The Able Team commando checked his flank, then scrambled to his feet when confident he was clear. He raced forward, not wanting to give the one terrorist a chance to extricate himself from beneath the corpse of his fellow. The man was still struggling to disentangle himself when Schwarz reached him. A quick butt stroke to the side of his head knocked the terrorist out cold. Schwarz reached into the hip pocket of his fatigues and withdrew a set of plastic riot cuffs. He quickly slapped them in place, then went about the task of disarming the terrorists and tossing their weapons over the side.
Once that was accomplished, he set off in search of his teammates.
CARL LYONS HAD SPLIT from his friends, heading for the freighter’s starboard side, intent on making sure they repelled any flanking attempts. The first enemy he encountered approached by speedboat, one of the several he could hear circling the freighter and looking for a clear approach point. Lyons figured he’d give them the advantage—or at least make them think they had it.
The Able Team leader crouched as he heard a speedboat engine die down, and then the voices of its crew members talking to one another. He couldn’t make out much, but he recognized the language as Arabic. So the bastards had somehow managed to fool them into boarding the freighter, then made their move on the cutter. What he couldn’t figure was how they had managed to wait it out and still avoid detection, but that mystery would have to wait.
Lyons dropped to his stomach—the sling of the MP-5/40 wrapped against his forearm to keep the weapon from sliding on the deck—and risked a glance over the side. He spotted the terrorists ten yards aft of his position just as they fired a grappling gun at the railing. The small charge propelled a hook-and-rope system up to the deck. The weight of the hook led the rope over and around the railing, and it wrapped several times before the steel tines of the hook bit into the thick wood.
Lyons slid out of sight, slung his SMG across his back and reached to his LBE strap to retrieve an AN-M14 incendiary grenade. Filled with a thermate mixture known as TH3, the AN-M14 could burn up to forty seconds even under water and burn through a half-inch homogenous steel plate. That certainly made it adequate for Lyons’s purposes. He yanked the pin, clutched the spoon tightly against the grenade body and crawled to a point below the grappling hook. He peered over the side and found himself nose-to-nose with a terrorist. The man opened his mouth to shout, but he never completed it because his lips were mashed over his teeth by a rock-hard punch. The climber lost his hold and dropped from the rope, descending to the boat with the AN-M14 chasing him.
Lyons ducked to safety as shouts of surprise were followed a moment later by shouts of terror. The grenade went off. Piercing screams died under the force of the blast as TH3 doused the speedboat occupants. Lyons didn’t have to see the scene to know the kind of carnage he’d dealt. Sounds of splashing followed as they dived into the cold water for relief. It would do them no good; water wouldn’t end their agony. Only the sweet arrival of death could do that.
The Able Team warrior rose and leaned over the side as he loosed the MP-5/40. Two of the terrorists were still aboard, out of how many he didn’t know, both rolling on the boat deck in agony as they tried to beat out the flames in their clothes and hot molten iron burning into their skin. Lyons ended their agony with a few short bursts.
His victory was short-lived as the roar of another speedboat approached, this one coming from the front of the freighter. Lyons started to swing his weapon into play but held off when he was suddenly lit with spotlights. Just before the lights blinded him, he caught the Stars and Stripes rippling in the ocean breeze. It was the USCG Small Boat Team arriving from the Merrimac River Station. Lyons slung his weapon and raised one hand so as not to get his head shot off, reaching to the radio on his belt with the other. Bryant had loaned him one before they’d boarded the freighter and Lyons had interfaced it with a compatible jack built into his radio. He keyed the transceiver and called the Coast Guard chopper.
“Hey, boys, tell your small-boat teams I’m a friendly!” he shouted.
He could hear an acknowledgment before he switched to the internal band. “Ironman to Gadgets, where away?”
“Coming up on your six, Ironman.”
Lyons turned to confirm Gadgets’s approach, then keyed the transceiver again. “Pol, what’s your status?”
“I’m still at the foredeck, and I’d guess we’re clear.”
“Meet us at the central lift area. The small-boat team has arrived and we—”
“Um, Ironman, I hate to interrupt,” Schwarz cut in, “but I think you better check out the view at twelve o’clock.”
It took him milliseconds to realize the reason for his friend’s concern. Directly ahead, lights still gleaming against the orange-purple haze cast by a dawning sun, Lyons saw the Boston skyline.
Hell, they were still moving!
Lyons sprinted for the bridge, keying the radio on the fly. “Pol, you ever piloted a freighter?”
“Well, I—”
“Never mind that now!” Lyons snapped on afterthought. “Get below and see if you can find a way to manually shut down the engines. I’m sending Gadgets to the bridge and I’ll meet you somewhere near the halfway mark.”
“Roger,” Blancanales replied.
“Ironman, what the hell do we do if we can’t shut this thing down?” Schwarz hollered.
Without looking back, Lyons replied, “Punt!”
He continued for the center section of the ship that would get them below. He couldn’t be sure when Schwarz broke off his tail, but he didn’t realize the electronics wizard was no longer with him until he met up with Blancanales. The two men went belowdecks, descending into the bowels of the ship and hoping they were headed in roughly the correct direction of the engine room. Lyons whispered a prayer to whatever deity might be listening that Schwarz was able to shut the thing down.
