Gauntlet (7 page)

“Do it,” the Emir snapped to one of his hirelings. “Get someone to Jalalabad and see that it is done.”

One of the engineers picked up a laptop and sent an email to the lower caves, where a servant received it and scrambled onto a horse for the ride to Jalalabad. As soon as the servant reached the city, he would make the appropriate transfers, through a discrete Caribbean bank. It was as good as done. Yousseff knew that the Emir didn’t care for money. A mistake, he thought. The Emir wanted power. Yet power was money, and money was power.

“It will be done before the sun sets today,” the Emir confirmed.

Yousseff considered for a moment. “I will require details of the engineering plans and of the structure itself,” he said at length.

One of the engineers handed Yousseff a DVD. “Everything is on this,” he said.

Yousseff reached for it and smiled. “Thank you.” He waited silently for a few moments. Then he spoke again. “There is something else I need.”

“What is it?” asked the Emir.

“It is a simple matter, especially for these people and their computers. I need information to start floating about on the Internet. I need the Great Satan to be looking for us elsewhere. I need the Americans looking to the East, when I will be traveling in the West.”

One of the engineers nodded. “We can do this,” he said.

“And can you convince the faithful from other countries to collaborate?” asked Yousseff.

The reply was quick in coming. “Yes, we can.”

“I will need someone with great computer skills. I need to plant false trails when the Americans come. I need the best you have,” added Yousseff, softly stroking his forehead. He had a headache. He needed to relax.

Two of the engineers looked at each other, nodded, and said as one, “Vijay Mahendra. In Rawalpindi.”

“Have him contact me,” replied Yousseff. “He can reach me through Rasta, at the number you already have. There must be no delay. We are already in motion. He must meet me at my Islamabad hangar tomorrow at sunrise.” He intentionally used Marak’s nickname — the only name the Emir and his people had been given. In situations like this it was important for Yousseff and his associates to keep their true identities hidden.

The Emir motioned to one of the young guards who stood on the outside of the chamber. “Go to Jalalabad,” he barked in sharp tones. “Immediately. Go to our people there and contact Vijay by telephone to give him the directions. Tell him it is my command.”

“Yes, Emir,” came the sharp retort, and the young man was gone.

Yousseff was already bidding farewell and readying himself for the long trek back to the Islamabad hangar. He wanted to travel alone and work everything out — it was the only way he would be able to organize his thoughts and go over his plans. A golden opportunity had presented itself. The Emir wanted to destroy, to create chaos for the Great Satan, to wage a
jihad
. He could give the Emir what he desired, and in the process, he could vastly increase his own wealth and empire. He needed to think, to chase the dragon, to plot things out in the fluidity of opium dreams as he always did when he was faced with a big decision.

“Let the prophet’s words be wings to your feet. And may Allah be with you on this, the most noble of tasks,” the Emir blessed him, smiling in his condescending way.

Yousseff smiled back. He didn’t care for this half-mad old man and his barren religion. Yousseff cared only about one thing — money. It bought power and safety. This particular plan would bring him an avalanche of money. The $25 million was just a small down payment. Maybe the crazy old man knew this. Maybe they were just using each other. Then again, that was how the game was played, wasn’t it?

“And may He also be with you,” he replied.

Yousseff bowed and left the room, the DVD tucked away in an inner pocket of his coat. He thought again of his great battle with Marak so many years ago, and the lesson he had learned. Impossible odds, yes, but with clarity of mind and precise planning he could do this. One shot, and he would be one of the wealthiest and most powerful men on the planet. One shot, one move. And it would not be the move the world was expecting.

The Emir returned to his upper chamber and sat in meditation, his gaze drifting over the unending peaks of the Hindu Kush. He felt a stirring in his soul. Truly, one day of
jihad
was better than a thousand years of prayer in the mosque. Much better.

T
HOUSANDS OF MILES to the east, a string of zeroes flashed across the screen of McMurray’s computer.

