Prime Minister John Ralston sought to reassure the British people that he “would personally give them a full and frank update on any developments regarding the comet and its effects on planet Earth”.
The comet, which is currently passing through the Kuiper Belt on the outer edge of our solar system, has been named Schenkler HMM2 after Israeli astrophysicist Ari Schenkler of the Israeli National Space and Cosmology Centre in Tel Aviv. However, the Times can exclusively reveal that the comet was initially discovered by two young Scots who had conducted in-depth research on the photographs taken by Mr Schenkler. They also followed this up with back-up research conducted at the CORSAIR observatory on the Mull of Oa on the island of Islay in western Scotland. They can be named for the first time as Islay-born Ewan Sinclair, 27, a PhD graduate in astrophysics and cosmic sciences from Oxford University, and Glasgow-born Gary Mackintosh, also 27, a PhD graduate in computer sciences from Glasgow University. At present neither Dr Sinclair nor Dr Mackintosh have been able to give any comment nor able to be contacted by the Times as they have been assisting the British and American governments with the dramatic details of their stupendous discovery. It is also believed by the Times that Dr Sinclair and Dr Mackintosh have been recruited to work on two major planning teams to be based at NASA HQ in Houston, Texas. They are both expected to fly out to the US within the next few days to begin their important planning work to deal with the effects of the Schenkler comet on planet Earth.
A spokesman for 10 Downing Street was able to give an exclusive comment to the Times about Sinclair and Mackintosh stating that “the Prime Minister has met today with Drs Sinclair and Mackintosh to express his gratitude from the British people at the very important scientific research carried out by the two Scottish scientists leading to the discovery of the comet Schenkler HMM2. PM Ralston also wished them both God speed to take up the vitally important roles ahead of them and thanked them both personally in 10 Downing Street for agreeing to join the planning teams at NASA HQ.”
Jill quickly reread her article before sending it in to Buckley to do final editing. It tickled her pink to think she was writing about the monumental deeds of her old schoolmates. She thought, God, Ewan and Gary will both die laughing when they read this – Doctors, they’ll say – who is it that you are actually talking about? She laughed aloud uproariously for the first time in a long time. Tears of laughter ran down her aching cheeks. Buckley stuck his head out of his office and shouted down the empty office.
“Are you okay, Jill?”
Jill laughed back.
“Ah’m fine, Buck, just fine.”
Chapter 16
Earthdate: 15:30 Monday March 3, 2081 EST
Air Force One, the President’s supersonic Boeing 797, had departed from Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland heading for the mid-West States. Trueman, who had been elected in November 2080, was on a two-day whistle-stop tour of Democratic Party offices to thank all his electioneering staffs for their hard work in helping him win the Presidential election. As he sat discussing his orations for the day with his speech advisor, he thought to himself, the planet may be heading for total destruction but the business of politics has to go on as normal. The thought also struck him that he was now effectively the very last President of the United States of America and it made him feel a little queasy. At that moment Secretary of State Arlene Kingstone popped her head into the President’s suite.
“Mr President, Suleiman’s on the red line looking for you? He says it’s important – are you available –?”
Trueman smiled at her and nodded. Kingstone and the speech advisor left the 797’s Presidential suite and Trueman opened the red line on his monitor and Suleiman’s face appeared looking pretty glum.
“Abdullah, my friend, ah hope that it’s a good evening over there in Tehran? How’re ya doin’ this evening?”
The Iranian did not smile back.
“Josh, my brother, I have extremely bad news for you about Mahmoud El Kharroubi and Mosab Ali Youssef – the one you knew only as the Palestinian -”
Trueman’s face turned grim.
“What about them, Abdullah?”
“They have both gone deep underground – what you would call AWOL. I have been unable through all my various agencies to contact them. Josh, my friend, I fear that they are now acting out of their own volition – I think you call it a lone wolf - and I fear they will still try to hit their original targets – probably very soon.”
