The detonation control equipment consisted of several black metal boxes—standard nineteen-inch rack-mount boxes of the same size as home stereo equipment. The bottom box bore two large rocker switches on the front. One read POWER and the other read ARM. Both were in the on position.
The next piece of equipment also had a big red rocker switch on the front. Next to that was a knob labeled FREQ. A small antenna protruded from the side. It looked exactly like the wireless router in Gideon’s office at home. He guessed that it was some kind of relay that allowed the bomb to be triggered remotely—from the control room. Or even from a boat. Which meant, as he expected, that if the people who had seized the Obelisk were threatened—say by a Delta Force inserting from above—the bomb could be detonated remotely before the time ran down.
The next box was the timer with its red LED numbers and a numeric keypad like the kind found on cell phones. On top of this rested yet another black metal box with two rows of small LED lights running across it. The top lights were all white, and in the second row the lights were all green. Thin white wires ran out the back, snaking across the casing and disappearing into the access panel. He counted twenty-four. Twelve white LED lights, twelve green LED lights, twenty-four wires. One wire for each light. This was a good deal more complex than he had expected.
Significantly, there were no cables connecting the big steel box with the detonation controls.
Stranght�€†ge. He’d expected the detonator to be wired directly to the bomb. It could be radio controlled, of course, but that wasn’t optimal. Radio was usually a secondary rather than a primary means of detonation. Radio frequencies could be jammed, sunspots could interfere with reception— any number of things could cause a problem.
He surveyed the lid of the box, checking to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped. There was a small gap, large enough to see that there were no wires or magnets or contacts inside that might signal a booby-trap circuit. The lid was, however secured with a small padlock.
Gideon's War and Hard Target
He picked up the stoutest of the screwdrivers he had...
He stared in disbelief. The box was empty.
As he slowly lowered the lid, he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Gideon.”
Gideon turned, at first relieved and then confused by the sight of Parker standing inside the doorway, holding a gun at his side.
“Uncle Earl. How did you get away from them?”
Parker said nothing, but Gideon got his question answered when he saw the bearded man appear behind Parker, aiming the barrel of his AK at Gideon’s chest. The number 82 was tattooed on his wrist. But he wasn’t Tillman.
The harsh realization of what was happening washed over Gideon like a wave that swept over him and drew him out to sea. He felt as if he was drowning.
“I could have spared you the trouble, Gideon. You won’t find the bomb in there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAJOR DALE ROYCE JR. had only been commanding his unit for a month now, coming into Operational Detachment Delta after a stint in Afghanistan with the 101st. He still hadn’t quite gotten the rhythm of his team. Everyone always told him, “Delta is different,” and sure enough they were right.
He’d led several hoo-rah units before, full of chest-pounding alpha males. But Delta was different. For one thing, these men were quieter. Sometimes he found their quiet intensity unnerving, but mostly it was a source of tremendous comfort. He never had to yell at them or berate them or chew their asses like he had to with other units. They always seemed to be a step ahead of him, to the point where he sometimes got the impression that they were more or less just tolerating his presence.
And here he was, being dropped right into the Big Game, his team the tip of the spear in one of the most important Spec Ops missions of the past twenty-five years. Talk about failure not being an option. This was it, he thought to himself as their C-17 bucked and rattled. They had reached the rough edge of the typhoon en route to the Obelisk. The pilot’s voice came over the cabin speaker. She wasn’t much to look at, Royce thought, but she had a soothing voice. “Sorry for the bumpy ride, gentlemen. The president is ready for you.”
“Go ahead,” Major Royce said.
There had been several false starts connecting the Delta team with President Diggs, but the technical difficulties were finally sthou severaightened out, and now the air force sergeant running communications nodded to the president. The screen at the front of the Situation Room lit up, showing a fuzzy, green-tinted image of a row of soldiers strapped in their seats inside the vast airplane hold. The men were bouncing around as though they were on some violent theme park ride.
“Gentlemen,” the president said, “what I’m about to tell you is highly unusual for a commander in chief, but I feel strongly that you all deserve a fuller explanation than the one you’ve been given in your briefing packets. I wanted you to hear directly from me that the implications of your mission extend well beyond rescuing the hostages and preventing the destruction of the Obelisk. As you know, a growing insurgency is challenging the current regime in Mohan. The Sultan is an important ally who is committed to democratic reform and human rights. I believe he can prevail against these violent extremists without the intervention of our forces. Certain members of Congress disagree with my assessment and want us to fight the Sultan’s war. These politicians are well intentioned, but I fear they are misinformed and misguided. So far I’ve been able to resist the political pressure they’ve generated. But if these hostages are killed and this rig is destroyed, I will have no choice but to respond. Sometimes war is necessary. But not this time. Not yet. You men know far better than any politicians the real cost of going to war. What happens from this point on will be determined by the outcome of your mission. You don’t need my encouragement or my praise, but on behalf of the people who elected me to this office, please allow me to express my gratitude for your courage and dedication.”
There was a pause, then Royce said, “Thank you, Mr. President. We appreciate your honesty.”
Gideon's War and Hard Target
“Thank you, Major,” the president said. “At this moment,...
“That’s all the time we’ll need, sir.”
“Our prayers will be with you.”
The president ran his hand across his Adam’s apple, where a lump had formed in his throat, and the air force sergeant cut the connection. The screen went dark.
Only a few hours ago President Diggs had sent sixteen soldiers to their deaths at the bottom of the South China Sea. Every one of them someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s husband. And now he was sending another group of men to risk their lives in order to prevent tens of thousands of their fellow warriors from having to risk theirs. President Diggs saw General Ferry looking at him. He knew the general shared his sadness and dread. The odds on this mission being successful were 50 percent. At best.
“Don’t bother giving me any status reports, General. I want a direct uplink on this operation in real time.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
PARKER’S BETRAYAL HAD LEFT Gideon disoriented, lost inside some kind of black hole. As the jihadis disarmed him, he heard Parker’s voice as if through a long tunnel.
“How you managed to stay alive this long is a damn miracle. Surviving that ambush outsiwanl. I de the airport, then getting through the storm and the bullets to make it all the way out here to the rig . . .” Parker trailed off and shook his head. “But then, you always were a stubborn sumbitch.”
A dozen questions clouded Gideon’s mind, but one kept pushing to the front, and he finally asked, “Where’s my brother?”