The Black Bullet (Sean O'Brien mystery/thriller)

by Tom Lowe

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  “She is downstairs. I believe you call it a basement. She is there with the rest of the things you said you needed. The spark gaps, oscillator scopes, casing, all the wiring, everything on your shopping list.”

  The man opened the door, and Lee Toffler entered the home.

  Across the street, Myrtle Birdsong peeked out of an opening in her drapes. She sipped a diet coke and watched the man enter the rented house. He’d parked his green car next to the blue van. Who were they? Burglars? Maybe terrorists like what they’ve been saying all morning on the TV news. Call the police. The phone rang. It was Alice, the sister with all the issues. She was going through a divorce, and Myrtle was the only one who really understood.

  ***

  “DADDY!” LISA TOFFLER SOBBED when she saw her father come down the stairs. She was in a chair, hands bound behind her back. Jason Canfield, tied to a second chair, sat a few feet away from her.

  Toffler ran to his daughter and wrapped his arms around her. Tears streamed down her face.

  Sharif walked into the large room. “Enough!” he shouted. “There is important work to be done.” He gestured to a long wooden table, the U-235 canisters laid side-by-side, the wires, detonators and other materials stacked on one side.

  Toffler stood, his eyes moving across the table. Sharif said, “It is all here, the items you said we must procure. It is very convenient being close to the largest nuclear plant in America. I was surprised at what money can buy.”

  “Let me see the HEU,” Toffler said.

  “Absolutely.”

  Toffler carefully examined one canister. He said, “I’ll need to wear the protective gear. Everyone must leave this room.”

  “How long will this task take you?” Sharif asked.

  “If all is here, not too long.”

  “Good, very good.”

  “Then you said you will release my daughter.”

  “I am a man of my word.”

  “Who’s he?” asked Toffler, looking at Jason.

  “This is Mr. Jason Canfield. He is going to make a video with us, a most exciting video for the world to watch on the Internet.”

  ***

  O’BRIEN LOOKED OUT THE SIDE window of the Blackhawk helicopter and saw at least two-dozen SWAT members and police officers waiting on the ground. He rode in the backseat with Hunter, the co-pilot and pilot were hovering the chopper about five-hundred feet over the Statesboro, Georgia, airport before setting down.

  Hunter said, “We’ve got Toffler’s address, not that he’ll be there. He drives a 1990 olive green Land Rover. Wife passed away six years ago. Never remarried. He raised his only daughter through her teenage years. So somewhere out there Lee Toffler and his daughter are in a room with the most ruthless men on the planet.”

  “The airport where we’re landing … is it the only one between here and Savannah?” O’Brien asked.

  The pilot said, “Couple of small airstrips, mostly for crop dusters and a few people who hanger small planes in what is essentially farmland.”

  O’Brien scanned the countryside. “Eric, see if your people can find out if anyone has rented a plane, probably a twin engine, in the last twenty-four hours. Also, check to see if someone has reserved one.”

  “What if Sharif isn’t going to drop the bomb from a plane? What if the fucker, and his camel-breath followers, just strap the bomb in the front seat and drive a truck into the Jefferson Memorial?”

  “It’s a hell of a lot easier to hit almost any target in America by air. From here D.C. is only two hours in a twin engine. They may not have Washington as a target. What’s the most densely populated, probably one of the least protected big cities in the nation, a city that’s a half hour away by air?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Bingo. Whoever you call to put the F-16s on alert from Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport, better start calling them right now.”

  ***

  MOHAMMED SHARIF STOOD JASON up against a wall in the living room of the house. One of his men pointed a light in Jason’s face and clipped a microphone to his blood-stained shirt. They placed the video camera on a flimsy tripod and nodded.

  Sharif said, “Jason Canfield, before we turn the camera on, let me make one thing very clear to you. We do not have time to edit this. You get it right the first time.”

  “People will know you forced me to say it.”