Trueman felt that he could do without this latest crisis.
“Okay, Abdullah - thanks for the heads up. We already have terrorist threat levels in London, Boston and Toronto set at critical. Ah will pass on your information to all concerned and we must all keep close tabs on the situation.”
President Suleiman responded.
“I will also keep trying to contact the two men on their secure cell phones – but they have had them off for weeks now. I have given your Secretary of State Miss Kingstone the numbers in order that your Western secret services can try and track them if they come back online. Please accept my sincere apologies and a very good night to you, Mr President.”
“Sure, Abdullah, no problem – we will do everything in our power to stop them. Ah wish you a good night also, President Suleiman.”
*
Earthdate: 20:45 Monday March 3, 2081 GMT
The MI5 CCTV controller operating the BB2 system picked the target up on the concourse at Kings Cross Station. She radioed out to get ground operatives on him as quickly as possible.
“Target MEK spotted leaving front exit of Kings Cross onto Euston Road at 20:45. Agents please advise when on him - over?”
Mahmoud El Kharroubi had been holed up in a safe house in Leeds for the last two weeks. Today he had travelled down on various slow inconspicuous trains via York and Peterborough to try and avoid detection. He knew that the UK police and national security services would be carrying out surveillance operations looking for him, particularly in central London and around the St Bart’s area. He also knew that President Suleiman had been trying repeatedly to call him and to email him but he had not responded for fear of being tracked on his mobile or on his eTab. Based on the various current media reports Mahmoud guessed Suleiman was trying to call off the attacks on the Western hospitals. But he and the Palestinian were not going to allow a little thing like world peace to come between them and their plans. Mahmoud now saw Suleiman as a traitor to Allah’s holy jihad. After Mahmoud exited Kings Cross he was lucky enough to immediately catch a London Red electribus heading down the Farringdon Road. At that point in time the MI5 controller had not had any ground agents confirm contact and in the darkness she momentarily lost sight of El Kharroubi.
“All agents please note target gone AWOL. Possibly aboard a No.27 London Red heading for Holborn - agents in West Smithfield area to hold position pending further advice - over.”
Chief Superintendent Mike Hollingsworth stood nervously beside the Director of MI5 as they watched the events on the controller’s monitors. Hollingsworth inwardly thought with dread that the terrorist bastard is likely to be on a crowded bus with a chest strapped full of crude explosives and we badly need him back on the ground. Suddenly, a call came in from one of the ground agents.
“Agent Four-Five responding - target MEK spotted on stated No.27 bus at junction of Roseberry Avenue and travelling on down Farringdon Road. He is likely to get off before Holborn Viaduct. Have agents and police in position and I will continue on foot towards St Bart’s - over.”
The controller responded with urgency as she zoomed all available BB2 CCTVs in on the No.27.
“Roger Four-Five. All units are advised that target is continuing by bus towards attack zone - over!”
El Kharroubi looked out of the bus into the cold dark night as it ambled slowly in heavy traffic down the busy Farringdon Road and he noticed it had started to rain quite heavily, streaki
ng down the windows. It was a far cry from the dusty heat of the Maskobiyeh Detention Center in West Jerusalem. As a young student in journalism over 35 years ago at Al-Quds University in Jerusalem, Mahmoud spent months trying to make contact with his father Ibrahim El Kharroubi who was being detained in that Israeli prison known as the Slaughterhouse. His father was a political leader in the old Hamas organisation and he had been in and out of Israeli prisons throughout Mahmoud’s formative years. When Ibrahim was eventually released from Maskobiyeh for that last time he came out an old and broken man. Hamas was also dissolved as a now defunct political and militia organisation shortly after. It was at that point that Mahmoud developed his deep hatred for the Jews and the West. He offered his services to the newly emerging LOIN organisation and he was secretly trained as a sleeper, becoming a respected journalist with Al Jazirah and eventually being posted to work in the UK. Mahmoud’s hatred of the infidels was now so ingrained and deep-seated within his psyche. Nothing, not even Suleiman, was going to stop him from striking at the Jew doctor’s hospital and, in particular, her developing DNA unit at St Bart’s. If Venters was to also to die in the attack then it would be an even greater victory for the cause of the great God Allah. The No.27 jolted to a halt at a bus-stop and El Kharroubi realised that this was his stop and he jumped up abruptly and jostled himself very carefully through some standing passengers.
