Jericho 3 (41 page)

The black Mercedes pulled up to the side entrance of Clinique Zerktouni Orthopedics and Rehab center at Rue 9 Avril.

The King got out and waved to those gathered on the streets as six smiling technicians, doctors and physical therapists waited for him under the entrance awning. It was Thursday, and the entire Clinique Zerktouni staff was still buzzing about the international Unity Festival race and the fact that a team from Morocco had won.

The King’s contingent of bodyguards engulfed him from the front, sides and rear as they walked briskly from the car toward the entrance way under the green awning. None of them noticed the doctor who reached into his white lab coat or the five others who reached for guns inside their blue surgical scrubs.

Gunfire from three high-powered rifles shattered the morning silence as six members of an Iranian hit squad fell dead from precise two-round volleys before the assassins had a chance to fire a single shot.

The King was pushed inside the hospital by bodyguards as the King’s entourage cleared unfired weapons away from the dead “doctors and technicians” lying on the ground by the sidewalk. Saudi bodyguards scanned the adjacent rooftops looking for the shooters just as Reuven’s video link went dark.

Reuven turned his TV monitor off, put a piece of chewing gum in his mouth and left the command center as Yitzhak buried his face in his hands.

Qoms, Iran

W
hen word finally reached the gathering in the Shura Council room, the Shoeib threw his cup of hot tea against the wall. The breaking glass and his unrestrained anger captivated the room.

Ayatollah Yazdi asked for the report on the wind of torment. Qazvin reluctantly began to speak.

“The Zionists are lying, using all of their old tricks of deception. There have been some reports that people are very ill in the northern part of the Gaza Strip. But in the non-existent lands of the Zionists…nothing. Not a word has been mentioned. If they are suffering, we do not know….the world does not know.”

Yazdi was silent. The room was silent.

“Then it is clear. The Age of the Coming is soon, but it is not yet now. May God’s name be praised. We shall continue to wait the return of the Twelfth Imam, the Mahdi, and pray that day will be very soon. But today is not that day.”

Tel Aviv, Israel

Y
itzhak followed quickly behind Reuven as they left the command center with full knowledge that the Saudi King was safe.

“Full report?” Reuven asked as they walked.

“More than 400 are in hospitals getting antibiotics and treatments. Most of them elderly or children,” Yitzhak said as he read the Health Minister’s report.

“Fatalities?”

“None…so far,” Yitzhak answered.

“News reports?”

“Nothing. Everyone is talking about the Unity Festival and the flu season. Not a word about tularemia. But there is this.” Yitzhak handed Reuven a Delta Airlines passenger manifest from Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris.

Reuven looked agitated.

Walter Reed National Military Hospital

Bethesda, Maryland

U
S Navy Captain “Camp” Campbell stopped for an early cup of coffee at his favorite barista in Old Town Alexandria before making the quick drive to Walter Reed in his Defender 90. It was a beautiful Friday morning. He listened to every news story over the previous two days, and there was nothing about an outbreak of illness in Israel. Nothing could have made him happier.

Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines was scheduled to arrive at Washington Dulles on Sunday, and Camp was excited to see where his new interest in Raines might go.

The Friday “in briefing” was standard procedure. Camp would get a tour, meet his staff, and get a full briefing on his assignment. The real work would start on Monday.

During the Walter Reed tour, Camp’s iPhone started vibrating. The phone indicated “unknown number,” so he let it go to voice mail. Within seconds it vibrated again.

“Ma’am, I need to excuse myself and take this call,” Camp said without waiting for permission. He stepped outside into the sunshine.

“Yes.”

“Shepherd’s Pie?”

A warm smile broke over Camp’s face.

“Brother Bloom…it’s great to hear your voice. I’ve been watching the news, and I’m very happy for you.”

“Maybe that happiness is too soon.”

“Okay.”

“The evil rabbit hunter.”

“I’m tracking…what about him?”

“His name came up on the system. Flew from over here to over there. Got a rental car.”

“Where?”

“His alma mater.”

“Okay…”

“Shepherd’s Pie…tomorrow is what you call…homecoming…alumni day.”

Camp ended the call and sprinted toward the parking lot as his tour guide watched helplessly through the window.