  “Abdul, produce the knife for Mr. Canfield—the knife he has was used to remove six heads.” Abdul reached behind his back and retrieved a hunting knife with a serrated blade. “That,” said Sharif, “will be the knife we use to remove your head, and we will do it on video if you do not cooperate. The blade is sharp, but small. The victim can feel the steel and the four to five cuts it takes to sever the spinal cord. It is a slow death.” Sharif grinned, his eyes dancing. “Abdul told me after he removed the head of an infidel, he held it in his out-stretched arm, and the eyes of the severed head blinked for a few seconds. What do you imagine, Canfield, the dying brain was thinking?”

  Jason said nothing, his eyes on the blade. Sharif said, “Turn on the camera.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  O’Brien and Hunter drove a rented Toyota 4-Runner from the airport. Plenty of room for the assault rifles. He was still carrying the Luger along with his Glock.

  Hunter’s cell rang. “What do you have?” he asked. He listened, nodding his head. “Send back-up. No sirens.”

  “What is it?”

  “We got an address: 2973 Sycamore Drive. Turn left at the next light.” Hunter quickly entered the address in the GPS, then added, “A neighbor—lady across the street apparently saw five, I’m quoting here, ‘five bin Laden types’ get into a large blue cargo van and leave with something wrapped in a quilt. One of the men looked American—a young guy who was walking with a limp.”

  “How far is Sycamore Drive?”

  “GPS says twenty-five miles. When we get there, Sharif will be long gone.”

  “We’ll start helicopter surveillance for a blue cargo van.”

  ***

  A SWAT TEAM SURROUNDED the home on Sycamore Drive, a green Land Rover still in the driveway. O’Brien and Hunter, along with four FBI agents went through the front door. The men cleared each room.

  O’Brien motioned to a smaller door behind a kitchen alcove. He slowly turned the handle, the smell of sulfur—gunfire and blood was at the top of the steps.

  “Jesus Mary … .” a younger agent said.

  “Oh, God,” whispered another.

  Lisa Toffler had been shot through the forehead. Her father’s headless body was on the floor, the bloody head propped in the dead girl’s lap with a note stuck in the mouth. Hunter pulled it out and read, “‘America, your children carry the weight of your mistakes. Your doctrine was not written for the world … Mohammed Sharif.’”

  The younger agent opened a door to the backyard. He vomited in the shrubbery.

  Hunter’s cell rang. “Yes!” he barked, closing his eyes to try to hear over the agent’s heaving outside the door. “How far is that?” he asked. “Excellent! Give me choppers. Deploy the F-16s! Move!”

  The agents turned toward Hunter. He said, “A small airfield outside of Augusta. Sort of an executive airport. A mechanic was closing when he saw a blue van pull up and men get out. Didn’t think much about it until he saw that one of the men had his hands tied behind his back. The mechanic spotted him when the other guys left the rear doors open after they off-loaded something in a blanket.”

  “Let’s roll!” O’Brien said, taking two steps each up the stairs. “Where is the mechanic now?” he asked. “Sheriff’s dispatch has been trying his cell. No answer.”

  “Not good,” O’Brien said. “Not good at all.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  One of Sharif’s men measured the bomb under the quilt and then measured the cargo area of the plane. “We’ll have to remove the two back seats,” he said.

  Sharif looke
d at his watch. “Hurry!” he shouted. “The Americans might be close. He looked at Jason in the van. “We will videotape you getting on the aircraft, taking your last ride as you and Waahid bomb the city of Atlanta. I know the history during your Civil War, which I believe has never ended. General Sherman marched through Atlanta, almost burned it to the ground. We will do what the general failed to do. I hear Atlanta is the home of Coca Cola … the real thing, no?”

  “Might as well kill me now,” Jason said. “No way in hell I’m going to drop a nuclear bomb on an American city.”

  “You and Waahid will not ‘drop’ the bomb. You will crash the aircraft into the heart of the city. You are part of the bomb! For Waahid, it will be the threshold to paradise. Masalaama. For you, and your narrow-view religion, it is the end.”

