“Open it,” said Gunn.
Inherp jumped to obey, and within moments, he and the others had revealed what lay within. Gunn stared at the long, black object inside with a terrible fascination that sickened Inherp. The CEO stepped up and rubbed his hands along its smooth contours. It ran nearly twenty-one feet in length with a diameter of about two and a half feet. Wings jutted outward from its midsection, spanning over ten feet. The very design of the thing reeked of threat and death. It was a predator like the world had never seen.
“AGM-129 ACM cruise missile,” said the older soldier, matter-of-factly. “Average speed that of a jet plane at five hundred miles per hour. Range — two thousand nautical miles. Payload — a W80-1 variable yield. She flies fast, she flies low and unseen, and delivers one hell of a punch at the end.”
Inherp noticed that Gunn did not take his eyes off the black missile. The men around him looked distinctly uncomfortable. Finally, the CEO stepped back and addressed the soldiers.
“When you have delivered the package and it is secured, we will begin training for our most important mission, one that will spill fire on our enemies and forever change the world. You men will be part of that mission, a strike at the heart of fanaticism in the world with a weapon the gods themselves didn't possess.”
He glared intensely across the faces, and Inherp felt the man's eyes burn into him. Gunn turned and marched quickly up the stairs. Although Inherp felt a massive tension leave his body, the night had only just begun.
After the leaders had left the room, Inherp and the other young recruits assembled the crate again. As the wood began to cover the black monstrosity within, Inherp hung back from the others, using the crate's sides to partially shield himself from their view. In his hand he held a small metallic and plastic object, and he pointed it at the missile several times discreetly, finishing quickly and ensuring that he remained hidden from the other two soldiers. Finally, he pocketed the object and assisted in the final steps of securing the crate, boxing in the beast once more.
Afterward, he ascended and stood looking across the bow to the waves below. He felt sick inside and turned his face to the wind. Cool air swept across his face as the ship motored out to sea in the quiet of the night. He touched the cell phone in his pocket. It held information that the world had to see — and had to see soon. He knew that somehow, he had to live long enough to make sure that they did.
49
Savas entered the Operations Room. As always, there was an assault of visual information from the many monitors mounted on the walls — a strange FBI version of Times Square. J. P. Rideout called to him from across the room.
“John — we've got the specs on that plane and the initial analysis of the explosion. This came from the US Navy. They were right on the scene and recorded most of the useful data we've got on this.” He called up several figures on one of the screens showing a large commercial jetliner, 747, and several incomprehensible schematics depicting the analysis of the blast.
“J. P., can you give me the Cliffs Notes version?”
“Yeah, sorry. I don't understand half this stuff myself. Bottom line — this was not an accident. A high-yield explosive device was employed, likely contained in the baggage compartment. How it got past security is anyone's guess. S-47 isn't easy to detect, but they wouldn't have needed anything so sophisticated to bring that plane down.”
“Was there any wreckage recovered?”
“That's still ongoing. There will be some, but that Boeing was blown to bits. There appears to be some remains of the tail section, but it's deep now, and it will take at least another few weeks until the navy can get the necessary equipment out there — that is, if they aren't diverted to the Gulf.”
Savas shook his head slowly. “Yeah. It's a magnet right now for large ships with men and guns. This whole thing is starting to reach critical mass over there.”
Rideout looked up from his terminal. “You think this is going to lead to war?” Several heads swiveled over in their direction. It was a question on everyone's mind.
“Well, it doesn't look good, but I'm not the one to predict the choices of nations and armies. I sure as hell hope not. If it does, it won't be some little police action like Nam or Iraq — no offense to you guys, who saw blood spilled there. This is going to be something big, something where we can't even bring the bodies back. If Russia and China get involved, who knows where it will go. Mjolnir's wet dream.”
Matt King piped up. “The mosque in Sudan — same MO. Same results from forensics. Your little visit didn't dissuade them from using S-47, or from anything else, it seems. There were riots again in Khartoum, and the American Embassy was firebombed. Molotov cocktails and the like. Luckily, we evacuated our people last week. It's definitely not a good time to travel with a US passport.”
“Or to live near any Muslim holy site of any significance,” said Savas.
Frank Miller nodded, wincing from the pain in his shoulder, his arm in a sling. “That sure as hell is true. The question is, where will they strike next? We've been banging our heads against this for months, but there's no rhyme or reason, no pattern.”
Savas and Cohen exchanged glances. “No,” Savas said. “Nothing. No structure, pattern, nothing we can get our hands on to predict and prepare.”
“There's something…” Angel Lightfoote whispered as much to herself as to anyone in the room.
“Angel?” asked Savas. “You think you see something?”
Lightfoote stared forward, shaking her head. “There's always something.”
He sighed. They remained in the dark, powerless, while a panther stalked the world — and stalked him and Cohen. They kept waiting for the hammer to fall.
Husaam Jordan stepped into the room and approached Savas. “John, we think that Gunn has left the country, probably for Mexico or somewhere in Central America.”
“What?” William Gunn leaving the country, and not flying to a big bank in China or Europe, made Savas very uneasy. “Field agents last had him in New Orleans!”
“He lost them quite effectively, it seems. He's been using a number of decoys. Our contacts at the ports place a man who fits his description, as well as an unusual amount of activity, at a cargo ship several days ago. Right around that time, there was a shooting at the same port that occurred the night that ship left harbor. We've been able to track the numbers on the boat back to an old discarded model once used by Operon several years back.”
“We need a better team down there,” Savas said dejectedly. “You spooks are doing our job for us. OK, assuming that this is not a coincidence, why does that mean he's out of the country?”
“CIA contacts in Mexico, John. This boat docked several days after departure, south of the border. We've sent a team, and they will check it out, but I bet all traces of Mjolnir will be gone.”
“Assuming he was on the boat, what the hell is he doing there?”
“Not vacationing,” the Muslim said flatly.
PART 3
PILLARS OF ISLAM
50
That night Savas lay next to Cohen, unable to sleep. He glanced over at the clock — it was three in the morning. His mind was obsessively examining the scant data and unproven hypotheses that characterized the investigation. There had to be a pattern to the attacks, something that would help them understand their structure and purpose, and from that, to know where Mjolnir would strike again. Did any of this have to do with Gunn's departure for Mexico? Why would he leave in such a clandestine fashion? How would they unearth the evidence required to link him to these crimes?