Royal Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
It took less than five minutes for King Al Rahman to know which of his brothers were going to join him.
Soon after he had shot the first two men, the remaining six began to see the light. Later, when two more faltered upon understanding what he intended to do, they were quickly taken care of. The four remaining princes had agreed to join him, swearing allegiance to his cause.
King Al Rahman had known that two of the four would join him. The third one, he had been uncertain about. And the fourth prince who had chosen to support him had come as a complete surprise, proving once again how difficult it was to truly judge a man’s heart.
After getting their agreement, the king had given the four conspirators two hours to ponder, sending them to their rooms under guard. Once the sun had set and left the desert to swallow up the yellow light from the moon, once the hot wind had quit blowing from the dry lands to the south, the four princes had come together in the Great Hall and waited on their king again.
*******
Al Rahman looked at them through a gap in the bricks where the mortar had cracked away. The old man stood beside him, his hot breath in Al Rahman’s ear as they watched the four men mill together, their faces drawn and tight.
“Do you see them?” the old man whispered.
Al Rahman shook his head.
“They are there,” the old man assured him. “Believe me, they are there. Now that the sun has set, they are more free to move about. They hate the light, any light: the light of the sun, the light of freedom, the light of the truth. As it is they love the darkness, but there is plenty of darkness now.”
Al Rahman stared, shaking his head. If they were there, he couldn’t see them, but he believed the old man.
The old man pulled away and folded his arms defiantly. “You know that what you are about to do is not original,” he said.
King Al Rahman continued to look through the gap, not saying anything until the old man placed his cold hand upon his shoulder and turned him around. “This thing that you are asking has been done a thousand times before. The Great Enemy, in His hypocrisy, asked it of His own prophet. The ancient Jews, in their apostasy, required it of their own. There have been altars built for this purpose on every continent in the world. It has been a sign and device of Master Mahan since the first blood was spilt upon this world.”
Al Rahman looked at his own hands, remembering the evil things he had done. “I understand,” he offered simply.
The old man waited, then pushed against his shoulder, edging him toward the hidden door. “Go then. I will be watching. You will not let me down.”
*******
King Al Rahman entered the Great Hall and stood before his brothers, reading the looks on their faces and the darkness of their eyes.
“Brothers, we are almost finished,” he said. “Our greatest enemy, the Great Satan, is within a few minutes of being brought to its knees. Once it stumbles it will die, suffering a long and violent death, ripped to pieces from the inside as it seeks to right itself. We will propel the Great Satan to that moment, let there be no doubt in your minds, but we will only push it. It will finish the job itself.
“When it is dead, you and I will be the most powerful men on earth. Then we will turn toward the Little Satan. It will not last a week. The entire world hates the Zionists and will gladly see them destroyed. Then we rise again, the chosen people, and lead our Arab brothers into a Pan-Arab world.”
The four princes were silent. Deep in their hearts, they believed every word that he was saying, for they could hear the dark spirits around them whisper the same lies into their minds.
Al Rahman watched them, satisfied. One more step and he would have them. One more oath and they were his.
Anything they could conceive of, it would be given to these men.
But the power and the glory that he offered was far too great to merely give away. There was a price to pay.
Of course they would agree to join him when a gun was pointed at their heads. That had been a simple exercise to weed out the weakest of the men.
And they might agree to join him for the promised wealth and power.
But it was time now to find out what was really in their hearts. It was time to find out if they were driven by simple brainless lust or greed, or if they could be driven by something else. Something even more powerful. More eternal. More compelling and wonderful.
They had sworn a sacred oath to him, but was their loyalty real? Would they pay the price to join him, or would they cut and run? Would they do what he had done? Would they spill the blood of their family? The blood of their own kin?
He didn’t know.
But he was about to find out.
He clapped his hands, and a hidden door opened at the back of the room. Two of his agents came out holding the oldest son of the minister of defense between them. The boy was bound, his hands tied behind his back. And though his eyes were wide in terror, he didn’t struggle against his bonds.
Al Rahman walked to a couch, reached under the cushion, and pulled out a ten-inch, serrated knife. He turned toward his brother and placed the long knife in his hand. “Brothers,” he said, his voice low and raspy, “it is time to prove your oath.”
EIGHTEEN
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
Mary carefully helped Kelly into a chrome wheelchair and pushed her to the elevator in the middle of the hall. Azadeh followed her out of the apartment. “Remember, Azadeh,” Mary said for at least the third time, “you have my cell phone number right there.”
“Yes,” Azadeh replied.
“You remember how to call me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The clinic is in downtown Columbus. Northridge Children’s Cancer Center. It is well-known. If you have any questions, you can ask almost anyone.”
Azadeh nodded, smiling as she hovered under Mary’s protective worries.
Mary stood and thought, going through a checklist in her mind. “I’ve got the keys, the map and address—” she glanced at Azadeh. “Can you drive?”
Azadeh shook her head, amazed at the thought. Teenage girls didn’t drive in Iran. Neither did their mothers—at least, few of them did. “No, Mary,” she answered, almost laughing. “No, I do not drive.”
