Critical Error

by Murray Mcdonald

  Despite the powerful.45 bullets, the only sound that could be heard was the ripping of wood as Yuri systematically pumped 9 rounds into the wall and door of the bathroom. Yuri aimed carefully at various heights and angles to ensure at least two or three hits. With no cries of pain emitted from the bathroom, Yuri had to assume he had either hit Sam in the head or missed. But, looking at the placing of his shots, that did not seem likely. He raised his foot and kicked the door open, ready to deliver the final two bullets if required.

  As the door swung open, the two bullets struck. Two head shots ended the battle once and for all.

  Yuri fell to the floor, no mother in the world would recognize the mess left by two bullets entering the back of the head and exiting the front. Sam looked at the small rectangular window above the bath and wondered how he had managed to squeeze through such a tiny gap. It was not surprising Yuri had ruled out the prospect and in the process had become a sitting duck.

  Before he left, Sam took a photo and sent it to the last number in the phone’s memory. Sam Baker had retired and Yuri Andriev had a booking on the last flight to New York and Sam was determined to make it.

  Chapter 6

  Mexican — US Border

  Brownsville, TX

  July 2008

  Hassan Al Husseini wiped his brow. The sweat was flowing freely as he inched his truck towards the border crossing. He, above all others, had been chosen for what he regarded to be one of the most important attacks in the history of the world. He would deliver, to the Zionist-loving scum, some of their own medicine, a taste of what their Israeli puppets had made him and his Palestinian brothers endure since Palestine was betrayed.

  As he approached the customs official, he took a deep breath. He was aware that alarms at all border-crossings would be triggered at the slightest hint of a nuclear device. He had, however, been assured that the bomb was enclosed in a lead-lined casing and would not betray him or the cause. They had also assured him that the customs officials, particularly in the middle of the night, would be more interested in stopping illegal drugs and illegal immigrants than finding a nuclear bomb none of them were expecting.

  Hassan had grown up in the Jabalia refugee camp, one of the most crowded places on earth. Over 90,000 people were crammed into an area less than 1.4km2. Located just 3km from the Israel/Gaza border, the conditions were a perfect breeding ground for Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades, the militant wing of the Hamas group. With few or no prospects, the young men of Jabalia were under constant threat from Israeli Defense Force raids and by the age of sixteen, Hassan had lost friends and family to Israeli aggression. With each Israeli incursion, the Brigades’ numbers swelled.

  Hassan had always refused approaches from the Brigades. He had a future ahead of him. Excellent language skills and a keen mind for numbers had already seen him accepted into the Islamic University of Gaza’s Faculty of Engineering. His father had died young, just 41 years of age. Another symptom of the camps, life expectancy was low. With a mother and three younger siblings, the young Hassan had taken seriously the responsibility of heading the household and had planned to make something of himself and move his family out of the camps.

  All that had changed one fateful night. Hassan, walking home from school, watched as the Israeli helicopter gunships swooped low over his head. The three machines swung their front-mounted 30mm cannons menacingly as they flew past. The tank-busting cannon was ridiculously powerful for a shanty town constructed of basic materials. The rocket pods hung ominously from the choppers’ stubby and pointless wings. Hassan noted that their path was his path. However that was nothing unusual. The Israelis constantly offered the refugees a glimpse of their awesome war machine, a reminder that they were dominant and not to be trifled with. But this was a message that Hassan was uninterested in. For him, the Palestinian — Israeli conflict was in the past. His people had to move on, adapt and progress.

  Even when the rocket pods lit up, Hassan looked on with little interest. His home was in a quiet part of the camp, well away from any of the militant strongholds. It was only when the rockets began to rain down on their targets that Hassan’s breath stopped and his world ended. As the night sky lit up with a fireball of explosions, Hassan’s family and his reason for living were obliterated in a cloud of bloody ash.

