by Tom Lowe
“How far is Sycamore Drive?”
“GPS says twenty-five miles. When we get there, Sharif will be long gone.”
“We’ll start helicopter surveillance for a blue cargo van.”
A SWAT team surrounded the home on Sycamore Drive, a green Land Rover still in the driveway. O’Brien and Hunter, along with four FBI agents went through the front door. The men cleared each room.
O’Brien motioned to a smaller door behind a kitchen alcove. He slowly turned the handle, the smell of sulfur-gunfire and blood was at the top of the steps.
“Jesus Mary ….” a younger agent said.
“Oh, God,” whispered another.
Lisa Toffler had been shot through the forehead. Her father’s headless body was on the floor, the bloody head propped in the dead girl’s lap with a note stuck in the mouth. Hunter pulled it out and read, “‘America, your children carry the weight of your mistakes. Your doctrine was not written for the world … Mohammed Sharif.’”
The younger agent opened a door to the backyard. He vomited in the shrubbery.
Hunter’s cell rang. “Yes!” he barked, closing his eyes to try to hear over the agent’s heaving outside the door. “How far is that?” he asked. “Excellent! Give me choppers. Deploy the F-16s! Move!”
The agents turned toward Hunter. He said, “A small airfield outside of Augusta. Sort of an executive airport. A mechanic was closing when he saw a blue van pull up and men get out. Didn’t think much about it until he saw that one of the men had his hands tied behind his back. The mechanic spotted him when the other guys left the rear doors open after they off-loaded something in a blanket.”
“Let’s roll!” O’Brien said, taking two steps each up the stairs. “Where is the mechanic now?” he asked. “Sheriff’s dispatch has been trying his cell. No answer.”
“Not good,” O’Brien said. “Not good at all.”
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
One of Sharif’s men measured the bomb under the quilt and then measured the cargo area of the plane. “We’ll have to remove the two back seats,” he said.
Sharif looked at his watch. “Hurry!” he shouted. “The Americans might be close. He looked at Jason in the van. “We will videotape you getting on the aircraft, taking your last ride as you and Waahid bomb the city of Atlanta. I know the history during your Civil War, which I believe has never ended. General Sherman marched through Atlanta, almost burned it to the ground. We will do what the general failed to do. I hear Atlanta is the home of Coca Cola … the real thing, no?”
“Might as well kill me now,” Jason said. “No way in hell I’m going to drop a nuclear bomb on an American city.”
“You and Waahid will not ‘drop’ the bomb. You will crash the aircraft into the heart of the city. You are part of the bomb! For Waahid, it will be the threshold to paradise. Masalaama. For you, and your narrow-view religion, it is the end.”
O’Brien drove as he and Hunter listened to the FBI analyst on the speakerphone. She said, “The airport is between Highway 17 and 37 in southern Madison County. Have a satellite aerial. We count six people. Not known if all are hostiles. They are outside a building. There are five buildings, two large enough to be hangers. Hostiles are in front of the second large building to the right of the entrance drive. Some may be in the building. One person is in a prone position. Assumed dead. You can approach from the service road and drive up to the rear of the hangers to minimize the risk of a visual. There are two large trees that might offer cover. ”
“Thanks, Patti,” Hunter said. “Give me an open channel to Mark and the team.”
“Stand by.”
O’Brien said, “We need to surround these guys and avoid crossfire.”
“Understand,” Hunter said.
“Channel is open,” said the analyst.
“All units,” Hunter said, “follow us through a spur road leading to the rear of the airport. From there we’ll have teams of two fan-out and cover the perimeter best we can. Hostiles are in front of the second hanger to the right. Some could be in the building. The goal is to keep the twin-engine Beechcraft from taking off.”
“Roger,” said a voice on the speakerphone.
Sharif’s men entered a hangar and began searching for tools. “This should work,” said one man lifting a red toolbox off a bench. We can have the rear seats out in a few minutes. Come, Samir, you are good with your hands.”
