by Isaac Hooke
He finished transferring over the last of their gear and then pointed his A4 at Ahmed.
"Okay get changed," Ethan told Bretta.
He shoved Ahmed into the cargo area of the Hilux, over the bodies, then squeezed in beside him, taking the only free seat. He was relieved to be done loading all that deadweight—it left him feeling a bit exhausted. Plus he'd slightly pulled one of his back muscles. Not a pleasant sensation.
Ethan jabbed his rifle into Ahmed's side and waited impatiently as Bretta detached the sound suppressor from her pistol, holstered the weapon, removed her chest rig, and then donned the fatigues he'd left her. He could literally feel the seconds slipping away. Precious seconds.
While she changed, Ethan retrieved the smartphone he'd confiscated from Ahmed. He touched the screen and the PIN prompt appeared.
"What's your PIN?" he asked the man in Arabic.
"You're too late," Ahmed spat from where he lay on the floor beside his dead companions.
Ethan extended his rifle and pointed it at the man's head. "The PIN."
Ahmed stared defiantly for several seconds, then shrugged. He gave it up, along with the secondary password needed to access the applications.
Ethan launched the navigation app. The GPS worked, despite the lack of a cellular network, meaning the smartphone was rooted. Good.
He navigated to the favorites list and found an entry for "Zero Base" in Arabic. He chose that as the destination and a waypoint appeared on the digital map, somewhere in the foothills to the east.
Wearing the combat fatigues, Bretta finally sat herself in the Hilux's driver seat. The outline of her breasts was lost to the baggy outfit. Her hair was tucked into the keffiyeh that wrapped her head, and the lower half of her face was concealed by a scarf.
"How do I look?" she said.
"Like the spitting image of an Afghan insurgent," Ethan said. "Here's our target." He handed the phone to Bretta.
She tossed her unused chest rig onto the seat beside her and then clipped the cellphone to the dash via the holder conveniently provided above one of the heating vents. She proceeded to accelerate the vehicle across the bumpy terrain.
Ahmed had lost a lot of blood, and probably wouldn't survive to the end of the day. That was fine. Ethan only needed him alive long enough to answer a few questions.
He placed the rifle behind him and fished out the trauma kit from underneath a dead body. He began bandaging Ahmed's wounds, a task made difficult by the constant jolting of the SUV. He handled the chest injury first, and then moved on to the arm wound.
"Tell me about the launch Al Sifr is planning." When the man didn't answer, Ethan overly tightened the bandage around his arm.
Ahmed flinched. "Too late."
"If I'm too late, like you keep saying, why does it matter if you tell me?"
No answer.
"You've already given me the address to the base..." Ethan said.
Ahmed pressed his lips together. That he'd given up his cellphone password and PIN so readily seemed to be a sore point for the man. At the time, he'd probably forgotten that the base coordinates were stored in the GPS: blood loss will do that to a man.
Ethan tried once more. "You're not going to tell me about the launch?"
Still nothing.
He slid Ahmed's bound hands to the side. Holding them there, he slid the Glock from his hip and touched it to a couple of the man's fingers.
"Last chance to answer," Ethan said.
Ahmed remained silent, resolute.
Ethan fired.
Bretta jumped. "Jesus."
Ahmed howled in pain.
Ethan bandaged the two stumps where the fingers had once been, then he held the Glock to the next set of digits.
Ahmed had been panting loudly, but he reined in his breathing when he felt the press of that barrel.
"Tell me about the launch."
"I don't think he's going to talk," Bretta said.
"Stay out of it." Ethan was about to squeeze the trigger again when he saw the fervent look in Ahmed's eyes.
Bretta was right. He wouldn't talk.
At least not under physical duress.
Ethan tossed the man's bound arms away. He felt angry with himself, and slightly ashamed. He had pressed too hard, too fast. He didn't know what had come over him. He was behaving little better than a Triad member like Lo Leung.