  Hassan met with the local Brigade Commander the next morning, after burying his entire family. Within four hours, he was in a truck heading South and by evening, he was in one of Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigade’s most secret and specialist training camps. The Brigade had big plans and Hassan was exactly the type of Palestinian their new plan called for.

  As the customs official waved him through, Hassan breathed a huge sigh of relief and as instructed, he changed the destination on his GPS device from Corpus Christi to his real destination. The ETA changed from 2 hours 41 minutes to 28 hours 17 minutes. Just over a day until America would lose its iconic White House and with any luck, its President too.

  As Hassan’s truck approached the border, the Department of Energy’s monitoring alarms triggered. Red flashing lights lit the room as the radioactive detectors did the only thing they were programmed to do, detect the imminent and immediate threat to the United States of America. The agent in charge of the monitoring station moved immediately to implement the procedure he had trained for all his professional life but had prayed would not be needed.

  His first call was to the border guards to instruct them to close the border. His second was to NEST, the Nuclear Emergency Support Team, to deal with the nuclear threat. The next would be to the local National Guard station which would immediately implement Martial law within a controlled area and if required, conduct an evacuation up to an area determined by the size of risk estimated by the NEST team.

  As he picked up the receiver to make the first call, a hand appeared on the phone’s cradle, killing the call. The agent looked up into the dark sunglasses of a man who had appeared from nowhere.

  ”What the …?” exclaimed the DoE agent.

  The man with the sunglasses flicked his badge open revealing a Defense Intelligence Agency badge. Before the agent could see the name, the leather holder flicked shut. Four soldiers had taken up station at the back of the office, their weapons drawn, as the DoE agent tried to study the badge.

  “Way above your pay grade, your shift’s over!” replied the DIA agent, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

  As the DIA agent issued his order, the soldiers moved forward as one, making it crystal clear to the DoE agent that his shift was most definitely over. Without another word, he stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and made a swift exit. As he exited the building, two compact black choppers sat in the small car-park, each filled with soldiers, heavily armed and dressed entirely in black. Whatever was going on, the DIA agent had been right, this was way beyond his pay grade. How he hadn’t heard the choppers land, he didn’t know but what he did know was that he was getting the hell out of there before the inevitable hit the fan.

  The DIA agent immediately went to work. All data collated over the previous few minutes was replaced with clean data. The truck that had just crossed the border and set off every potential warning signal, no longer existed. According to the data now in the system, the truck was clean.

  As the DoE agent pulled out of the car park, he failed to notice a Ford F-450 pick-up pull out from the street and follow him. Ten minutes later, as they drove past one of Brownsville’s major reservoirs, the same pick-up brushed the DoE agent’s car aside like a fly swat hitting a fly. The car plunged down the embankment and straight into the water. Had the door locks and windows not been tampered with, he may have survived but all eventualities had been covered.

  With his job done, the DIA agent circled his finger, signaling to the soldiers it was time to move out. As they emerged from the building, the choppers powered up and once they had boarded, immediately took off. The pilots followed the road and within minutes had caught up with the truck and
were following just beyond the horizon, out of sight. Their orders were to hold off until told to take the truck down.

  The pick-up driver waited until the DoE agent’s car had disappeared below the surface before turning and driving towards US 77N, the route he knew Hassan would take. He reached across and picked up the walkie-talkie from the passenger seat and pressed the transmit button.

  “Team One, please give me your location.”

  “We are five miles NW of Brownsville, approximately one mile behind the target, travelling at 55mph. Team Two is 200 yards behind us. We’re in position and just need the signal to take the target down,” replied the DIA agent from the first helicopter.

  “Excellent, please continue to shadow the target until further orders. Out,” replied the pick-up driver as he pulled into the truck-stop on the outskirts of Brownsville. Wiping the dash and steering wheel down, he exited the pick-up and retrieved his standard issue Crown Victoria saloon car. He pulled out of the truck-stop and floored the accelerator. He quickly calculated his position, approximately ten miles behind the target. He pushed the speedo to 75 mph. In an hour, he would be 10 miles ahead of the target.