  ***

  O’BRIEN DROVE AS HE AND Hunter listened to the FBI analyst on the speakerphone. She said, “The airport is between Highway 17 and 37 in southern Madison County. Have a satellite aerial. We count six people. Not known if all are hostiles. They are outside a building. There are five buildings, two large enough to be hangers. Hostiles are in front of the second large building to the right of the entrance drive. Some may be in the building. One person is in a prone position. Assumed dead. You can approach from the service road and drive up to the rear of the hangers to minimize the risk of a visual. There are two large trees that might offer cover. ”

  “Thanks, Patti,” Hunter said. “Give me an open channel to Mark and the team.”

  “Stand by.”

  O’Brien said, “We need to surround these guys and avoid crossfire.”

  “Understand,” Hunter said.

  “Channel is open,” said the analyst.

  “All units,” Hunter said, “follow us through a spur road leading to the rear of the airport. From there we’ll have teams of two fan-out and cover the perimeter best we can. Hostiles are in front of the second hanger to the right. Some could be in the building. The goal is to keep the twin-engine Beechcraft from taking off.”

  “Roger,” said a voice on the speakerphone.

  ***

  SHARIF’S MEN ENTERED a hangar and began searching for tools. “This should work,” said one man lifting a red toolbox off a bench. We can have the rear seats out in a few minutes. Come, Samir, you are good with your hands.”

  “Abdul, go to the aircraft. Stand guard.” Sharif punched numbers on his satellite phone, waited for the connection as he stood in the wide hangar door and watched the men unbolt the rear seats. In Arabic he said, “The hour is here. We will have the plane in the air within five minutes. The great American city of Atlanta will go down in a ball of heat … yes … Allah has led us here … Allah akbar, hamdulillah!”

  ***

  O’BRIEN DROVE DOWN THE DIRT spur road, careful not to stir dust. Three SUVs loaded with federal agents followed. They parked beneath two large live oaks about one hundred feet from the rear of the hangars.

  O’Brien said, “Remember, they’re holding a hostage. You all have the description of Jason Canfield. He needs to walk out of here. His father died on the bombing of the USS Cole. This one is for Jason’s dad! Let’s make sure his son lives.”

  ***

  BOTH REAR SEATS WERE ON the tarmac to the left of the Beechcraft. The men removed the quilt from the bomb and walked it over to the open doors on the plane. The bomb was like a fat torpedo. More than four feet in length. Two feet thick. Ugly gray, a dark tapered point. Twin fins on the tail. It took five men to lift it into the plane.

  One man held a video camera recording everything. Three others stood guard holding AK-47 assault rifles. Sharif and Rashid Aahmed were at the hangar door. Sharif just ended a phone call while Rashid scanned the area for intruders. “It is time,” Sharif said, walking toward the plane. “Bring Canfield.”

  In front of the plane, Waahid-Barak dropped to his knees, body facing east and lowered his forehead to the ground. When he stood, Sharif kissed both of his cheeks and said, “You will be the martyr all our children’s children will respect. You are mujaddid. You were chosen by Allah. You will have a special place in paradise. Salaam alaikum.”

  Waahid bowed his head. The men watched as he climbed in the pilot seat.

  Two men lifted Jason who screamed, “Shoot me now assholes! I’m not going on your bombing mission!”

  One man hit Jason in the jaw with the butt of his pistol. Jason dropped to his knees. The man with the video camera zoomed in closer on Jason’s face. Sharif shouted, “Jason Canfield! The choice is yours. Renounce the atrocities of your government and you live. If you do not, you will have a front row seat to the greatest explosion ever to happen on American soil.”

  Jason was silent.

  “Renounce the hypocrisy of the Unites States … the land of the free!”

  “Fuck you!” Jason yelled.

  Sharif kicked Jason in the face, the blow knocking him back on the runway. “Load the infidel into the aircraft!” shouted Sharif. The men loaded him in the front seat, hands bound behind his back.

  They slammed the door as Hunter whispered in his radio, “Let’s take ‘em!”

  “Hands up!” Shouted an FBI agent as they fanned out from the building.

  “Get down! Down! Down! Faces on the Ground!” ordered another.

  “Depart!” shouted Sharif, waving his arms. The pilot started the plane amidst Sharif’s men firing rounds from their AK-47s. They ran for cover behind the van and planes.

