The terrorists would come up with an attack they hadn’t tried before—like flying jumbo jets into skyscrapers—and the West would scramble to respond. Novel attacks had a limited lifespan, often only able to work a single time before the West learned how to defeat them, or defend against them.
So a first attack using a new method or a breakthrough technology needed to be spectacular, because it could well be the only chance they got. And Sayed Nazry had held on to these drones for a long, long time. He had been very patient.
So it stood to reason that when he finally decided to strike, it wouldn’t be just another racetrack, or even a Comic-Con for that matter. It would be something that would deliver a devastating psychological blow to the West.
Salam and Rehmani were curious as to the target, but had both promised Nazry not to probe too deeply in an effort to guess what it was, because the terror leader knew it would be unmistakable to them if they stumbled upon it.
If the target would be this unmistakable to them, then the same should be true for Hall.
Since not one target the THT team had considered screamed that it would deliver a unique and spectacular blow to the West, they were missing something critical. But something that should be straightforward to figure out if they could only expand their horizons.
As though the attack alone weren’t bad enough, Nazry had ordered Salam and Rehmani to send another of the drones to accompany the one carrying the poison, a drone that had also been pre-programmed for the target. This one carried sophisticated cameras with telephoto lenses nearly as powerful as those on US spy satellites. It would record a video of the entire attack, capturing what was sure to be horrific beyond imagination, as tears and vomit poured from thousands of writhing victims, their faces twisted into a rictus of agony, taking minutes to finally die.
ISIS would then post this nightmare to the Internet, ensuring it went viral, amplifying the devastating psychological impact of the attack.
This would also cause pandemonium as everyone in the West became terrified of the many drones flying overhead. Cute little drones that had seemed so harmless just the day before would strike panic into the hearts of populations who now saw them as possible harbingers of a gruesome death. When this panic forced governments to ground them all, at least temporarily, including the many thousands of delivery drones that had recently sprouted up like mushrooms, the economic impact would be significant as well.
The attack was taking place at seven on the nose, which was little more than a half hour away. Hall needed to escape, disable the Wi-Fi jammer in the cabin, use his implants to search beyond run-of-the-mill targets for something truly unique taking place in San Diego, and then communicate his findings back to the team.
It was an impossible task.
Impossible, yes, but at least he had a full thirty minutes to find a way to do it, he thought to himself wryly, trying to maintain a sense of humor when all he wanted to do was scream and roll up into a fetal position.
He had just begun to plan his escape when his attention was diverted by urgent thoughts coming from the two terrorists.
His heart leaped to his throat.
They had detected a military helicopter streaking in a straight line toward their current position. And it was in a very big hurry. Which meant only one thing: it was coming to check up on the Pave Hawk they had downed.
Rehmani and his partner themselves couldn’t track the sarin drone, but had been told to shoot down any military aircraft that appeared to be trying to find it—or them. And one of the seven invisible surveillance and attack drones was now in position to do the job nicely. Rehmani began to maneuver this drone into the helicopter’s flight path, while Hassan Salam sped the six remaining drones toward the area of likely contact to serve as backups.
The military aircraft was making no effort to be evasive, so placing an invisible landmine in its flight path was sure to be decisive.
Panic tore at Hall’s throat like a taloned bird. Although the helo was still out of his and Megan’s telepathic range, he had little doubt that she was on board. It would be the smart play to send her, and the team only made smart plays.
Of course she was on board.
And Rehmani would have the drone in position in a matter of seconds.
19
“Abdul Rehmani, look at me or die!” thundered Hall in Pashto, using the translation function of his implants. “Now! I have a gun pointed between your eyes!”
Rehmani’s head reflexively jerked up from the monitor he was studying, startled by the outburst but also the content of Hall’s words. He quickly inspected the prisoners, noting that they were both still handcuffed and sitting harmlessly against the back wall of the cabin, and neither seemed to have a gun pointed his way.
How did this man know his name? Or know that Pashto was his native language? And it was obvious he didn’t really know the language, but seemed to be reading it—poorly—almost as if from a script.
And why had he chosen now to burst awake and make idle threats to his captors, who clearly held his life in their hands?
As much as Rehmani was eager to ask these questions, he had only seconds to finish directing his drone or he would miss his target—at least for the time being.
As Rehmani bent back to his task, Hall realized he hadn’t delayed him quite enough. He tore through the terrorist’s mind looking for his jugular, for a secret that never failed to get a man’s attention.
“What’s the matter, Abdul,” he said in contempt, this time in English, which both Rehmani and Salam spoke fluently, “afraid I might tell your partner here that you dream of being tied up and spanked by prostitutes?”
This time Rehmani’s reaction was even more severe than when he thought his life might be on the line. He stopped guiding the drone and pointed a gun at the mind reader. Hall read that the terrorist was an instant away from taking a shot and fell to the floor, his version of playing dead, which was just enough to get Rehmani to ease back on the trigger.
