Countdown to Mecca

by Michael Savage

  Peters reached forward quickly and clapped his hand over Jack’s mouth.

  “Not here,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Follow me and keep your mouth shut. Remember, you’re being watched and recorded at all times.”

  Jack and Doc followed Peters down a trail to a spot where the surf pounded the waves with a roar as loud as a freight train. Jack did not think Peters was being observed or listened to—the government was not that efficient—but there was no point arguing with the man. After a few minutes of walking toward the water, where Doc scanned the area for any sign of surveillance, Peters stopped and faced them.

  “An array of companies has helped Iran, though this wasn’t always good for Iran—the Stuxnet virus, or worm, in its Western-supplied centrifuges being the most obvious example.”

  As Peters continued, Jack was impressed to find how wide a range of items might help a WMD program, from tiny nanoswitches to a gas used in runway lights. Even when the original manufacturers of a product had not intended to cooperate with Iran, there were plenty of middlemen willing to step in.

  “It is a complete failure of morality,” Peters went on, “but morality is not to be expected in the modern age with the collapse of traditional religious doctrine and the family unit.”

  “Amen to that,” Doc said from behind his camera.

  Jack remembered the line from Revelation 16:16: “And they assembled them at the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon.” The place did not matter as much as the idea: a confluence of events, people, and matériel would define the new Armageddon.

  “But here is the key to this situation,” Peters said. “What does Iran need most?”

  “Bomb-grade uranium,” Jack said.

  “Correct. And what was inside a cask that was stolen from the demobilization center in Belarus?”

  “A cask was what?” Jack asked.

  “This happened just the other day,” Peters said. “Men in suits came to ask me questions about the nature of the stores there, what they were capable of.”

  Jack frowned. The scientist’s paranoia was no longer quite so quaint.

  “What did you tell them?” Jack asked.

  “I said there was enriched uranium along with an assortment of weaponized agents.”

  “Such as?” Jack pressed.

  “Such as, I don’t know exactly,” Peters replied. “There were rumors of sarin, hydrogen cyanide, smallpox, Ebola. But rumors are like flies—plentiful in the right environment. What we can assume is that none of it’s as healthy as mother’s milk, eh?”

  Jack’s mouth twisted.

  “Okay, assuming that’s true, why would Iran steal it?” Jack asked.

  Peters waved his forefinger in the air. “Exactly! It makes no sense! Plutonium, maybe. The Iranian bomb program is proceeding nicely with its own uranium, so they have no need for any more.”

  “Is there anything else the ayatollahs are looking for?” Jack asked.

  Peters shook his head. “They’re having enough trouble with nuclear weapons. They haven’t the manpower or technical know-how to open another front.”

  “So who can be ruled in?”

  “The entire world!” declared the scientist. “Outside of those already with a bomb, of course.”

  “We don’t have time to check the world,” Jack stressed, coming clean about what had happened to him in the last thirty-six hours.

  Peters listened carefully then gave Jack a list of different companies that specialized in dual-use technologies that could be easily converted.

  When Peters was finished, Jack and Doc walked Peters back to his cabin. But before they could say good-bye, Peters put his forefinger to his lips, and mimed someone listening.

  Jack put his hand on the professor’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay, Bernie. No one’s there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “First, if they were, I’d probably be dead. There are some boys who want me real bad. Second,” Jack grinned. “Doc is still with us. If anyone were out there, he’d be off killing them.”

  10

  Thirty Thousand Feet Over America

  Heading West

  The clouds looked like smoke from distant cannon.

  Ever since General Brooks’s first battle, the traditional romance of clouds had lost their luster. Never again would he lie on a hillside, beside a beautiful girl, and play a game of “that cloud looks like a charging horse” or “that cloud looks like a ballerina.” Now, his memory was clouded with explosions, with smoke rising from land pockmarked with craters from shells and land mines. And the only people he remembered lying there were fallen, dying, or dead comrades.

