by Mike Maden
The rifle was just inches from Jack’s face, but he had to let go of the Chechen to get it, and if he did, the jihadi would squirm forward the few inches he needed to hit the launcher before he could shoot him.
“Jack! Thirty seconds!”
If he let go now, he could make a run for it and save his neck.
But then all of those people would die.
If he held on, the Tomahawk would take care of everything.
And it would cost him his life.
He knew what he had to do.
Jack tightened his grip, straining every muscle to hold the Chechen back, the man’s legs kicking furiously against Jack’s desperate grip.
Dust and air pummeled Jack as the black EC-635 Eurocopter touched down, its whining turbines hardly slowing.
Jack twisted around just enough to catch a glimpse of Kolak racing from the chopper toward him, a pistol in his hand.
A pistol pointed at Jack.
68
OLYMPIC SOCCER STADIUM, SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Ambassador Topal was given the honor of sitting on the raised dais next to the Catholic bishop of Sarajevo and other distinguished guests of the Orthodox Renewal liturgy.
The officiating senior clergy wore fantastical silken white robes hand-embroidered with silver thread, and large jewel-encrusted hats shaped like crowns. Their large crosses of silver and gold hung around their necks on thick chains, and they carried ecclesiastical instruments in their liver-spotted hands. The neatness of their finely gilded vestments was offset by the wild enormity of their scraggly gray beards.
The clean-shaven Roman Catholic bishop seated next to him, in contrast, wore a simple black cassock, with a bright red sash and a matching red skullcap. Not that the Catholics couldn’t be every bit as colorful in their garish robes and golden accoutrements, but today at the Renewal they avoided competing sartorially with their Eastern brethren.
The only real difference between senior Roman Catholic and Orthodox clergy that Topal had ever observed was that Catholics shaved their faces. As far as he was concerned, their doctrinal differences were irrelevant because their religions were kafir.
As one of just three Muslims in the distinguished guests’ box, Ambassador Topal felt a particular gratitude for his invitation. He knew quite a few of the local Orthodox clergy, and most of the Russian and Serbian politicians in attendance.
The mood so far was both festive and solemn. Crowds of faithful were still streaming into the stadium, waving nationalist flags and religious banners, packing in like sardines.
His security chief informed him the official count was now just above seventy thousand and rising, the largest stadium audience ever.
Topal nodded, satisfied.
He was proud to be part of this historic day.
A day to be remembered.
* * *
—
Jack felt the rapid-fire bullets brushing past the top of his skull.
The Chechen’s back ripped open in a hail of jacketed rounds and his heavy torso slumped.
Kolak grabbed Jack by the arms, lifting him to his feet.
“Jack! Let’s go!”
The two men sprinted for the chopper at full tilt.
“Fifteen seconds!” the President screamed in Jack’s ear.
The rotors sped up and the skids lifted as Kolak leaped first into the cabin.
Jack thundered up as the Eurocopter rose to four feet. He jumped with every ounce of his failing strength.
His upper body thudded into the deck as he reached for the seat struts bolted onto the floor, but his legs were still hanging out. The copter thrust straight up and around. The centrifugal force started dragging him out of the door, but Kolak grabbed Jack’s shirt and belt, helping Jack crawl inside as the chopper’s nose thrust upward, clawing for the sun.
“Everybody strap in!” the pilot shouted.
Jack and Kolak fell into their seats, literally, and buckled up. Jack knew they needed to clear the area before those warheads—
A blinding white light erupted beneath the climbing Eurocopter, screaming for altitude.
But they weren’t high enough.
The thermobaric munitions burned away the oxygen in the surrounding atmosphere, creating an enormous vacuum, robbing the rotors of their lift capability. The chopper bucked and yawed as the pilot fought for control in the turbulence.
Just as she stabilized, a concussive wave slapped the thin-skinned aircraft hard, hurling it toward the ground.
69
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The President sighed with relief as the applause and cheers rang out from the VTC monitors in the Situation Room.
“And still over four minutes to spare,” Arnie said, smiling. “Not bad.”
The second Tomahawk was still providing a live video feed of the thermobaric explosion. The entire compound was leveled, and whatever wasn’t destroyed was burning.
“We have a problem, Mr. President,” the Russian president said.
Ryan’s relief disappeared. “What problem?”
“My intelligence chief just reviewed the Tomahawk video feed. It cannot be determined with certainty, but it appears that there were forty rockets on the launcher.”
“Yes, that is correct. Why is that a problem?”
“It is a problem because eighty thermobaric rockets were stolen.”
President Ryan turned to his chief of staff, whose shocked face mirrored his own.
Where the hell were those other missiles?
“Jack? This is your dad. Come in, please.”
No answer.
“Jack? Jack?”
“He’s not responding, sir,” the comms tech said.