Hall allowed himself to feel a momentary triumph. When he needed to get a man’s attention in a hurry, extracting his sexual fantasies was a go-to move that never failed to work. Each man had fantasies he kept hidden away, knowing they would seem deviant to other men—who each had their own set of deviant sexual interests to hide.
Sexual arousal was primal, and no man knew why certain scenarios or images were exciting in this way. But these carnal dreams represented a man’s most private longings, his most embarrassing secret thoughts, which made them his biggest vulnerability.
To Rehmani’s credit, he calmed himself down and returned to his efforts with the drone, but he was still too late. The military helo hurtled past, a galloping horse that had missed being bitten by a rattlesnake in its path by the thinnest of margins.
But the six drones his partner was now controlling were coming on strong from several directions, and would be able to intercept the helo in less than two minutes. Rehmani took control of three of the drones, only pausing to tell Hall, who was still playing possum, that if he uttered even one more word it would be his last.
Hall didn’t need his talents to know this wasn’t a bluff, but he did read Rehmani’s intent not to focus on his prisoners until after he heard news of a successful sarin attack, which was now only twenty-seven minutes away.
Hall reached out with his mind, straining to his limits, screaming Megan’s name telepathically, over and over. It was a race with an unclear outcome. Would he reach her first, or would the six drones?
The helicopter continued on toward the Pave Hawk’s last position at full speed, oblivious to the invisible death being directed toward it, now less than a minute away.
“Megan!” screamed Hall telepathically. “Answer!” he demanded as she and six drones continued to converge in a relatively small region of space. “For the love of God, Megan, tell me you hear me!”
20
Worst-case scenarios spun through Megan Emerson’s mind over and over again in an un
stoppable continuous loop, as the AH-99 Apache whipped through the sky toward the area at which contact with her fiancé had been lost. She was an emotional wreck, consumed by fear for Nick Hall, incapable of doing anything but praying with all of her might that he was okay.
Please let him be alive, she implored a cruel universe, over and over again, as her roiling stomach continued to digest itself. Please!
What would she do without Nick? She couldn’t imagine life without him. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone more, or that there could be anyone in the entire world more worthy of her love.
How did the man who wielded the most power in human history stay grounded, keep a level head, and never abuse this power for his own enrichment? How could he stay such a loving, giving human being, with such a fun-loving personality and such generosity of spirit? Absolute power had not only failed to corrupt him absolutely, it had failed to corrupt him at all.
He was utterly irreplaceable—to her, and to the world.
“Megan!” came a faint telepathic voice in her head.
She jerked upright in her seat. It was Nick! He was alive!
“I’m here, Nick!” she broadcast back in elation. “Where are you? What happened?”
“Invisible drones are about to hit you!” he warned frantically, his mental signal now coming in stronger as the Apache raced ever closer to his position. “You have to get higher!” he insisted in abject terror. “Hurry!”
“Climb! Climb! Climb!” she screamed at the pilot. “We’re under attack by stealth drones!” she added.
Admiral Dinkoff himself had insisted the pilot follow her orders without hesitation, and he did so now. He yanked back hard on the control stick and instantly transformed the Apache’s forward speed into pure lift, threatening to drive Megan and the three SEALs on board through the floor.
“All communications are down,” reported one of the SEALs as the Apache continued its relentless surge ever higher.
“Keep climbing,” sent Hall, his telepathic tone more controlled now that Megan was out of immediate danger. “They’re still on your tail. Make best speed to fifteen thousand feet, but ease your way east as you do, so we don’t lose our connection due to elevation. Once you’re over where we were lost, hover there. I’ve read your pilot and the terrorists. This altitude isn’t a problem for your Apache, but the drones can’t reach above eight thousand feet. This will also put you beyond their communications blackout range.”
Megan issued the relevant orders and then quickly returned her attention to Hall. “What happened to you?” she asked.
“We were attacked by these same drones. My instincts were to dive and then land to avoid them, but this was a mistake, requiring the Pave Hawk to slow too much. We were hit at the last moment and crash landed in a clearing. Kevin Wellman and I are being held captive in a cabin in the woods. Floyd was thrown clear and needs a hospital. Everyone else is dead.”
“I am so sorry, Nick,” she broadcast. She wanted to say much more about the tragic loss of these good men, but there was no time to grieve. “But we can rescue you,” she added. “I know it.”
“Stay put,” insisted Hall. “Attempt a rescue and you’ll only be taken out yourself. Girdler can send someone for us on the ground to avoid the drones. I’m sure he’s already found the wreckage of our helicopter by satellite. I’ve read in the terrorists’ minds that they headed due north from the wreck in a 2021 Toyota 4Runner with Arizona plates, for about three miles. Whoever you send should be able to find the 4Runner, and then the cabin. Make sure they bring a medic to take care of Floyd until we take these assholes out and can fly him to a hospital.”
“I’ll relay this to the general as soon as we get communications back. Any way we can take control of the drone with the sarin gas?”
“No. It’s most likely over the target already. Its course can’t be altered, and it can’t be recalled.”
