Laura winked then turned to Leather.
“How do we think we should use your men?”
Leather stepped forward, his shades reflecting both their images.
“There’s one thing we’re forgetting.”
“What’s that?” asked Acton.
“The observers. We know someone was watching us, in numbers. To ignore that fact invites trouble. I think we should be preparing for the worst. I’ve called for reinforcements, but they can’t be here until late tomorrow.”
Acton frowned, remembering Reading’s briefing on their uninvited guests after he had fallen in the hole. In all the excitement, he had indeed forgotten about them, and it brought an uneasiness he hadn’t felt in some time.
A feeling he had learned to heed.
“What do you suggest?”
“We need to set up several discrete defensive positions, and an evac point.”
“We don’t want this to look like an armed camp,” said Laura, “otherwise the parents back home who watch the report will wonder what I have their children in the middle of.”
“Which is why I said discrete.” He pointed at the two remaining trucks, one a jeep that could seat a cramped six, and a lorry that could easily hold a dozen. “Those are our lives if things get out of hand. We should reposition them to the rear of the camp. I’ve already scouted out an escape route to the north that has us on back roads for ten miles then the military checkpoint where we can be safe.”
“Are you sure we can be safe with the military?”
Leather nodded. “It’s the police you need to worry about. Most of the army is fairly disciplined. They’re content to sit back and watch the Muslim Brotherhood lose control of the country so the military can take over again with the support of the people.”
“Okay,” said Laura, “set up your defensive positions. Just don’t make it too obvious. I don’t want to alarm the students.” Leather nodded then trotted off with his men. “Or myself,” she muttered.
Acton put his arm over her shoulder and squeezed.
“It’ll be okay.”
“Uh huh. It never is, so why assume it now?”
She flashed him a grin and caught the phone tossed to her by Reading as he approached.
“What’s up?” asked Acton.
Reading frowned.
“There’s a lot of chatter apparently, all around the world. They think something big is being planned somewhere, but they don’t know where. They think the Internet is being flooded with false flags to hide the real operation. Otherwise…”
His voice drifted off, which tugged at Acton’s alarm bell.
“Otherwise?”
Reading shook his head.
“Otherwise they’re hitting pretty much everything imaginable. Which is obviously bollocks.”
“Obviously.”
Acton felt as unconvinced as Reading sounded.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about the world, we can only take care of ourselves,” said Laura, placing her hands on her hips in defiance to all the flags out there, false or otherwise.
“And to that end I managed to contact Rahim. He and a dozen trusted men will be here as soon as they can.”
Laura sighed. “Thank goodness. So we just need to keep control of the frenzy until then.”
“Here they come!”
It was Terrence who trumpeted the warning and they all turned to the road to see a vehicle race around the final bend and into the “parking lot” as they liked to call it.
One man stepped out, young and greasy from his trip, a camera around his neck, notepad in his hand, and a wide-eyed smile at apparently being first.
Acton and Laura walked toward him, their best smiles on their faces. Acton hung slightly behind, letting Laura take the lead since this was her show, content to be the “muscle”.
“How do you do, I’m Professor Laura Palmer.”
“Nigel Hendricks. Associated Press.” He looked around. “Am I the first?”
Laura nodded. “And hopefully last.”
Hendricks laughed. “Oh, judging by the lineup at the roadblock I just left, there’ll be a lot more any minute now.”
Shit!
He looked about.
“So where is she?”
“Who?” asked Laura, playing dumb.
“The lovely lady! The Queen! Cleopatra of course!”
“All in good time. Why don’t you get yourself settled over there”—Laura pointed to an area reserved for the media tents—“and when your compatriots arrive, we’ll take you all on a tour.”
“But I got here first!”
Laura shrugged. “Congratulations. I’ll make sure you’re in the first group.”
And as if to punctuate her statement, an SUV roared around the bend, barreling toward the parking lot, followed quickly by another.
This is going to be a mess very quickly.
Nubian Desert, Egypt, Five miles from University College London Dig Site
Colonel Soliman pointed to the right at a group of men on horseback. One held his hand in the air, his Kalashnikov strapped to his back barely visible save the muzzle projecting over his shoulder. Soliman recognized him immediately.
“There’s Rahman!”
Mansoor geared down and came to a stop beside the men, Soliman immediately exiting the truck when he was certain Mansoor had turned it off, vowing never again to trust the man’s driving.
Then again, he got us here alive and in record time.
“As-salam alaykum,” he said to Rahman, holding out his hands.
“Wa alaykum e-salam,” replied Rahman, jumping from his horse. Soliman embraced his old friend with a smile.
“Tell us what you have found.”
Rahman nodded at the horizon. “They have found the tomb, as I told you. We were chased off two days ago by some of their guards. I think they think we’re thieves.”
“They’re the thieves,” muttered Mansoor who had joined them.
Soliman held up his hand. “Have they taken anything yet?”
Rahman shook his head. “I don’t think so. We returned the next day. It looks like they’ve set up equipment to get in and out easily, but it appears they’re only moving stuff in.”
