by Don Brown
Zack flipped off the television and covered his face with his hands, fearing that his worst nightmares were now unfolding.
Why?
Why had he left her at the Officers' Club alone?
He knew it was a horrible idea, and he had tried to tell her.
The image of her face, of her smile as she waved good-bye to him for the last time in the O-Club in Washington, had haunted him for days. As he closed his eyes, that image returned, as vivid as if she were sitting right there with him. He felt sick.
"Dear God, please be with her. Please, may your divine protection be upon her right now, wherever she is. Right now. In Jesus' holy name . . ."
The phone rang.
Zack wiped his eyes, took a gulp of cold Dasani bottled water, then picked up the receiver. When he spoke, it was with his military bearing in a voice full of confidence. "Lieutenant Commander Brewer speaking."
"Zack?" The woman's voice on the other end was faint, making his heart leap.
"Diane?"
"No, Zack. It's Wendy. I just heard the news, and I had to call. I know the two of you must have been . . . must be close."
Zack did not respond.
"Anyway," she continued, "do you know anything more than what they've said on the news?"
"No. I just heard the radio report myself. I haven't even talked to Captain Rudy yet."
"That's horrible, Zack. Hearing something like this on the radio . . . Someone should have called you."
It wouldn't have mattered. Nothing could have lessened the blow to his emotions, his heart, his desperate fears for Diane. Zack rolled his chair away from his desk and thumped his fingers on the armrest. "I shouldn't have left her there alone -- "
Wendy cut him off. "This isn't your fault. I was there. Remember? You tried as hard as you could to get her to accept some protection."
"She's so hardheaded," he said, staring blankly out the window.
"And that's who she is, and that's part of what makes her such a good lawyer."
"I've got a few days' leave left. I can be at Reagan National in three hours. Do you need me to come out to San Diego?"
"That's sweet, Wendy, but save your leave for something more worthwhile."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Look, don't give me that invincible, macho stuff, okay? I know how you guys are. You're hurting right now. I'm coming."
"No. Thanks anyway. To be honest, I'm still in shock. I need to be alone a few days to sort things out."
She hesitated. "Okay. But I want you to promise to call me anytime, day or night, if you need somebody to talk to."
"Okay."
Diane estimated thirty minutes had passed since the radio broadcast. Since then, only the sound of whining asphalt. At least her headache was not so splitting anymore. She could think more clearly now. She lay there, pretending to be asleep. Thinking. Something about the broadcast wasn't right. At least they were looking for her. That was a relief. But what was missing?
Zack.
If Zack really had been kidnapped, why nothing about him on the broadcast? Maybe Zack had been abducted and the press wasn't yet aware of it. But that didn't make sense. If they knew she had been kidnapped, surely they would have checked on Zack immediately. Wouldn't they?
Or maybe this goon was lying about Zack to discourage her from making an escape attempt. If he was going to kill her, why hadn't he already? He easily could have killed her and dumped her body somewhere by now.
She opened her eyes. It looked like the goon had tried using duct tape to tape cardboard across the back windows. But from the light coming in through the windshield, and from the cracks in the cardboard, she could tell that wherever they were, it was daylight.
Time to engage this guy.
"I need a bathroom!"
"Shut up!"
"Cram it, goon! I'm not afraid of you or your kind!" I must have a death wish. I can't believe I said that.
Silence.
More silence. Let him make the next statement.
Maybe five minutes passed.
"I see a barn." He spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. The inflection in his voice was slightly sarcastic. "I'm going to stop there. I will be watching you. Make one move, and you're dead."
A moment later, the back door slid open. Warm, humid air blew in. And then, for the first time, she saw him in full view. He had black hair and dark skin and looked to be slightly short, wearing jeans and a denim shirt. And around his waist hung a holster and a gun . . . a nine-millimeter Glock.
He drew his gun and pointed it at her. "Get up."
"My hands and legs are cuffed."
