He had already called up the Global Operators Flight Information Resource website. This privately owned company was the one place all applicable SIGMETs, METARs, and NOTAMs could be found. Turbulence above 35,000 feet over the Philippines, runway repair on 07R at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport, all in one place. There were none applicable to tomorrow’s flight.
Now he was calculating fuel burn based on the winds aloft. He frowned. The Air Force Weather Agency’s prediction varied by a good six knots from NOAA’s. The Boeing 747 had a potential range of 9,600 miles with all tanks topped off, but the destination was only 5,818 miles distant.
Rarely did the aircraft take off with full tanks. The weight of the unneeded Jet-A would only slow down the plane, burning yet more fuel. But a discrepancy of merely a few knots in wind speed could necessitate extra fuel. Conversely, the old pilot’s adage noted few things were more useless than fuel left in the pumps back at the base.
Hasty got up, crossing his office to where a small blackboard hung, his pre-flight to-do list. There were already two numbered items. He added: “3. Check current winds aloft.”
There were some parts of pre-flight planning that were best left to the last hour before takeoff, when he would file his international flight plan. His eyes went to a small frame on his desk where two lines of poetry reminded him,
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley.
The eighteenth-century Scottish poet Robert Burns thought like a pilot.
52
Jason believed the closer the equator, the briefer the dusk and sunrise. This evening had done nothing to disabuse him of that tenet. The bloodred African sun had seemed to visibly slide down that point at which sky met earth. Darkness followed sunset by minutes, heralded by pinpoints of bright stars in the pale blue between horizon and total nightfall.
The four men sat in Jason’s room, two on the bed, one on the floor, and Jason in the sole chair. Emphani was speaking.
“… Many, perhaps a dozen, men around the mosque in Bedouin dress though not Bedouins. The minaret with the western opening is closed off because it is said to be unsafe. But I saw tracks in the sand. Someone had been there within an hour.”
“Guess those were the same Bedouins who kept me company,” Andrews drawled from the bed. “Persistent as bedbugs. Didn’t make a hostile move but didn’t let me out of sight, either.”
“Same,” Viktor said. “Men in robes watch but do nothing.”
“Sounds like we were right, it is the Sankore Mosque,” Jason said.
“Now what?” Andrews asked.
“We do a little nighttime recon, maybe right after Isha, the last prayer of the day. That would be when, Emphani?”
“The last prayer before bed. Last night, the call to prayer was around nine p.m.”
“OK, guys,” Jason said. “Here’s the plan.”
53
The low light of a single low-wattage bulb made Abu Bakr ibn Ahmad Bian squint through thick spectacles at a Jeppesen high altitude chart of the North Atlantic, the same chart Colonel Hasty had been studying earlier in the day. Next to it, a conventional map of much the same area. A red line stretched northwest from Timbuktu to a point about 300 miles off the Moroccan coast. In the background, the mosque’s generator chugged softly.
Almost engulfed in a sea of shadows, Mahomet Moustaph watched as Abu Bakr used a compass to measure the distance for the third time. “They will die over water?”
The younger man nodded.
“In shā’ Allāh. It is better that the infidel devils never find their president to bury just as they did with the martyred Bin Laden, peace be upon his soul.”
Moustaph stepped closer to inspect the machine that occupied most of the small room as if he had never seen it before. “I am curious. How are you certain you will strike the infidel’s aircraft from such a distance?”
“That was a problem when we obtained the first device. If we missed the target, the particles continued until they either ran out of energy and fell to the ground or the curvature of the earth brought them smashing into some part of the earth’s surface, such as happened to a forest in Siberia when the machine’s inventor overshot the North Pole.”
“And now?”
Abu Bakr pointed to a laptop computer on the floor, wires disappearing into the larger machine. “GPS. I simply set the coordinates; and, Allah willing, the particles strike the target.”
Moustaph was still not convinced. “That requires some precision, to make particles and target meet.”
The other man nodded his agreement, holding up the high altitude chart. “It is made easier by the American devils themselves. The aircraft will be out of radio contact for several hours. Its first communication will be when it reaches this point.” He placed a finger on the map.
Moustaph glowered at the Roman letters. “What does the English say?”
“ ‘Hamid.’ It is what is called an intersection like the meeting of two streets, except here two vectors meet.”
“Vectors?”
“Predetermined routes like a highway. With GPS, the concept of set vectors is all but obsolete, but intersections are useful in ascertaining an aircraft’s position to a ground controller. For instance, the president’s plane will become visible to civil ground radar just before Hamid, and it will so identify itself and give its altitude to Gibraltar Center on frequency 122.45, a broadcast we will monitor. One of our brothers has hacked the center’s radar so we, too, have all the information we need as to speed, altitude, and heading. We will put that data into the computer, which will feed them to the machine, which will fire a burst of particles every fifteen seconds for a minute. May it please Allah, one or more of the bursts will rain down on the infidel aircraft just as it did the Air France plane with the same result.”
Moustaph toyed uneasily with his beard, a man who was naturally suspicious of anyone with such scientific knowledge. “If these particles of yours may be directed with such accuracy over such distances, why not rain them down on Washington or New York?”
Abu Bakr shrugged. “It is not my decision, but I would speculate once the particles reach the altitudes necessary for such targets, they and their source would be apparent on military radar. In fact, once the American president’s plane is struck, it may be possible to trace the direction of the particles back to here.”
The thought of the death and destruction that could be wreaked on America gave almost sexual pleasure to Moustaph. The threat of retaliation against an obscure city such as Timbuktu was hardly a deterrent. He would not be here when the American drones came on silent wings to unleash their deadly missiles without warning. His experience and importance to the movement necessitated postponing blessed martyrdom. Only the young, inexperienced, and otherwise useless would voluntarily taste an early paradise.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden awareness Abu Bakr had asked a question.
“The infidel Peters and his band of devils are here in Timbuktu. You have taken precautions to make certain…?”
Moustaph smiled though there was no humor in it. “May Allah will it, he will foolishly attack tonight or tomorrow morning. We are prepared for him.”