Inside the Defender 90, Camp hit Billy Finn’s speed-dial number. Finn was sitting in General Ferguson’s office when the call came in.

“What’s up, captain? Saving any lives this morning at Walter Reed?”

“Finn…I need your help…” Camp yelled frantically.

“Calm down, what’s going on?”

“Just got a call from Molly Bloom…they found Kazi’s name on a flight list. He’s in the states, Billy.”

“That’s perfect. We can nail him there.”

“Not so fast. Molly said he’s got a rental car. This is homecoming weekend for his alma mater…alumni day.”

“Whoa…what are you saying, Camp? Are you thinking winds of torment at a college football game?”

“Doesn’t sound ‘rational,’ does it?” Camp asked rhetorically. “You still got Kazi’s file?”

Finn ruffled through a stack of folders on Ferguson’s desk. The general was perplexed with Billy Finn’s burst of energy.

“Here it is. Undergraduate degree? Microbiology, at Auburn.”

“Billy, get your Atlanta field office up to speed and give them my number. He had to fly into Atlanta, probably staying at a hotel near Auburn.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m driving to Auburn, Billy…I don’t know what Kazi looks like, but I know what he’s capable of.”

Jordan-Hare Field

Auburn University

Auburn, Alabama

A
 crowd of 87,451 cheering fans were packed into Jordan-Hare Stadium, the twelfth largest stadium in the NCAA, for the homecoming football game between the Auburn Tigers and the Aggies of New Mexico State University. A full Friday night of music, parades and the annual float competition had put everyone in a great mood for what was supposed to be an easy win over a non-conference opponent.

Camp made the 750-mile drive from Washington in less than 10 hours. Six members of the FBI’s field office, including two snipers, had met with Camp, the Alabama State Troopers and Campus Police from midnight until 2:00am. Three booths at a local Waffle House served as the make-shift command center as each was debriefed on who Kazi was and what tularemia could do. The FBI had ordered two truckloads of the antibiotic ciprofloxacin be delivered to campus medical stations, local hospitals and 24-hour clinics.

Ticket-takers were given a copy of Kazi’s college photo, a photo that was taken long before the college student became a man and a wanted international terrorist. The once 19-year-old student from Pakistan had long disheveled hair and a short cropped beard with bare spots. He was wearing an orange and blue Auburn Tigers sweatshirt.

It was anyone’s guess what the 32-year-old microbiologist looked like now. Camp had never seen him.

Two FBI snipers were placed in skyboxes at each 30-yard line on both sides of the field. Spotters with high-powered binoculars scanned the crowds.

Alabama State Troopers had increased their presence and were positioned at 10-yard intervals around the entire field. Normally their job was to prevent inebriated fans from running onto the field of play or preventing rowdy fans from rushing the goalposts after another Auburn victory.

Camp and the director of the FBI’s Atlanta field office were in the first-level skyboxes at the 50-yard line. They were looking for one man among 87,451 screaming fans.

The Auburn Marching Tigers Band played and came to a triumphant finish as the vice chancellor walked past Neo, the team’s Golden Eagle mascot, and stepped up to the microphone on the 50-yard line that was facing the home team fans.

“Welcome to the Auburn University Homecoming Game!” the vice chancellor said as Camp scoured the faces of those gathered on the field around him through his binoculars.

The crowd erupted. The student section in front of the vice chancellor yelled “War” and the rest of the stadium yelled “Eagle.” The first students yelled “War.” Then the end zone yelled “Damn,” as the rest of the stadium screamed “Eagle.” Signs that read WDE started rising from seats everywhere.

“It is my distinct pleasure…to introduce our newest mascot in a great lineage of Golden Eagle’s…please welcome…six-year-old Neo.”

The crowd went wild as the second year veterinary student from Auburn’s College of Veterinary Medicine held Neo up on his gloved arm and forearm. Neo had been hit by a car as a young bird and was nursed back to health with surgeries and rehabilitation by the veterinary students. Neo not only survived but thrived. The majestic bird’s long recovery left one unfortunate side effect; the animal had imprinted on people and lost all fear. Though Neo could not be released into the wild, he was transformed from serious injury to fearless mascot. But one behavior of the wild bird did not disappear even with daily interaction from people. Pigeons that made a dash through Neo’s flight aviary, or other birds and animals that got too close during training, were often attacked by Neo with violent consequences. Neo was Auburn’s War Eagle VIII. Natural survival was as much an instinct for Neo as it was for Auburn’s football team.

