by Conrad Jones
Melad had gone up in Yasser’s estimation, especially when he’d stumbled over a five-gallon drum of battery acid. They used it to cauterise the ragged wounds, causing unbelievable pain, and stopping their subject from bleeding to death before Yasser had finished teaching him his lesson. Megdah couldn’t believe how long the man had screamed for, he’d prayed for him to have a heart attack or bleed to death, just so that the screaming would stop, but he hadn’t. He was still screaming when all his limbs had been hacked off, and Yasser dragged him to the front of the guardhouse and nailed him to the door by his ears. Megdah eventually threw up at that point, as did two of the Egyptian guards in the cage, when they saw what terrible fate had befallen their colleague.
“What is wrong with your food?” Yasser asked Megdah.
“Nothing, there’s nothing wrong with it. I am not hungry,” Megdah explained nervously.
“Don’t insult our hosts, eat your food,” Yasser turned and looked at Megdah in the eyes. Megdah turned away quickly, breaking the eye contact and began to eat his food without any further protest.
“How long do you think it will be before they realise that you are gone?” asked Melad.
“They were preparing the helicopter to leave earlier,” Yasser replied. “We don’t have long, it must be expected somewhere.”
“Our sponsor sent me because I have a pilot’s licence. We can take the helicopter, and I’ll take you to our sponsor,” Melad said.
“No, it will be tracked as soon as it takes off,” Yasser answered. “We will travel with the Bedouin until we can find transport.”
“Our sponsor was most specific that we were to bring you to him as quickly as possible,” Melad kept his voice as calm as possible, so as not to annoy Yasser. He really didn’t want to be on the wrong side of him.
Yasser turned to him and stared angrily. “Then your sponsor will be disappointed, although I’m grateful, I’m not inclined to dance to somebody else’s tune.”
“There are plans afoot which he thinks will interest you,” Melad spoke quietly.
“What kind of plans?” Yasser asked, shovelling a spoonful of the stew into his mouth.
“Plans that involve many of your followers, Caliph, members of Axe,” Melad whispered the name of the organisation.
A muffled scream disturbed the conversation. It was coming from the front of the guardhouse. The Egyptian soldiers had been buried naked in the sand up to their necks, facing their colleague who had been nailed to the door.
“It sounds like the insects have found them,” Yasser commented with nonchalance.
“We could take one of the small airplanes,” Melad suggested.
“Okay,” Yasser said without any hesitation. He ate another mouthful of stew and turned toward Megdah, who had finished his food, and was sat staring at the line of heads protruding from the sand near the guardhouse.
“We are going alone though,” Yasser said. “I don’t like your friend. He will remain here.”
Melad nodded and stood up without offering any protest. He would arrange for Megdah to be picked up as soon as they arrived back in civilisation. He walked off toward the distant yellow airplanes, to check if they were serviceable. They were covered in a layer of the shifting desert sand, but they looked to be reasonably modern aircraft, probably Piper Cherokee, he couldn’t be certain from here.
Yasser spoke to Megdah without looking at him.
“You go and make sure that the guard in the cage has water to drink, and set fire to the helicopter.”
“What about the guardhouse?” Megdah asked, trying to redeem himself. “Should I burn that too?”
“No, you’ll need that for shelter,” Yasser answered as he stood up and walked away without another word.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Mid Atlantic
Sabah had barely said a word to his co-pilot since take-off. He had no idea that the Antonov-124 he was co-piloting was carrying a three ton, cobalt salted, dirty bomb. The hotel mogul, Abdul, had advertised through his hotel staff recruitment service, for a pilot with experience of flying cargo airplanes. He’d been hired purely for satisfying airport regulations on take-off. Two pilots are essential. Abdul had selected the co-pilot for this mission, because of his appalling record. He was an unreliable fifty eight year old alcoholic, who hadn’t flown an aircraft for two years. Getting him into the co-pilot seat without asking too many questions had not been too difficult.
Sabah could smell whisky on his breath when he arrived at the airport. He was a short, fat, man from Somalia, and he smelled like he had walked all the way from Mogadishu with a dead rat in his pocket. Sabah took an instant dislike to him as soon as he met him, which was good because he would have to kill him before they reached American airspace.
The flight had been uneventful so far. They had no problem getting the cargo plane airborne, and there were rarely any issues from Africa’s air traffic controllers. The smell from the co-pilot had become incredibly more pungent as the flight went on, yellow sweat patches were spreading from beneath his arms across the back of his already soiled shirt. They were two and a half hours from American airspace, but they would already have appeared on their long-range radar.
