Pope saw the look in his eye and cut the call short. “What’s wrong?”
“I gotta get to Montana.”
“You gotta what?”
“Get to Montana.”
Pope looked around as if there might be a clue to this unexpected intrigue elsewhere in the hangar. “Gil, I don’t understand. We’re airborne for Detroit in less than an hour. I just got us clearance to land on Grosse Ile.”
Gil told Pope what had happened on the ranch and that Marie was in possession of the dead assassin’s laptop computer.
“Can she access the hard drive?”
“It’s password protected. Look, the assassin’s not an Arab. Marie says he’s a Caucasian with a German passport. So he’s probably Chechen. If he is—”
“He could be connected with the bomb,” Pope said, finishing the thought for him. “Okay, listen, there’s no way I can let you go to Montana. What I’ll do is have an Air Guard helo pick the computer up from the ranch and fly it back to the air base at Great Falls. From there an F-15 from the 186th can rendezvous with us in Detroit. That’s the fastest way for us to get our hands on it. Tell Marie to have the computer and passport ready and waiting when the helo gets there.”
Aside from her emotional well-being, Gil was also concerned for Marie in a legal sense. “What are you going to tell the president about Marie shooting the guy? She hasn’t called the police.”
“The truth,” Pope said with a shrug. “What else?”
“And if he decides to sic the attorney general after her?”
Pope adjusted his cap with a smile. “He’d never even consider such a thing. In fact, he’ll probably invite her to the White House for a Medal of Freedom ceremony. We already know how much he loves bestowing our nation’s highest honors upon members of the heroic Shannon family.”
Gil smiled dryly. “When ya get a minute, kiss my ass, will ya?”
Pope laughed. “You remind me of your father.”
40
Akram al-Rashid entered a warehouse in Detroit toting a black rifle case and placed it on a table in the center of the room in front of eighteen American-born Al Qaeda recruits, most of whom he had recruited from Detroit’s large urban Muslim population. They were all of Arab descent, and half of them had served in the United States military. The youngest of them, Tahir, was eighteen, a former agnostic whom Akram had personally converted to Salafism. This made Tahir Akram’s most trusted because there was no fanatic like a converted fanatic, and Tahir had already volunteered to wear a suicide vest.
There was a nineteenth man among the recruits, but he was not Arabic. He was not even Muslim. He had green eyes, reddish hair, and went by the name of Duke. He was an American mercenary, motivated by profit alone. This made him the least trusted of the group, but what made him valuable were his credentials as a former Marine and SWAT team sergeant with the Detroit Police Department.
Duke had gotten himself fired shortly after the city had gone into receivership. Disgusted over the city’s abolition of public employee rights to arbitration, cutting their benefits and pay, he had taken a weekend job as an informal nightclub bodyguard for a local pimp who called himself Fabulous Jay. It had been a lucrative gig, too, until someone had decided to take a shot at Fabulous Jay in the club’s VIP section. The shooter had nicked Jay in the shoulder with his first shot, and Duke had blown him away with a .40 caliber double tap to the sternum.
After a thorough investigation into the shooting, it was discovered that Duke had lied about what he was doing in the club that night, and he was eventually fired after nineteen years on the job, with complete loss of pension and benefits.
Akram heard about Duke from a spy within the police department and approached him at the junkyard where he’d taken a job driving a forklift. The promise of a quarter million dollars for work as a hired gun had sounded great to Duke, and he’d accepted on the spot, walking off the job without even telling his boss.
Now the ruddy ex-cop sat rocked back in a folding chair with his fingers laced behind his head, dressed in black trousers, tactical boots, and a black Under Armour T-shirt. The other team members gave him a wide birth, not because they feared him but rather because they didn’t like having an infidel in their midst. Another suspicious thing was that Duke openly believed they were all connected to the atomic bomb, yet he didn’t seem to resent them for it. He even cracked jokes about it.
“Hey, Akram,” Duke asked, “which city gets turned into glass, huh? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Akram gave him a dry smile as he unbuckled the rifle case. “I’ve told you before the Chechens are responsible for the bomb. We have nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah? Then how the hell do you know Detroit ain’t the target?”
Akram’s eyes appeared flat and reptilian. “We don’t.”
Duke sobered for a moment and then laughed it off. “I can’t wait to find out who gets it. It’s better than a fucking movie.”
One of the other former Marines on the team still had enough grunt left in him to resent mercenaries. His name was Abad. He had a hatchet face, very dark eyes, and still kept his hair cut in military fashion. “You expect us to believe you really don’t care?” he asked in perfect American English.
Duke turned his head. “Only fucking thing I care about, son, is getting paid and moving to Brazil, where they got all that hot poontang. After that, this whole country can burn to a crackly crisp, for all I care. I put in nineteen goddamn years, and what did I get when those rich bastards finally bankrupted the city? Shit-canned! So I ain’t about to—”
“Enough,” Akram said quietly. “Duke is a soldier of Allah like the rest of us — even if he doesn’t realize it. Nothing happens that is not God’s will.” He spoke predominantly in English because not all of the recruits spoke fluent Arabic.
Akram took the rifle from the case and extended the legs of the bipod, resting it on the table.
Duke let out a whistle. “Now, that’s a fine piece of artillery.”
Akram smiled. “You know this weapon?”
“You bet your ass I know it. That’s a McMillan TAC-50.” The TAC-50 was a .50 caliber sniper rifle manufactured in the United States, though used predominantly by Canadian forces. Duke dropped his feet to the floor and leaned in closer for a better look. “And I’m guessing that’s the A1R2 with the hydraulic stock. Am I right?”
Akram was impressed. “You’ve fired one?”
“Not the R2,” Duke said, “but I’ve fired the A1 a number of times. Who’re you planning to blow away with that shoulder cannon, the president?”
“What would you say if I said yes?”
“I’d say, ‘Windage and elevation, Mrs. Langdon! Windage and elevation!’ ” He laughed out loud, expecting the others to join him, but he saw only blank faces staring back at him. “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he said sadly. “You fuckers are too young to remember the Duke.”
“Who’s he?” asked Tahir.
“John Wayne, knucklehead. The Undefeated. Jesus Christ! Wipe your mama’s milk off your fuckin’ chin!”
The youth stood up, his eyes full of fire.
“Sit down!” Akram ordered.
Tahir sat back down instantly, dropping his gaze to the floor between his feet.
Akram cut Duke a fatherly look of disapproval.
Duke rolled his eyes, rocking back and putting his feet back up on a crate. “Windage and elevation,” he muttered with a chuckle.
“I want you all to listen carefully,” Akram said, once again the Saudi Royal Marine. “Our target is very dangerous. We’ve already sent one highly skilled operative in after him, and that operative has failed to report back.”