FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  He turned on his laptop and read Beck’s encrypted message. W. intercepted this message from Fotouh to Hassan a half hour ago:

  “Plan has been put in motion, but Raed is not on scene. Can’t find him. Shall we continue? Hassan replied: Begin the attack!”

  Beck wrote, “CC’d this message to Jack. FYI.”

  They were going ahead with the attack. Should he alert the pilot and have them turn back? He knew what President Chambers’ response would be Press On. He did not have to ask.

  Once again, he turned his attention to the country below. In the next hour this would all be over. If they survived, Frank and the others would be off to fight another battle, another threat, somewhere else in the world. The war had begun to take its toll on his soul. He wondered how many fights he had left before he called it quits. Today, unless a miracle happened, he was about to lose Gerrit and the others because time was about to run out.

  Atash had to get out of the office. The stress was wearing him out. He grabbed his cell phone, stuck it in his coat pocket, and left his office to walk in the gardens near his building. He could not tell whether his balancing act might survive the day. First, he just got confirmation that Kadar Hanano and his men were killed by the Jews. Now, Raed was missing in action.

  When he talked to another source in President al-Assad’s security detail, he learned that Hanano’s surviving members spotted a group of terrorists, and they might be able to make some arrests in the next few hours. Unfortunately, the source could not give him any details on these terrorists. Americans? Jews? Muslim Brotherhood?

  The first two groups would help him fulfill his plans at the airport—and they were expendable. No threat to him. However, if they snatched up Muslim Brotherhood members—particularly Mohamed Abul Fotouh—then sooner or later someone would break and expose Atash’s part in this conspiracy. It was critical to get that An-26 aircraft into the air and headed for Israel. After that, no matter what happened, Atash would win.

  Atash glanced at his watch. Minutes ticking away. Where was Raed? It was critical that Raed do as he promised. Everything hinged upon whether that man lived up to his word. Hanano had the ear of President Assad. Raed, on the other hand, represented certain powerful figures in Assad’s government who were tired of seeing an impotent president losing control of the government. These powers—working through Raed—wanted to see Israel punished while at the same time preventing Sunni control of Syria. They were prepared to move in, forcibly remove Assad for his war crimes, and take over the reign of power while effectively eradicating the Muslim Brotherhood’s influence.

  It was a precarious balance Atash struggled to achieve here—banking on Assad’s demise, though seeming to work with Hanano in case President Assad survived; working with Raed’s power base if they were able to wrestle control of Syria from Assad while keeping the Sunnis at arm’s length; and lastly, if the Muslim Brotherhood with Sunni support finally gained power, Iran moving in to work with this new government.

  Hanano was out of commission. Raed missing. That left the Muslim Brotherhood with an attack that seemed doomed. No matter what happened, Atash felt that Iran would come out ahead. Unless…? Fear gnawed at his chest. He was running out of time and he had no one else to call. One way or the other, he would know in about one hour.

  The only thing they needed to accomplish in less than an hour was to get that An-26 in the air and pointed toward Israel. Everything else did not matter. He turned back toward his office. Even the serenity of this garden could not quell the turmoil eating away inside. He would wait by the phone for the call.

  Jack stared at the message from Beck. He read it a second time before rising from his chair. A chill clutched his chest as he walked toward Perlman. “You’d better read this message from our people stateside, Marc.”

  Perlman leaned forward to read the message. He glanced up to meet Jack’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Jack. We must launch right now.”

  Jack nodded. “I know, my friend. May God have mercy on their souls.”

  Perlman called to one of the Air Force generals. “Gentlemen, it is time to launch. Immediately!”

  The general nodded and gave a command to the comm center.

  Jack turned toward the screens that monitored the flight plans of the launch. In minutes, he saw red dots flash on the screen, regroup, and begin flying toward Damascus in formation.

  The war was on.

