Newton’s Fire

by Will Adams

  ‘It’s time,’ he said.

  They headed out in small clusters, leaving Benyamin behind with Shlomo and his men. Ana and Ruth were waiting by the truck. Danel told them what they’d seen in London, but the two women weren’t overly impressed. They had their own motivations for being here. Avram drove the truck into a darkly shadowed area of the car park and opened up the rear. They shifted furniture and fridges, heaved the dust carts down onto the tarmac. They armed themselves and put on sanitation worker jackets and caps.

  Nathaniel, Ruth and Ana were taking the truck on for their own part of the mission. They all now hugged farewell and wished each other luck. Avram led the way into the Old City. He passed safely through Zion then called Danel with the all clear. He kept the line open in case of mishap, but luck was with them. He reached the basement apartment without incident, nodded down to Shlomo. A deep breath, then a deeper. A last check of his watch. After all these years, it seemed extraordinary to Avram that the time of preparation should finally be over and that the time of truth had come.

  But it had.

  FORTY-ONE

  I

  The intercom came on and the pilot announced departure. Walters leaned forwards to pull down the window blind. ‘Don’t want us waving to the crowds, eh?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Something like that,’ agreed Walters. He fastened his seat belt, ostentatiously nestling his taser in his lap. Lights dimmed. A lurch of movement, though their engines weren’t yet on, then a soft bump of wheels as they were towed over the hangar’s door-rails. They stopped again. Now their engines came on, whining like teenagers on a museum trip. They began to move under their own power and were soon taxiing briskly. They turned into the runway, paused. Their engines roared and they hurtled into take-off. Acceleration pushed Luke a little from his seat. His heart sank as hope faded of some last-moment miracle intervention. Rachel slipped her hand into his. He interlaced his fingers with hers, gave a gentle press of gratitude and reassurance. They lifted sharply. Walters pushed the blind back up. The scattered lights of East London shrank beneath them. They banked into a turn that stole the city from their view and gave them night sky instead. It was moonless but spilled with stars, and just for a blink Luke was back beneath the Ashmolean, staring up at the wondrous galaxies of its ceiling. Then the cabin lights came on, extinguishing the night and prompting Rachel to take her hand from his, as though suddenly feeling shy.

  Walters stood and stretched. ‘Champagne, wasn’t it?’ he mocked.

  ‘And some dry-roasted peanuts, if you’ve got any.’

  Walters laughed. ‘Back before you know it.’ He went to the bar to fix himself a drink, then settled down across the aisle with his mates and Jay. He didn’t have their company long, however, for Jay said something to Kieran and the two of them stood and made their way to the rear of the cabin. There was a door there with an embedded handle that Kieran had to pull out and twist to unlock and open. It was thick and heavy and surrounded by rubber seals; and it swung out towards him when surely a sliding door would have made a better use of space.

  Luke frowned. Air pressure at altitude was so much greater inside a modern passenger jet than outside that their external doors and hatches invariably opened inwards. That way, even if someone tried to open them during a flight, whether by mistake or in an act of sabotage, they simply wouldn’t have the strength. So that door seemed designed to separate a pressurized from an unpressurized compartment. But if that were truly the case, then Kieran and Jay wouldn’t have been able to get through to the cargo hold at all. He was still puzzling over this when Rachel touched his arm. ‘It’s back there, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The Ark?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What’s going on? Are we off to Israel?’

  ‘As far as I can tell.’

  ‘But why? All this mayhem, all this secrecy …’ She shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’

  Luke grimaced. ‘There’s a Jewish tradition that the Third Temple won’t be built until the Ark has been found and returned to Jerusalem. But the Ark isn’t enough by itself. The ground has to be cleared first. There’s a Dome on it, remember?’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ muttered Rachel. ‘You think that’s what Jay’s uncle is up to?’

  ‘Can’t you imagine it?’ said Luke. ‘The Ark arriving at the Temple Mount at the very moment Jay’s uncle brings down the Dome? It will look as though it was the Ark that did it, just like at Jericho. True believers everywhere will see it as the will of God.’