  They were cruising at thirty thousand feet at several hundred miles an hour, but except for the hush of the jet engines, Brooks wouldn’t have known they were moving at all. At that moment, the clouds seemed emotionally remote, shallow, like silent, unthreatening antiaircraft bursts. Like Ebenezer Scrooge led by ghosts, his mind drifted to another part of his past. In his youth at West Point, Thomas Brooks had earned the nickname “Hardcase” thanks to his hard-nosed attitude toward the other cadets. His potential as an ambitious, pragmatic, cold-blooded leader was recognized from his earliest days as a plebe, and he’d lived up to it in the army at large.

  The envy of others had always hampered his advancement. At West Point, it had kept him from the coveted position of first captain, the ultimate cadet honor. In the army it had kept him from a fourth star and command of CENTCOM, the joint service command that oversaw American activities in the Middle East. Jealousy had sidetracked him into a lesser command path, in effect fast-tracking him toward retirement. He had been made to understand that lieutenant general—three stars—would be as high as he would go, and that he should prepare for separation.

  Brooks snorted, sounding, even to his own ears, like the crack of an antiaircraft shell. Retirement, indeed. So be it. If they didn’t want him to do what he could, he would have to do what he should.

  His reverie was interrupted by a quiet throat-clearing behind him. Brooks pivoted in the plush leather swivel chair to see a gracious attendant coming down the aisle of the Gulfstream 650. She was quite handsome in the tailored, skirted suit that served as the uniform for this private airline.

  “Mr. Suckliff was hoping you could spare a moment to chat, General,” she said, indicating the telephone in front of him.

  “Of course,” said Brooks, reaching for the handset. Given that he was in Suckliff’s jet, it was the least he could do. He nodded in polite dismissal to the attendant, who graciously turned and left. “John, how are you? Thanks for the jet.”

  “Tommy, anytime,” said Suckliff, his voice crisp over the encrypted satellite connection. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t have been in New Jersey to hear your speech. I’m told it was a humdinger.”

  “Thank you, John. I hope it opened some eyes, and minds.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Suckliff assured him.

  “You’re a true patriot, John,” Brooks assured him in return. “Wait until you hear the one I’m planning to deliver at the Lab.”

  Suckliff clucked in disappointment. “Can’t make it to that one, either, I’m afraid. Perhaps someone will post it online.”

  “You can bet someone will,” Brooks said. “The left to crucify me, the right to crucify them. How is Istanbul?”

  “I visited the Hagia Sophia yesterday, saw how the Muslims desecrated the murals of Christ and the Virgin. Disgusting. People should have a look at that. Maybe we wouldn’t hear so much propaganda about Islam as a religion of peace.”

  “Are you kidding?” Brooks said. “The average guy wouldn’t believe it. They’ve been brainwashed into hating the religion of their own fathers. Maybe you should buy it.”

  “Not for sale,” chuckled Suckliff. “Not yet, anyway. Or I would.”

  Maybe it will be, sooner than you think, Brooks thought. While he liked Suckliff and had depended on him for many things, he didn’t trust money men. They had a me
an way of keeping score, and could demand humiliating and untimely favors at the worst of times. This particular billionaire had made his fortune by perfecting a fracking technique for the oil industry. He had spent a lot of time dealing with the Islamic world, and knew exactly the danger they posed; he was a true believer. But even true believers could suddenly become traitors when their wealth was threatened, and Brooks’s plans would certainly do that. In the short term, though, they shared a vision and made nice to one another.

  “This has been a war of attrition, a war spanning millennium,” said Suckliff. “I guess we can wait a little longer.”

  “Exactly,” Brooks lied. He glanced at his watch; he’d be touching down in Oakland soon. “Unfortunately, I have a few things I have to do before we land.”

  “Not a problem, General. I understand you’re a busy man.”

  “As are you. We’ll get together soon.”

  “Roger that,” said the billionaire, doing his fawning best to sound like a twenty-three-year-old first lieutenant. It was sickening. To Suckliff, this was all something of a game.

