“Yes?”
“You and I both know, Nick doesn’t slip up!”
Chapter 42
After breakfast, Nick took Ibrahim aside.
“My brother, I need to test your men,” he said apologetically.
“Of course, brother. Please, it would be my honor.”
“I don’t think you understand. I need to test that they are ready to fight and die for Allah.”
“Of course, I expect nothing less,” Ibrahim said.
“Some will die during the test,” explained Nick.
Ibrahim’s heart sank. These were men he had trained and honed to perfection. They were men to whom he had promised a fight against the infidel. Dying in the desert sands for no reason other than to test their resolve was unworthy of the warriors he had produced for Allah. However, he was not going to question Nick. He was there with a plan direct from the Caliph and therefore from Allah himself.
“I understand,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.
“On the plus side, I’m sure I can get the benefactor’s useless son and friends out of your way.”
“You can’t kill them!” Ibrahim said in a panicked voice.
“No, but I can show them what is expected of them if they stay here and fight with us for Allah!”
Ibrahim nodded reluctantly. “What do you need?”
“I need a lift back to the plane to pick up a few things that will assist me.”
Ibrahim pointed to the benefactor’s group and instructed them to take him back.
Ninety minutes later, as the sun was beginning to heat the desert floor, they arrived back at the plane. Nick told the boys to wait while he jumped aboard the plane. His Berretta, satchel and the metal briefcase sat where he had left them. There wasn’t a living soul within three hundred miles of them; it was probably one of the safest places on the planet. He checked the Berretta and removed the two stolen cell phones from the satchel. He reinserted the batteries and turned them on briefly, pleased to see both had juice. There was every likelihood he’d be needing them sometime soon.
“We’re getting toasted out here, man!” shouted one of the boys from outside the plane.
Nick put the cells back in his satchel, grabbed everything he needed, and jumped back down to the desert floor.
“What’s in the fancy briefcase?” asked another of the youths as Nick approached the truck.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” smiled Nick climbing into the passenger seat. “Now get us back and quick!”
Nick settled in for the wild ride across the desert at twice the speed the truck was meant to travel in rough terrain. Not that he had any intention of complaining, the further away from the plane the better as far as he was concerned. He had calculated that the camp was about fifty miles from the makeshift runway. They’d have to search an area of roughly two thousand square miles to find the camp. Even then, the camp was well camouflaged and not easily visible. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
“What the fuck’s up with these dudes?” asked the driver as they bounced over the entrance ramp.
Nick woke up, not sure what had woken him first, the driver’s voice or the bang on the head as he bounced into the air. However, on opening his eyes, it became far less important to know the answer. The soldiers that had been happily training when they left were still training on their return. Unfortunately, about twenty of them were training their weapons on the truck and Ibrahim was standing amongst them, pointing at Nick.
Fuck, thought Nick, this doesn’t look good.
Chapter 43
Carson and Turner paced the operations center, waiting for the satellite to get into position over Sudan. At 3:00 a.m., the staffing levels were reduced but with most of the investigative work being done in time zones outside of the US, the building was still relatively busy. The image on the main screen suddenly changed.
“Deputy Director Turner!” shouted an analyst unnecessarily. Turner’s eyes were already fixed on the image.
Whoever was controlling the satellite image knew what they were doing. The image sharpened quickly revealing a barren beige landscape.
“Are we on the coordinates yet?” asked Carson into the speakerphone that was connecting them to the National Reconnaissance Office operator, controlling the satellite image.
“No, sir, we’re a few degrees short. We should be on the precise coordinates in about thirty seconds.”
Carson muted the call. “What did the NSA say was the margin of error on those coordinates?” he asked Turner.
“Ten miles.”
Carson unmuted. “We’ve got a ten mile radius of those coordinates,” he advised.
“Yes, sir, I’m factoring that in. My colleague’s looking at a wider range than I’m sending to your screen. He’ll feed anything of interest from that on to me and onto your screen.”
With every second that passed, their hopes faded. The land was utterly desolate and the rocky and rough terrain was not conducive to tracks being laid that could be followed. Unless they were still there, it was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack the size of Rhode Island with a limited time frame.
“We’ve got something. I’m just changing the image now,” informed the NRO operator though the phone line.
Everybody watched as the image changed to that of a small propeller aircraft sitting in the middle of the desert. The faint lines of two tracks running parallel to one another made it clear that there was a runway of sorts in place.
The excitement level increased significantly within the NCTC when the plane came into view.
“I’m afraid our infrared suggests it’s empty,” said the operator.
Carson was already on his cell when Turner turned to him. He waited and listened.
“Yes Admiral, thank you, I’m good,” said Carson. He noticed Turner watching and grabbed a pad and pen and wrote ‘Commanding Officer CSG2’
Turner shrugged. He had no idea what CSG2 meant.
“How quickly can you get assets in place?”
Turner looked on in frustration. He had no idea what was happening.
“Excellent, I’ll call you right back.” He hung up and looked at Turner. “That was the Commander of Carrier Strike Group 2. They’re based in the Eastern Mediterranean. I was just arranging a welcome party for whoever comes back to that plane.”
“How long?”
“Two F18s will be on station within twenty minutes and will remain out of sight and sound but just five minutes’ striking distance away.”
“How long can they remain there?”
“Until they’re needed, or at least until they’re relieved by another two planes and we’ll keep that up until we get them,” replied Carson confidently. “We’ve got a Hawkeye inbound as well, so we’ll see what’s going on down there long before they get back to their plane,” he added.
“Hawkeye?”
“It’s an early warning aircraft, like an E3 Sentry only smaller and able to operate from a carrier,” replied Carson.
Turner had a rough idea of what he meant. “So how are the F18s going to capture them?”
“Who said anything about capture? As soon as we have him in our sights, the two F18s will swoop down and blow him the fuck away.”
“I’d rather capture him.”
“And I’d rather be thirty years younger and dating a supermodel,” replied Carson.
“I’d still prefer we captured him.”
“Be my guest, capture him if you can,” replied Carson.
“Let me call the Admiral,” said Turner, reaching out for Carson’s cell.
“Oh no, if the FBI want him captured, you capture him. The DOD will end this the first chance we get. Those are the Admiral’s orders and they stand.”