“Excuse me please – but I must get off here.”
He jumped off the electribus into the pouring rain and as it quietly pulled away the MI5 controller quickly picked him up on a monitor in front of her.
“All agents are advised target MEK is now on foot. He is walking east on Snow Hill. It is likely that he will take Cock Lane – repeat Cock Lane. Target is to be intercepted at Cock Lane. Agents respond immediately - over!”
As El Kharroubi walked briskly down Snow Hill he noticed that the evening pedestrians had thinned out with only one or two couples huddled under umbrellas strolling in either direction. He turned into the narrow street of Cock Lane, which was empty, and he saw the well-lit buildings of St Batholomew’s Hospital at the other end of the lane. He became nervous at the thought that he was now so near yet so far to his target. He was emboldened by the belief that he would soon be sitting by the side of his beloved Allah. Suddenly strong bright arc lights lit on him from both ends of the lane.
“MAHMOUD EL KHARROUBI – THIS IS THE POLICE! LIE FACE DOWN ON THE GROUND IMMEDIATELY –“
El Kharroubi froze for a second and looked through the pouring rain at the hospital which was now impossibly out of reach. Lines of armoured police had cut him off at either end of the lane. He thought about lying down as he had been instructed but then he was overcome by a great rage welling up inside him. He raised the cheap untraceable mobile high into the sodden air and screamed from the bottom of his lungs.
“Allahu akbar!”
At the same split second a hail of police marksmen’s bullets ripped into his body. Mahmoud fell flat on his face on the soaking ground. With his last breath he pressed on the mobile and his body exploded with a terrible muffled crump. Hollingsworth who had watched the whole scene on BB2 yelled into the mic.
“This is Hollingsworth here! Are there any casualties – respond!”
There was a momentary silence. Hollingsworth watched on the monitors as armoured police officers move in slowly and gingerly towards El Kharroubi’s smouldering and destroyed remains. Then an officer called back on the radio.
“Inspector Carrington here, sir – there is some slight collateral damage to surrounding buildings. The only casualty is target MEK. No other casualties, sir – over and out.”
Chief Superintendent Mike Hollingsworth smiled to himself. He slowly exhaled a small sigh of relief and satisfaction. He allowed himself the pleasing vision of receiving his Knighthood from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth III for his recent services to the security of his country and to the world.
*
Earthdate: 16:19 Monday March 3, 2081 EST
It had turned out to be a lovely warm bright early spring afternoon and Ruthie had decided to sit out in the manicured gardens. She had taken a few days off from the London Times, for which she was long overdue. She and her father Rolf had flown in this morning to Boston from New York’s La Guardia airport. Rolf had earlier attended an international gynaecological conference in midtown Manhattan. Ruthie had shopped excitedly on 5th Avenue while her father had attended his conference. When they had later arrived by electri-cab from Boston Airport at the Harvard Medical Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Ruthie had been happy to let her father go in to pick up her mother Marcie. Ruthie had bought an ice cold Coke and a spicy hot dog and she now sat in the gardens in front of the impressive Harvard hospital. Marcie had been working in Boston for the last three days, stuck in planning meetings for the new human DNA super-storage facility to be sited at Harvard. The three of them were booked on an overnight supersonic flight from Boston to London. Ruthie subconsciously checked her wristwatch, she expected her parents to come out into the sunny gardens any minute now. She crumpled up the hot dog wrapper and went to stroll over to a nearby trashcan. However, she had to step back hastily as a dark-skinned and heavily perspiring Middle Eastern man rushed past her, almost crashing into her. They each made direct eye contact momentarily and Ruthie felt that she had never seen as much venomous evil in such as this man’s eyes. A cold shiver ran down her spine but she was not quite sure of the reason. She gave a half-hearted shout after the impolite rushing man.
