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…”
The 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.
Richard 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.
After 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.