“Worst-case scenario,” Blancanales said between pants, “is that we run aground.”
“I’m more worried about running into something,” Lyons shot back.
They reached the engine room five minutes later and there was no indication the powerful machine was slowing. Life hummed through the antiquated freighter, the basso sounds reverberating torturously in Lyons’s ears. His eyes took in the massive boiler-style diesel engine at a glance.
Lyons keyed the radio. “Ironman to Gadgets.”
“Go.”
“What’s the story?” he called, overemphasizing each syllable.
“Controls are sabotaged, boss. You’re going to have to shut it down there.”
“Any ideas?”
“Nothing comes to mind. And the coast is getting pretty big in the window here.”
Lyons took another look at the engine and tried to calm his sense of helplessness. Neither of them was exactly a freighter engines expert, and it was a pretty big engine, which meant they could spend a half hour throwing levers without results. Lyons wondered a moment if the terrorists wouldn’t have the last laugh after all. Of course, they didn’t have it in mind it would go this far. Perhaps Bryant had been right and it would have been easier to stop the ship first.
No use crying over spilt milk, Ironman, Lyons thought.
“Well?” Blancanales demanded, breaking his train of thought. “What now, genius?”
Lyons scowled. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”
“You mean, you don’t know how to disable this thing?”
“Not really,” Lyons replied. “Do you?”
Blancanales responded with a blank look.
“To hell with it,” Lyons finally muttered. He switched to the Coast Guard frequency and said, “Irons to the Jayhawk, do you copy?”
“We read you, sir.”
“You still have those Mk 46s ready and waiting?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Good. We can’t stop this thing from in here. Shoot out the screws and engine.”
“Are you crazy?” Blancanales shouted.
“Not according to my last psych eval,” Lyons replied with a maniacal grin. He keyed the radio for the Coast Guard chopper as the pair turned and headed topside. “And Jayhawk, just for safety’s sake, you guys might want to give us a minute to get the hell out of here.”
And a minute was all they got.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Off the Venezuelan coast
Mahmed Temez stood on the deck of the freighter and stared at the rising sun. He thought of his mission and how soon his view wouldn’t be so peaceful. In less than twelve hours, the Americans and their allies would be suffering horrible losses. They would be ill-prepared for the disaster to befall the city called Dallas.
Temez was pleased with their progress and with the fact that Jabir had kept his promise. He knew a large part of that success was attributed to the sacrifice of his brothers. According to the latest reports he’d received, the Americans were involved in a vain effort to engage their decoys, totally ignorant of his people’s true plans. At that moment, Jabir was on another freighter, far away and bound for the English Channel. The snide, cynical dogs would pay for their interference in his homeland. Outside of culture and location, there existed absolutely no difference between the Americans and British in Temez’s mind. They proclaimed to love freedom, but were first to take it from others. They stood on their pedestals and preached peace and tolerance, but they were the most single-mindedly intolerant and warring nations on the face of the Earth.
Nonetheless, it had all come to this moment. They would emerge victorious. Days and weeks of planning had turned to months; months had realized more than a year of execution. Temez had smuggled the missiles and equipment out of Iraq and into Syria. Under the protection of friends and sympathizers, they disassembled the materials, then shipped them by various means into South Africa. Temez had personally overseen their delivery to Cape Town, where his cousin awaited them. The most important element, of course, was musrah. Its effects were devastating on the human body, as witnessed in the response of the South African military agent’s exposure. Now they would implement the poison on a large scale. The death toll would be catastrophic. It wouldn’t have the effect on thousands, but on tens of thousands. The operation of September 2001 would seem minor by contrast. This was the first time a plan of this scale would encompass the targeting of civilian populations by military means.
Their chances of success were increased tenfold by Jabir’s noble efforts. He had gleaned the support of many allies and stemmed the tide of risk. Financial and technical contributors to the Qibla cause hadn’t been aware their efforts would only work to further the success of this operation. They would launch a coordinated attack from four separate locations. By the time the Americans and British realized they were under attack, it would be too late. Yes, they would pay for their interference in Iraq. Allah had willed it long ago. It was destiny.
The sound of throat-clearing brought Temez back from his daydreaming. He turned to see Karif Bhati, his trusted friend and aide. Temez smiled.
“You are lost in meditation,” Bhati observed. “I shall leave you.”
“No, my friend,” Temez replied. “Please stay. I was just thinking of how our moment of victory approaches.”
“It will be to the glory of our people,” Bhati said.
“It will be for Allah’s glory,” Temez reminded him.
Bhati bowed. “Of course.”
“However, it is also, as you say, that tomorrow will be a day for all our people who have suffered at the hands of the Westerners. They do not realize what they have done. They sleep now in their large homes and warm beds. Most of them have never known what it means to be cold, to be hungry, to be parched under the hot desert sun while awaiting your enemies when you would kill for a few drops of water from their canteens. No, Karif, they have chosen the path to eternal damnation. They have enriched themselves on the suffering of the Islamic nation. I intend to make sure they understand the cost of their actions.”