“Our Utah contingent figured out a way to use the targeted EMP after all,” she broadcast back. “They’ve identified a predatory military drone called the Falcon. Lightning fast. It can catch the ISIS drone in a net and keep it safely above five hundred feet. But we need you to tell us when and where the attack will take place, so the EMP can stop the drone and make it visible.”
“I know the when for sure,” he replied. “The sarin will be released precisely at seven—just over twenty-one minutes from now—as long as it doesn’t detect any evacuation taking place before then. And I think I can determine the target, but I need your help. The moment you have an Internet connection, call up the entire daily event calendar for San Diego. Whatever the target is, I’m certain it’s not something as simple as a stadium or a theme park.”
“Will do,” she replied. “I love you Nick. Even more than you know. Get through this and save the day, and I’ll show you how much in ways you’ll never forget.”
“With that as incentive, how can I fail?”
“Exactly,” broadcast Megan, like him, doing her best to stay positive and ignore the crushing odds against them. “I’m entering search commands on my tablet right now. The instant we get the Web back I’ll tell Girdler how to find you and read you the results.”
21
Hall read that the two terrorists were furious that the helicopter they had been about to destroy had somehow eluded their drones at the last possible instant, and worse, was now hovering beyond their reach three miles up, almost directly over their heads.
Still, the deadly poison would be released in only twenty-one minutes, and while this helicopter was hovering it wasn’t getting any closer to the sarin drone, wherever it might be.
Hall remained slumped on the ground, continuing to play dead, even though he knew he wasn’t fooling his captors. Still, Rehmani’s decision to ignore him until after the attack gave him a window of opportunity.
They weren’t beaten yet.
“Got the list, Nick,” broadcast Megan, now wearing an oxygen mask that one of the SEALs had affixed to her face. The Apache was able to draw hot air off its compressor to keep the cabin warm at high altitude. Fifteen thousand feet was only slightly more than halfway up Mount Everest, but it wasn’t exactly balmy or oxygen rich. “Girdler is working on a rescue op, but there is no way anyone can get to you before seven.”
“Understood,” he replied. “Read me the list. Hurry!”
“The San Diego Young Professionals Society is holding its seventh annual Rockin’ Date Night Auction in the Gaslamp Quarter downtown,” she began. “The annual International RoboSub Competition is taking place on Pacific beach,” she continued after a brief pause. “Student-designed autonomous robotic submarines will compete in a series of underwater tasks.”
She paused once more. “The Home on The Range RV show will continue at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, which boasts all of the top manufacturers and—”
“This is good,” interrupted Hall, “but no need for location or details unless I ask for them. We’re running out of time.”
“Understood,” she replied. “There’s a Hawaiian concert and hula show, a beer and music festival, a showboat dinner cruise, Malala Yousafzai is speaking at a private university, an all-night swap meet—”
Nick Hall’s heart froze in his chest and Megan stopped in mid-sentence, also realizing what she had just said.
Malala Yousafzai was in San Diego. The young woman who had achieved almost legendary status.
Hall barely stopped himself from gasping. How could she not be the target?
No one was more despised by Islamists. No one’s death could be more of a statement than hers.
But why now? he wondered. They could have targeted her at any time. What was special about tonight? And killing her, even in so grisly a fashion, couldn’t possibly produce a devastating enough body blow to the West to satisfy Sayed Nazry.
Hall was one of many around the world who believed that Malala Yousafzai was a courageous and heroic figure of historical proportions. She had grown up in Afghanistan at a time when the Talib
an exerted great influence. This group adhered to the strictest form of sharia law—which was more oppressive to women than most citizens of the West could truly comprehend—and had blown up hundreds of girls’ schools. In their world, the education of women was an abomination and had to be stopped, no matter what it took.
Despite these bombings and an edict in 2009 that girls in Malala’s district could no longer attend schools without suffering consequences, she rebelled. She refused to stop learning, to stop going to school, and blogged about the situation so the world would know what the Taliban were truly about.
She received scores of death threats and ignored them all. In October of 2012, while riding a bus home from school, a masked Taliban gunman shot Malala Yousafzai in the head, with the bullet passing through the left portion of her brain. Miraculously, after being airlifted to a military hospital in Peshawar, she survived.
The assassination attempt received worldwide media coverage and she and her family were able to relocate to the West, where she became the sensation she deserved, a symbol of courage and resolve in the face of evil, of bravery and valor. She was embraced and honored, celebrated for her love of learning and her refusal to back down, becoming the youngest ever recipient of a Nobel Prize—the Peace Prize—in 2014.
She was as despised by Islamists as she was heralded by women’s rights supporters around the world.
“It has to be her,” broadcast Hall. “But they could have made the attempt at any time. Where is she speaking? What’s special about today?”
“Searching for this and other background info now,” replied Megan. “I’ll be back with you soon.”
After a two-minute period that felt like an eternity, she continued. “She’s speaking at USD, which stands for The University of San Diego—not to be confused with UCSD, the University of California, San Diego. USD is a large Roman Catholic college on the edge of an extensive mesa overlooking Mission Bay, two miles from downtown.”
MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3) Page 11
