“What the hell?” said Bryant.
“It's pointing where, Angel, Mecca?” said Rideout.
Lightfoote rotated around, the large monitors behind her glowing with the image of a god's hammer laid across the earth. Her eyes were large and bright.
“Not pointing, J. P.” She looked across all the faces. “Smashing. The hammer is smashing.”
The air force major was back in the room. “You mean they mapped out the shape of that thing in their attacks? Pointing to Saudi Arabia? Why on earth?”
Lightfoote shook her head again. “Not pointing. Smashing.” She looked over at Rideout for help.
“Oh, my God,” he said. He turned to Bryant. “Get me Husaam on the line. Now!”
Bryant looked stunned. “What is this about?”
Rideout looked at Lightfoote, and she nodded with her eyes large, her expression serious. He spoke flatly. “I know what this attack is all about, Andrew.”
66
Jordan shook his head. He was glad he had learned firsthand from his former gang how to take apart cars — a skill used more than a few times for stealing them. To his astonishment, he had, within the span of less than twenty minutes, managed to open up the missile housing and expose the warhead. The missile was long and sleek, aerodynamic like an arrow. The warhead was fat and dull, like a huge bullet the size of a laundry basket, housing the radioactive materials in a manner that would lead to the optimal explosion. The “physics package” was connected to the rest of the missile by numerous wires and circuits, and now Jordan knew he was completely out of his element. He was also nearly out of time.
“Where the hell is the engineer?” the gravelly voice of their mission leader called out near the cockpit, his eyes darting around in annoyance. He prided himself on an optimum of organization: each piece in its place at the right time for every mission. The engineer had gone back to make sure all systems were nominal on the missile. A nontrivial issue with what they had onboard.
They had all sat through the long briefings prior to the mission. Mjolnir engineers had employed a number of work-arounds to defeat the multilayered safety systems on the missile and warhead. The military had become very good at making nuclear weapons impossible to detonate accidentally. Safety systems prevented fire, external explosion, or impact from triggering detonation. Safety codes and environmental detection systems ensured no warhead would go off unless it had been properly programmed with secret codes and had been delivered in the way intended — in this case, fired from a cruise missile. Unless the proper acceleration, altitude, and pressure readings were in place, the bomb would not detonate.
Of course, they planned to use the cruise missile as the delivery system — it was perfect, and engineers had easily programmed it for the desired coordinates. Defeating the arming safety measures had proven far more difficult, however. Stealing the missile was one thing, nearly impossible. But stealing the codes was impossible. The “permissive action link,” or PAL lock, was a real bastard: multiple-code, six-digit switch, limited-try followed by lockout. Their cryptologists didn't have the luxury to get it wrong. But Gunn had recruited some extremely talented people. The engineers had rigged something that had bypassed the PAL lock. He didn't care to understand how. They said it worked; the missile was armed, although now in a fairly unprotected state, he had been told. Many of the key safety systems were no longer operational. Best not to drop the thing, he thought with a smile.
The engineer was to keep babysitting it. So where the hell was he?
“I'll go have a look, sir,” said a soldier next to him.
“He should have reported by now.” The leader released his belts and headed off down the plane to the dividing door.
Rideout yelled over to Bryant. “We've got him conferenced in from Minot. The line's not secure.”
Bryant waved his hand dismissively. “That's been cleared already. Put him on.”
Rideout nodded toward them. “Captain Edwards, can you hear me?”
A voice spoke with a moderate static component. “Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”
“This is Andrew Bryant with the FBI. We have senior officers at the Pentagon, the CIA, and the air force listening in from several locations. You have been briefed?”
“Uh, yes, sir. I'm to talk a man through the disarming of a W80 warhead mounted on a cruise missile.”
“That's it.”
“Sir, is this a drill?”
Bryant looked over toward the air force men. They exchanged looks but remained silent. A familiar voice was heard over the line.
“Captain Edwards. This is General Richards, Pentagon. Listen to me well, son — this is not a drill. We have an AWOL nuke in the hands of some very bad men, and we have a few minutes to walk a CIA agent through disarming it. We don't have time for more background. I need your very best, young man.”
There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “Understood, sir. You've got it.”
Bryant continued. “We're connecting with the agent now. Everyone, hold on.”
Jordan heard the noises of the door being pulled and the voice outside the door. How long do I have? He figured five minutes at best before they forced the door open. Right at that moment, his phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket. Thank goodness for satellite phones!
“Husaam Jordan, this is Andrew Bryant with the FBI—”
“Just tell me — do you have someone to walk me through this?”
“Yes, Agent Jordan. You need to know something first. We have determined the target for the missile. It is the Saudi Arabian city of Mecca.”
Jordan was stunned. Mecca? The holiest site in all of Islam. His stomach turned as a realization dawned on him. “The Hajj,” he whispered. There could be more than two million visiting Muslims in Mecca performing the pilgrimage at this moment, plus another two million from the city itself. A massacre in fire of four million souls, a destruction of the center of Islam. A horror without precedent that would spawn horrors of retaliation across the world. “Tell me how to disarm this thing, then. Now!” he shouted.
Bryant continued. “Air Force Engineer Al Edwards on the line. Go, Edwards.”
“Agent Jordan?”
“Listen, I don't have time to tell you everything. I've taken several photos with my cell and sent them to Rideout at the FBI. Have him put them up and you can see what I've done.”
Rideout cut in on the line. “Husaam — that's not going to work. He's in Minot, North Dakota. He can't see the monitors. Edwards, you by a computer?”
“Yes!”
“Your e-mail, I need it now!” shouted Rideout. The captain told him. “Log onto your account, I'm forwarding the images.”
Jordan spoke through the pain in his leg. “I don't have a lot of time.”
“Got them, sir. Let me have a look.”
Jordan was startled by a loud crashing sound. He turned to the door. Someone on the other side was repeatedly yanking on the handle, and the crowbars were being smashed into the door and the wall. Already one seemed about to fall loose from the handle. He knew it was only a matter of time before the vibrations knocked them all out.