He tossed a key at her. The key bounced off her stomach and fell onto the floorboard just below the seat. "This is for the handcuffs. The leg chains stay on."
"A little help would be nice."
"Facedown into the seat." She felt him tinkering with the cuffs, and then they fell off. "Out of the van. Try anything, and you are a dead woman."
She slipped, feet first, out of the van. Her feet touched the ground. The chains around her ankles were much like the leg chains on prisoners being brought into the courtroom from the brig. Enough slack to walk. Nothing more. Running would be impossible. But her hands were free . . .
If she could just get at the gun.
The van was parked behind the barn, nearly hidden by high weeds. Behind the barn was a stand of trees. No civilization was in sight, but in the distance, she heard a few cars zooming by on the main road.
"Over there!"
He kept his distance but kept the gun aimed at her. She contemplated her options. With the chains around her ankles, dashing into the trees would be futile. Perhaps there would be an opportunity when she returned to the van. If she could just wrestle the gun away . . .
"Hurry up!"
She waded back through the weeds. Toward the van.
"Faster!"
"If you want faster, then take these chains off my ankles."
No answer. She was near the van now. Maybe ten feet. Another car zoomed by. Unseen. Somewhere in the distance. He stood by the van's sliding door, weapon drawn.
"Get in. Lay facedown on the seat."
She would lunge at his feet. Knock him off balance, grab the gun. She hesitated.
"Move! Inside!"
Now!
Chink-chink.
He worked the bolt action on the pistol. That froze her in her tracks.
Cooperate. For the moment anyway. Try to build trust. This isn't the right time.
Just enough leeway in the chain allowed her to step into the van. She lay facedown on the seat. When he grabbed her wrist to reattach the cuffs, she thought she sensed a gentleness in his touch. Was it her imagination, or was there a smidgen of oxymoronic compassion within this monster? She had read that captors sometimes form an odd bond with the kidnapped. Was this happening now?
Compassion or not, next time they stopped, she would kill him.
CHAPTER 26
Flight Deck
USS Harry S. Truman
Eastern Mediterranean
204 miles SSE of Limassol, Cyprus
Sitting in the cockpit of his powerful F-18 Super Hornet, as the flight crew hooked his jet to the giant catapult that would sling his powerful war bird out over the ocean, Lieutenant Commander Mohammed "Mo" Quasay realized his day had finally arrived.
Islamic Glory.
Until now, the top-secret plan was known only to a few persons around the world. Pulling on his helmet, then going through his final instrument check, Mo Quasay wondered how he, a simple man, was here at this time, in the Eastern Mediterranean, on the deck of an American nuclear aircraft carrier, about to launch a strike that would change the history of the world.
Looking down from the cockpit, he watched his enlisted flight crew scramble about on the flight deck, the wind whipping across the deck and fluttering their uniforms. Indeed, he had developed a modicum of affection for these, his men. No, they were not of th
e Great Faith, and they wouldn't understand what he and Lieutenant Alhad, in the jet behind him, were about to do.
Sure, he had second thoughts, he reflected, punching the button on the Super Hornet's instrument panel that caused the twin-turbine jet engines to slowly start their whining roar. Even still, Allah was in all of this, wasn't he?
Even now, the plan seemed to be unfolding with divine guidance. The attack message had been transmitted to the carrier with clarity. Too much clarity. And though his Muslim brothers had been detained temporarily by Captain Constangy's SEAL team, they had been released. Praise be to Allah.
And then Israel had requested low overflights, a mission for which he and Lieutenant Alhad were given the opportunity to volunteer. If they could avoid some overenthusiastic brother with a Stinger who may not have received al-Akhma's command to hold fire, the low overflights would make his job that much easier.
"Navigations system and weapons system check completed, Skipper. All systems go."