A
T ZERO HOUR the Dell sent an electronic signal to a series port replicator, which forwarded simultaneous signals to the bank of Amptec timers, which in turn sent instantaneous, but much more powerful, signals to the fusing cables. From there the line went to the archipelago of more or less equidistant blasting caps embedded within the monstrous pile of Semtex, and a chemical reaction took place that, notwithstanding its robust disposition, the Dell would not survive.

The Semtex was an amalgam of two different explosive compounds, PETN and RDX, held together by an oil-based bonding agent. The two chemicals were relatively stable, even combined, and were therefore reasonably safe to handle. The bonding agent gave the material its elasticity, and hence its utility. But when an initial shock such as that provided by the ignition of a blasting cap occurred, the compound became far from stable. The shock would compress the highly explosive material, heating it, and causing dangerous chemical changes. These changes would then release an enormous amount of energy; a process that would sustain and build a shock wave, which would travel at a supersonic velocity, producing rapidly expanding hot gasses in its wake. In that brief instant of detonation, the shock wave would turn out pressures of up to half a million atmospheres, traveling at ten kilometers per second. Temperatures would reach 5,000 degrees Celsius, with power approaching 20 billion watts per square centimeter. Modern science still did not understand all that happened on the edge of such a chemical reaction, which was why a team from Livermore Laboratories was hoping to be present in the desert for the Semtex detonation.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault when the explosion didn’t go as expected. No one could have taken into account McMurray’s positioning of the blasting caps, or the lens-like effect they would have, especially within a pyramid-shaped mass. This was just one of the reasons that Turbee’s calculations on the crater size turned out to be a little off. No one fully appreciated how much explosive 660 tons of Semtex really was. Until now.

The pressure wave, traveling at a little less than six miles per second, arrived at the control area in less than a second. Richard, McMurray, and their men were sheltered behind a small convoy of Humvees. The shock almost lifted the heavy vehicles off the ground, and they were all shoved back a few inches. Cameramen foolhardy enough to be standing in unprotected areas were knocked off their feet. General Minyar’s tent almost became unattached, and received an unwelcome storm of sand in its interior.

It took 15 seconds more for the sound to reach the encampment. It came as a sharp crash, followed by a low rumbling that sounded like thunder. The initial pressure wave had created a dust storm, and it took several minutes for the cloud to subside. Looking toward Ground Zero, McMurray could see a well-defined mushroom cloud, reaching to a height of more than a mile above the blast site. Seismographs as far away as Tel Aviv and Ankara picked up the blast. The only feature distinguishing the detonation from a nuclear warhead was the lack of radiation. They hoped.

“Holy shit, Richard,” McMurray breathed.

Richard was likewise impressed. The Livermore Labs and the Army and Air Force high explosive research facilities were going to have a lot to analyze. And beyond that, the planning gnomes in the Pentagon would be looking at this. It wouldn’t cost a lot of money (in Pentagon terms) to detonate a few thousand kilos of high explosives. The military could have bombs as powerful as small nuclear devices, without all the unpleasant publicity that using that kind of weapon created. As Richard watched the aftermath, he realized what else this explosion might mean. He quailed at the thought of anyone other than the American government ever getting their hands on that much explosive, or even a fraction of it. If he was right, and there was Semtex missing . . . who had it, and what terrible things might they be planning to do with it? If someone had taken the time to steal Semtex, they probably already had a move in mind. It was bad enough that this particular explosion had taken place in Libya, one of the most aggressive terrorist nations in the world.

Richard retrieved his tallies, which he’d dropped during the chaos of the explosion. What White House idiot had decided to keep this much explosive sitting around in the Middle East, anyhow? He grunted to himself, pressing his fingers against his eyes and trying to think. Those assholes had been asking for trouble from the start.