"Hell with it." Ethan grabbed a spare bandage and used it to wipe the blood from the Glock and his hands. Then he holstered the pistol and retrieved his rifle. "Doesn't matter anyway. Your entire operation is about to come crashing down."
Ahmed had nothing to say to that. He was in too much pain.
"I think I see something up ahead," Bretta said. "According to the GPS, that's our Zero Base. Can you have a look?"
Ethan shoved another body on top of Ahmed to pin the man down, then grabbed the binoculars he'd transferred over from the Nissan.
He peered at the hillside of black ash. It was difficult to get a steady view with all the shaking.
"Nothing out there but moss-covered lava fields," Ethan said. He adjusted the focus. "No. Wait. They're hard to make out... but I think I'm seeing buildings. Yes. They've been painted black and green to look like the surrounding terrain. Sneaky bastards."
"What kind of buildings?" Bretta said.
"Self-framing hangars, I think."
The hangars formed a half-circle around a two-story, L-shaped building, which was also camouflaged to appear like the moss-covered black rock. Canopies of some sort hung between them, colored in a similar fashion. Al Sifr was implementing the same tricks used by the insurgents in Iraq and Syria to evade spy satellites and drones.
"How did the site escape the thermal imaging cameras of the recon satellites?" Bretta said when Ethan revealed the presence of the canopies.
"I don't know," Ethan told her. "It's possible the canopies are designed to release heat from the facility in a way that mimics natural phenomena, like hot springs."
Bretta frowned. "It's also possible the IMINT operators didn't bother to perform a thermal pass."
"That, too," Ethan said. "Anyway, whatever the case, we're the only ones here, and bitching about the poor IMINT isn't going to change that."
As Bretta drove onward, Ethan was unable to suppress a rising sense of dread.
When the pair actually arrived at the base, either they would be allowed to enter without issue, or they'd have to shoot their way past. Regardless of the outcome, they'd have to somehow upset Al Sifr's plans.
Or die trying.
In his mind's eye he saw the boy in Iraq once more, shielded by his sister.
Ethan put his crosshairs over the children and squeezed the trigger.
42
Emirates Flight EK133 En Route To Moscow
ABBAS CASUALLY SURVEYED the instrument panel in front of him. The five hour flight had gone smoothly, and the Boeing 777-200LR was beginning its descent toward the Domodedovo Moscow Airport. With twenty minutes to runway touchdown, the flight was on schedule for its one forty five p.m. arrival time.
Abbas was looking forward to visiting his cousins Kadar and Mihyar in Moscow. They ran the best Lebanese restaurant in the city. He'd brought along a present for them from his Yemeni wife: mandi, a traditional dish made of moist meat cooked in a tandoor and served with spiced rice. No one made mandi as good as his wife. Hoping that Abbas would reveal the recipe, the cousins would give Abbas gifts in return, likely toys for his one-year-old daughter. Abbas of course would not divulge his wife's secret recipe: how else could he insure that the cousins gave him gifts on the next visit?
Abbas had packed his development laptop, and promised to show his cousins the new phone-based social network he was developing in his spare time. Everyone he had showed it to so far had called it the Facebook Killer. He used it to keep in touch with his wife, who often told him he was destined to be a great man. Abbas always replied that he was happy simply being a good man.
His mind
was drifting. The tiny qat bolus held between his gums and right cheek was losing its effectiveness. Abbas kept fresh leaves concealed in the false bottom of the iPad case inside his flight bag, but it was too late to retrieve any more. He'd simply have to manage without the energy boost.
Qat was banned in the religiously-strict UAE of course, and thus on Emirates flights. Though benign compared to other drugs—it was like drinking very strong coffee or cola—qat possession was punishable by a minimum of four years in prison. His wife's relatives had introduced him to the stuff years ago, and he never flew without it. He used it sparingly on board, inserting a single leaf at a time only when he knew no one was watching. He always waited until the airliner was outside of UAE airspace so that, technically, he wasn't doing anything illegal.