  Brooks clicked off the satellite line and glanced toward the rear of the plane, where his security detail was sitting. Brooks had brought only two bodyguards, half what he normally had. He had several reasons for traveling light; while he trusted the handpicked men with him, he couldn’t trust even them with everything. That was why he had used operatives outside his normal channels to obtain the necessary materials. Using Americans, even those under his command, would have been far too troubling. His operation had already taken far too many heroic lives. More would come, he knew, but he wanted only those that were absolutely necessary—not one corpse more. He knew, from experience, that once innocent blood was spilled, it was hard to stem it.

  He found his forefinger was pressing the CALL button like a knife. The handsome female attendant was beside his chair in seconds.

  “Yes, General?”

  “Please ask my event coordinator to join me,” he instructed congenially. “The blond gentleman in the business suit, Peter Andrews.”

  He watched her walk away with appreciation. He sat back, tried to find something more than his lost youth in the clouds.

  “Yes, General?” came a smooth, soft, lightly accented voice to his right. Brooks glanced over as a curtain of understated dark blue pinstripe moved past his eyes, and then Peter Andrews, aka Pyotr Ansky, sat in the luxurious swivel chair opposite him. With the suit, olive shirt, and maroon tie, he looked entirely at home in the private jet.

  “We are landing soon in the Bay area,” the general reminded him in flat, hushed tones.

  “Yes,” Pyotr said. “We will tie up the loose ends there.”

  Brooks regarded the man as he would study a map of treacherous terrain to be conquered. If a shark could walk, talk, and wear a suit, it would probably look like his “event coordinator.” He had been called from the field and collected for this assignment.

  “You’ve had a chance to review the footage. What are my options?”

  Pyotr frowned and shrugged slightly. “The girl was in a panic, but the men—they were not as scared as mere neighbors should have been.”

  “I know that,” Brooks said. “I asked what we’re going to do.”

  “I will not know that until I am on the ground,” the mercenary replied. “Meanwhile, what of our good Herr? He is in the news too much.”

  “Yes, his narcissism is annoying,” Brooks said. “But we need him going forward and he’s insisting on being paid in person.”

  “And in cash?” Pyotr stated.

  “Of course, which could be quite a problem,” Brooks admitted, thinking back to the televised press conference. “A reporter tried to talk to him about some technology transfers. He shut the man down but that doesn’t mean he’ll give up, whoever he is.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The two looked around to see the attendant standing demurely beside them. “Please fasten your seat belts. We are starting our descent.”

  Pyotr nodded, grinning inside. He had actually started his descent years before, when he had tried to extort Brooks during the collapse of the Soviet Union. The general was made of tougher stuff than most of his lustful, greedy peers, but he also knew a good dog when he saw it. Their relationship had started with some small, off-the-record favors, then grew into a solid collaboration that rescued Pyotr from a life of pointless crime and senseless addictions. Brooks was the hand on the gun. Pyotr was the bullet.

  He stood smoothly. “I will see who I can find, and what I can find out, about the girl and her rescuers,” he told the general as the attendant retreated.

  Brooks looked up at him. “Is everything arranged for my inspection tour in Riyadh? There are a few people I want to say good-bye to as my command winds down. I only have a few days, after all.”

  Pyotr smiled indulgently down at his commanding officer. “The Saudi Arabian coordination is proceeding smoothly.”

  Brooks nodded. “Thank you.”

  Brooks watched Pyotr head for his seat with far less enthusiasm than he had for the attendant. The event coordinator was a very dangerous, yet loyal and surprisingly talented, associate. He had a gift for languages and logical thinking, but he also had a hair trigger. Brooks had no doubt that when Peter Andrews said that the Saudi Arabian visit would proceed smoothly, it would, indeed, proceed smoothly.

  All of this, the entire operation, went back to the decision to relieve the general of his position a full three months earlier than scheduled. It had forced Brooks to push up the timetable on the Mecca project accordingly. It was chaos, now, a mad rush after years of planning. Still, with Pyotr by his side, it would all go as planned.