Minyar himself, as he was picking himself up off his tent floor and shaking the sand out of his hair, felt a twinge of regret. What if he had packed the stuff on a barge and sent it up the Thames to the British Parliament buildings? Or across the Atlantic, to be detonated underneath the Brooklyn Bridge? Had he passed up the opportunity to become the Twenty-First Century’s Saladin, the new sword of Islam? Had he lost the courage and the vision he’d had when he, still in his 20s, seized control of Libya from a crumbling and ineffective monarchy? Had he blown it? This is what he was truly thinking when the microphones and cameras were thrust into his face. What he said was something entirely different.

“This is a great moment for peace. Libya has now joined the community of nations, and is open for trade, oil exploration, and business. A new economic power is being created on the shores of the Mediterranean. A nation that wants to trade and work with the European Economic Community, and with the Americans. A new day is . . .”

T
HE DC-3 had just reached Yousseff’s island retreat. Mustafa was watching CNN, and General Minyar, from the hangar workshop. “Horse shit for brains,” he muttered to himself. Across the world of radical Islam, the reaction was much the same. Another self-proclaimed avenger of Allah selling out, turned to camel dung. Mustafa shook his head and looked around. He had a few hours of work ahead of him, using a helicopter to transfer the Semtex from the DC-3 to the
Mankial Star,
anchored some five miles offshore. Even with the marvelous devices created by Karachi Drydock and Engineering, the work would be heavy. Turning off the TV, he and his men began their labors.

R
ICHARD WAS ON A SECURE LINE to Jon Duncan, the station chief in Cairo, since Libya didn’t yet have an Embassy. Jon had traveled a path parallel to Richard. He was an ex-Marine, and had fought and been wounded in the first Gulf War. Since then he’d moved to the Intelligence Community, and had served in many different offices and departments. The two had met many times, over the course of years, and respected one another. Jon, like so many others, had heard the stories and worried about Richard. They were stories about needing 1,093 feet of runway on a
USS Theodore Roosevelt
runway that was only 1,092 feet long. Stories about too much drinking, and lately, stories about drugs. Stories about a brilliant pilot and a passionate and dedicated soldier who had somehow, for some reason, taken a hard left turn at what should have been the peak of his career. He seemed to dwell too much in the past, still thinking about flying sorties off the flight decks of the Nimitz class carriers, when his life had moved beyond that. Jon had seen it before with other soldiers. Perhaps it was too much war, too much violence.

The truth was that it had all started with Richard’s imperfect vision. It was a problem that had presented, for the Navy brass, an easy way to terminate the services of one of its pilots without venturing into more personal and difficult territory. Richard had been a problem for some time; a man who had always had trouble following orders, he had long since developed a problem with drugs and alcohol. It started simply, with a back injury during basic training. It was a minor wedge compression fracture of the thoracic spine, and most of the time he functioned well in spite of it. But occasionally it would flare up and create severe back problems and headaches, and he had found that ever more powerful medication was required to curb the pain. Aspirin led to ibuprofen, then to Codeine, and ultimately to Percocet, Oxycontin, and more powerful synthetic morphine substances. He had quickly discovered that dowsing such chemical concoctions with alcohol made their pain relief capabilities even stronger. The situation could have led to an embarrassing discharge for Richard, and public complications for the Navy. Luckily, his vision problem had provided a convenient cover story for a more honorable end. Jon had been well on his way to a leadership position in Cairo at the time, and a personal friend of Richard’s. He’d been called in as a character witness on many of the conversations that led to the man’s eventual discharge. He liked to think that he’d helped Richard, in a way, by taking his side during those conversations. Now it looked like he’d be coming to Richard’s aid once again.

“How much did you say is unaccounted for, Richard?”

“According to my calculations, it’s 4,303 kilos. About 4.5 tons,” Richard answered, frowning.

“Jesus,” said Jon. “That’s a big pile of camel crap. Play-D Any idea where it went?”

