“Allah,” he pleaded in a hoarse whisper, “could thy be so cruel?”
Among a group of wires and circuitry was a clock with small, red digital numbers. Only time was going the wrong way.
“00:00:17 … 00:00:16 … 00:00:15 …”
Khalif was overcome. In a fit of wrath he banged his fists on the steel case. “No! No! No!”
“00:00:11 … 00:00:10 …”
He found a wrench on the workbench behind him and threw it at the horrid object.
“00:00:06 … 00:00:05 … 00:00:04 …”
Khalif lost all control, his eyes crazed and murderous. He lunged to the bench and found a heavy hammer. Holding it high and wildly over his head, he swung down with the weight of all the heavens.
The Americans were the first to see it.
“NUDET!”
Lieutenant General Mark Carlson, the three-star in charge of the National Military Command Center outside Washington D.C., choked on his coffee and stared at the big screen. He’d heard the word before a hundred times, but never here. It had always been in the “sim,” the identical-right-down-to-the-water-cooler training room three stories up. He saw the event designator fall onto a map, which automatically scaled down to show most of North Africa. The general recovered.
“Say confidence,” he barked.
A slightly built master sergeant at a console replied, “Confidence medium. One gamma detection. Interrogating KH-12.”
“Seismic?”
A female lieutenant answered professionally, “Seismic from initial fix … southern Libya … sixty to eighty seconds.”
“Zoom two-by,” Carlson ordered. The big screen’s scale shifted, and Libya got bigger. “KH visible when it’s up and locked.”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant confirmed. Then moments later, “KH confirms. 09:21:14 Zulu. Location matches, near Sebha, 380 nautical south-southeast of Tripoli.”
The commander muttered under his breath, “What the hell have you done, you crazy goat herder?”
“KH-12 now locked.”
The big screen changed to a visual picture of the area in question from 113 miles up. Carlson thought it seemed out of focus, but then his training kicked in and he realized they were looking at a huge cloud of dust. He needed radar to look for a crater.
“How long for a Lacrosse image?”
A man wearing very thick glasses and civilian clothes studied a real-time computer display of orbital data. “Two hours and seven minutes,” he announced weakly.
“Damn!” the general cursed. “Never there when you need it.” He watched seconds tick by on the digital wall clock and waited for the female lieutenant. The CIA had recently completed installation of a covert network of seismic sensors across the Middle East, Northern Africa, and parts of Asia. If anything had happened, the data would be automatically sent by way of a satellite relay. The only problem was that the speed of sound lagged the speed of light by a considerable margin.
“Here it is,” the lieutenant said eagerly, knowing all eyes were on her. “Four point two single spike event. Initial filters analysis estimate subterranean nine megaton device, position concurs.”
The word “subterranean” raised some eyebrows, but Carlson would have to deal with that later.
“Confidence level now high,” the master sergeant added, telling the commander what he already knew.
“That’s it then.” The general moved two steps to his right, cleared his voice, and picked up the blue phone. On the third ring, the President of the United States answered.
Christine and Masters had been chatting for half an hour. He was just returning with a refill on her coffee when he stopped dead. Two fingers pressed to his earpiece.
“All right lads, we’re on!” he shouted.
Chairs flew back and the Rapid Response Team scrambled to the helicopter. Masters smacked Christine’s coffee cup down on the table and sprinted away.
“Simon! What is it?”
He turned. “They want us on airborne alert, miss. Seems something is imminent. But we still don’t know where he is.” He paused for a moment, as if not sure what to say next, then ran for the door that led outside.
Christine sat paralyzed. This was it. They were going after David. She watched the six policemen scramble onto the helicopter, its rotor already starting to spin. She had no choice. She ran.
When she got outside, the noise was deafening and the big blades whooshed violently overhead. She rushed for the side door, and as she got to the runner Masters’ hulking figure filled the opening.
His voice boomed, “Get back, miss! It’s bloody dangerous out here!”
“Simon, I can help you find him!”
He looked at her as if she was mad. “We’ve no time for this.”
“I can stop him! You know I can!”
She looked up pleadingly against the rotor’s downwash.
“Let’s go!” came a shout from one of the pilots.
Masters reached down and grabbed a mittful of shirt at the scruff of her neck. There was no hope of moving as he stared at her, his face only inches away. He bristled with an anger she’d never seen, his eyes narrow, the veins bulging in his neck. Just when Christine thought he was going to drag her back inside, she felt herself being yanked off the ground and into the chopper.
At precisely 9:52, Greenwich Mean Time, the heads of state arrived. Limousine convoys stopped twenty meters behind the stage and disgorged their entourages — advisors, security types, and eventually the principals, who quickly disappeared into a large tent behind the stage. From there, final preparations would be made, and at ten o’clock sharp the actors, thirty-one diplomats in all, would climb up to the platform in a strict sequence that had, in and of itself, taken weeks to negotiate. Once on stage, each would walk to his or her chair at a dignified speed and sit — after those who were less important, but before the more important. There would be no nods, winks nor smiles that had not received official sanction and preapproval. When the national anthems began, each would rise and stand respectfully through the course, no yawning or slouching for enemy and neutral music, no particular enthusiasm for one’s own. Then the speeches would begin, the order of these set in stone. In fact, the speeches themselves were designated word-for-word, each having been precisely drafted and redrafted to appease all parties. The choreography was absolute. Nothing left to chance.
Chatham and Dark stood inside the tent. They were the only regular law enforcement types present, the rest being politicians, diplomats, and their respective state security details. Chatham noted how they had all dispersed to the four corners of the place. The Arab and the Israeli delegations were separated diagonally, giving the most distance between the two. Their security men eyed one another continuously and with great suspicion. In another corner were the British, acting as hosts and chief negotiators. The British Prime Minister, today’s key speaker, was presently surrounded by Foreign Office lackeys who were no doubt pressing in for face time. The fourth corner was station to the largest group, made up of diplomats from all the other countries. Some had aided in the negotiations, while others were simply self-important enough to have sent an “emissary” or “special counsel.” They all chatted and mingled casually, as though it were cocktail hour at a state dinner, and a few sipped nonalcoholic refreshments, a prohibition driven more by the time of day than the soberness of the occasion.
Chatham paid particular attention to the Israeli delegation. Zak was in the center, intermittently visible amongst an encirclement of bodyguards and aids. He seemed casual enough.