  ‘Muslims won’t,’ muttered Rachel. ‘There’ll be war.’

  ‘Armageddon, more like,’ said Luke. ‘If ever there’s been a self-fulfilling prophecy, that’s the one.’

  ‘They can’t be that crazy, can they?’ asked Rachel, looking around. ‘I mean Jay and his uncle, maybe. But these other guys, they hardly seem like religious fanatics, do they?’

  ‘I guess they do whatever Croke tells them.’

  ‘But he doesn’t look that way either.’

  ‘He must have his reasons.’

  ‘Yes. But what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe we should ask him when we next see him,’ suggested Rachel wryly.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Luke. ‘Maybe we should.’

  II

  The al-Haddad Gate was in the Muslim quarter of the Old City, making it more difficult for Avram and his comrades to reach unnoticed. But it was worth the extra trouble, for the approach had a kink in it, depriving the Waqf nightwatchmen of line of sight on the Israeli police guardpost at the other end.

  Avram shuffled his way past the mouth of the alley, an old man of no conceivable threat making his way home after a late dinner. A short distance behind, Danel and his teams of street-cleaners rattled their dust carts across the old stones. Danel paused for a cigarette as he passed the guardpost, but his lighter only sprayed sparks. He glanced at the policemen, held up his cigarette, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You guys are working late,’ grunted one of them, taking a matchbook from his pocket.

  ‘This damned earthquake,’ said Danel. ‘No one knows what’s going on any more.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  The clatter of carts drowned out the faint noise of Shlomo and his men approaching through the shadows. The guardpost was swarmed in an instant, hands over all the policemen’s mouths.

  ‘Don’t be heroes,’ warned Danel.

  Tranquillizer guns spat into their necks. They held them till they slumped, laid them in the shadows. Up went the dust cart lids, out came the assault weapons and the packs. They peeled off and discarded their outer garb, put on body-armour and infrared bibs that looked dark to the naked eye but which glowed brightly through their night-vision goggles, cutting the risk of friendly fire. They shouldered their packs, tightened straps. The moment Danel gave Avram the thumbs-up, he sent his prepared text message winging through the night to the Mount of Olives, where Ana, Ruth and Nathaniel were waiting.

  Just a few more seconds and the fireworks would begin for real.

  FORTY-TWO

  I

  Walters tried to kill time with a movie, but nothing held his interest. Luke and Rachel were like food stuck between his teeth — impossible to get out of his mind until they’d been dealt with. They’d be landing in Israel soon, and the Israelis weren’t exactly famous for letting aircraft in without knowing exactly who was on board. And how the hell were they going to make Luke and Rachel disappear after that?

  He headed forwards, knocked on Croke’s door, and went in. Croke looked up irritably from some paperwork. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Our guests,’ said Walters.

  ‘I told you I’d take care of them.’

  ‘Yes, but if the Israelis find them on board, we-’

  ‘They won’t. They’ll be gone before then.’

  ‘How?’

  Croke sighed. ‘Haven’t you noticed our cargo hold? We can depressurize at altitude, dump stuff out; stuff that’s been wrapped well and weigh
ted to sink and stay sunk. Then we can pressurize again before we land.’

  ‘We’re dumping them? Where?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ His TV was tuned to a 24-hour news channel, its volume down. Now he flipped to a flight map showing their position and course. A single glance was all it took to see that there was only one body of water up to the job: the Mediterranean. ‘The Aegean’s no good,’ said Croke. ‘Too many islands. Too many shallows. So we’ll have to wait until we’re somewhere south-west of Cyprus.’

  ‘What about Kohen?’ asked Walters. ‘He’ll squeal if his friends go missing.’

  ‘Not if we dump him too.’

  ‘What about his uncle?’

  ‘He won’t give a shit, trust me. He only cares about the Ark. Once he sees it on Jewish soil, he’ll do his part.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Walters nodded. ‘Until the Mediterranean, then.’

