'But this list shows something else entirely. It shows that Killian's company installed different Chameleon missiles on the Kormoran ships—not the ones Majestic-12 was expecting. Killian is planning something much worse than a global war on terrorism. He's set it up so that each of the world's major powers is seemingly hit by its most-hated enemy.
'The West is hit by terrorist strikes. India and Pakistan are hit by each other. China is hit by what appear to be Taiwanese missiles.'
Schofield's eyes widened at the realisation.
'It's Killian's extra step. This isn't M-12's plan at all. This is Killian's own plan. And it won't produce any kind of Cold War at all. It'll produce something much much worse. It'll produce total global warfare. It'll produce total global anarchy.'
Rufus said, 'You're saying that Killian has been deceiving his rich buddies on Majestic-12?'
'Exactly,' Schofield said.
But then, again, he remembered Killian's words from the Forteresse de Valois: 'Although many don't know it yet, the future of the world lies in Africa.'
'The future of the world lies in Africa,' Schofield said. 'There
were African guard squads on each of the boats. Eritreans. Nigerians. Oh, shit. Shit! Why didn't I see it before . . .'
Schofield brought up one of the other documents on his Palm Pilot:
This was the itinerary of Killian's tour of Africa the previous year.
Asmara: the capital of Eritrea.
Luanda: the capital of Angola.
Abuja: Nigeria.
N'djamena: Chad.
And Tobruk: the site of Libya's largest Air Force base.
Killian hadn't been opening factories—he had been forging alliances with five key African nations.
But why?
Schofield spoke: 'What would happen if the major powers of the world descended into anarchic warfare? What would happen elsewhere in the world?'
'You'd see some old scores settled, that's for sure,' Knight said. 'Ethnic wars would reignite. The Serbs would go after the Croats, the Russians would wipe out the Chechens, and that's not even mentioning everybody who wants to nail the Kurds. Then there'd be the opportunists, like the Japanese in WWII. Countries seizing the opportunity to grab resources or territory: Indonesia would snatch East Timor back . . .'
'What about Africa?' Schofield said. 'I'm thinking of National Security Council Planning Paper Q-309.'
'Whoa; Knight said.
Schofield remembered the policy word for word. 'In the event of a conflict involving the major global powers, it is highly likely that the poverty-stricken populations of Africa, the Middle East and Central America—some of which outnumber the populations of their Western neighbours by a ratio of 100-to-l—will flood over Western borders and overwhelm Western city centres.'
Q-309 was a policy based on history—the long history of wealthy self-indulgent elites falling to impoverished but numerically overwhelming underclasses: the fall of Rome to the barbarians, the French Revolution, and now the wealthy Western world succumbing to the sheer numbers of the Third World.
Jesus, Schofield thought.
Anarchic global warfare would provide just such an opportunity for the Third World to rise up.
And if Killian had given forewarning to a few key African nations, then . . .
No, it's not possible, Schofield's mind protested. For the simple reason that Killian's plan just didn't seem big enough.
It didn't guarantee total global anarchy.
And then Schofield saw the final entry on the missile list—the entry that had not been on Book II's list at all, an entry describing a missile to be fired nearly two hours after all the others.
He brought it up on his screen:
Arbella Jericho-SB U-flfl DMMDB.2S OMmS-lO 1MDD
IbSD-SD 213Q.00
A Jericho-2B clone, Schofield thought. The Jericho was a long-range ballistic missile belonging to Israel; and this one was armed with an American W-88 warhead.
And the target?
Using Book IPs map, Schofield plotted the GPS co-ordinates of the target.
His finger came down on the map . . . and as it did so, Schofield felt a bolt of ice-cold blood shoot through his entire body.
'God save us all,' he breathed as he saw the target.
The last clone missile—ostensibly Israeli in origin, with an American nuclear warhead on it—was aimed at a target in Saudi Arabia.
It was aimed at the holy city of Mecca.
The cockpit fell silent.
The sheer idea of it was just too great, too shocking, to contemplate. An Israeli missile armed with an American warhead striking the most sacred Muslim site on the planet on one of the most holy Muslim days of the year.