Soliman grimaced. “First, like good archeologists, they will catalog and document, disturbing as little as possible. Then they will begin moving things out.”
“We must stop them. Kill them all if need be,” hissed Rahman. “This is blasphemy!”
Soliman gripped his friend’s shoulder.
“There are other ways besides killing, my friend.”
Nubian Desert, Egypt, Thirty-three miles from University College London Dig Site
Imam Khalil looked at his watch and, turning to his driver, Ali, smiled. The joy he felt in his heart couldn’t be contained. The number of Infidels who died today was irrelevant. He actually predicted the numbers would be far less than what some of his flock were hoping for.
But the psychological damage would be irreversible.
With their icons destroyed, the nations of the world would be reminded daily of the might of Allah and his true believers. The West would cower in fear at the foot of Mohammad’s followers, and life would never be the same. Imagine if every day soldiers were hacked to pieces on their way to work. No one would feel safe, and their Western ideals wouldn’t allow them to protect themselves the way they should. Sure they’d shut down Muslim immigration, but what of the millions upon millions of Muslims who were already citizens, most of whom were born in the very countries they hated?
The inspiration today’s attacks would provide would lead dozens, then hundreds, and eventually thousands, to join the struggle against their adopted homelands, creating chaos, and eventually forcing the Western nations to withdraw their forces from around the world in order to quell a domestic uprising from within.
This would allow the Muslim nations of the world to take their true place, at the forefront of a new revolution, controlling their own res
ources, without Western interference. And the West, with its pitiable birthrate, would dwindle away, too scared to bring in more immigrants to bolster their failing social systems.
And within a few generations, when there was another billion or two Muslims on the planet, and hundreds of millions fewer Christians, all living in bankrupt countries, at or near retirement age, the Caliphate would no longer be a dream, but just a matter of time.
“Sir, roadblock ahead.”
Khalil nodded, grabbing his radio. “Roadblock ahead. You know what to do.”
Ali slowed, pulling to the side as two other trucks passed them. Khalil sat back in his seat, AK-47 at the ready, but his heart at ease. If he were to die today, doing Allah’s bidding, he would be blessed with eternal ecstasy in Jannah. He smiled as he closed his eyes, the opening bursts of gunfire from directly ahead greeted with panicked shouts as the poorly manned roadblock, in a forgotten south-eastern corner of the massive country, was overrun.
The distinctive rattle of the Kalashnikovs overwhelmed the thunderous response of the more modern American made Mk43’s the military forces were equipped with. Though arguably a better weapon, they were simply outmanned.
A lucky round ricocheted off the hood of their truck, causing Ali to yelp, but Khalil continued to meditate to the sound of the gunfire, then the shouts of “Allahu Akbar!” as victory was secured.
He opened his eyes and watched the barrier being hauled aside as the trucks reloaded with the now fired up men, hot off one victory, and ready for the next.
Something flashed on the horizon, causing his head to spin to the right, but whatever it had been, was gone.
But it didn’t matter.
Today Allah is on our side.
Nubian Desert, Egypt, Thirty-three miles from University College London Dig Site
Abdel lifted his head, spitting out the sand he had nearly eaten when the gunshots had begun. It was silent now, and he could hear several vehicles’ engines roaring as they pulled away. He dropped his head back to the ground, this time on its side, and waited for silence.
That was when he noticed the damp feeling in his pants.
He cursed, then begged Allah’s forgiveness, pushing himself to his knees, the danger momentarily forgotten. He looked down at his open fly and dangling member, urine staining his pants, he having dropped to the ground in midstream, his act of relieving himself interrupted by the shots.
Frowning, he again asked for Allah’s forgiveness as he touched himself, caging his disgrace, and zipping up his fly. Turning to face the sun, he forced his hips out to try and dry his pants, when he heard a moan, and the reality of the situation returned.
Spinning around, he saw the carnage on the other side of the rise. The roadblock had been decimated, three army vehicles destroyed, the gate open and smoldering, bodies littering the ground. He rushed toward the scene, eying his own car the entire way, hoping, praying—but it wasn’t to be.
He circled the car, its hood open, its windows down, to find not a scratch on it. He kicked the piece of junk he had been hired to transport. It had broken down twice on him already, this the third time, and he knew this beautiful piece of garbage would be the death of him if he had to continue.
And he wasn’t willing to die for some piece of junk.
He looked around and saw a weapon lying beside one of the soldier’s bodies. He picked it up, aimed it at the car, then unloaded the entire clip into the engine compartment, laughing in glee as he did so, praising Allah for bringing some goodness from the tragedy that had befallen the checkpoint.
The weapon spent, he tossed it to the ground, then stared at his handiwork with a smile.
I hate Jaguars.
Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site
Laura pulled at her hair in exasperation. There were at least a dozen reporters, most with crews, all demanding their attention at once. She hadn’t dealt with this much press since the London incident, and there she had the luxury of the “no comment” statement.