  Up until three months earlier, he had had one master, the US government. They had trained him, trusted him and paid him well for his services. The DIA left no stone unturned during his application. They were aware of his Middle-Eastern background. His ability to speak the language and dialects of all major protagonists in the Middle-East had been one of the major reasons he had been recruited in the first place. His background and family affiliation had checked out and no risk was believed to be present. Zak was a solid and trusted member of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency.

  However, four months earlier, the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades had declared war, launching a catastrophic attack on Israel and everything had changed. Sleepers across the world were being unleashed. Calls were being made in the dead of night and a secret army was being awoken. Zak had received his call and listened intently. He didn’t like what he was being asked to do. He didn’t fully understand it, but, ultimately, he had been asked and it would be an honor to do what he could.

  After forty-five minutes of driving, Zak could see Hassan’s truck ahead. He knew that the helicopters were up there somewhere but in the darkness that enveloped that part of Texas at night, he knew it was pointless even trying to spot them. The OH-6 little birds were developed to be one of the quietest and stealthiest helicopters. Even in the middle of the day, you’d struggle to spot one if the pilot didn’t want you to. Pushing the accelerator, Zak shot past Hassan, stealing a glimpse as he hurtled past. The glow of the dials gave Hassan’s face a ghostly glower. Zak’s foot subconsciously pressed harder on the accelerator.

  The lack of any ambient light and traffic made this the ideal location. Zak pressed the accelerator further, constantly calculating distances as he tore away from the bomb. At 115mph, Zak was gaining a mile a minute on the bomb. He had been told to be at least 5 miles away and he planned to be at least six.

  “Team One, this is Team Leader, please confirm position,” instructed Zak six minutes after cruising past Hassan.

  “Holding at one mile out from target as instructed,” replied the DIA agent.

  Zak paused and checked his calculations. It had now been over six minutes since he had passed Hassan. Over six miles’ distance.

  “Go, I repeat go, take him down!” commanded Zak.

  “On our way!” replied the DIA agent.

  Zak hardly heard the agent speak. After issuing the order, he had dropped the walkie-talkie onto the passenger seat and subconsciously floored the accelerator. He removed the small transmitter from the inside of his jacket and counting to thirty, pressed the button.

  Hassan’s head began to nod. It had been a long day and the interminably straight and dark road was taking its toll. What he wouldn’t give for a few hours sleep. Just even twenty minutes. The stress of the border-crossing had exhausted him and the monotonous 55 mph was more effective than counting sheep. He shook his head. He was showing weakness when he must show strength. He had been selected for this above all others. He was going to surpass those of 9/11 and he felt tired! He was ashamed of himself and slapped his face and wound down his window.

  As he wound the window down a flash of movement in the side mirror caught his eye. Something had moved across behind him but with there were no lights. Hassan at first thought the darkness was playing tricks on him but as the order was given the helicopters rushed towards him. Hassan spotted them instantly and knew he had failed. The glory that should have been his would now be shame. He Hassan al Husseini had failed his people and Allah. Hassan wished he could blow the bomb and take the infidels with him but he was not given a suicide trigger. His task was to blow up Washington and the White House, anything else would be regarded as failure. There had been some debate over the suicide trigger but previous plans had been thwarted by over eager bombers prematurely detonating devices. Hassan therefore was not given any option. A GPS locator would activate the bomb when its target was reached. Hassan punched the steering wheel. The bomb would fall into the hands of the Americans. He had failed.

  As the helicopters swooped towards him, their powerful searchlights lit up his cabin. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he reached for his knife with the other. He was not going to spend his life in prison, just another Muslim failure. Hassan grabbed the knife and swung it towards his neck. He had been trained on how to slash both his jugular and carotid artery with one movement. He need not have worried. The sharpshooter in the helicopter opened fire. One carefully placed bullet tore through the cabin, killing Hassan instantly. Other well placed bullets shredded the tires, stopping the truck almost on the spot The Americans were not taking any chances. The truck sat motionless as the helicopters landed.