  Chapter 67

  March 18

  Damascus International Airport, Syria

  A commercial jet roared overhead as it cleared the Damascus airport. Gerrit crept forward and peered through a flap in the canvas. A security checkpoint loomed ahead, the first test as to whether this Raed guy could get them on the protected military ramp of Syria’s 29th Brigade without a major firefight. The truck slowed and rolled to a stop at the gate. A heavily armed guard emerged from the shack, spoke briefly to Raed and then stepped back. The guard saluted and motioned for them to continue.

  Gerrit took a deep breath, activated his laptop, and called up the tracking program they were using. He pulled back the flap, getting Max’s attention in the front cab. “Our target is still in place. The plane is still broadcasting its position.”

  Max nodded. “I just hope your plan works, Gerrit. Pass on to the guys to get ready. We move out as soon as this bucket of bolts stops.”

  Gerrit acknowledged and conveyed Max’s message to the others. He glanced back at the screen and saw the two blinking dots that represented Alena and Shakeela. At least they were safe for the moment. Once they finished the operation here, they’d swing by and pick up the women on their way out of this god-forsaken country. He could not wait to return to the United States. Back to Lake Tahoe, Willy, and Bones.

  Alena wiped Shakeela’s brow with a damp cloth. She did not have any way of getting her hands on some ice. The best she could do was to use cool water from the well. Shakeela seemed to have fallen asleep again. It was useless trying to keep her awake. Maybe a little rest would help matters. She rose and began to leave when Shakeela called out. Turning, she saw the woman trying to raise herself. “Please stay still, Shakeela. We don’t want any of those wounds to reopen.”

  Shakeela sank back on a pillow, exhausted. “I need to tell you something. About Gerrit.”

  Alena kneeled down, took a damp cloth, and wiped it across the woman’s forehead. “You need to—”

  “I must tell you. Back in Iran, Gerrit and I…” Shakeela swallowed hard and closed her eyes. “We got very close. Very…intimate. I knew it was wrong for us, but I couldn’t stop.”

  “That was a long time—”

  “Please hear me out.” Shakeela opened her eyes again. “I love Gerrit, but not that way. Not like you and he—”

  “We are still trying to figure that one out,” Alena said, embarrassed. “Every time I think we might have chance, something comes up. We get mad, we hurt each other.” She stopped, not wanting to take this any further.

  Shakeela reached over and clasped Alena’s hand. “I know he loves you. I see it in his eyes.” Shakeela gripped Alena’s hand even tighter. “Back then, when I saw a mistake had been made, instead of dealing with it, of talking it out with Gerrit, I used the job as an excuse to pull back. To go our separate ways. I was a coward. Even though I never meant to, I hurt him. Bad. I think it has taken all these years for him to heal. I think he is trying—with you. Don’t give up.”

  Alena nodded, not knowing what to say. Finally squeezing Shakeela’s hand, she said, “Thank you for telling me. It helps me to understand. Now, please get some rest. I’ll keep watch.”

  Shakeela closed her eyes, her face seemed more relaxed. In a few minutes, it seemed she had fallen asleep. Quietly rising, Alena walked from the room and stared out the window beyond the orchard, toward the road that led to the farmhouse.

  It seemed unusually warm for March, and the air seemed to be getting hotter as the sun rose. She could see small stretches of the road beyond the orchard, leaves an
d branches shielding her vision from much of the countryside beyond.

  She stood there enjoying the silence and wondering how Gerrit and the others were doing. She had gathered all their belongings together and stacked them near the front door. She would make sure that she and Shakeela would be ready the second the others returned.

  Alena started to turn from the window when she saw movement along a ditch near the road. She snatched up a set of binoculars and scanned the ditch more closely.

  And then she saw what drew her attention. A man, heavily camouflaged with brush, lying right on the brim of the ditch, staring toward the farmhouse. He was looking her way.

  She gasped as reality set in. They’d been spotted.