Here, she did not.
But James, her rock, had rescued her from the frenzy, offering anyone who would follow a blow-by-blow description of how the tomb was found, slowly walking away from her, leaving her alone within seconds.
And she had made her escape to the tent, lying down on her cot and closing her eyes. She heard the outer flap open, then the inner, the dual entry designed to keep the air conditioned coolness inside as much as possible. Whoever it was banged into something, then cursed, and she smiled as she recognized Terrence’s clumsiness.
She debated announcing herself, but decided instead to feign sleep, her eyes still closed, and her body almost ready to slip into a deep slumber as her weary muscles collapsed, one by one.
Tapping at a keyboard told her either her ruse was successful, or more likely, Terrence hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone.
I really hope he’s not in here to ‘read a magazine’.
She nearly chuckled out loud to the How I Met Your Mother euphemism, but caught herself.
“Oh my God!”
It was a whisper, one that at first had her thinking he really was ‘reading a magazine’, but then she recognized the horror in it. There was a confusion of sounds as she opened her eyes. Terrence was bolting for the tent door, the chair he had been sitting at was turned over, the computer monitor still open.
She swung herself from the cot and walked over to the monitor.
What she saw had her hand darting to her mouth, her eyes watering with tears.
Oh no!
USS Arleigh Burke, Segregated Common Area
Dawson lay on a faux leather couch, his eyes closed, his hat sitting over his face, as he continued to unwind from the mission. The debriefs had been long and detailed, which was to be expected considering the sensitivity of the region. Every piece of equipment had been inventoried before they left, and every piece checked upon their return.
And as he could have told them, nothing but bullets and sweat had been left behind.
And those bullets were from weapons common to the area, so untraceable to the US military.
It was a completely successful op. No friendlies were hurt, no civilians, and there would be no evidence they had ever been there. But most importantly, the sarin gas had been destroyed, and it wouldn’t be harming any innocents in the future.
“What the hell is that?”
It was Niner’s voice that finally brought him out of his stupor.
“Turn it up!” ordered Atlas, and suddenly the television was blaring and the music killed.
“—seeing live footage of what was the Statue of Liberty.”
Dawson bolted upright. ‘Was’?
His jaw dropped as he saw the screen. The great lady was a smoldering heap, her body, gutted, laying on its side, her head, off to the side, the smoke still drifting up from the base. The camera panned to show her arm, the torch gripped tightly, embedded in the ground, still raised in defiance of her attackers. The sight grabbed his chest as he felt a rage build inside, something he hadn’t felt since the first tower had collapsed on 9/11. His home had been attacked again, by the same cowards he had no doubt, the audacity of something like this too bold for domestic terrorism.
His jaw tightened. It had better not have been ‘home grown’. His teeth gritted at the thought of Americans doing this to America. He couldn’t believe it. She was America. Even the most crazed anti-government radical worshiped her. She was the true American idol, an icon to everything the great nation of America stood for. She was beyond governments, she was beyond scandals.
She was pure.
She was America.
And she was gone.
“Christ, they hit Paris too.”
Dawson glanced at Jimmy, then at the screen his eyes had blurred at. The shot showed the Eiffel Tower, still standing, one of its four struts badly damaged but still mostly intact, hundreds of emergency crew swarming the still volatile area.
The image then flashed to a B
reaking News graphic and an image of a building he’d recognize anywhere.
Jesus no!
Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site
“This is the man who actually found the site.”
All the cameras and microphones spun to follow Acton’s outstretched arm, and an embarrassed Detective Inspector Chaney turned beet red as he was bombarded with questions. He stammered several times, not knowing who to answer, beginning only to be cutoff by the next question.
Finally he had had enough and raised his hands.
“One at a time.” He pointed. “You.”
Acton smiled as Reading approached, a pleased expression on his face as he watched his former protégé begin to handle the throng.
“I taught him well.”
“Indeed you did.”
“How long do you think this circus will last?”
Acton shrugged.
“Who knows? I’ve told them I’d let one pool cameraman into the tomb later to take some footage that they could share, then that was it. My guess is once they’ve distributed that amongst themselves, and they’ve all got a few minutes of sound bites, they’ll be gone.
“Let’s hope.”
“Oh my God!” yelled a voice, bursting from the communal tent. Acton looked over to see Terrence stumbling from the full height structure, tripping over one of the cords.
That kid with a gun is terrifying.
“What is it?” asked one of the students closest him.
“They just blew up the Statue of Liberty, and now there’s an attack in London!”
Acton felt his chest tighten and the world swim as images of the fallen lady filled his mind. If there was one symbol that was America besides her flag, it was the Statue of Liberty. To think of New York City without her guarding its harbor was unimaginable, to think of her shores unguarded by her arm, raised defiantly in the air, gripping her torch, was unthinkable.
He stood frozen, as they all did, then the reporters suddenly broke from their questioning of Chaney and hit their phones as he felt a hand grip his arm, pulling him toward Terrence.
The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 13