The secretary of state jumped in again. “We’re taking a real risk in thinking this won’t be discovered, Mr. President. Again, do we really want to set a precedent that would allow Iran or North Korea to launch attacks from their embassies against the White House? Please remember, sir. The fact that we’re going after this general makes this offensive. Not just defensive.”
The secretary of defense loosened his collar. “But the fact is that this general just exploded a nuclear weapon and is threatening who-knows-what if the UN doesn’t cave to his crazy demands about Israel. This throws a whole new dynamic into the equation, Mr. President. He’s essentially threatening terrorist strikes on our soil if we don’t make the UN kick Israel off the face of the planet. This fact alone makes the operation defensive in nature. Besides, if we’re going to take this idiot out before his self-imposed deadline, this is the only show in town.”
“There must be other ways,” Secretary Mauney said. “Why not use Tomahawk cruise missiles launched from the carrier or a sub? Then we take out the general without getting the embassy involved.”
“Because,” Secretary Lopez shot back, “if the general is inside the palace, and we don’t know that for sure, then a cruise missile is the best way to ensure that our ambassador and our naval attaché wind up dead, if they aren’t already.”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Mack said. His two top cabinet secretaries were always at odds with one another, it seemed, but both made good points. “Secretary Mauney, my concern here is that we’ve got an unpredictable madman on the loose with nuclear bombs, and we’ve gotta try and take him out and save our people before his deadline arrives. As I told the Joint Chiefs earlier, we must cut off the head of the snake before it strikes.
“Secretary Lopez”-he looked at the secretary of defense-“order the navy to carry out Operation Bull’s-eye.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said. “I’ll make the call to Seventh Fleet immediately.”
Chapter 15
Northbound Interstate 95
Eight miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia
8:30 a.m.
The sun crested off to the right, peeking through the rusty warehouses and banged-up asphalt parking lots sweeping by the side of the road as his van raced to the north on the interstate.
“Why Philadelphia?” Mohammed blurted this question aloud, as if someone in the cabin of the U-Haul would give him an answer.
It was unfair. He had been in America longer than the others. His command of English was the best of the three. He had been studying the longest. His sacrifice had to be the greatest. Thus, should he not have a say in the matter? But Philadelphia?
They had claimed that Philadelphia had been selected because of its importance in American history. The Declaration of Independence had been signed here, they said. The Constitutional Convention had convened. Or so they told him. The famed American monument, the “Liberty Bell,” was also here, they said. Plus, the Americans would be suspecting another attack on New York. Philadelphia would be an easier target.
Despite all their justification, Mohammed suspected that he, as a Saudi citizen, probably knew more about American history than ninety percent of most Americans. He suspected that most Americans, especially those under thirty years of age, had no clue what the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were, let alone that they were signed in Philadelphia.
To most Americans, Philadelphia, along with Detroit, was one of the two ugliest cities in the entire country. Philadelphia was a rowdy place where football fans threw car batteries from the top of Eagles Stadium at opposing fans walking down below.
The city’s dirty, nasty reputation meant that there would be less sorrow and outcry over the strike against Philadelphia than the strikes to the other cities. Frankly, this bothered him.
So why was he not chosen to strike Washington? Or perhaps even San Francisco? These questions churned like a storm in his soul.
The coming blow to Washington, if it came to that, would be the sharp dart in the bull’s-eye of America’s heart.
He wanted to strike Washington. That was his understanding of his mission when he had come to America eight years ago. That is precisely why he had volunteered to sacrifice his life.
But then, they had changed his mission. In fact, his new target had been revealed to him only in the last month.
This he had struggled with. Thus, he had asked Allah to help him with his attitude. In response, Allah had reminded him of this truth: even though he had not been selected for San Francisco or Washington, still he, out of millions of martyrs who would have volunteered for this mission, had been called and chosen as one of only three.
Also, there was a chance that none of the other strikes would take place, at least not yet, assuming that the United Nations responded as General Perkasa had demanded. Since Philadelphia was first on the target list, America could acquiesce after his martyrdom, and his martyrdom alone.
“The Americans are soft and cannot stand carnage,” they had said. “After you enter martyrdom and are reunited with Allah, the Americans will back down. They will surely press the UN into passing our demands concerning Israel. Most of the UN already agrees with us anyway. So you, Mohammed, may be the only one who actually has the privilege of martyrdom.”
He saw their point, he supposed. His martyrdom alone might be sufficient to end the Jewish occupation of the homeland of Palestinian Muslims.
That thought gave him goose bumps.
He clicked his signal light approaching the next off-ramp. The sun was rising now over smoggy Philadelphia, but he needed to rest his body for the mission at hand.
The U-Haul van rolled to a stop at the top of the ramp. A small blue-and-white road sign pointed to an Econo Lodge a half-mile to the right.
Mohammed clicked the turn signal again, then pressed the accelerator. A moment later, he rolled into the asphalt parking lot and parked in front of the motel office.
He entered the office. A man, who looked Indian or Bangladeshi, stood behind the check-in desk.
“I need a room,” Mohammed said.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “check-in is at one o’clock.”
Mohammed extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the desk. “Perhaps you could get a room ready early?”
The man pocketed the money. “Perhaps I can persuade a member of our custodial staff to prepare a room a bit early, Mr…”
“Jones.”
“Yes, of course. And could I please see some form of identification, Mr. Jones?”
Mohammed pulled another hundred from his wallet. “I seem to have left my license in my truck. The name is Ed Jones.”
“Of course, Mr. Jones.” The Indian was smiling now. “I’ve discovered that a room has just opened up. If you’ll give me about five minutes, I’ll make you a key to room 115. It’s just around the corner.”
United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia
7:00 p.m.
Zack had grown up with many dear African American friends in the small coastal town of Plymouth, North Carolina. Now, for the first time in his life, he physically resembled many of those friends, he thought, as he glanced in the mirror after Master Chief Stoudemier had finished his handiwork with the shoe polish. At least his face resembled the faces of his friends.
His garb did not.
After the swift makeover, he was issued a black turtleneck sweater, black pants and boots, a black ski cap, an Uzi submachine gun, a small radio transmitter-receiver, and night vision goggles. In the last fifteen minutes, he had been miraculously transformed into a black man in black.
Amazing.
Still, there had been no word from Captain Noble on whether he could go on the mission. That was understandable. Captain Noble had spent the last hour war planning with Lieutenant Commander Garcia and the other SEAL squad leaders.