American airspace is controlled by twenty-two different control centres, which make up the national airspace system. Each centre owns certain sectors of domestic airspace and international sectors too. The Atlantic sectors are divided by Aeronautical charts, and aircraft are identified by their individual transponders. When a transponder is identified entering a certain sector, then the relevant control centre picks it up.
“This is charter flight 14-8, requesting permission to alter course heading to Albany, Warren County, over,” Sabah made his first communication with American air traffic control. He thought it was safer to pre-empt communication, rather than wait for the Americans to pick them up on long-range radar.
“Roger flight 14-8, good afternoon, could you state your destination and authorisation codes please,” came a crackled reply.
“We are heading to Floyd Bennet airfield, Warren County, we’re part of the Adirondack hot air balloon festival,” Sabah answered confidently. The balloon festival was due to be held the following week, an annual event that was watched by millions across America.
“Congratulations sir, that’s one hell of an event, could you confirm your authorisation codes for me please,” the air traffic controller wasn’t going to be fobbed off with chitchat. The co-pilot looked at Sabah, and then looked away again.
“Could you take the helm for a moment I don’t feel too good,” Sabah said to the co-pilot. He stood up and walked out of the cockpit quickly, avoiding any more questions from air traffic control.
“What about the authorisation codes?” shouted the fat co-pilot, but Sabah had already gone. The co-pilot shook his head at the pilot’s incompetence. The radio crackled again.
“Charter flight 14-8 we require your authorisation codes before we can grant you a new heading,” the air traffic controller was being very professional, unlike the pilot.
“Roger that, this is charter flight 14-8, I’m afraid the pilot has taken ill and had to use the toilet. As soon as he returns I’ll communicate the required authorisation codes, over,” the co-pilot explained, as best as he could.
“That’s a negative charter flight 14-8, we need those codes within the next five minutes, American aviation regulations I’m afraid, but all pilots and co-pilots should have access to those codes at all times. I am taking it that you don’t have them, and the pilot does.”
“Roger control, I’ll get back to you before five minutes are up, and thank you, I must apologise for the pilot’s behaviour,” the co-pilot went right over the top on the polite scales.
Air traffic control didn’t reply, immediately. There was a brief silence.
“Roger that charter flight 14-8. Could you just confirm the destination that you’re heading to please?”
The co-pilot grabbed a clipboard from the docu
ment shelf.
“Roger control, Floyd Bennet airfield, for the Adirondack balloon festival,” the fat co-pilot answered.
“Roger flight 14-8, you can see that written on your manifest, but the authorisation codes aren’t beneath the destination,” the controller remained calm and professional, but there was an edge to his questions creeping in.
“Roger control, Floyd Bennet airfield is written on the manifest here, and the Adirondack balloon festival, but I’m afraid that the pilot must have the authorisation notes on his person. I do apologise for the inconvenience,” the co-pilot did his best to keep relations on an even keel.
Air traffic control remained silent, and Sabah returned into the cockpit. He climbed into his seat in silence. The co-pilot shook his head and handed Sabah the clipboard, making a drama out of it.
“You need to communicate the authorisation codes immediately; you young pilots today have no consideration for anyone else but yourself. If I had done that in my day I would have been fired immediately,” the co-pilot said in an acidic tone.
Sabah appeared to ignore the man, and then swung his right hand in a wild arcing movement, slamming an eight-inch combat knife into his chest. The blade ripped his heart in half and killed him instantly.
“Consider yourself fired,” Sabah said as he strapped himself into his seat, ready to pilot the final leg of the journey alone.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Terrorist Task Force
Chen used the lift key to open the concertina style door, and he searched the elevator car for booby traps. When he was satisfied, he closed the door and pressed the basement button, sending it down to the warehouse below. The lift slowly settled into its housing at the bottom of the shaft, where Tank and the bomb squad were waiting for it.
“It’s all yours boys,” Tank said opening the lift doors to reveal the large black tough box.
The bomb squad moved forward and surrounded the lift. The men were dressed in heavily armoured clothing, dark blue in colour, resembling human two legged Armadillos. They checked and double-checked the box and the surrounding elevator for wires or sensors before eventually wheeling it out of the lift.
“The suspect device is contained in a large toughened plastic utility container, mostly used in the construction industry for transporting tools,” the bomb squad men had to broadcast a running commentary on everything they did for obvious reasons. If the explosive devices that they tried to disarm exploded, then there would be few people in a position to explain what went wrong, and why.
“Approximately one hundred litres in capacity, secured by two plastic quick release clasps, which are self folding,” he continued.
“There is metal inside the box,” he said scanning the device as he spoke.
