. ‘Give up and you will live!’ one called.

  ‘Keep going,’ Fouad said and pushed him forward.

  ‘—narrow alley—’ Jane said.

  As the door to the alley swung shut behind them, it exploded in splinters. Slugs slammed into the masonry of an older building opposite. Chips of brick and mortar whizzed around them, one grazing William’s cheek. William and Fouad ran along the curved narrow alley. Ahead, they heard a truck engine starting; behind, more shouts and bullets.

  Fouad pulled William into a corner filled with old tin garbage cans. ‘Listen. They’re talking in Hebrew,’ he said, and pointed down the alley. William could hear young men shouting but it sounded far away; his hearing hadn’t recovered. He could not tell which direction the voices were coming from. Fouad seemed certain, however.

  ‘There’s no time,’ Fouad said. ‘Nobody speaks Hebrew in the Hijaz…nobody.’

  ‘We’ve found it,’ William said to Jane.

  ‘We have midges behind you,’ Jane said. ‘Prepare…deorbit…two minutes…’

  William and Fouad moved around the corner and saw the back end of a canvas-covered truck. The canvas had been rolled and tied to the frame on three sides. Three young men in tholes stood behind the truck. They were arranging kipots on their heads and chattering nervously, passing instructions. One of the young man wielded a small white rectangle, waving it in the air and calling out instructions. The alley was almost empty. The crating had been pulled aside, revealing the rearmost steel hedgehog launcher.

  William could not hear the soldiers. Had they turned right instead of left?

  Fouad straightened and removed the pen-sized laser from his pocket. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘Jane, get us an OWL.’

  ‘—on its way—’ Jane said.

  ‘OWL descending,’ Dalrymple said.

  Then he heard Periglas. ‘This one’s going to take out some buildings. Channeled blast. Get the hell out of there.—brick walls—’

  ‘I will stay and make sure,’ Fouad said to William.

  ‘Periglas says we need to get away from these buildings. They’ve got it pinpointed.’

  ‘Do they have it targeted precisely? Can we be sure? I don’t think we can take that risk.’

  Soldiers walked cautiously around the curve, gun barrels foremost. That was it. No escape. Plan B with a vengeance. Without hesitation, William brought up his pistol and fired as he had been trained—as Pete Farrow had trained him, without thought. Two men fell back like broken dolls, then more shouting, more bursts tearing up the bricks and stone. Clouds of stone dust drifted down.

  The Israelis on the Volvo truck hunkered and returned fire with their own machine pistols. William and Fouad were pinned. They could not escape in either direction. Fouad aimed his shots toward the truck. One of the Israelis screamed. William positioned himself to respond to the soldiers. ‘I’ll keep these guys busy.’

  Fouad smiled and brushed William’s face with his hand, then shined the laser on the back of the hedgehog, creating a brilliant fan of sparkling red.

  No time to think. The wisdom of the chambered round. They were all dead anyway.

  A young Israeli lying in the back of the truck raised the white control box. Fouad tried to kill him but missed.

  Gray smoke poured from the bottom of the hedgehog launcher. They heard an echoing, staccato hiss.

  Just one truck would be enough. Millions of pilgrims, spreading around the world, clothes reeking with bad yeast. Goodbye memory. Goodbye history.

  William looked skyward as his ears popped. The cloudless blue sky between the apartment buildings shimmered. Was there a white line up there…? Like a contrail, an invisible finger writing in brilliant cloud, descending.

  Fouad shouted, ‘Allahu Ak—’

  The ground spasmed in rage.

  William did not hear the rest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Rebecca helped Grange into a small van commandeere
d by the Jannies. They had waited in the deserted shop, squatting behind the counter, until Salil, Fouad’s second in command, leader of the group that had first entered Mina, returned and gestured for them to come out. The air was hot and still and full of the smell of burning. Three columns of dense swirling black and white smoke rose high over the town and the tent city, but nothing—not the fighting, not the extraordinary pinpoint explosions and volcano-like fires, had stopped the pilgrimage from reaching its inevitable conclusion. From the main road heading west to Mecca, they could see white-clad Hajjis by the tens of thousands streaming into the split levels of pedestrian access to the three stone pillars, Jamarat-al-Aqaba, Jamarat-al-Wusta, and Jamarat-al-Ula.

  Rebecca hunkered in the back of the van, crammed beside Grange and ten of the Jannies. There was little to say. Nobody knew the fate of the rest of their fellows, including William and Fouad. Jane and Dalrymple had nothing to report, except that the impact of the third and last OWL had collapsed a section of apartments and shops surrounding the alley. Damage assessment was still being completed, but the judgment of the experts on the Heinlein and back in Washington was that all three trucks had been destroyed as planned, punched into fifty-foot holes in the earth and then completely incinerated, and their cargo with them.

  Midges capable of retrieval by high altitude UAVs were collecting dust from the air above Mina and from the plumes of smoke to return samples for later analysis.

  Salil, driving the van, found the back road through the dry rocky hills to the desert waste. The drive became hot, dusty, and bumpy. Rebecca did not care. She was deep in thought, wondering what more she could have done.

  She had lost her students. Sacrificed them. And she did not know for what. Their mission had been accomplished, but she felt no sense of pride for a job well done. All she felt was that deep anger that had propelled her for too many years; the unreasoning, innocent outrage that so many could behave without restraint, with no sense of balance or honor, much less of law, and demand so much of the desperate few tasked to rein them in.