Abbas was roused from his thoughts when Captain Ghazwan offered him a bottled water.
"You have to try this," the captain said. "It's a new flavor of Vimto. Tastes like anise and vanilla." He showed him the label. It looked the same as all the other bottles of Vimto—the most popular cordial drink in the Middle East, especially during Ramadan, where it was tradition to end a day of fasting with a date and a glass of the concentrated purple liquid.
"Did you dilute it with water?"
"No," the captain said. "It is not the cordial version. It is soda!"
"I'm all right," Abbas assured him.
"No no no. I refuse to land until you try it."
"That good, is it?" Abbas said.
The captain grinned amiably. "Yes."
Abbas accepted the bottle. He noticed that the captain's hand was shaking very slightly. Strange. It didn't feel cold in the cockpit.
Abbas took a sip. "Tastes like ordinary watered-down Vimto"
"Really? Try again."
Abbas took another sip. The drink had a strange texture, as if there were tiny undissolved flavor crystals still inside. He recalled an incident last year in Dubai, when several thousand bottles of Vimto had been recalled because of fungi floating in the drinks. The thought made him nauseous.
He returned the bottle to the captain. "Don't like it. But thanks anyway."
Abbas returned his attention to the instrument panel, and the coming landing.
He was fine for about ten minutes, and then his head began to bow. Abbas blinked his eyes wearily. Why was he feeling so sleepy all of a sudden?
His vision abruptly doubled. He glanced at the captain, tried to say something, but couldn't form the words. In all his years of qat dependency, he had never experienced a crash quite like this.
Qat. Need more.
Abbas removed his sunglasses, unbuckled his seatbelt and forced himself to rise.
The captain glanced at him uncertainly. "Are you all right?"
"No," Abbas managed.
Why was the captain suddenly smiling as if in relief?
Abbas squeezed into the tiny walkway on the right side of his chair, heading toward the jumpseats packed into the cockpit just behind. There were no trainees or off-duty pilots transitioning to another airport, so both seats were unoccupied. For easy access, Abbas had stowed his flight bag under the jumpseat directly behind his own.
Through the multitude of stars that sprinkled his vision, he sat down in said jumpseat and retrieved the bag from underneath. He set it in his lap and groped around in the side pocket. Passport. Flashlight. Sleep mask. Cellphone. Charger.
No! What am I doing! The iPad.
He opened the main zipper of the flight bag and retrieved the iPad case. He removed the actual device, letting it fall back inside the flight bag, and then he detached the false bottom from the thick case, revealing the sliding plastic storage bag.
He opened the bag and stuffed the entire contents into his mouth. With one finger he pressed the leaves up into the corner of his mouth, under his upper lip, and formed a large bolus inside his cheek.
He removed the finger. The captain was saying something, but before Abbas could respond, stars filled his vision entirely. His head slowly tilted against the backrest.
Consciousness was slipping away...
He fought it, battling the drowsiness with all his being.
Must stay... awake.
He knew if he fell asleep, he would never fly again. He'd probably wake up in jail.
He wasn't sure how much time passed in that half sleeping, half waking purgatory, but somehow he came back from the brink. It must have been the qat, drip-fed into his bloodstream, giving him the energy and the will to go on.
He heard vague screams coming from the aircraft cabin behind him, and repeated thudding, followed by the muffled shouts of the flight attendant. Was she pounding on the cockpit door?
Abbas still wore his headset, which abruptly crackled to life. "Emirates one three three. Domodedovo approach. Turn left heading three two zero and ascend. Emirates one three three, please respond."
Abbas opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. His throat was too dry.
He lifted the flight bag from his lap and placed it quietly on the floor. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed himself from the jumpseat, using the center console to his left for support. He felt so very weak.
His eyes focused on the windshield. Judging from the landscape beyond, the plane was on a steep approach trajectory, something normally reserved for landings on short runways. Except there were no runways out there. Only the Moscow city center. What—
Then he understood. The captain had drugged him, and intended to crash the plane.
