“On the count of three,” Yousseff said. Izzy and Kumar had been looking down at the water, but now joined him behind the van. They all put their shoulders against the back of the vehicle.
Yousseff started the count, and Ba’al put the gear into drive as the van drifted slowly forward. On three, Ba’al placed the rock on the accelerator and sprang back in one motion. The van surged forward, smashed through a low metal guardrail, and plummeted down toward the waters, landing with a gigantic splash and disappearing beneath the surface.
“Ba’al, Izzy, take that section of guardrail hanging over the edge, and make it a little more obvious. We want the American authorities to find this as soon as possible. We need the false trail to stand out,” Yousseff directed.
Ba’al and Izzy did as they were ordered, but gingerly, keeping wary eyes on the cliff edge and the water raging below. After placing the briefcase in the Ford, Yousseff and Kumar moved to help, and between the four of them they were able to bend and pull a second section of damaged guardrail so that it was swaying in the wind, high above the waters of the reservoir. The damage was obvious, and the authorities would find it within hours.
The four of them regarded their handiwork for a second and then, as one, turned and headed toward the idling crew-cab. With Kumar driving, they continued on their speedy southward course, leading the other two trucks. Within 20 minutes they reached the highway. Yousseff was pleased to see that Ray turned left and headed in the direction of the Interstate, going back to LA. He also saw Sam stop by the side of the road. The plan was unfolding just as it was meant to. It was 7:30AM.
51
At that moment, on the other side of the globe, Jennifer and Richard were in a far more dangerous race — one that held their lives in the balance. The sun was beginning to set. Chemicals were washing like tidal waves through Richard’s overtaxed body, and were nothing like the euphoric, pain-alleviating endorphins Catherine was currently enjoying. Jennifer was trying to make as much headway as possible, which was difficult, given Richard’s profoundly damaged state. The knowledge of the Emir’s attack against the USA, and the thought that she and Richard might be able to stop it, only served to add more stress to the situation.
A few moments earlier, the dogs had picked up their trail. The barking and howling was getting closer. Richard’s vision was increasingly impaired by dots of light, and he felt as though his heart was going to stop at any moment. He was terribly thirsty, and the pounding in his head would not go away, no matter how many pills he took. He clung steadfastly to the tibia, and rifled through his inner pockets as he ran, looking for more drugs. Jennifer swore at him, pushed him, cajoled him, and half carried him along the strip of pasture that ran parallel to the cliff edge. Occasionally she thought she heard helicopters in the distance, and sometimes almost overhead. The dogs were coming closer, and the helicopters were right on top of them. They were cornered, and they both knew it.
Jennifer put her arm around Richard. They came to a stop on a small knoll about 20 feet from the cliff edge. The sun was setting, and the mottled colors in the distant valley were gorgeous.
“Stunning view, isn’t it,” said Jennifer.
“As good as gets,” Richard replied.
“The dogs, maybe 200 or 300 feet away, I think.”
“Helicopters, down in the valley. I can’t see them, but I know the sound. I know the type,” Richard added. “Sound like Super Stallions to me. The Marines have those.” Despite the drugs coursing through his system, the rational side of his mind was still trying to keep track of what was going on.
“You know,” he continued, “I didn’t know that Pakistan had Super Stallions. Must have just bought some.” He was just starting to ramble. He knew it, but couldn’t stop himself once he’d started.
“A stunning view,” repeated Jennifer, trying to ignore the fact that Richard had drifted once again into a dazed silence. Instinctively she edged closer to him. Despite his presence, she’d never felt more alone, or more frightened. Was this where it would all end? With a drug-addicted burned-out Navy star who was clutching the perceived tibia of a dead friend, 10,000 miles from home? All her training, all her ambition, working so hard to become the number two at a bureau like Islamabad, before she was 30, and it was all coming down to this. Sitting on the edge of some grand canyon, in the lawless Federally Administered Tribal Areas in northwest Pakistan. Suddenly the dogs popped into view. They were maybe 300 feet away, and coming fast. Dobermans? Rottweilers? Didn’t matter much at this point, she realized. She tried to stop thinking at all.
The American military machine had a large array of surveillance technology in place over the Sefid Koh. When it became apparent that Afghan and Pakistani heroin merchants were involved in the missing Semtex case, the number of electronic eyeballs there tripled. The Pentagon knew it was getting warm. If those were the men involved, then the Emir’s lair was almost certainly in the Sefid Koh, south of Jalalabad.
A total of ten Global Hawks were in the air, at the 30,000 to 40,000-foot sector. They had been equipped with surveillance cameras in the visual and infrared spectrums. Each Global Hawk was controlled by a crew of three pilots at Edwards Air Force Base in California. They were connected directly to the War Room in the Pentagon.
In addition to these assets, two Keyhole Satellites had directed their observational equipment toward the area. Flying above it all, in an orbit more than 30,000 miles outside the atmosphere, was ORION-3, with its massive telescoping cameras now pointed directly at the region as well. In total, there were more than ten flying video recorders trained on the Sefid Koh. If so much as a grasshopper moved, someone at the NSA or Pentagon would capture the event. Admiral Jackson noted to himself, walking through the Pentagon, that it took several rooms to display all the images. They’d need to create a new War Room. Then he realized that the Pentagon wouldn’t be large enough for such a central video display room. Maybe it was time they considered doing something new.
Kingston and his crew of blobologists at the NSA were in a war room of their own. While they focused their efforts on the three satellite returns, a smaller series of displays along one wall of their workroom showed the feeds from the Global Hawks.
The video feeds were also relayed to TTIC. Turbee and George had devised a way to display the feeds from the Global Hawks and satellites on the 101’s, when they weren’t being used for other data. They had also programmed the Atlas Screen to alternate between a detailed map of the Sefid Koh and the American Southwest, seeing as how those were the spheres of operation toward which the Semtex/terrorist threat was gravitating.
Of course, there were many other issues and events drifting through TTIC that day. Dan’s authority and capability as a leader had been compromised, and it was becoming obvious that if he wasn’t fired, the majority of his staff would leave. The nuclear issue had completely fizzled, and there was increasing anger that only a handful of people — Lance, Turbee, and at times Khasha — had been assigned to tracing the missing Semtex. Rhodes, Rahlson, and George had mutinied and were working on the Semtex problem when they could, despite Dan’s insistence that they concentrate on other things. The search for the Emir continued unabated, and information was pouring into the TTIC boardroom with respect to that. The search for Richard Lawrence and Jennifer Coe was also well under way, as Jennifer’s aborted call suggested that they knew the ultimate target of the looming terrorist attack.
Thirty minutes earlier, there had been a lucky break. It had been picked up first by Kingston and his staff at the NSA as they were monitoring the ORION-3 feed.