“Abdul, go to the aircraft. Stand guard.” Sharif punched numbers on his satellite phone, waited for the connection as he stood in the wide hangar door and watched the men unbolt the rear seats. In Arabic he said, “The hour is here. We will have the plane in the air within five minutes. The great American city of Atlanta will go down in a ball of heat … yes … Allah has led us here … Allah akbar, hamdulillah!”
O’Brien drove down the dirt spur road, careful not to stir dust. Three SUVs loaded with federal agents followed. They parked beneath two large live oaks about one hundred feet from the rear of the hangars.
O’Brien said, “Remember, they’re holding a hostage. You all have the description of Jason Canfield. He needs to walk out of here. His father died on the bombing of the USS Cole. This one is for Jason’s dad! Let’s make sure his son lives.”
Both rear seats were on the tarmac to the left of the Beechcraft. The men removed the quilt from the bomb and walked it over to the open doors on the plane. The bomb was like a fat torpedo. More than four feet in length. Two feet thick. Ugly gray, a dark tapered point. Twin fins on the tail. It took five men to lift it into the plane.
One man held a video camera recording everything. Three others stood guard holding AK-47 assault rifles. Sharif and Rashid Aahmed were at the hangar door. Sharif just ended a phone call while Rashid scanned the area for intruders. “It is time,” Sharif said, walking toward the plane. “Bring Canfield.”
In front of the plane, Waahid-Barak dropped to his knees, body facing east and lowered his forehead to the ground. When he stood, Sharif kissed both of his cheeks and said, “You will be the martyr all our children’s children will respect. You are mujaddid. You were chosen by Allah. You will have a special place in paradise. Salaam alaikum.”
Waahid bowed his head. The men watched as he climbed in the pilot seat.
Two men lifted Jason who screamed, “Shoot me now assholes! I’m not going on your bombing mission!”
One man hit Jason in the jaw with the butt of his pistol. Jason dropped to his knees. The man with the video camera zoomed in closer on Jason’s face. Sharif shouted, “Jason Canfield! The choice is yours. Renounce the atrocities of your government and you live. If you do not, you will have a front row seat to the greatest explosion ever to happen on American soil.”
Jason was silent.
“Renounce the hypocrisy of the Unites States … the land of the free!”
“Fuck you!” Jason yelled.
Sharif kicked Jason in the face, the blow knocking him back on the runway. “Load the infidel into the aircraft!” shouted Sharif. The men loaded him in the front seat, hands bound behind his back.
They slammed the door as Hunter whispered in his radio, “Let’s take ‘em!”
“Hands up!” Shouted an FBI agent as they fanned out from the building.
“Get down! Down! Down! Faces on the Ground!” ordered another.
“Depart!” shouted Sharif, waving his arms. The pilot started the plane amidst Sharif’s men firing rounds from their AK-47s. They ran for cover behind the van and planes.
O’Brien heard a bullet wiz above his left ear as Sharif sprinted to the hangar.
“Jason’s in the plane!” Hunter shouted. “Shoot the tires!”
The automatic rounds from Sharif’s men ripped through the corrugated aluminum hangars. The agents returned fire, killing two men in seconds.
O’Brien turned, running full bore to the parked SUV. He grabbed a 30.06 scoped rifle and bolted toward the old flight tower. He keyed his mic. “Cover me! I’m climbing the ladder to the tow
er. I’m going to try to take out the pilot before he gets in the air!”
The agents released a barrage of bullets at the two remaining terrorists. One saw O’Brien climbing the tower and rose to get off a shot. Hunter fired a round and the man’s head exploded. The last man hiding behind the van threw out his rifle and shouted, “I surrender!”
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
The Beechcraft was at the end of the tarmac, engines revving, the pilot moving down the runway. O’Brien stood on the platform fifty feet above the ground. He used the railing to steady his rifle and followed the small, twin engine plane through the scope. The sun was setting directly behind it, pushing light through the window. In the profile, he could see Jason looking out the window, a horrific expression, a plea on his young face.
O’Brien would have to shoot through Jason’s window to hit the pilot. O’Brien stood, waving his arms, gesturing for Jason to duck down.