This was the voice of his navigator and weapons officer, Lieutenant Mark "Mouse" Price, sitting in the cockpit right behind him. Price was the main reason Mo had felt any reluctance to go through with this plan. He and Price had been in the cockpit together for a long time, had watched one another's backs, and had developed a genuine friendship. Despite the fact that he was an infidel Christian, Price was a family man, with a young wife and two small children back home in Virginia.
The thought of Lieutenant Price's fate made Mo cringe. Still, Price had had all his life to convert to the one true faith. He had not. And according to the teaching of the one true faith, even if we develop affection for our goats, sometimes we must slaughter our livestock for the greater good.
And the Koran and the Hadiths clearly teach that infidel Jews and Christians, whether we like them personally or not, are at the end of the day no greater than livestock.
"Very well, Lieutenant," Mo said into his microphone. "I'll request clearance for takeoff."
"I'm with you, Skipper," Price said cheerfully.
"Truman, Viper Leader. All systems clear. Ready for takeoff on your call."
"Roger that, Viper Leader," the Truman's air traffic controller said. "You are clear for takeoff when signaled by the LSO. Godspeed, Commander."
Mo revved up the twin turbofans, then looked down at the LSO, who gave him a thumbs-up. Chalk blocks were removed, and Mo reciprocated the thumbs-up. A huge burst of steam shot up behind the plane, and like a giant rubber band, the giant catapult pushed and then slung the Super Hornet down five hundred feet of runway and into the wind.
The jet cleared the carrier, then dropped for a second as Mo gave it full throttle. And then powerful g-forces, like a giant, invisible hand, pushed him back into his seat as the Super Hornet rocketed to two thousand feet and began to orbit the carrier until Lieutenant Alhad's plane could be launched. Mo turned and banked. The Truman was now a small spec of metal on the surface, pushing a white trail through the aqua-blue waters of the Eastern Mediterranean.
"Viper Leader, Viper 2. We've cleared the boat. Be right with you," Lieutenant Hosni Alhad announced.
"Roger that, Viper 2," Mohammed responded. "We're on the lookout for you."
A moment later, the long, sleek twin-turbo F-18, with the word NAVY painted on the fuselage, appeared just to the left of Mohammed's cockpit.
"I see you, Viper 2. Let's rock and roll."
"Roger that, Leader."
Jaffa Gate
Western entrance
Old City of Jerusalem
The taxi driver, who had previously identified himself as a Russian immigrant to Israel, pulled over in front of the gate through the walls of the Old City. "Okay, this is the Jaffa Gate, my friend. Walk straight through this gate; follow the crowd for about seven blocks. You will be at the Wall in ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how fast your children can walk."
"Shalom to you, my brother." Alexander shoved a few of his remaining shekels into the driver's hand.
"Come, Yael, children, let us enter the Old City!" Alexander said excitedly.
Yael sat a little too long for his comfort in the backseat of the taxi, wiping crumbs from little Sol's mouth with a rag.
"The Temple Mount has been there thousands of years," Yael said. "It isn't going anywhere in the next fifteen minutes."
Adam, Rachel, and Anna piled out of the cab and up onto the curb.
"Come on, Mama," nine-year-old Anna called.
"Yeah, I want to see the temple!" This from five-year-old Adam.
"The temple isn't there, dummy," seven-year-old Rachel said. "It is the temple mountain we are going to see."
"No, not the mountain," Anna said to her younger sister. "It is the mount."
"Eezveeneetzia ," Rachel retorted. Excuse me. Then she looked at her mother and said, "Come on, Mama, we want to see the mount."
"Harasho, harasho," Yael said. Okay, okay. She finished her dabbing and stepped out of the car. "Let us go to the temple!"
They took hands, all of them, and together stepped through the gate to the Old City, turning up the sunbaked streets, taking in the vibrant sites of Zion as they walked.
International Bridge spanning the Rio Grande
Del Rio, Texas - Ciudad Acuna, Mexico
United States - Mexico border
The Aerostar came to a dead stop on the International Bridge over the Rio Grande. On one side was the United States of America; on the other, Mexico.