  II

  Nathaniel had jacked up the right back wheel of the truck in order to change the tyre and so give Ana and Ruth cover to unload the Predator missiles and carry them down into the Jewish cemetery. It was a delicate operation, for a contingent of Israeli Defense Force light infantry were stationed in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, close enough that Nathaniel and the women could hear snatches of their conversation and laughter, see the occasional orange firefly of a cigarette.

  Nathaniel had set his cellphone to mute. Now it began to vibrate. His heart seemed almost to vibrate in sympathy with it. He checked the message to make sure. Yes. His hands were clammy as he made his way to join the women.

  ‘Is it time?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Nathaniel.

  This latest generation of Predator missiles had GPS capability. All nine were already on, programmed and ready to fire. They shouldered one each. The night was sparkling clear, the golden bulb of the Dome brilliantly lit. It usually made Nathaniel feel sick to see it, to see Islam lording it over Judaism like that; but tonight it felt righteous.

  Ana gave the countdown in a quiet, calm voice:

  ‘Three.

  ‘Two.

  ‘One.

  ‘Fire.’

  The noise of the triple discharge was quite something. The cemetery lit up orange and the three fat missiles flew with surprising slowness across the valley. They didn’t watch them, however, but threw away the empty Predator husks, shouldered and fired another missile each. Now they unleashed the third and final set. Remarkably, all nine were on their way before the first ones struck.

  Electricity for the Temple Mount was routed through two generator buildings on the northern wall. Both buildings were destroyed in an instant by the first salvo. The whole Temple Mount lit up like a fiesta in silent eruptions. The spotlights on the Dome stuttered and went dark. Only now did the triple booms reach them across the valley. By coincidence, they synchronized almost perfectly with the impact of the second volley. The Temple Mount’s Golden Gate had been walled up centuries before. As the second tranche of missiles slammed into it, the vast old stones staggered yet somehow stayed standing. Then the final volley struck and the ancient structure collapsed in an avalanche of rubble that cascaded down through the Arab cemetery onto the road below.

  The last of the explosions died away. The noise of gunfire reached them. It sounded strangely trivial in comparison. At first it was erratic but they quickly got a fix on their position. They knelt and raised their hands high above their heads. ‘Don’t shoot!’ they yelled. ‘We surrender! We surrender!’ Their voices were drowned out by the thunder of copter blades. Spotlights dazzled them in the darkness. They braced themselves for bullets; but the bullets never came. Soldiers swarmed up the hillside and slammed them face-first into the ground. They tied their wrists behind their backs with flexi-cuffs and marched them down the slope. But the three of them smiled in triumph as they went. Their job was done.

  It had started.

  FORTY-THREE

  I

  Croke flipped through channels for breaking news from Jerusalem, but there was still nothing. It should be any moment now, yet he felt too restless to stay watching. He went forward to the cockpit, where he found Manfredo chatting away with Craig Bray and Vig, who had a pilot’s licence of his own and so sat co-pilot on these trips. ‘You need me, boss?’ he asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I need our pilot.’

  ‘Everything’s sweet,’ said Bray, glancing around. ‘We’re even a few minutes ahead of schedule.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Croke. ‘It’s the depressurisation job I mentioned earlier. We’re going to need to do it.’

  Bray grunted. He was under no illusions why he was paid so well. ‘It’s a bugger at thirty thousand,’ he said. ‘Puts too much stress on the fuselage. Best to drop to twenty.’

  ‘Won’t that get us noticed?’

  ‘Not if we wait until we’ve started our descent.’

  ‘I need it dark and over water.’

  ‘It’ll still be dark enough, trust me; and we’ll be coming in from due west, so we’ll be over the Med until the last couple of minutes.’

  ‘Okay. Good.’ He went back out. There was still nothing on the news. He went through to the cargo hold to check on Kohen, found him trimming a wooden panel with a plane. ‘How’s it coming along?’ he asked.

  Kohen didn’t even bother to look up. ‘It would be coming along better if I didn’t keep having to answer silly questions.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Croke. Until that moment, despite what he’d said to Walters, he hadn’t fully resolved to kill Kohen. But this show of disrespect made up his mind for him. He returned to the main cabin, fixed himself a drink, then checked the news on one of the screens there. Still nothing.

