“One more thing, Kumar. I have a telephone number for you. Do you still have the simulator for the PWS-14 in the plant?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve actually spent some time in it myself. It can be quite entertaining.”
“There are two young men at this telephone number. Their names are Javeed and Massoud. They are staying at the south LA Mosque. Take them in. Put them up in the suite you have behind your office. And get them to log hours on the simulator.”
“Sure, Yousseff. Are you going to tell me what any of this is about?” asked Kumar.
“I do not want to lay out all the details here and now. Once you start building the device, and training Massoud and Javeed, I will call again. I will be in Los Angeles in about two weeks, and we can connect then. I look forward to seeing you.”
“Likewise,” said Kumar, puzzled. He hung up the phone.
Yousseff turned off his phone and stared at it for a moment. Kumar was a good friend, and he didn’t like keeping him the dark. Neither did he enjoy getting the younger man involved in something that would be dangerous and perhaps fatal. But he had no choice. This was a gamble he had made on the behalf of all his employees and friends. As long as everything went well, they would have no reason to second-guess him for his decision.
As long as everything went well. He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t used to that stipulation. But he’d been put in a position he wasn’t used to, and was taking part in something he’d never before considered. It was bringing on questions that made him nervous. Questions that might cost him his life, and many important friendships.
Trying not to consider that, he picked up his phone again and punched a second series of numbers. A warm female voice answered. “Executive offices of Karachi Star Line. How may I help you?”
“Please advise Omar that the first mate of the Janeeta is on the line,” said Yousseff.
“Mr. Jhananda is meeting with the Executive Planning Committee, and is not available at the moment,” the secretary replied somewhat sharply.
“Just interrupt him for a moment,” said Yousseff, persuasively. “He will want to take this call.”
The wait was less than 30 seconds. “Youss,” said Omar. “Good to hear your voice. I just heard from Vince, and he told me you might call.”
“Yes. How soon can the Haramosh Star be ready for travel?”
“She is ready now, Yousseff,” answered Omar. “We put extra crews on overnight and she was put into the water earlier today.”
“Wonderful. And is the submersible with her, in the pod?”
“Yes, Yousseff, we did that too. Everything is ready to go.”
“Go back to your meeting, old friend,” said Yousseff. “I will be in Karachi tonight. I’ll call you from the plane. Perhaps we can have dinner together before I move on.”
“It will be a pleasure. Goodbye.” Omar’s phone clicked and the line went dead.
Yousseff leaned back and closed his eyes. With only two telephone calls and those bare directions, a lot of iron had been put in motion. They were growing closer and closer to the point of no return.
At TTIC, Dan was feeling rather less successful. In fact, he was in a black mood. He was furious over the mapping calamity. “Do something useful for a change,” he had snapped at a hapless Hamilton Turbee after the boondoggle, forgetting for a moment who had solved the Madrid terrorist attacks. “See if you can turn some of that dazzling intellect of yours into something other than video games and Simpson re-reruns. Get into that pile of information about the Semtex robbery, and see if you can figure out who did it. The rest of us are going to look at this nuclear threat to our harbors. Now get cracking, Turb, or you’re out of here.”
Turbee turned a bright crimson. “Yes sir,” he said softly. Turbee was not accustomed to TTIC’s military psyche, or its “law and order” and “chain of command” biases. He could barely handle the loose structure of a university post-grad department. Once again he thought about walking out, but then he thought of big Blue Gene, and realized that leaving was unthinkable. He also had some friends here, and for Turbee, with his social handicaps, friends were few and far between. So he straightened up, and initiated a series of database correlation and search routines. “OK, let’s make it a little treasure hunt,” he murmured. While Blue Gene was running the routines, he scanned through the initial Intelligence reports about the heist.
“Heckler and Koch PSG-1’s? What are those?” he asked Rahlson. A search team from the 184th Ordnance had recovered a number of bullets from the assault scene, and had used their expertise to establish the type of weapons used in the attack.
“A rapid-fire, highly accurate sniper rifle,” Rahlson said. “Very rare. Expensive.”
“Who makes them?” asked Turbee.
Rahlson turned his head to one side and was about to tell Turbee how monumentally stupid he thought the kid was when he remembered their differing backgrounds, and Turbee’s utter lack of experience with anything even remotely associated with firearms. “Why, Heckler and Koch, of course.”
“How do you spell that, sir?”
This time Rahlson actually bit his tongue. But then he thought he saw Turbee’s lower lip trembling, and thought about the effort it must be taking for the youngster to control himself in this situation. Oh Jesus Christ, he swore silently. He spelled it out. Turbee dutifully entered the letters into a little batch file he had created, and dispatched an armada of web-bots onto the Internet.
Richard was inside the tiny terminal, one step ahead of McMurray, when he heard one and then the other helicopter explode. He felt the pressure and heat from each shock wave. Focusing his attention inside the terminal, he saw the Bedouin behind the small counter reach into his desert robes and bring up an AK-47. Richard was not famous for his marksmanship, but he did practice from time to time. His 9 mm Glock had been in his hands as he entered the terminal, and now he fired twice before the clerk could pull the trigger. Both bullets found their mark, and the man went down. A third shot finished it.
Richard bolted outside just in time to hear the sharp cracks of three rifle shots, and, almost simultaneously, another massive thud as a third RPG hit the fuel dump, causing further explosions in the area where Payton and his men had taken cover. It was a horrific scene. Thompson had been inside the second chopper when it was hit, and was killed instantly. Three of the men had been grievously wounded by the force of the explosion, and two more had died immediately in the fuel dump explosion. There seemed to be bodies everywhere, and they were all American. All men that Richard had talked to only moments before.
The two attackers on the terminal roof had been killed by return fire, but that was small consolation. The Americans were without helicopters, without communication, without medicine, and probably without water, in the burning heat of the northern Sahel.
Clinton and Payton were looking after two of the soldiers who had been burned in the explosion. The third wounded man had already succumbed to his injuries. That meant that a total of four were already dead. Two were wounded and possibly dying. There were only four of them left to fight. Two Navy. One Army. One CIA. Things were not looking good.
“Payton, I’m going to see if there’s any water or first aid inside the terminal. Why don’t you move these two fellows inside.” Richard had seen his share of battle, but mostly from the sky. He knew about battlefield injuries, and had trained for this, but close up, the carnage and the moans of the two wounded men were horrific. He was fighting the impulse to vomit.
Payton yelled for Clinton to assist him, and they carried the two burned soldiers toward the terminal. As he was about to cross the doorstep, Payton saw dust clouds along the southern horizon.