  Alena dashed to the doorway and grabbed her H&K, extended the shoulder rest all the way out. She snatched up a bundle of loaded magazines in an ammo pouch, then closed the door and locked it. She worked her way around the house, window by window, using the binoculars to search the areas from the tree line out as far as she could see.

  After searching the perimeter from every available window, she counted at least four more gunmen, heavily camouflaged, at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock, and nine o’clock—they were surrounded.

  After making sure she had a loaded magazine seated in her weapon, a round in the chamber, she went back and woke up Shakeela. “Just stay where you are,” she whispered, alerting her to the threat. “I’ve given you a handgun right next to you. I will try to keep these men away until the rest of the team gets here. Just be ready to move if you can.”

  Shakeela gave a weak nod. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Alena rested a hand on Shakeela’s arm. “Do not worry. We will get out of this and then we’ll get you to a hospital. Just stay alert, okay?”

  Shakeela reached over and grasped the weapon. “They won’t get their hands on me. I can promise you that.”

  “I am going to circulate from window to window. Right now, they just seem to be waiting for something. I just hope they wait until our team gets back.”

  The camouflaged man, looking like a desert bush, slowly keyed his radio. “Sir, we have the place surrounded. Can’t see inside.”

  A voice came over the radio. “Maintain the perimeter. We are about to move in here at the airport. At your end, try to take them alive, but kill them if you must. No one is to escape. We are following the truck. They are on the military post and we are moving in. Wait five minutes—then attack.”

  “Yes sir.” The man glanced at his watch. “Five minutes.”

  Gerrit caught himself as screeching brakes brought the truck to a halt. He and the other men sprang from the truck bed and dashed toward the building. One man went around to the back, and Gerrit and another man dashed to the front door. He gave a hand signal, paused for a moment, and then booted the door, dashing in and peeling to his left. The other man came in right behind him and rolled off to the right.

  “Room clear,” Gerrit yelled, moving forward toward a flight of wooden stairs leading to the second floor. “One of you stay downstairs and cover us. The others—follow me.” Gerrit moved toward the stairs, sighting down his weapon as he took one step at a time.

  He reached the midway point when he saw the barrel of a gun protrude from a corner at the top of the stairs. He fired a quick burst, aiming it through the wall where he knew the gunman must be crouching. The man screamed and fell.

  Springing up the rest of the stairs, he glanced around the corner and saw a man edging his way toward a door. Gerrit fired another burst and the second gunmen fell to the ground, his weapon firing as the man pitched forward. Gerrit started to take a step into the hallway when he heard one of the other men yell, “Gun.”

  Whirling to his left, Gerrit saw a gunman lunge out just as one of Max’s men opened fire. The target seemed to twist in place, sending a burst of bullets into the ceiling before collapsing.

  Gerrit ran past the dead man and moved down the hallway to the room he knew the American scientist used. Once he reached the room. He booted the door closed and entered, seeing the scientist cowering behind the bed. He kept the man covered until one of Max’s men joined him. “Cuff him, grab his laptop, and let’s get the heck out of here.”

  A moment later, Gerrit and his partner were marching the scientist from the room. “You Scott Henderson?”

  The man nodded. “And who are you?”

  “I’m here to take you home.”

  With a look of gratefulness, the man nodded as they moved downstairs.

  Take you to your new home in Florence’s supermax federal prison. Gerrit thought he might wait to give Henderson all the details. Right now, they could use his cooperation.

  Max was waiting downstairs. “Let’s get him on the truck and move toward the plane.”

  One of his men came running inside. “We got trouble headed our way. Looks like a couple of vehicles with guns moving in fast.”

  “Get in the truck—now!” Max pushed Henderson ahead of him.

  Gerrit saw the cars picking up speed about a quarter mile away. They jumped on the truck, then the driver jammed on the accelerator. A siren sounded as an alarm must have triggered across the base. More soldiers would be on their way. This was going to be tight.