Ghazwan was on the radio with air traffic control. No wait, it wasn't a radio the captain was using, but a sat-phone. Abbas caught the man's final words. "I will watch the phoenix of the New Caliphate emerge from the ashes of the world while atop my perch in paradise, my Caliph."
The captain lowered the sat-phone and began to chant familiar words.
"Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar."
The captain was perverting the phrase, destroying sacred words that were meant to celebrate God. Allah did not approve of this. He would never approve.
Anger filled Abbas, and it gave him strength. How dare that man pervert his religion? How dare he use Islam as an excuse for mass murder?
With his palm, Abbas rubbed the huge bolus in his cheek against his teeth, releasing the powerful qat juices. A long stream of saliva oozed from his lips.
The captain was literally half a step away. Abbas could probably strike him in the side of the head from where he stood.
No. He wanted to make sure the hit was solid. It would be all too easy for Abbas to lose his balance and fall. Just a little closer...
He languidly edged between the cramped jumpseats, toward the pilot, using the headrest of the seat in front of him for support. When he was close, he clenched his fingers, raising his fist to strike.
The blur of motion beyond the windshield drew his gaze. The ground rushed toward the Boeing 777-200LR at an incredible speed. Abbas half-expected some kind of anti-aircraft fire to bring them down. Or for Russian fighter jets to engage. But Abbas realized it had all happened too fast for any reasonable response.
Allah forgive us.
In the split second before impact, he realized the plane was going to plow directly into one of the Kremlin buildings.
His last thought was of his wife, who would be waiting for him on the social networking application he had developed.
Waiting. Singing a lullaby to their one-year-old daughter.
But he wouldn't show up.
Not ever again.
43
Somewhere In The Southern Region Suðurland, Iceland
ETHAN STARED at the approaching base. They were still a good two kilometers out.
Suddenly, against the backdrop of the black hill behind it, a fast-moving object hurtled skyward.
Ethan almost couldn't believe what he was seeing. He frantically held the binoculars to his eyes, wanting to confirm it, but the object was rising too fast, and the view too unsteady, for him to get a fix. He tossed the binocula
rs aside. He didn't need them. He could tell with the naked eye what it was.
A missile.
"We're too late," Ethan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ahmed started laughing hysterically. "Mad, mad, mad."
Ethan simply watched the missile, too stunned to respond. Bretta had halted the vehicle; she was leaning close to the windshield, staring up at the sky.
"An ICBM?" Bretta asked.
"I don't know," Ethan said. "I think so."
In that moment another missile launched from the remote outpost.
Ethan watched in horror. "Bretta, drive. We have to get in there." While it was impossible to stop an ICBM that was already in the air, they had to do whatever they could to prevent the launch of any further missiles. In that moment, their lives, and the lives of everyone manning that base, were suddenly inconsequential. Millions of innocents were at stake. Maybe billions.
"Bretta!" Ethan said when she didn't respond.
Bretta snapped her attention away from the sky. She stepped on the accelerator, driving faster than ever before. The Hilux lurched violently over the rocky terrain.
"Mad mad mad," Ahmed giggled from the floor.
Ethan touched the barrel of his rifle to Ahmed's nose, pressing so hard that the man's nostrils bent upwards.
"Talk or die." Ethan's finger twitched on the trigger—he was completely ready to kill the man if the answers weren't up to his expectations. Any restraint, any pity, was gone with the launch of those missiles.
Ahmed must have seen the death in Ethan's eyes, because he instantly grew serious.
"MAD," Ahmed said. "Mutually Assured Destruction."
It took a moment for that to sink in. "Al Sifr is starting World War III."
Ahmed grinned widely. With the barrel distorting his nose, he looked like a smiling pig. "Yes."
A particularly nasty bump caused Ethan to shove the rifle downward, hard. He heard an audible crack as Ahmed's nose cartilage broke. Ethan felt no guilt whatsoever.