In the post-September 11 world, there could be no more provocative act.
It would ignite global chaos—no American citizen or embassy or business would be safe. In every city in every country, enraged Muslims would seek vengeance.
It would create a worldwide Muslim-American war. The first truly global conflict between a religion and a nation. Which would itself become the precursor for total global revolution—the rise of the Third World.
'God, October 26, it's been staring me in the face all day,' Schofield said. 'The first day of Ramadan. I hadn't even thought about the significance of the date. Killian even chose the most provocative day.'
'So where's it going to fire from?' Knight asked.
Schofield quickly plotted the GPS co-ordinates of the last Chameleon missile's launch location . . . and he frowned.
'It's not coming from a boat,' he said. 'The launch location is on land. Somewhere inside Yemen.'
'Yemen?' Rufus said.
'It borders Saudi Arabia to the south. Very close to Mecca,' Knight said.
'Yemen . . .' Schofield said, thinking fast. 'Yemen . . .'
At some time today, he had been told about Yemen, had heard of something inside Yemen—
He remembered.
'There's a Krask-8 clone in Yemen,' he said.
He'd heard it right at the start of all this, during his briefing on Krask-8. During the Cold War, the Soviets had constructed land-based ICBM facilities identical to Krask-8 in their client states—states like Syria, the Sudan, and Yemen.
Schofield's mind raced.
Krask-8 had been owned by the Atlantic Shipping Company. David Fairfax had discovered that earlier today.
And the Atlantic Shipping Company—he now knew—was a subsidiary of Axon Corp.
'Goddamn,' Schofield breathed. 'Rufus: set a course heading due south-east and give it everything you've got. Afterburners all the way.'
Rufus looked doubtful. 'Captain, I don't mean to be rude, but even flying at full speed, there's no way we can get from here to Yemen inside of two hours. That's a 6,000-kilometre trip, which is at least four hours travel time. Besides, on full burn, we'll chew up all our gas before we even reach the French Alps.'
'Don't worry about that,' Schofield said. 'I can arrange for fuel to be delivered in flight. And we're not going all the way to Yemen in this bird.'
'Whatever you say,' Rufus said. He banked the Raven, directed her south-east, and hit the afterburners.
While this was happening, Schofield keyed his satellite mike. 'Mr Moseley. You still with us?'
'Sure am,' came the reply from London.
'I need you to do an asset search on a company for me. It's called the Atlantic Shipping Company. Search for any land holdings that it has in Yemen, especially old Soviet sites.
'I also need two more things. First, I need express passage across Europe, including several mid-air refuellings. I'll send you our transponder signal.'
"Okay. And the second thing?'
'I need you to fuel up a couple of very special American planes for me. Planes that are currently at the Aerostadia Italia Airshow in Milan, Italy.'
The next thirty minutes went by in a blur.
Around the world, an array of forces sprang into action.
&nb
sp; THE ARABIAN SEA
OFF THE COAST OF INDIA
26 OCTOBER, 2105 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1205 HOURS E.S.T USA)
The supertanker MV Whale hovered off the coast of India on a languid sea, the giant vessel seemingly gazing at the shared coastline of India and Pakistan, its missiles ready to fire.
It never saw the Los Angeles-class attack submarine approach it from behind, two miles away.
Likewise, the African commandos in its control tower never saw the sub's torpedoes on their scopes until it was too late.
The two Mark 48 torpedoes hit the Whale together, blasting open its flanks with simultaneous explosions, sinking it.
THE TAIWAN STRAITS INTERNATIONAL WATERS BETWEEN CHINA AND TAIWAN 0110 HOURS (27 OCT) LOCAL TIME (1210 HOURS E.S.T USA, 26 OCT)
The MV Hopewell suffered a similar fate.
Parked inconspicuously in a sealane in the middle of the Taiwan
Straits, not far from a long line of supertankers and cargo freighters, it was hit by a pair of wire-guided American Mark 48 torpedoes.