Jason saw the man on the tower in the last rays of sunlight, waving his arms, then signaling in a squatting-like motion. “Sean ….” whispered Jason, under the drone of the engines. He leaned down, touching his forehead to his knees.
“You sick? Sit up!” ordered the pilot.
O’Brien looked through the scope as the plane moved at least forty miles an hour, its wheels bouncing off the ground.
One shot.
One second to take it.
Hunter stared up from the ground. “Come on O’Brien,” he whispered. The rest of the agents watched, each man holding his breath as O’Brien aimed.
O’Brien exhaled slowly. He stopped breathing. He had the pilot’s profile dead center.
NOW.
He squeezed the trigger. The window above Jason head exploded. The bullet struck the pilot in the temple. He slumped back in his seat, the left side of his head blown off.
Jason used his feet to maneuver the controls on the plane’s floorboard and managed to use one knee to back off on the throttle. The plane, swerving and rocking, taxied to a stop ten feet from entering the highway.
O’Brien and Hunter jumped in their SUV and drove to the end of the runway. O’Brien opened Jason’s door and helped him out. Hunter checked the pilot. “Dead! That shot might make some kind of world record.”
Jason tried to stand, knees wobbling, his voice coming in an emotional burst. He leaned back against the plane. Through streaming tears he said, “Sean, they were gonna kill millions of people … millions.”
O’Brien hugged Jason as three F-16s roared overhead. “Stay here, Jason!”
“Where are you going?”
“This isn’t over.” To Hunter, he said, “Cover me. Have the men cover the exits from the hangar. Mohammed may be hiding in there. O’Brien sprinted around a half dozen idle planes. He darted behind a dumpster, zigzagging toward an open door to the hangar. He ran past a classic Triumph motorcycle parked next to the door, the ignition keys winking in a ray of sunlight.
O’Brien stepped over a man’s body lying just inside the door. He was dressed in blue coveralls. Shot in the back of the head. The mechanic. Mid fifties. Probably his motorcycle out front. O’Brien tried to control his breathing as he reached for the door handle. He opened it just enough to see inside the hangar. A plane and a Learjet were inside. A bumblebee hovered over a doughnut on a paper plate beside a coffee stand. A sparrow flew between the rafters, the movement just enough to break the silence.
The jet moved. Slightly. Someone inside. O’Brien burst through the door and rolled up behind the jet. “Come out Mohammed! It’s over!”
Three shots were fired from an opening where the jet’s door was ajar. One bullet hit the propeller a few feet from O’Brien’s face. The second nicked his left shoulder. In the earpiece, O’Brien heard Hunter. “Sean, what’s the status in there?”
The jet’s engines started, the whine deafening in the hangar. The Learjet began taxing, easily pushing through a flimsy bay door.
Eric Hunter and the men scattered off the runway as the Learjet plowed through the hangar door. One man aimed toward the front section of the jet. “Hold fire!” Hunter ordered. “We don’t know if O’Brien’s in there.”
As the Learjet taxied farther down the tarmac, O’Brien straddled the motorcycle, bringing the engine to life. He roared through the gears, quickly gaining on the jet.
Mohammed looked out the pilot’s window. A man was approaching the jet on a motorcycle. He laughed. “Sean O’Brien. You are a boy on a toy.” Mohammed accelerated faster, the jet engines screaming. He watched O’Brien steer with one hand, blood staining his shirt, while pulling a pistol from his belt. “And now you are a boy with a toy gun. We shall meet again, infidel.”
The jet was seconds away from becoming airborne. The motorcycle ten feet from the tip of the left wing on the pilot’s side of the jet.
“Come on, Sean …,” Jason said. “Don’t miss.”
O’Brien was approaching eighty miles an hour. As the jet was lifting off, O’Brien aimed the Luger and fired. The single bullet ripped through the metal surrounding the cockpit burying deep into Mohammed’s chest. Mohammed glanced out the window in horror, fighting to control the jet, the world going dark all around him.