Camp honed in on the eagle and the handler. Nothing.

“Before we play New Mexico State…we want to honor all of our alums who have come home to Auburn today,” the vice chancellor continued.

The fans applauded, and another 10 rounds of “War Damn Eagle” echoed through Jordan-Hare Stadium.

“Today we single out three alums for special recognition. From the Class of 1974, cartoonist and writer, please welcome Jimmy Johnson.”

Camp watched as the crowd politely applauded when Johnson stepped up to a white board and quickly drew a character from his “Arlo and Janis” comic strip. The hand-held camera on the field put Johnson’s quick drawing on the stadium’s JumboTron screens for all to see.

“From the Class of 2002, microbiologist and astrophysicist, Dr. Reza Markazi.”

Camp bolted to his feet. “This is our guy!” Camp yelled into his radio and raced out the door of the skybox.

Kazi stepped out wearing an executive two piece navy blue suit with a yellow power tie. Retro-styled plastic framed glasses filled his cleanly shaven face as he put his ARF P-51D Mustang WARBIRD with a 65-inch wingspan down on the stadium turf. The camera moved in as the glow-plug fired up the engine.

Camp ran down eight flights of stairs, two steps at a time, until he reached the field access doors. “That’s him, that’s him. Shoot him!” Camp screamed as he pushed past security and onto the field.

“What the – we can’t shoot the man in the middle of the football field,” the director yelled into his headset. “All teams stand by.”

The field camera moved in close as Kazi’s WARBIRD gathered speed from the 50 to the 40 to the 30 and was airborne by the 20-yard line. Camp dodged through band members and across the field toward Kazi.

As the vet student’s eyes scanned the skies above Jordan-Hare Stadium, so did Neo’s eyes. The bird was immediately agitated. Natural instincts were kicking in. Neo started straining at his jesses, trying to free himself from the handler’s restraints.

A video camera mounted on the top of the P-51 Mustang allowed Kazi to fly FPV with video goggles. First-Person View flight was a type of remote-control flying where a small video camera and analog television transmitter mounted on an RC aircraft allowed the pilot to fly the craft by means of a “live” video down-link, displayed on video goggles or a portable LCD screen.

Kazi pulled his eyes away from his P-51 Mustang long enough to see a man charging toward him, sprinting between band members and whose eyes were fixed on the skies above the field.

Kazi turned and walked off the field toward the visiting team’s tunnel, but kept flying the plane through his video screen. The Mustang banked and started to circle the stadium above the heads of 87,451 screaming fans. The words hand-painted on the bottom of the wings whipped the audience into a frenzy: WAR EAGLE. The field camera followed the plane, and the JumboTrons filmed the flight as “War Damn Eagle” echoed through Jordan-Hare Stadium.

Flying FPV, Kazi could see from the aircraft's perspective, and didn’t even have to look at the plane as he ran off the field and stood in the tunnel that led to New Mexico State’s locker room.

“Then shoot the damn plane down,” Camp yelled over the headsets as he arrived at the place where Kazi had been standing.

“Too many people behind it,” the FBI field office director said over the radio.

“The plane…that plane has got to come down. That’s our bio-weapon,” Camp said frantically as he walked in and out of the dignitaries gathered on the field next to the vice chancellor. “I’ve lost him. Anybody see where he went?” Camp asked to no one in particular.

Neo, the six-year-old Golden Eagle was restless but still sitting on his perch near the vice chancellor’s microphone when one of the Alabama State Troopers started to feel the full panic from the FBI over his radio.

The Trooper edged closer to Neo’s handler and shielded his eyes from the sun as he tried to follow the path of the P-51 Mustang now making its second loop around the stadium. The Trooper pulled out his service revolver.

“What’s the problem?” the handler asked sensing the Trooper’s tension after seeing the unholstered gun.

“FBI says that plane’s gotta come down now!”

Camp looked over at the Trooper next to the Golden Eagle and then up at the plane circling above the stadium.

“Untie the damn bird!” Camp yelled. The handler followed the command and released the jesses.