“Keep trying, please,” Ryan said.
“Mr. President, what do you suggest?” the Russian president asked again.
“One moment, please,” Ryan said. He put the Russian on mute, the only person on the VTC who wasn’t part of his inner circle.
“Any thoughts, people?”
“Another launcher?” Admiral Dean offered.
“Maybe,” Ryan said. “But we have no indication of that.”
“Or we just missed the other forty missiles. Maybe they were stacked in that building where we couldn’t see them,” Arnie said.
“Or maybe they’re being saved for a future operation,” Foley suggested.
“No. Whoever planned this attack only had one launcher, and they had one giant opportunity. I know what I’d do with an extra forty warheads if I couldn’t launch them.” Ryan unmuted the Russian president.
“President Yermilov, I have a suggestion. But there’s no time to waste.”
“I’m listening.”
“Contact your man in Belgrade, Deputy Commander General Sevrov. And do it now.”
70
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Džeko sat by himself in the Happy Times! bus. His thirty-seven passengers, all bearded Orthodox clergy in simple black cassocks, were inside the stadium, participating in the Renewal service, while he remained parked near the facility, waiting for their return.
Or so they thought.
Thanks to them, entrance into the heart of the sports complex had been arranged, and the parking space next to the stadium preassigned by a senior Bosnian prelate.
He checked his analog watch again for the tenth time in the last minute. In a few seconds it would be 10:16. Brkić had been explicit, and his commander’s words were sacrosanct.
Where were the rockets? They should have arrived by now. They should have exploded.
Something was wrong. His orders were clear. Still, he needed clarity. He picked up his cell phone to call Brkić, but the phone was dead.
He glanced outside his windshield. He noticed other people struggling with their cell pho
nes.
The kuffar must have killed the cell-phone signals.
No matter. He knew his duty.
He pulled a remote control switch out of the storage tray in the console. It was connected wirelessly to the forty detached thermobaric warheads hidden in the luggage compartment of the bus.
Džeko closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed the shahada. “I testify that there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet. Allahu akbar!”
Džeko jammed the remote with his thumb.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes. What happened? He pressed the button again, and again, and again. Nothing. The batteries must be dead, he decided.
Or something else.
No matter.
Džeko reached for the glove box. Inside was a yellow handle. All he had to do was pull it to manually detonate the charges. He flipped open the glove box just as bullets shattered the bus’s giant windshield and tore into his skull and upper torso, killing him instantly.
Outside, a knot of Russian and OSA-OBA operatives charged toward the bus.
With comms dead, they flashed hand signals and cleared the way for the demolition experts right behind them.
71
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Two days later, there was a knock at the front door of Ambassador Topal’s private residence. He glanced up, puzzled, in his silken robe and pajamas. Who would come calling at this time of night?
He shuffled over to the marbled foyer in his dress slippers and opened the door.
“Jack? What are you doing here?”
“You always told me to stop by before I left. Here I am.”
“It’s rather late.” Topal glanced past him, confused.
“I gave your security team the night off, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
“I don’t understand,” Topal said with a self-effacing smile.
“Invite me in and I’ll explain.”
Topal waved him in. “Please. I’m all ears. Something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Topal pointed Jack toward the garish living room with its overstuffed red velvet couches and gold silk chairs. It was a room worthy of a sultan.
“Cigarette?”
“Those things will kill you,” Jack said, taking a seat. His face was still scratched and bruised from his brawl with the Chechen.
Topal sat on the couch. “First of all, congratulations on stopping Brkić and his plot. You’re a hero.”
“I don’t know about that. I was just trying to keep another maniac from murdering thousands in the name of Allah.”
“An unfortunate desire among too many fanatics these days.”
“Did you know Brkić?”
“No, not directly. I’ve heard of the name. It’s common enough.” Topal leaned forward. “I thought you were already back in the States?”
“I’m extending my stay a few more days. I have some things I want to clear up before I leave. That’s why I’m here.”
“Obviously you want to clear up something with me. How can I be of assistance?”
Jack slid a cell phone across the ornate rosewood-and-brass coffee table that separated the two of them. Topal picked it up.
“What is this?”
“That burner phone belonged to Aida.” Jack smiled. “I pulled it from her corpse.”
“Aida is dead? How?”
“I shot her.”
Topal shifted uncomfortably on his couch. He’d misjudged the young American.
“That’s quite unfortunate, Jack. I’m sorry to hear it. But what does all of this have to do with me?”
“We didn’t find any burner phones on Brkić, Emir, or anybody else. Just that one, on Aida.”
“I still don’t see the connection to me.”
“Funny thing about that phone. It’s got a voice scrambler and encryption software. Real high-tech. Mil-spec, actually, according to my guy.”
“So you weren’t able to pull anything off of it?”
“Not yet, but my guy is real good. He’ll crack into it eventually.”