One of the wings clipped the runway causing the jet to flip end-over-end like a metal garbage can caught in a hurricane gust. It exploded in a ball of orange flames. O’Brien could feel the heat on his face, the Learjet disintegrating before his eyes, a plume of black smoke rising high like an oil well fire. O’Brien dropped the Luger and hit the brakes. The motorcycle was moving too fast, right toward the wall of flames. O’Brien laid the motorcycle down, sparks flying as metal tore into the asphalt runway, the motorcycle coming to a stop about fifty feet from the inferno.
“Call the paramedics!” shouted Hunter. “O’Brien’s got to be in bad shape. Call the fire department! Looks like all hell just popped out of the earth.” The men jumped into their vehicles and raced toward the end of the runway.
O’Brien tried to stand, his legs unsteady, heart slamming, blood seeping from the wound on his shoulder, the heat like a blast furnace off his skin. He limped backward, his right ankle broken, ribs shattered. He bent down painfully and picked up the Luger in his bloodied right hand. He turned back to see the jet burn, the acrid smell of melting rubber, fuel, human skin, and black smoke billowing toward the perfect blue sky.
“A black bullet to paradise …,” O’Brien said, his voice a whisper beneath the roar of fire, popping glass and cooking metal.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
The following week a memorial was held for Billy Lawson at his gravesite. Two gray squirrels chased each other around a live oak as the people arrived in the cemetery. Soon, the two rows of folding chairs were filled. Glenda Lawson and Abby sat in the center of the first row. A dozen members of the U.S. Army, including the Secretary of Defense, were in attendance.
O’Brien, foot in a cast, bruised and sore, stood under an oak tree and watched the service. Abby reached for her grandmother’s hand, the dapple sunlight filtering through the live oaks and Spanish moss. A soft wind carried the scent of honeysuckles and oak. A dark blue butterfly alighted on the mound of fresh earth atop Billy’s grave.
Secretary of Defense Lewis Whitney and General William Wilson stood, approached the color guard where PFC John Lewis handed General Wilson a folded American flag. Secretary Whitney and the General stepped in front of Glenda and Abby. General Wilson said, “Mrs. Lawson, this flag is presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your husband, William Lawson’s, honorable and faithful service to the United States of America. Private First Class, William Lawson, died a war hero.”
Secretary of Defense Whitney said, “Mrs. Lawson, and Abby Lawson … on behalf of the President and the United States’ Congress, it is our honor to bestow a posthumous symbol of our appreciation, the Congressional Medal of Honor, for William James Lawson who displayed immeasurable heroism in the last stages of World War II. Our nati
on owes him a debt and our gratitude.”
Glenda Lawson and Abby stood, Abby holding her grandmother’s arm. Tears welling in Abby’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. They accepted the flag and the medal.
“Thank you,” Glenda said. She and Abby stepped to the grave. Glenda gently set the medal on top of Billy’s headstone. The two women held hands. Their thoughts silent, their bond forever. In the distance a cardinal sang as Glenda Lawson told her dead husband how much he was loved.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
O’Brien walked with Max down to his dock on the St. Johns River. The sun was warm and a dragonfly hovered just above the dark water. A young alligator crawled on a cypress knee. It had been almost a month since the funerals for Billy Lawson, the FBI agents and Lauren Miles all were held. Besides Billy and Lauren’s, O’ Brien couldn’t bring himself to attend any of the other funerals. There were too many. He’d seen enough suffering and pain. He knew that Jason Canfield would suffer post-trauma for years, maybe the rest of his life. He would spend time with the kid and do what he could to help him.
Dave Collins had healed well, a metal screw forever in his right shoulder, a dull pain when he lifted something. Dave rationalized it would give him a legitimate excuse to enjoy a few more dry martinis.
Eric Hunter had testified before the U.S. Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, Hunter’s identity long since compromised. The Department of Energy had taken the bomb to the Savannah River Nuclear facility and dismantled it. Officials said that physicist Lee Toffler had wired the bomb in a way that would have kept it from detonating.