“OK, OK. I was going to tell you that I’ve borrowed a car from Yevonie, she’s a good friend of mine. I don’t think my old beater would have made it, but hers is pretty good. Anyway, I was going to tell you that you could take my car if you needed anything or had to get somewhere, but I don’t suppose that’s going to happen.”
Azadeh laughed again. “No, ma’am, I do not believe I will be driving around Chicago.”
Mary smiled. “Of course not. But someday. Someday soon we’ll help you get your license.”
It was a terrifying thought to Azadeh. Still, she smiled and muttered, “Yes, ma’am” in reply.
Mary had given up on the “ma’am” thing and didn’t correct her. “OK, I think I’ve got everything,” she said, closing her purse. “Remember, we’ll be back tomorrow night. It might be late. I don’t want you to worry, OK? If anything comes up, I’ll call you.”
“I will be fine,” Azadeh said.
Mary reached for the elevator button, then pulled her hand back. “I wish you could come with me,” she said again, “but there’s no place for you to stay. They won’t let you sleep at the clinic. I’m really sorry.”
“It is all right. It really is.”
“I just hate to leave you alone on only the second night you are here. But it won’t always be like this. This is the last time we have to go clear down to Columbus.”
Azadeh lifted a hand to cut Mary off, then walked toward Kelly, who was waiting in her wheelchair. Azadeh knelt down beside her. “You will be OK?” she asked.
“Sure,” Kelly answered. “I like Doctor Ryan. He always has,” she stopped and turned her head to swallow, “a treat for me.” Her voice was weak from talki
ng to Azadeh for so long that morning.
Kelly looked up with her dark eyes and Azadeh felt her heart melt. There was so much about this little girl that was so easy to love.
Azadeh smiled at her, but inside she seemed to panic. Kelly looked so weak, so drawn out, as if at the end of a battle that had gone on too long. “Have a good trip,” she added quickly to push the thought away. “When you get back, I will teach you how to speak more Farsi. You never know, it might come in handy sometime.”
Kelly smiled. “See you tomorrow night.”
Mary and Kelly stepped into the elevator, leaving Azadeh alone in the hallway. As she watched the elevator doors close, a thought leapt into Azadeh’s mind.
“Smile at her, Azadeh. You may never see her again.”
She raised her hand and smiled quickly. “Good-bye, Kelly. I’ll see—”
The metal doors rolled shut.
Mary and Kelly were gone.
Azadeh stood sadly for a moment in the hallway, then turned to the open apartment door.
She cleaned and straightened, took a bath, unpacked her clothes, hanging them in the closet (everything she owned hardly filled one half of one side), then stood alone in the middle of the bedroom, unsure of what to do next.
NINETEEN
The Ab Tayyib (The Good Father), Eighty-Seven Miles East-Southeast of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina
Starting as early as 2005, the Iranians had paved the way for the EMP attack upon the United States when, early in the spring, they completed a series of missile tests over the Caspian Sea. Firing from a freighter very similar in size and weight to the Ab Tayyib, they sent their Shehab-3 missiles climbing upward on steep trajectories, exploding them one hundred fifty miles to one hundred eighty miles above the water.
After monitoring the missile tests, the United States had concluded that they were an utter failure. “Missile Tests Fall Short of Expectations,” the classified reports had read.
But the missile tests hadn’t been a failure. In fact, they had been a rousing success.
Further testing in 2006 revealed that the high-altitude nuclear warheads might be better launched using the more powerful and updated Scud missiles. Because of this, King Abdullah had made the decision to replace the Iranian Shehab missiles inside the hull of the Ab Tayyib with the more capable and powerful Scuds.
Developed by the Soviets in the mid-1960s, the Scud missiles were the grandchildren of the German V-2s that haunted England at the end of the Second World War. Originally designed to carry a one hundred-kiloton nuclear warhead, the updated missiles had been sold and shipped to dozens of nations throughout the world. Modified from its original nuclear role, the Scud was capable of carrying a two thousand-pound conventional warhead up to one hundred eighty miles. Later, Pakistani and Iranian scientists had taken the Iraqi Scuds and improved them to provide even greater range. The warhead and fuselage weight had been reduced, the fuel tanks expanded, and the engines modified in order to burn most of the fuel during the launch phase of flight, a technique that developed a far greater launch velocity, pushing the missile even higher into the upper atmosphere.
Known as Al Abbas, the newest Scuds had a range of eight hundred kilometers, a long way to go, especially when flying almost straight up.
But the Scuds did have one problem. Because their warheads were permanently attached to the missile bodies, they were notoriously inaccurate—acceptable when tossing a nuclear weapon, but completely unacceptable in conventional war.
Still, the military officers on board the Ab Tayyib weren’t concerned about the Al Abbas missiles’ weakness. Tonight they needed altitude, not accuracy, and the Scuds were very good for that.
*******
The final launch orders had been received and confirmed. Preparations complete, the captain of the Ab Tayyib turned to his first officer, who stared back with dark, empty eyes. “Are you ready, my friend?” he asked.
