Duke put his feet back on the floor, suddenly all business. “Is the target a military man?”
“Yes, he is,” Akram said, deciding to see just how solid the Duke was. “He’s an ex-Navy SEAL, as a matter of fact — one of your country’s best. His name is Gil Shannon.”
“No shit. The frogman who won the Medal of Honor?”
“Does that create a conflict for you?”
Duke’s eyes glassed over. The thought of taking on the great Gil Shannon was like mainlining a syringe full of adrenaline. “You put that TAC-50 in my hands, buster, and I’ll show you how conflicted I am.”
“Good,” Akram said, satisfied. “I’ll be manning this weapon, but I want everyone to be familiar with it in case something happens to me. Duke, you brought your own rifle, correct?”
Duke sat up straight. “An M40A3 bolt action. Same weapon I carried in the Corps.”
Abad leaned forward to see him better. “You were a Marine?”
“Yeah, what’s it to you?”
“Which division?”
“The Second.”
“I was with the First.”
“And you don’t know John Wayne, for Christ sake?”
“I never said I didn’t know John Wayne — and stop with the blasphemy.”
“Fuck do you care? I thought you were Muslim.”
“Blasphemy is blasphemy.”
“Enough!” Akram said, annoyed by Duke’s uncouthness but realizing there was nothing to be done about it. “I want military discipline from this point, and there are enough of you who know what that is. We board a private jet for Montana in the morning.” He looked at Duke. “Your pilot friend has received the first half of his payment, correct?”
Duke nodded.
“Good. Perhaps you should tell the men what you told me.”
Duke turned in his chair to face the others. “Listen up. This pilot’s an Australian — a merc like me. He ain’t from here, and he ain’t stayin’ here after he gets paid. But keep your mouths shut about what we’re up to because you never know with these Aussies. They like to get all tanked up and blab their business to whoever’s around. So the less he knows, the better for us all. Just keep your traps shut and focus on the mission.”
“That’s good advice,” Akram said. “Be sure to follow it.” Then he decided to give Duke something else constructive to do. “Duke, why don’t you come up here and show the men how to operate this weapon? I’m sure you’re more qualified than I am.”
Duke grinned and got to his feet. “You’re finally talkin’ my language, son.”
As Akram sat in the back of the room watching Duke break down the weapon and explain how to operate it, his mind began to drift. The people of the Middle East had been hiring Western mercenaries to help them fight their wars against other Western powers since the days of antiquity, starting with Greeks during the early Greco-Persian wars. It disgusted Akram to have to admit they needed help, but he consoled himself with thoughts of Kashkin’s bomb.
The bomb will create parity, he promised himself. The first domino to fall against the Western economy — followed by another and then another. I will not live to see the final victory, but that doesn’t matter. I lead a platoon in the first skirmish of the battle.
After the weapon tutorial, Akram took Tahir into another room, ostensibly for a private prayer session, but he smacked the youth the moment the door closed.
“What were you thinking, allowing yourself to be so easily baited by that infidel?”
Tahir looked at the floor. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry, teacher.”
“A thoughtless fanatic is useless to me — even less useful to Allah. Do you understand?”
“Yes, teacher.”
“You want to be a martyr? So pride filled that you can’t even ignore childish insults from a complete fool?” Akram shook his head in disappointment, but he was secretly happy for the boy’s harmless error. It had given him an excuse to shame him, to make him even more determined to carry out a bombing mission if and when the time came.
41
Somewhere in the air over Iowa, Gil and Pope went up the ladder into the cockpit of the C-5 Galaxy to talk with the pilot. The air force major climbed out of his seat and stepped to the back of the flight deck.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Gil showed him a map of Detroit, pointing to Grosse Ile in the middle of the Detroit River. The island was over six miles long and roughly two wide. “When we get to Detroit, Major, I need you to land here at Naval Air Station Grosse Ile.”
The pilot looked at him. “NAS Grosse has been closed for more than forty years.”
“It’s still a municipal airport,” Pope said. “I’ve already gotten us clearance to land.”
“But, Mr. Pope, the runway there isn’t long enough. Selfridge Air Base is only just up the river. I suggest we land there, sir.”
“Selfridge is fifty miles north of the target area. Grosse Ile is less than three.” Pope smiled his boyish smile. “You do the math, Major.”
“But, sir, I’m telling you there isn’t enough runway.”
Pope set down the map on the navigator’s console and produced an iPad from a black satchel hanging over his shoulder. “I have the entire operator’s manual for the C-5 Galaxy right here at my fingertips. We need less than thirty-six hundred feet of runway to land, and the runway at Grosse Ile is more than forty-eight hundred feet long.”
“That’s true, but I need eighty-four hundred feet to take off again.”
“Taking off again isn’t our problem,” Gil said. “We’ve got a loose nuke to find.”
The pilot stood looking at him. “My orders don’t include jeopardizing this aircraft.”
Pope took the sat phone from his back pocket. “Major, I press one button, and we’ll be talking to the president of the United States. I’ve met him personally, and he’s not a very reasonable man when he’s upset. In my youth, I flew C-130s for Air America, so you and I both know that you can safely land this plane on Grosse Ile. Colonel Bradshaw is with the president, and I’m reasonably certain he knows it too.”
The major put his hands on hips. “You do realize I’ll be stranding a two-hundred-million-dollar aircraft on an island not much bigger than a used car lot.”
“For what it’s worth,” Pope said, “I don’t think I landed on a jungle runway of the proper length more than once or twice. If your people strip this plane down and redline the engines, I’m pretty sure she’ll clear the end of the runway.”
“Not with me in the cockpit, she won’t.”
Pope held out the phone. “What’s it going to be, Major?”
The pilot shrugged. “Orders are orders, Mr. Pope. NAS Grosse it is.”
42
“Where in Detroit?” the president was asking Tim Hagen. “Aren’t these al-Rashid brothers someone we can send the FBI after? Is it necessary to risk another fiasco like the one we just had in Las Vegas?”
General Couture hung up the phone. “Mr. President, NSA has just informed me the al-Rashids are not in Detroit. They’re in Amherstburg, Ontario, directly across the Detroit River from Grosse Ile. NSA pulled their names off a list of people to watch, and, apparently, Pope evaluated these two yahoos earlier this year — classifying them as low risk.”
“So Pope does make mistakes.” The president sat forward in his chair, feeling his acid reflux beginning to act up. “Okay, so where’s the plane now?”
“Just touching down on Grosse Ile, sir.”
The president looked at Colonel Bradshaw. “Get Pope on the phone.”