Some night-watchmen on other ships claimed to see the explosion on the horizon.
Radio calls to the Hopewell went unanswered and by the time anyone got to its last known location, there was nothing there.
The Hopewell was gone.
No-one ever laid eyes on the submarine that sank it. Indeed, the US Government would later deny that it had any 6881s in the area at the time.
WEST COAST, USA
NEAR SAN FRANCISCO
26 OCTOBER, 0912 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1212 HOURS IN NEW YORK)
Inside the vast missile hold of the Kormoran-class supertanker Jewel, covered by twelve United States Marines and standing over the bodies of a dozen dead African commandos, David Fairfax plugged his satellite uplink into the vessel's missile control console.
The satellite signal shot up into the sky and bounced over to Schofield in the Black Raven, flying over France, heading for Italy.
And while Schofield disarmed the CincLock system from afar, Fairfax held the console—at times protecting the uplink with his body, shielding it from two Eritrean commandos who had survived his Marine-enhanced entry.
He was scared out of his mind, but in the midst of bullets and gunfire and exploding grenades, he held that console.
Within a couple of minutes, the last two Eritrean soldiers were dead—nailed by the Marines—and the MV Jewel's launch system was neutralised by Schofield in the Raven and David Fairfax fell to the floor with a deep sigh of relief.
AEROSTADIA AIRFIELD
MILAN, ITALY
26 OCTOBER, 1900 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1300 HOURS IN NEW YORK)
With a blast from its retros, the Black Raven landed vertically on the tarmac of the Aerostadia Airfield in Milan.
It was evening already in northern Italy, but the US Air Force contingent at the airshow had been working overtime for the last forty-five minutes, fuelling two very special aeroplanes at the express orders of the State Department.
The Raven landed a hundred yards from a spectacular-looking B-52 bomber, parked on the runway.
Two small black bullet-shaped planes hung from the big bomber's wings, looking like a pair of oversized missiles.
But these weren't missiles.
They were X-15s.
Many people believe that with a top speed of Mach 3, the SR-71 'Blackbird' is the fastest plane in the world.
This is not entirely true. The SR-71 is the fastest operational plane in the world.
One plane, however, has gone faster than it has—a lot faster, in fact—attaining speeds of over 7,000 km/h, more than Mach 6. That plane, though, never made operational status.
That plane was the NASA-built X-15.
Most aeroplanes use jet engines to propel them through the sky, but jet power has a limit and the SR-71 has found that limit: Mach 3.
The X-15, however, is rocket-powered. It has few moving parts. Instead of shooting ignited compressed air out behind it, an X-15 ignites solid hydrogen fuel. Which makes it less like a jet plane, and more like a missile. Indeed, the X-15 has been described by some observers as a missile with a pilot strapped to it.
Only five X-15s were ever built, and two of those—as Schofield knew—were making an appearance at the Aerostadia Italia Airshow, scheduled to start in a few days.
Schofield leapt out of the Raven, crossed the tarmac with Knight and Rufus by his side.
He gazed at the two X-15s slung from the wings of the B-52.
They weren't big planes. And not exactly pretty either. Just functional—designed to cut through the air at astronomical velocity.
Speed-slanted letters on their tailfins read: NASA. Along the side of each black plane were the words us air force.
Two colonels met Schofield: one American, one Italian.
'Captain Schofield,' the American colonel said, 'the X-15s are ready, fully fuelled and ready to fly. But we have a problem. One of our pilots broke his ribs in a training accident yesterday. There's no way he can handle the G-forces of these things in his condition.'
'I was hoping I could use my own pilot anyway,' Schofield said. He turned to Rufus. 'Think you can handle Mach 6, Big Man?'
A grin cracked Rufus's hairy face. 'Does the Pope shit in the woods?'
The Air Force colonel guided them to the planes. 'We've also received some satellite radar scans from the National Reconnaissance Office. Could be a problem.'
He held up a portable viewscreen the size of a clipboard.
On it were two infra-red snapshots of the south-eastern Mediterranean, the Suez Canal and the Red Sea. One wider shot, the other zoomed in.