It was not supposed to happen this way. Delays crossing the bridge were common on the other side. Not on this side.
Could the Americans already have gotten to the Mexicans? Were they searching vehicles crossing the border?
Through the hazy fumes spewing from the old station wagon creeping forward just in front of him, Ahmed gazed across the river at the rolling limestone bluffs dotted with cactus high on the Mexican side.
He had moved his drugged passenger from the backseat to the very back section of the van, where curtains made her visual detection impossible. He had slipped his Uzi under the driver's seat.
The Mexicans weren't heavily armed, he was told, and he was fully prepared to shoot his way through the border if he needed to. But if he did, an unacceptable level of commotion would jeopardize his escape. He hoped it would not come to that.
The station wagon's brake lights went off, and it inched forward. Ahmed followed suit, inching the Aerostar forward. More brake lights. Then a brown-skinned Mexican guard stepped out of the guard booth and stopped the wagon.
Perhaps I should just ignore him if he stops me.
The guard waved the station wagon through, then held up his palm to stop the Aerostar.
Ahmed reached down and felt the cold steel grip of the Uzi. He flipped off the safety switch and slid it a little farther under the seat.
By instinct, his foot came down on the brake pedal.
"Hola, amigo," the Mexican border guard said, peering curiously through the window.
CHAPTER 27
Altitude 500 feet
15 nautical miles east of the Israeli coastline
Eastern Mediterranean
With the sparkling waves of the Mediterranean racing below him in a blur, and with Lieutenant Hosni Alhad's Super Hornet still flying off his left wingtip, Mohammed saw, for the first time, the coastline of Palestine. Though he felt reluctant about his mission, the glorious sight of this Israeli-occupied Islamic holy land provided an unexpected jolt of courage.
Blessed be the prophet Mohammed -- peace be upon him.
Dropping his airspeed to a modest two hundred fifty miles per hour, he reached into his holster and pulled out his sidearm, a nine-millimeter Ruger.
"Traffic at three o'clock, Skipper," Lieutenant Mouse Price said through his intercom headset from the back of the bubbled cockpit. "Looks like a civilian Beechcraft."
"I see him, Mouse," Mohammed lied. He activated the automatic pilot and then worked the action on the nine-millimeter. "Viper 2, be advised civilian traffi
c at three o'clock."
No response.
He looked out to the left at Hosni's jet. Hosni's flight officer, Lieutenant Ricky "Pip" Davis, an African-American father of three from Charlotte, North Carolina, was slumped over inside the cockpit.
"Skipper, does Pip look all right to you?" Mouse sounded worried.
Mohammed deactivated his pistol's safety. "Sun's in my eyes. I can't really see him." Another lie. "I don't want to break radio silence again. Why don't you get out your binoculars and see what's going on?"
"Aye, sir."
Mohammed took another look at the Palestinian coastline, now growing more visible by the second.
May the will of Allah be done!
He reached around the jump seat and pointed the gun at the chest of a wide-eyed Mouse Price, who sat directly behind him.
"Commander!"
Mohammed squeezed the trigger. Even with his helmet on, he could hear the bang reverberate through the cockpit over the roar of the jets.
Another squeeze. Then another. One of the snub-nosed bullets ripped right through Price's embroidered name tag. He slumped over, his eyes still wide open, blood now soaking through the front of his olive-drab flight suit.
He looked at Hosni and made a slicing motion across his neck. Hosni did the same. He too had carried out Allah's will.
Mohammed gave Hosni a thumbs-down, indicating lower altitude. They dropped to two hundred fifty feet from the water, and then Mohammed armed his missiles.
And then set a course directly to Jerusalem.
International Bridge spanning the Rio Grande
Del Rio, Texas - Ciudad Acuna, Mexico
United States - Mexico border
Hola." Ahmed returned the greeting, faking a smile.
"You Norte Americano?"
"Si, senor."
"You do not look Norte Americano." The guard fixed his black eyes on the empty back seat.