  Max yelled back from the cab. “The plane is coming up. Once we stop, head for the aircraft and do whatever it takes to get on board.”

  Gerrit and the others nodded. He glanced back and saw that the pursuing cars were just behind them. Looked like about eight men inside the cars, four in each.

  The truck lurched to a stop. Gerrit peeled back the canvas, letting the others drop to the ground. “You guys head toward the plane. I’ll give you cover.”

  Aiming at the lead car, he waited until the vehicle was about fifty yards away, and then he opened up. He hit the driver, and the car swerved and then rolled violently, end over end. The second car barely slowed, swerving to miss the first and continued straight toward Gerrit. One of the car’s occupants leaned out and fired in his direction.

  “Amateur,” Gerrit muttered, taking aim at the driver. He opened up and sent several three-round bursts through the front windshield, killing the driver and causing the car to swerve from its path.

  One of the occupants grabbed the wheel, and Gerrit opened up again, taking out the second driver. The car swerved again, this time hurtling straight for the truck, straight toward Gerrit.

  He braced himself moments before the car slammed into the back end of the two-ton. The collision slammed Gerrit’s body back against the metal between the bed of the truck and the cab. He felt his left arm pop. The impact must have broken his arm or popped it out of the socket. He would know in a second when the pain hit.

  The impact also ripped his rifle out of his hands. It lay a few feet away. He grabbed it with his right hand, quickly reloaded then crawled to the tailgate. A rush of pain in his left arm told him that limb would be useless. He must move on.

  The car had wedged itself between the truck bed and the ground, its front end buried beneath the truck’s undercarriage. Smoke curled from beneath the car, and his mind warned him that an explosion might be forthcoming.

  He rolled over the tailgate and onto the roof of the car then leaped to the ground. Pain shot through his arm with each move he made. Those inside the car hadn’t moved. They were either dead or unconscious. Either way, they were no longer a threat.

  Gerrit ran toward the plane. He glanced back and saw several military transport trucks heading his way. A number of soldiers stood in the bed looking toward him. He dashed up the stairs into the belly of the plane and saw Max and the others had bound up the flight crew. The crew sat in the aisle, glaring at Gerrit as he passed. “We got company headed our way, Max.”

  Max seemed preoccupied, standing next to Scott Henderson. “I know, Gerrit.” Turning back to Henderson, Max said, “Okay, Henderson. The system is fired up. We have only a few seconds to know if this system is operational.”

  �
�Hey, I never knew this was for real. I was told it was a practice run. I did not—”

  “Forget all that!” Max yelled. “This is the system you were supposed to use. Is it functional?”

  Henderson turned toward the controls. He seemed to be studying the system.

  “Henderson, we are out of time. Is this operational?”

  Puzzled, the scientist turned toward Max. “Yes, this is the system, but…”

  Max shook the man’s shoulder. “But what?”

  “It will not function. It has been set up properly, but there is one key component missing. Without it, this is useless.”

  Max stared at him for a moment. “You sure?”

  Gerrit heard gunfire outside, and several rounds blasted through the aircraft’s metal skin. “Max, we’ve got to get word to Perlman and Thompson. We may be out of time.”

  Max nodded and picked up a portable radio. “It will be a bear if we can’t get any reception here.” He switched on the power, and static crackled on the radio as he moved toward the doorway.

  Gerrit would try to hold them off until help arrived or until it was too late.

  Chapter 68

  March 18

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  A sense of dread scraped at Jack’s insides. A sick feeling. He glanced at the tracking screen, watching the bleeps—each representing aircraft—streaking toward the target. They were a few minutes away from the point of detonation. If they didn’t hear anything, Jack knew that Gerrit and the others would be vaporized by the blasts. His stomach tightened as he waited.

  Perlman leaned forward, a worried look creasing his weathered face. “I’m sorry, Jack. Our pilots are going to take out every plane on the ground.”

  Jack nodded, still watching the screen. “I hoped we could have pulled it off. And now…”