On the first image, Schofield saw a large cloud of red dots that seemed to be hovering over the Suez Canal area:
On the second satellite photo, the image became clearer. There were about one hundred and fifty dots in the 'cloud'.
'What the hell are those dots?' Rufus said slowly.
The colonel didn't have to answer him, because Schofield already knew.
'They're planes,' he said. 'Fighter jets from at least five different African nations. The French saw them scramble but they didn't know why. Now I do. They're from five African nations that would like to see the world order changed. Nations that do not want to see us stop that last missile hitting Mecca. It's Killian's last safeguard. An aerial armada protecting the final missile.'
The B-52 bomber thundered down the runway with the two X-15s hanging from its outstretched wings.
It soared into the sky, rising steadily to its release height.
Schofield sat with Rufus inside the two-man cockpit of the right-hand X-15. It was a tight fit for Rufus, but he managed. Knight was in the other plane, with a NASA pilot.
Schofield had his CincLock-VII disarm unit strapped to his utility vest, next to the array of other weapons in its pouches. The plan was a long shot—since no-one else in the world could disarm the Chameleon missile aimed at Mecca, he would have to go into the Krask-8 clone in Yemen with only Knight by his side.
They expected resistance to be waiting for them—probably in the form of an African commando unit—so Schofield had requested a Marine team be dispatched from Aden to meet them there. But whether it would arrive in time was another question.
Scott Moseley called in from London.
'Captain, I think I've found what you're looking for,' he said. 'The Atlantic Shipping Company owns two thousand acres of desert in Yemen, about two hundred miles south-west of Aden, right on the mouth of the Red Sea. On that land are the remains of an old Soviet submarine repair facility. Our satellite pics are from the '80s, but it looks like a big warehouse surrounded by some support buildings—'
'That's it,' Schofield said. 'Send me the co-ordinates.'
Moseley did so.
Schofield punched them into his plane's trip computer.
Flight distance to southern Yemen: 5,602 KILOMETRES.
Flight time in an X-15 travelling at 7,
000 km/h: 48 MINUTES.
Time till the Mecca ICBM launched: ONE HOUR.
It was going to be close.
'You ready, Rufus?' he said.
'Yeah, baby,' Rufus replied.
When the B-52 reached release height, its pilot came over the comms: lX-15s, we just got word from the USS Nimitz in the Med. She's the only carrier within range of your attack route. She's sending every plane she has to escort you: F-14s, F/A-18s, even five Prowlers have volunteered to ride shotgun for you. You must be one important man, Captain Schofield. Prepare for flight systems check. Release in one minute—'
As the pilot signed off, Knight's voice came over Schofield and Rufus's earpieces. His voice was low, even.
'Hey, Ruf. Good luck, buddy. Remember, you're the best. The best. Stay low. Stay focused. Trust your instincts.'
'Will do, Boss,' Rufus said. 'Thanks.'
'And Schofield,' Knight said.
'Yes?'
'Bring my friend back alive.'
'I'll try,' Schofield said softly.
The B-52 pilot spoke again. 'Flight systems check is complete. We are go for launch. Gentlemen, prepare for release. On my mark, in five, four . . .'
Schofield stared forward, took a deep, deep breath.
'Three . . .'
Rufus gripped his control stick firmly.
'Two . . .'
Over in his plane, Knight looked over at Schofield and Rufus on the other wing.
'One . . . mark.'
CLUNK-CLUNK!
The two X-15s dropped from the wings of the B-52 bomber, swooping briefly before—
'Engaging rocket thrusters . . . now!' Rufus said.
He hit the thrust controls.
The X-15's tail cone ignited, hurling its afterburner flame a full hundred feet into the air behind it.
Schofield was thrown back into his seat with a force he had never even imagined.
His X-15 shot off into the sky—cracking the air with sonic booms, literally ripping the fabric of the sky—its flight signature just one continuous roar that would be heard all the way across the Mediterranean Sea.
Scarecrow ss-3 Page 31