  ‘Maybe they’ve been caught,’ said Luke.

  Croke squinted around at him. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘Jay’s uncle and his Third Temple friends. Maybe they were caught on their way to the Dome.’

  Croke glanced towards the hold. ‘Your friend’s been shooting his mouth off, has he?’

  ‘He told us nothing,’ said Luke. ‘It’s the only way this makes sense. Though there’s one thing we can’t work out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We get why they’re doing it,’ said Luke. ‘They want a Third Temple. But what’s in it for you?’

  ‘You’re the ones with the letters after your names,’ said Croke. ‘Surely you must have some ideas.’

  It was the girl who answered. ‘Money,’ she said.

  The contempt in her voice nettled Croke. And he was curious, too, about how much they’d deduced, how much others might deduce. ‘Who’d pay me for such a thing?’ he asked, sitting down opposite them.

  ‘Whoever benefits from Armageddon, I’d guess,’ said Luke. ‘Arms manufacturers. Oil companies with reserves outside the Middle East.’

  ‘Why pick on oil?’ asked Croke. ‘Nobody benefits from Middle Eastern wars like renewable energy. Being green isn’t the same as being ethical. Then there are the logistics suppliers and communications companies and mercenary groups — or security subcontractors, as I believe they like to call themselves these days.’

  ‘Well? Which?’

  Croke shrugged. ‘All of them. None of them. Does it matter?’

  ‘And they hired you to recruit fanatics to bring down the Dome?’

  ‘The fanatics were already there, believe me. They’ve been there forever. Trouble is, while they talked a good game, nothing ever happened. And it’s not will they lack. It’s resources. Skills. Professionalism, you might say. My clients found that … intensely frustrating.’

  ‘So that’s your job?’ snorted Luke. ‘Project manager?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘And how much does an apocalypse cost these days? Fifty million? A hundred? What does that work out as? A dollar a life?’ He turned to Rachel. ‘You want to know who to blame for your brother? You’re looking at him.’

  ‘I d
idn’t make the world this way,’ said Croke tightly. ‘I just live in it.’

  ‘Is that how you sleep at night? By telling yourself that?’

  ‘You want me to be ashamed? Is that it? Well, I’m not. There are finite resources in the world. There’s only so much land and gold and oil. Every time someone takes a larger share for themselves, someone else goes short. I’m okay with that. I’m okay with other people going short. But here’s the thing: so are you. You’re fine with other people going short, you’re fine with starvation, mutilation and massacre, just so long as it happens off-screen, just so long as you don’t have to watch.’

  ‘That’s some philosophy,’ said Rachel.

  ‘It’s called realism.’

  ‘It’s called narcissism,’ said Luke. ‘Caring about nothing but yourself. Though I do admire you for one thing.’

  ‘I’m flattered. What?’

  ‘Your sort usually leave the dangerous work to the flunkies. Yet here you are.’

  ‘I like to see a project through,’ nodded Croke. ‘Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  Croke hesitated. The truth had been eating away at him for two days now. He hankered to tell someone, even if only these two. ‘You think me a narcissist,’ he said. ‘But it’s just possible that someone way more important than me wants me here. That they’ve been planning on my being here for a very long time.’

  ‘Like who?’ frowned Luke.

  Croke smiled as he leaned back in his seat. ‘Like God,’ he said.

  II

  The moment Avram saw the Jerusalem sky turn orange, he gave the order to go. His own legs were too old to lead the assault itself, so he left that to Danel and Shlomo. They had charges ready to blow the al-Haddad Gate, but the Waqf guards fled through it at the first sight of them, leaving it open behind them. They poured on through as the second volley of Predators struck, making silhouettes and easy targets of the Waqf guards. No point making martyrs of them, so they aimed bursts at their legs until they tumbled prostrate before their precious Dome. They raced up the steps onto the plaza. The generator annexe and the Golden Gate were ablaze, and guards were running about like termites from a scattered mound, blinded and deafened by the explosions, crying out in pain, outrage and terror.