Topal’s even smile betrayed his relief.
“No offense, Jack, but do you have a point? It is rather late.”
Jack nodded at Aida’s phone. “Judging by that phone, we figured your outfit must have been practicing some serious OPSEC. We’re guessing your people were using and tossing these things just about every day.
“But the problem with OPSEC is that there are a lot of moving parts. Your people did a good job destroying their burner phones. But we decided to dig a little deeper. And you know what we found out? Brkić must have destroyed all of his burner phones, but he kept using the same Iridium GO! satellite hotspot for all of his calls. Can you believe it? He must have been a cheap bastard.”
“You’ve lost me, Jack.”
“My guy—his name is Gavin, by the way, and he’s really good—did a search. He found a connection between you and Brkić.”
“A connection? How?”
“Do you have any idea how many times Brkić used that hotspot to connect calls to a cell tower right next to your embassy and residence?”
Topal smiled, setting Aida’s phone back on the table. “None whatsoever.”
“Almost as many times as his hotspot connected to cell towers near Aida.”
“All coincidences, I’m sure. There are few cell towers in the area. And as you know, Aida and I had a close relationship, thanks to the Peace and Friendship Center. And I also believe she hired Brkić occasionally as an auto mechanic.”
“So why would they speak on burner phones?”
“I have no idea.”
“Let’s not play games. You and Aida were closely connected, and Aida and Brkić were connected. With these cell-tower records, we know you and Brkić were connected, too.”
“You’re talking about statistical probabilities, not actual phone calls.” Topal glanced at Aida’s phone. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Not in a court of law. At least, not yet.”
Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a spring-loaded Benchmade Infidel knife, and flicked it open.
“But I have enough evidence to satisfy my own conscience. So, Ambassador, tell me why you were part of this plot to murder thousands of people or else I’m going to spill your intestines all over that velvet couch you’re sitting on.”
Topal sat back, swallowing hard. “I have diplomatic immunity.”
“Like I give a shit.” Jack flashed the blade. “Last chance.”
“Truthfully? Yes, I was using Aida and Brkić, but only to disrupt the upcoming Unity Referendum.”
“How were you using them?”
“I supplied resources to them. Cash, mostly. Especially to Brkić, so he could foment civil strife.”
“You mean civil war.”
“Yes. I suppose that was the goal in Brkić’s mind, now that I think about it,” Topal said, extending the lie. “But my government would have intervened before things got out of hand.”
“He was behind those terrorist attacks over the last few weeks? The rape of those girls? The wedding massacre?”
“All him. I told him to just agitate. Not kill.”
Topal hoped his lies were convincing. His orders to Brkić had been explicit, but how could Jack know that?
“And the rocket attack on the Orthodox service? What was your role in that?”
Topal bolted upright. “Nothing whatsoever. That could have caused another world war—the very thing my government is trying to prevent. We’re looking to create stability in the region, not crisis. Besides, as you know, I was at the Renewal service. Why would I want to kill myself?”
“So the rocket attack was all his idea?”
“Completely. I had no idea that he
was planning it. I thought I was using him, but it turns out he was using me.”
“I’m still confused. You just said you were for stability in the region. So why oppose the Unity Referendum? That would promote peace and stability in Bosnia.”
“Bosnia is a historical miscarriage. These fools can’t govern themselves. The local Muslims are secular kuffar and the Christians are all drunken nihilists incapable of holding a decent thought. Only Turkey and the New Ottoman Empire can establish lasting peace and stability in this part of the world, as it had in the glorious past.”
“In other words, your plan was to destabilize the region in order to gain control over it.”
“In order to bring a lasting peace,” Topal corrected him. He leaned forward. “You Americans should thank us. The next war between NATO and Russia will occur in the Balkans. We’re your best hope of preventing it.”
“But Turkey is part of NATO.”
“Not for long. NATO is doomed to break apart, sooner or later. The European experiment is dying in the icy winds of a demographic winter, even as a generation of Muslim leadership is rising up all over the continent. Who is more naturally suited to lead this new reality than us?”
Jack shook his head, incredulous. “You think this is an episode of Game of Thrones, don’t you? These are people’s lives you’re playing with, you sick son of a bitch.”
“We’ve been playing this ‘game,’ as you call it, since the thirteenth century.”
“Answer me one more question. Are you Red Wing?”
Topal’s owlish face beamed with pride. “Yes. How did you get that name?”
“Aida’s laptop. We cracked it open before her BleachBit was scheduled to run and wipe the disk.”
Topal sighed. “‘For want of a nail,’ eh?” He pulled off his glasses and wiped them with a silk handkerchief, asking, “Have I satisfied your curiosity?”
“For now, yes. I’m sure the Bosnian government will want to ask you more questions.”
“I will gladly make myself available.”