Tank thought that was odd, but his thoughts were disturbed by the sound of footsteps approaching from the delivery platform outside. Graham Libby and his team had already recovered the corpse, and he wasn’t expecting anyone else. A Task Force man turned into the unit accompanied by the Israeli scientist, Doctor Graff.
“Doctor,” Tank said nodding an unfriendly greeting. He really didn’t have the time or the patience to mollycoddle a foreign politician right now. The doctor nodded back in an equally belligerent manner. He seemed worried and eager to see the device.
“I can understand your unwillingness to be courteous, agent Tankersley however it is absolutely vital that I see this device before it is dismantled,” the doctor said walking by Tank as if he wasn’t there.
“Be my guest,” Tank said under his breath.
“I am releasing the clasps now, left side first,” the bomb squad communication continued.
“And now the right side,” he said, as he inserted a narrow wooden blade that looked like a lolly ice stick, and ran it around all three sides of the lid, looking for filaments. There was nothing. They lifted the lid completely open and peered inside. The Israeli doctor walked around the gathered men and found himself a good vantage point. He removed a silver digital camera and began to video the process.
“Does he have to that right now?” the bomb squad man looked at Tank for an answer.
“He’s from Israel,” Tank shrugged as if that was reason enough, and no one argued.
Inside the plastic box was a shallow grey plastic inner tray, designed to hold screwdrivers and screws. It was moulded to fit snugly into the box, and was fitted with a carry handle in its centre, so that it could be lifted straight out. It was empty apart from a soft packet of cigarettes. The bomb squad lifted the carry tray gently and proceeded to insert the wooden blade around the edge again, repeating the earlier process.
“I am removing the inner tray,” he said lifting the grey plastic tray.
“The Israeli doctor looked shocked as he leaned over and studied the contents of the plastic box. The bomb squad team looked at Tank and gestured him over to the device. Inside the box had been lined with a shiny metal foil of some kind, similar to what is used for cooking a turkey. In the centre of the storage space was an eighteen inch, cylindrical section of drainpipe, stuffed with a substance that Tank didn’t recognise. Surrounding the section of pipe was a grey sludge, resembling thick porridge in consistency, too thick to move like a liquid, but not thick enough to stand on.
“Where is the detonator?” Tank asked.
“There isn’t one,” the Israeli answered, unexpectedly.
“I think we need slightly more information than that doctor. Would you mind telling us what this is?” Tank said getting annoyed.
“There doesn’t appear to be any explosive material in here either,” the bomb squad man said taking of his protective helmet.
“I think that the strontium-90 is in the pipe. The grey substance surrounding it is sludge, radioactive sludge, a waste product.”
“So why are there no detonator, and no explosives?” Tank asked the obvious question.
“Because it`s a hoax. This device is a decoy,” the doctor said shaking his head slowly.
Chapter Forty-Nine
CIA Headquarters, Langley
The news that was coming into Director Ruth Jones was the worst that she had heard in her short tenure as head of the CIA. The Foreign Secretary had just called from the Whitehouse to inform her that, CIA personnel files had been stolen by the British, and then disclosed to the terrorist organisation Axe. Every current file and personnel detail would now need to be rewritten and encrypted, which was a mammoth task. On top of that, there was an imminent threat of an attack against New York’s financial district.
Director Ruth Jones was under the microscope as the first female operative to achieve such elevated status within the intelligence agencies. Following the disinformation surrounding Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction, Washington had decided that their intelligence agencies would benefit from talented female leadership, rather than the egotistical male dominance, which had plagued the agency since its conception. The government believed that women in senior leadership roles were less likely to make macho decisions, and more likely to make intelligent, fact based decisions.
They also had the propensity to be open and honest. Ruth Jones was indeed a talented leader, but she was also a tough one. The office staff called her, Ruthless Ruth, because of the increasing number of agents she had axed. She had no tolerance of incompetence at all, and even less if someone’s integrity was brought into question. Trust was the crux of the way she ran her operation.
“What do you mean we don’t know where he is?” Ruth Jones asked politely down the telephone.
“Just that director, we were expecting the helicopter to take off from the airfield eight hours ago, but it failed to. All communication with the base has been lost,” agent Japey tried to explain.
“And you’re sure that he was being transported when this happened?” Ruth pressed, unhappy with the vagueness of the situation.
“I wasn’t informed that he was being moved, until I was informed that he wasn’t accounted for director,”
the agent back peddled.
“Don’t insult my intelligence or your own by bullshitting me Japey, why wouldn’t you know that he was being moved?” she spoke very assertively down the line.
“I didn’t officially know director. I mean we, never officially know where he is, or when he is being moved, for obvious reasons.”