“Jon, at this point it could be as simple as a clerical error. We’re going over the inventory sheets again, and double-checking against the delivery slips. But I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Too much of this stuff was moved too quickly. I think you should let Langley know, just to put them on notice. If that much Semtex went wandering off into the wilderness, there’s no telling what might happen. And believe me, I just saw an explosion of this stuff that would blow your mind. We don’t want it in the wrong hands.” Richard was speaking too fast, and Jon could hear the stress in his voice.

“I know,” said Jon. “Lord knows there’s enough nasty stuff floating around below the radar screens these days. I’ll inform HQ. Let me know if something pops up.”

Richard hung up the phone, immensely relieved that Jon would make the call to Baxter.

A
FTER THAT it didn’t take long for matters to progress. An hour after the blast, a pilot from the nearby airport barracks of Zighan left his home to take his wife up to see the still-smoking crater. On the way, he came upon the body of the avuncular airport master. A call went to the police constabulary in Zighan, who, suspecting foul play, called the constable in Bazemah. Word filtered up and across the various chains of command, and ultimately Richard heard the news.

A drive along the ancient highway toward Zighan uncovered two Humvees and ten bodies. Soon afterward, they found the Zighan landing strip, and the deserted vehicles there. Ten murders, thought Richard. Eleven if you included the guy at the airport. Someone was serious about this. Someone already knew what the Semtex could do, and they’d gone out of their way to get their hands on some. He’d bet his life that they already had a plan in place for it.

He was back on the phone to Jon later the same day. “Here’s what I think happened. We found the two Humvees hidden halfway between Zighan and Bazemah. We found the empty Volvo flat-deck at the Zighan landing strip. That Volvo was used by the Libyan army to transport the Semtex. We also found two Toyota pickups at Zighan, and the airport attendant was murdered.”

“I think I can figure it out from there,” said Jon.

“Yeah, it ain’t rocket science,” replied Richard. “They had a plane standing by. The authorities are checking for a flight plan, but nothing so far. I’m going to guess they used an old DC-3. They, whoever they are, loaded the stuff onto the plane, and flew off into the wild blue yonder.”

“Think you’re right. Time for some police work, Richard. Do you have any idea what time the plane might have taken off?”

“Just a range. There were several loads moved from Benghazi in the past three days. Most of the Semtex was stored up there. The initial indication from the bodies is that the murders probably happened sometime yesterday. We don’t have much in the way of forensics here, Jon. We’re in the middle of the fucking wilderness.”

“Look, given the seriousness of this, I think we’ll probably get some cooperation from the Libyans. This doesn’t look too good for them, and they’ll want it resolved. Maybe they’ll allow some of our people over to look at the crime scene. It might give us a better indication of what we’re dealing with here. I’ll call Bob directly. This is going to move pretty quickly.” Jon hung up the phone and dialed Robert Baxter.

Jon knew it would be early morning when the call reached Baxter. He also knew that Baxter would be there. He always was. He worked 70, 80, and 90 hours a week. He had worked through three marriages before he quit trying. He was married to his job, and his greatest fear was his retirement, scheduled to happen in about five years. Baxter was the head of the Middle East and Africa Office, within the CIA. In fact, he had been awarded the position when the brilliant Liam Rhodes had moved over to TTIC. His reaction to the news was the same as Jon’s had been.

“How the hell much, Jon?”

“Lawrence says 4,303 kilos.”

That was the extent of the conversation. Baxter took a moment to think it over, and fired off an email on the encrypted line.

It never occurred to Jon to mention the seven Libyan soldiers who had also been killed, or that one Libyan civilian had died. The email was sent to the CIA executive director, the DDCI, the DCI, the Office of Information Resources and, as an afterthought, to Rhodes at TTIC.

J
OHNSON,” said Rhodes. “Can you put the email on my screen up on the central 101? We’re going to need to talk about this.” He was also motioning to Dan.

“You’d better have a look at this, Dan,” he said, when the commander finally walked over. “This one looks ugly.”