“Excuse me!”
The Palestinian Mosab Ali Youssef was over half an hour late arriving at the Harvard Medical Center, which he knew could compromise his mission. He and Mahmoud had synchronised their attacks for the same moment, even though they were continents apart. Mosab’s element of surprise would be diminished in its effect. In fact, he suspected the infidels would already be on to him. He had arrived in Boston that morning from O’Hare after a circuitous route over the past five days via Quebec, Vancouver, Seattle and Chicago. Everything had been going to plan up until two hours ago when he discovered that the old untraceable cell phone that was to be used as his detonator had developed a fault. He could not get any power into it and he could not tell if it was the lithium battery or a faulty circuit board. The Palestinian thought about standing down from his mission, but he knew within his dark hate-filled heart that now was to be the moment of his martyrdom. He had decided to take a chance and he rigged the nail-bomb strapped around his torso to his own Group cell phone. He had to hope Mahmoud or Suleiman or anyone else for that matter did not try to contact him. Now here he was sweating profusely and rushing in the warm spring day through the gardens at Harvard. There was hardly a soul to be seen in the gardens. Just a hot dog vendor and a young woman he had almost crashed blindly into. Mosab knew with growing suspicion that it was way too quiet. He looked up at the second floor of the hospital and he began to visualise his route to the DNA Center up there. He prayed to Allah. Just give me five more minutes. Mosab then hurried towards the automated doors into the atrium of the hospital’s main entrance. He was about to go through the doors when a middle-aged couple, who were trying to exit, barred his way. Rolf looked at the heavily perspiring man with a puzzled expression. Rolf thought fleetingly that he must be ill or something. He stepped back behind Marcie to allow the dark-skinned man to pass. Rolf put his hands lightly on Marcie’s shoulders and gently began to guide her out of the automated doors.
“Look, Marcie, there’s Ruthie over there by the hot dog stand –“
The Palestinian had just stepped inside a few yards past Rolf and Marcie when a black security guard pointing a gun at Mosab screamed at the top of his voice.
“FREEZE – don’t ya fuckin’ move a muscle or ah’ll blow yore brains out!”
Mosab instinctively shot his hands up into the air. Rolf froze in shock with his hands still on Marcie’s shoulders. No-one moved momentarily. No-
one quite knew what to do. Ruthie, about a hundred yards away, was puzzled at why her parents were just standing looking at her. She began to wave and walk towards them. The hot dog vendor, a CIA agent, had pulled a gun and was radioing urgently for backup. Mosab thought about moving. The security guard was now perspiring just as much as the Palestinian. He yelled again.
“Ah’m tellin’ ya – don’t even fuckin’ think about it!”
Time froze for just a second.
Thousands of miles away in Tehran, Suleiman had received an urgent call from PM John Ralston that El Kharroubi had been taken down in London without reaching his target.
“Abdullah, I have not yet heard from President Trueman, but the Palestinian is still on the loose. He is probably heading for Boston or Toronto –“
“Prime Minister, leave it with me!”
The black security guard had only taken one faltering step towards Mosab Ali Youssef, who still had his hands upraised, when the cell phone rang. Ruthie saw the violent flash from behind her parents followed by a great whoosh from the explosion. She never heard the massive bang or saw the millions of shards of glass and debris which exploded out of the atrium towards her. She was blown violently backwards towards the flimsy hot dog stand which disintegrated in the blast. Everything went quiet. A few moments later the hospital area was flooded with armed CIA and Boston police SWAT teams, followed quickly by ambulance and fire crews. Wailing sirens shattered the air of the quiet gardens as black smoke billowed out of the burning atrium.
2084 The End of Days Page 23