  The DIA agent boarded the truck and checked Hassan for a pulse. Hassan was dead. He looked at the Satellite Navigation screen and noted the destination, Washington. He grabbed his walkie talkie just as Zak pressed the trigger and at 3.22 a.m. in Kenedy County, Texas, home to 414 Texans and over 40,000 cattle, the truck exploded and the world really did change forever.

  Chapter 7

  El Arish Hotel

  Arish Resort

  Egypt

  July 2010

  It had been nearly three years since Rebecca Cohen’s life, as she knew it, had ended. Josh’s expression of sheer horror, as the explosion took him from her, was as clear in her mind now as it was then. Her life was meaningless, devoid of purpose. Although there had been a few moments of happiness, these were mainly linked to death, the death of anyone responsible or involved in the bombings that had killed her precious son.

  As she lay on her sun lounger and soaked in the Mediterranean sunshine, the waves lapped on the pristine sands and she smiled inwardly. Her next targets had arrived, just as predicted by her last victim.

  The sniveling coward had begged her for mercy, begged her to spare him and offered more information than he could deliver but Rebecca had just sneered at him. Josh hadn’t had the luxury of begging for his young life, thanks to the piece of scum sniveling at her feet. She had kicked him hard in the face and, as he lay sprawled in front of her, she had shot him four times. Once in both kneecaps, just for the pain. Once in the balls because he shouldn’t have any for targeting six-year-olds. And finally, once in the stomach. The pain would be intense for the last few hours of his life. Death would be inevitable but thankfully not quick. It wasn’t the way of the Kidon but thankfully, they had just let her do her own thing and asked few questions. Her secondment to the Mossad Assassination Team had been arranged by her Uncle Ben. However, it soon became apparent that Rebecca was not going to be a team player. Her recklessness in the quest to avenge Josh was only going to get her or her team-mates killed but her abilities and drive were never questioned. Uncle Ben had come to her aid again, suggesting that perhaps they should just let her do her own thing. Eighteen months later and ten kills to her na
me, more than any other team, Rebecca was as hungry for revenge as the day she started.

  It had been less than twelve hours since the sniveling scumbag had given her the details of the meeting at the El Ashir Hotel and despite her orders always to report her movements, she had on this occasion failed to report. Time was of the essence and if her information had been correct, there was a possibility that not only four commanders but the leader of Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades would be present. She knew that there was no way she’d be given such a big job herself and, as no other Kidon members would work with the ‘suicidal bitch’, she would have been sidelined which, to her, was not an option.

  Rebecca inserted the small earphones attached to what to anyone would think was an iPod but was in fact a laser listening device. She pointed the base of the device towards a beachfront table which, according to the waiter, had been reserved for a meeting. Despite the small armory of weapons at her side, Rebecca was more self-conscious of the bikini she was wearing. Purchased from the hotel lobby, it had failed to cope with her slight frame and large bosom. Normally she would mix and match sizes but with little to choose from, she had the option of bottoms that fell off or a top that struggled to contain her spectacular breasts. Much to the delight of the men in attendance, she had opted for the latter. Rebecca carefully adjusted her top again and tried to maintain her position. Despite its more open attitude than most Muslim countries, topless bathing was most definitely not acceptable in Egypt’s most Northern resort.

  As the afternoon wore on, Rebecca began to think that her latest victim had just been trying to bullshit her to save himself. However, just as she had fixed her top, for what felt the hundredth time, a young Arab approached the table and pulling out a seat, he sat down. His eyes fervently surveyed his surroundings and unlike every other hot blooded young male, his eyes merely scanned across Rebecca, just as they had every other sunbather. Rebecca had positioned herself well. Her feet and more importantly her listening device, pointed towards the table. Her eyes looked closed to the casual observer but were open just enough to watch the table.