“I know you will succeed,” Bhati replied.
Temez smiled at him again. “You are a good friend. But I assume you did not come to listen to my idle banter. What have you to report?”
Bhati stepped aside and gestured for Temez to lead them from the bow to where they worked on completing the platform. “We have been working in shifts to complete the launcher. All of the material is in place and the missile is ready for mounting. I thought you might like to witness the fruit of your men’s labor.”
“Our men, Karif, our men,” Temez replied. “You sometimes forget that one day I expect you will succeed me. When that day comes, I trust you will carry on with our mission. Do not let this be an event of closure. I want you to treat this as a mere preview of what is to come. Should I not survive this operation, you will need to carry on with greater acts. You shall be a bolder man than I, for I’ve seen it in my dreams.”
“Please do not talk of your death, Mahmed,” Bhati interjected. “It disturbs me greatly.”
“It is a fact of existence,” Temez insisted. “We will all die, my friend. But it is how we die that is most important. One can only hope that it is in the cause of Allah, and that we do it not for our reward, but because we are striving to make this a peaceful world for our children. They are the future of our people. If the Americans and British were to have it their way, we would all suffer and die without honor or reward. They would eradicate us if they could.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Bhati said. As they came to the edge overlooking the pit in the center of the freighter, he added, “But we will not permit extinction. It is not the will of Allah, and it is not our destiny. We are a great people. Witness the triumph of that greatness.”
Temez took a sharp breath. The construction was finer than he could have imagined it. The massive lift was supported under hydraulics, and atop the main plate they had slaved for hours to complete assembly of the launcher. At the moment they were working to move the missile into place. Temez was hard-pressed not to show his pride. It was a glorious weapon of war, this device. Long and sleek, it could travel more than six hundred nautical miles with a reserve fuel capacity for another hundred or so. It could carry a nuclear warhead with a thousand-kiloton payload, but in this case it was loaded with an explosive charge capable of leveling several city blocks. The dispersal of musrah would encompass approximately three square miles. Given its target, a heavily populated area of downtown Dallas, Temez’s engineers had predicted an exposure of five to eight thousand people.
Temez had been trained to fire many such warheads, but never afforded the opportunity to do so. The chemicals used against the coalition forces during his country’s invasion of Kuwait hadn’t proved as effective as would musrah. First, they had been dealing with short-range field missiles at the time, and the Patriot missiles had proved quite effective against their Scuds. Temez had once recalled meeting Saddam Hussein during a field inspection, appealing to his great military mind by suggesting more effective ways—ways just like this—to disperse chemical and biological agents. Saddam had considered the idea but never chosen to invest funds in further research.
Temez’s colleagues in the Iraqi military liked his ideas. With their connections, they had managed to find some rich oil tycoons to fund exploring the concepts in greater detail. Unfortunately the search by NATO inspectors had effectively halted measurable progress. It was in the months just preceding the American invasion of his country that two scientists he had secreted at an abandoned bunker complex deep in the heart of the Syrian Desert discovered musrah. Subsequent tests of the agent proved promising, but it was Temez’s knowledge of missile ballistics and funding by Jabir’s associates that made the difference. Ultimately, this was the product of their efforts.
“When will we be at complete operational capability?” Temez asked.
“Our experts tell me they expect to have the missile ready for launch within a few hours,” Bhati declared.
Temez nodded. “That is about all of the time we can afford them. W
e have the greater task of full preparedness in a much shorter span than my cousin. All three of the ships must be ready. Everything depends upon this, Karif. I do not want to be the one who is lacking when it comes time to strike.”
“Understood. I give you my personal assurances we will be ready.”
“Excellent.”
Temez couldn’t have asked for more, and knew his friend well enough to know that they would make their deadline with time to spare. He was only sorry they wouldn’t be able to witness the destruction firsthand, although he was quite aware of the effects of musrah. It was a viable agent, to be sure, and he had made certain that all of their crew leaders were well informed of its dangers.
The chief antidote was a drug called atropine. It was carried by most medical facilities, but required large quantities to counteract the effects of musrah. While a good number of these medical facilities carried substantial amounts for the very purpose of treating exposures to cholinesterase poisons, it wasn’t maintained on a per capita basis. Exposures were uncommon except in farming communities, but even the medical facilities around these areas didn’t stockpile atropine with the idea of treating mass casualty incidents. In fact, a good number of countries around the world had severely limited its manufacture, further reducing the chances of treating the masses. Finally, America and its allies would understand what it meant to be starved for medicines and other essential elements for sustaining life.
Yes, the results would be devastating. The aftereffects of such an incident as they had planned made the idea doubly pleasurable. Emergency systems would be unable to handle the flood of patients seeking treatment. In all probability, the national disaster systems would break under the initial burden, and it would take many months, perhaps years, to recover. Bodies would clog the streets and businesses and residences of Dallas. Panic would ensue. There would be riots and the economy would suffer. The results would be like nothing ever witnessed in the history of the Islamic jihad.
Soon, the very face of the world would change. Forever!
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