The officer nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.
The captain took a deep breath. He had enough Valium and opium in his bloodstream to keep his emotions in check. “Launch the missiles,” he ordered, his voice tight and dry.
The officer stared at him a long moment, then turned and walked away.
*******
Darkness had just settled over the rolling ocean. The skies were almost clear, with scattered layers of thin cirrus at twenty-one thousand feet and twenty-six thousand feet. Operating in the starlight, their navigation lights turned to dim, the weapons crew set to work. The ship was turned to put its stern into the wind and set at twelve knots to match the south wind, minimizing any airflow over the deck. The hold was opened, the dual-plate doors folding back on huge, hydraulic rods, and the elevators rose, lifting the two side-by-side missiles and their launch rails into the dark night.
Eleven minutes after the captain’s order, the launch deck was ready and clear, the final navigation updates input into the missile launch computer, the ship stabilizers below the waterline extended to their maximum length.
The captain gave a final word. Standing at the weapons control panel, the first officer turned his key and stepped back. The captain moved toward the panel, inserted his own key, and punched in a final code.
The gelled fuel moved through the high-pressure lines inside the Scud missile engines, the fuel flow tripling every half-second. Then the deck lit up with white light, turning the darkness into day. Ignition. Smoke. Furious noise and vibration.
The first missile lifted into the air. It hung there half a second, the nose cone moving in the breeze, then thrust skyward into the dark night, the enormous exhaust nozzle blazing white-hot flame. Ten seconds later, the second missile also fired.
The missiles flew in trail, the second missile mimicking the flight path of the first until passing through fifty-five thousand feet. There the second missile turned slightly south, heading for the southern states. The first missile continued northward and climbed, both of them reaching for two hundred eighty-five miles above the earth.
Two hundred eighty-five miles. One million five hundred four thousand eight hundred feet. The perfect altitude.
Any higher and the electromagnetic pulse would be weakened by the distance to the ground. Any lower and the electromagnetic pulse would not been maximized.
Three fishing vessels were within ten miles of the freighter when the missiles fired into the night sky. Two dozen eyes watched as the missiles climbed upward, the white fire illuminating the smoky trail that followed. But no one knew what it was, and no one knew what to do.
As the missiles climbed, they also became visible along the east coast, their smoky contrails and burning engines illuminating the night.
Higher. Higher. Almost straight up they flew. Crossing the shoreline, they followed their intended flight path to the east.
Seventy thousand feet below the first missile, a ten-year-old boy stood on the beach. To his right, the ocean lapped, the whitecaps illuminated by the low moon and stars. Above him, he watched the tiny trail of moving flame.
“What is that?” he asked his brother.
“I don’t know,” his brother said.
It was eleven minutes, nineteen seconds from missile launch to the highest arc in the parabola, where the warheads would explode.
The Choun Ohmonee (The Good Mother), Ninety-Three Miles West of San Francisco
Three hours ahead of the Eastern Time Zone, the North Korean frigate, the Choun Ohmonee, got the launch codes for its missiles when the sun was barely setting. Still, the crewmen didn’t wait until it was dark to launch. Once they had received the codes, they knew they had only a few minutes to get the missiles in the air.
The modified cargo doors were pulled open, the launchers raised, the missiles readied to go.
The North Korean freighter launched its two Scud missiles a little more than forty seconds after her sister ship in the North Atlantic Ocean had fired its two Scud missiles. The two missiles burned their way upward, piercing the glowing sky. Like thei
r predecessors, the missiles followed each other until passing through fifty-five thousand feet, then separated, the first one taking up a northern heading, the other tracking almost straight east.
North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), Inside Cheyenne Mountain, east of Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado Springs, Colorado
The Combat Operations Center came instantly to life, the huge screen at the front of the room illuminating the two missiles climbing over the east coast. A low growl filled the air from the warning buzzer overhead.
“Oh no, oh no,” the chief controller mumbled as he stared at the screen.
“What is it? What are they?” the commanding general demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Where did they come from?”
“Launch point was—they share the same launch point—looks like eighty, maybe ninety miles off the coast—”
“Submarine-launched missiles? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“It could be. They are ballistic—”
“What are their targets?”
Five seconds of hesitation. “We don’t know for certain, sir. The missiles are still in their climb phase. Their flight paths are not matching any of our parabolas. They’re going high, going high.”
The general thought a second. “Check your systems,” he said, his voice low and cold.
Another long moment of silence. Every eye in the Combat Operations Center watched the senior controller. “Sir,” he finally answered, “self-check complete. We have two confirmed bandits. Both of the missiles are still climbing.”
“That can’t be right,” the general answered. “Not when they were launched so close.”
The controller moved his cursor across his screen. “Final self-check complete,” he announced, finishing the last step in his checklist to confirm the missile launch.
The general’s face was utterly calm, but his mind raced ahead. “Get me Raven Rock,” he said as he turned to his chair.
Another warning chime. The enormous screen of the United States lit up again.
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