  O’Brien heard a bullet wiz above his left ear as Sharif sprinted to the hangar.

  “Jason’s in the plane!” Hunter shouted. “Shoot the tires!”

  The automatic rounds from Sharif’s men ripped through the corrugated aluminum hangars. The agents returned fire, killing two men in seconds.

  O’Brien turned, running full bore to the parked SUV. He grabbed a 30.06 scoped rifle and bolted toward the old flight tower. He keyed his mic. “Cover me! I’m climbing the ladder to the tower. I’m going to try to take out the pilot before he gets in the air!”

  The agents released a barrage of bullets at the two remaining terrorists. One saw O’Brien climbing the tower and rose to get off a shot. Hunter fired a round and the man’s head exploded. The last man hiding behind the van threw out his rifle and shouted, “I surrender!”

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  The Beechcraft was at the end of the tarmac, engines revving, the pilot moving down the runway. O’Brien stood on the platform fifty feet above the ground. He used the railing to steady his rifle and followed the small, twin engine plane through the scope. The sun was setting directly behind it, pushing light through the window. In the profile, he could see Jason looking out the window, a horrific expression, a plea on his young face.

  O’Brien would have to shoot through Jason’s window to hit the pilot. O’Brien stood, waving his arms, gesturing for Jason to duck down.

  JASON SAW THE MAN ON THE tower in the last rays of sunlight, waving his arms, then signaling in a squatting-like motion. “Sean … .” whispered Jason, under the drone of the engines. He leaned down, touching his forehead to his knees.

  “You sick? Sit up!” ordered the pilot.

  ***

  O’BRIEN LOOKED THROUGH the scope as the plane moved at least forty miles an hour, its wheels bouncing off the ground.

  One shot.

  One second to take it.

  Hunter stared up from the ground. “Come on O’Brien,” he whispered. The rest of the agents watched, each man holding his breath as O’Brien aimed.

  O’Brien exhaled slowly. He stopped breathing. He had the pilot’s profile dead center.

  NOW.

  He squeezed the trigger. The window above Jason head exploded. The bullet struck the pilot in the temple. He slumped back in his seat, the left side of his head blown off.

  Jason used his feet to maneuver the controls on the plane’s floorboard and managed to use one knee to back off on the throttle. The plane, swerving and rocking, taxied to a stop ten feet f
rom entering the highway.

  ***

  O’BRIEN AND HUNTER JUMPED in their SUV and drove to the end of the runway. O’Brien opened Jason’s door and helped him out. Hunter checked the pilot. “Dead! That shot might make some kind of world record.”

  Jason tried to stand, knees wobbling, his voice coming in an emotional burst. He leaned back against the plane. Through streaming tears he said, “Sean, they were gonna kill millions of people … millions.”

  O’Brien hugged Jason as three F-16s roared overhead. “Stay here, Jason!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “This isn’t over.” To Hunter, he said, “Cover me. Have the men cover the exits from the hangar. Mohammed may be hiding in there. O’Brien sprinted around a half dozen idle planes. He darted behind a dumpster, zigzagging toward an open door to the hangar. He ran past a classic Triumph motorcycle parked next to the door, the ignition keys winking in a ray of sunlight.

  O’Brien stepped over a man’s body lying just inside the door. He was dressed in blue coveralls. Shot in the back of the head. The mechanic. Mid fifties. Probably his motorcycle out front. O’Brien tried to control his breathing as he reached for the door handle. He opened it just enough to see inside the hangar. A plane and a Learjet were inside. A bumblebee hovered over a doughnut on a paper plate beside a coffee stand. A sparrow flew between the rafters, the movement just enough to break the silence.

  The jet moved. Slightly. Someone inside. O’Brien burst through the door and rolled up behind the jet. “Come out Mohammed! It’s over!”

  Three shots were fired from an opening where the jet’s door was ajar. One bullet hit the propeller a few feet from O’Brien’s face. The second nicked his left shoulder. In the earpiece, O’Brien heard Hunter. “Sean, what’s the status in there?”