  Yes, Brooks absolutely wanted to be in Riyadh when it happened. Actually, much closer, if possible.

  A plane ride over Mecca when the bomb went off, a bomb filled with weaponized Ebola, would be glorious.

  11

  San Francisco, California

  “I’ve gotta admit, Jack, you did this right.”

  Doc was leaning between the two front seats as Sol drove them to Spumante’s for lunch.

  “What, the interview?” Jack asked.

  “No—conceived this thing on the fly. Used your hard-won skills in media journalism and video production to take on their attack head-on.”

  “Well—thanks,” Jack said. It wasn’t false modesty talking; it was the only way he knew how to do things, using his gut. “Problem is, the story still has the biggest pieces missing. Namely, how, where, who, and why?”

  “Hey, at least we know the ‘what,’” Sol said. “From what you told me, someone’s trying to piece together a weapon of mass destruction.”

  “That’s our worst-case scenario assumption,” Jack agreed. “So the questions remain: how could they do it? If they did, where would they use it? If Iran wasn’t responsible, then who was? If Ana’s pals Morton, Pallor, and Kid are involved, why?”

  “One step at a time, Jack old boy,” Doc said. “This presumes a nuclear bomb.”

  Jack was holding the video equipment and turned Doc’s clandestine recording on. “Figuring eighty-five percent enrichment,” Peters’s voice came from amid the roar of crashing waves, “which is the standard, you’d need roughly fifty kilos—a little more than a hundred pounds—to easily reach critical mass. The more highly enriched, the less you need. Using a neutron reflector can make the amount you need even smaller. Now, if you remember your high school chemistry you may be able to figure out the exact number—”

  Jack paused the digital recording, thinking furiously. The professor’s words rang a bell, but what possible bell could they have rung? Nuclear physics and NEDAs were far from his own area of expertise, although he had learned more than he ever wanted to know during his previous confrontation with terrorists.

  Suddenly he remembered. He took out his cell phone and went to the website for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, quickly found the name he was looking for. Ray Paxton was a regular contr
ibutor and Jack was certain he had communicated with him before.

  “Sol—I’ll be skipping lunch. Mind dropping me off at my apartment?”

  “You need a meal,” Sol cautioned.

  “What I need is my Rolodex card file,” Jack protested.

  Sol shot him a look. “You still have a Rolodex file?”

  “A gift from my father,” Jack said. “I’m not getting rid of it.”

  “Must be tough to get blank cards.”

  “I bought them in bulk five years ago,” Jack said.

  “Oh, so occasionally you do plan ahead,” Doc teased.

  Sol chuckled as he detoured to Jack’s building and dropped him off. Doc said he needed carbs and was going with Sol. They said they’d pick him up when they were done.

  Upstairs, Jack riffled through the old-fashioned, typed, and hand-written file cards of people he had met over the years. He found the man’s number in San Francisco. Now, if only he was still there.

  Jack lucked out.

  “Jack Hatfield, you old Scotch guzzler!” came the man’s hearty greeting. It came back to Jack why he had trouble remembering Ray’s name. The two had gone out on the town the night of Paxton’s appearance on Truth Tellers. Between them they had finished a bottle and a half of Glenlivet 18. “How the hell have you been?”

  Jack told him.

  “So you were at that mess in Levi Plaza,” Paxton marveled.

  “I was the mess in Levi Plaza,” Jack said. “Listen, Ray—I’ve got something for you.”

  Jack relayed the information about the missing canister. When he was finished he asked, “Got anything that might help me?”

  Paxton thought hard but not very long. “Tell you the truth, Jack, there is a rumor going around certain circles that a hundred kilos of HRU was missing from that facility. Other rumors say it was something else, a bio-agent. Since it’s checked every other day, it’s said that they have a good idea on when it was taken, but not much else.”

  “So it’s still in the wind?”