“Edwards — I'm here with the missile near a bunch of hostiles, and in about two minutes they are going to be through the door and on me.”
“Yes, sir. You opened it up well. Wow. They've run around or rewired nearly all the PAL circuitry, but the way they've done it, all the strong and weak safety systems around the exclusion zone have been bypassed, too. What a mess!”
“Speak English!” shouted Jordan. One of the crowbars made a clanking noise as it fell to the floor. He could hear shouts on the other side.
“Sir, it means that the warhead is sensitive now to detonation by impact or even electrical surge. That's one unstable nuke you have there.”
“Just tell me how to disarm the thing!”
“It's not going to be easy with what they've rigged, and you need to ground yourself. Even a static charge and that thing will blow. OK, first, you need—”
Suddenly there was a loud noise on the speakers — first a crashing sound with metallic elements, then several staccato bursts.
“That's gunfire,” whispered Rideout.
The air force major stood up from his chair. “Oh, God.”
Jordan fell backward, his shoulder and chest covered in blood, his hand barely holding him upright next to the missile. Not enough time. The pain was nearly overwhelming. The door had been yanked open finally, and two men had jumped into the chamber. Jordan had the advantage, however. They had to negotiate through the door, climb over the body of the soldier he had downed earlier, and take the time to scan the area for him. He shot down both but not before taking fire from a third soldier on the other side who had ducked back. Jordan thought he had hit him, but how seriously, he didn't know.
“Husaam!” shouted Rideout. “Are you there?”
Jordan righted himself and grabbed the tool cart with both hands. The front of his white robes was soaked red, and he felt dizzy from the loss of blood. He leaned on his elbows, aimed his weapon at the door, and spoke into the phone.
“Not much time now. I'm shot, badly. More coming. There isn't time.”
“Agent Jordan!” shouted Bryant. “You must disarm that weapon!”
Jordan's voice was barely a whisper. “No time. The Hajj…the Fifth Pillar…I wished to go…God be merciful for my failure…tell Vonessa, good-bye.”
“He's not going to make it,” whispered Rideout.
On the plane, Jordan reached into the tool crate drawers and pulled out a voltmeter. He ripped the wires out of the device and stumbled to the missile, crashing against the side of the crate, his blood smearing the porous wood.
Suddenly a new round of gunfire broke out. The Mjolnir mission leader had leapt through the door and over the bodies of the other soldiers. His left arm was bloodied, as was his stomach, but he willed himself back into combat. He took aim and fired a burst into the Muslim's back. Jordan arched in pain and cried out. Miraculously, he held himself upright for another moment and inserted the wiring onto the circuit board as the soldier labored over to stop him.
“Get off the weapon!” he roared.
“I bear witness that there is no god but Allah,” Jordan whispered to the circuitry, his legs buckling, sweat pouring over his face, “and Mohammed…is his Prophet.”
He then connected two regions of the circuit board with the leads. There was a small spark, then a terrible light.
“We've lost the signal,” said Rideout.
“Damn it, get him back on the phone!” shouted Bryant.
Lightfoote was crying, staring up at the ceiling. Rideout walked over and held her. People were speaking over each other, and Bryant simply roared again.
“Get him on the phone!” shouted Bryant. Lightfoote looked at him and shook her head. Bryant was about to shout again when he was interrupted by a voice over the speakers.
“This is General Richards. US military satellites report the detection of a nuclear detonation signal in the air above the Gulf of Mexico. I am told that the location is within the cone of probability for the aircraft that took off from Tampico airport. The explosion is almost certainly the stolen weapon. We will end this crisis call now and work within our individual organizations. The president has been informed at every stage of this and is now aware of its resolution. We have a brave man to thank for saving millions of lives.”
The line went dead. Lightfoote wept uncontrollably in Rideout's arms. Everyone in the room sat in stunned silence. Finally, recovering his composure, Bryant tried to mobilize his team.
“OK, people, it's over now. Let's get back to work.”
Rideout stared at the screen in front of him, the image of Tampico airport back online from the satellite feed.
“No, it's not over yet.”
67
Savas stepped out from behind the stacks of boxes. His face was begrimed with the smoke and sweat of the chaos of the last hour. He was panting, nearly out of breath, having sprinted from his position beside Cohen and Miller. The acrid smell of petroleum and fire left his throat raw, but every muscle was primed and alert for what lay before him. He drew his weapon as he approached.
Gunn was walking confidently toward the helicopter, which had landed not more than one hundred yards in front of them both. A distance of fifty feet separated the two men. Savas aimed his firearm and shouted out over the whirring sound of the blades.
“Stop right there, Gunn!” The CEO paused and turned around to face Savas. “Don't get any closer to the helicopter. I'll kill you if you do.”
Gunn hardly even blinked. “I highly doubt that, Agent Savas.”
Savas laughed and held the gun steady. “And why is that?”
“Because you are an honorable man, and here I am, unarmed, soon to turn my back on you. Will you discharge your weapon into my back?”
Savas stared into the cold, expressionless eyes before him and took several steps forward. “You have millions of lives in front of your own weapon. You aren't unarmed, and I promise you, I'll shoot you in the back, in the front, or in the ass, if I have to.”
“Effective and crude point, Agent Savas. But you really should put the gun down. Your son, Thanos, would want you to.”
Savas felt his stomach tighten. “You leave him out of this conversation, Gunn, or I'll kill you for sport.”
William Gunn did not flinch. “But that is the truth, isn't it? Your son's death drove you to fight the madmen and their beliefs. My wife died that day, Agent Savas. She died someplace near your son, having fallen one hundred floors, doubtless in terror, pain, and panic, to be smashed and crushed, her body so broken that only fragments remained to be identified by DNA analysis. I, too, resolved to fight the monsters that caused this, and fight them we both have.”
“You murder the innocent, you bastard! You are no better than they are.”
Gunn displayed the first mild hint of anger. His nostrils flared, and his jaw set tightly. “In war, we do not blame the defenders for killing the aggressors, Agent Savas. In war, it becomes necessary to take innocent lives at times to protect many more lives. Do you recall the bombs that leveled Germany and brought down a madman? Yet our actions were too late for six million Jews. Would not it have been better to take one hundred thousand more lives of German innocents to have prevented that? The madmen of 9/11 and their organization are not rightly our focus. They are only a single branch of a tree with deep and strong roots. Those roots and the trunk are the barbaric religion of Islam, a religion that marched by the sword across the deserts of Arabia and the sands of Africa, to the very doorstep of Europe.”
Gunn shouted over the helicopter, his words growing in volume as he spoke. “Now this beast reawakens after centuries of sleep and threatens to devour the world. Europe and America will wait until thousands, millions, entire civilizations fall as once before to Mohammed's armies. I will not. I will strike back — not at a leaf, or a branch, but at the heart of this vile plant and wound it to its core. I owe her that. As you owe it to your son.”