by Jack Mars
But the warheads—that was all he needed.
“La ilaha illa Allah,” he whispered. There is no god, but God.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
3:15 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time (10:15 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
Kleine Brogel Air Base
Kleine Brogel, Belgium
There was a delay getting off the plane.
Luke sat and stared out the window. Nearby were the flashing yellow lights of an equipment truck. The control tower was about half a mile away, with office lights on at the top level. Besides the runway lights, the rest of the base was dark.
“What do Belgians look like?” he said to Ed Newsam.
Newsam shrugged his big shoulders. “Like regular white people, I’d say.”
Luke nodded. “I’m going to shoot the first white person I see.”
There had been nothing but delays since they entered Belgian airspace. The tower had made them circle for forty-five minutes before landing. Supposedly, the Belgians misunderstood Luke’s intentions—they thought an American Secret Service airplane, with important business at the base, was going to land at the Brussels international airport instead. Then its personnel were going to stay at a hotel in the capital, and in the morning, travel by car an extra hour to the base.
Where did they get these ideas?
Luke’s plan had always been to come straight to the air base—he and his team would be tired from the flight, but showing up in the middle of the night would give him a sense of how tightly locked down the base was, and how vulnerable it might be.
No good. The Belgians weren’t having it. He would have to wait. They claimed they’d had to awaken a general so the old man could give them permission to allow the plane to land. Luke didn’t believe a word of it.
He had fallen into a restless doze during the flight. His dreams had been strange, dark, nightmarish. He couldn’t remember any of them, and that was good. What was bad was he felt like he hadn’t gotten any rest—he felt instead like someone had covered his head with a heavy pillow and smacked him repeatedly with a brick.
He had been awakened by air turbulence—the lights were out and the rest of his team was asleep, sprawled out in various parts of the darkened cabin. Luke had gone upfront to talk to the pilots and see where they were. He was surprised to see nothing but darkness out the cockpit windshield—they were out over the Atlantic Ocean, waiting for the Belgians to tell them it was okay to come down.
Now, sitting on the tarmac, the situation was even more frustrating—not a single plane had taken off or landed since they’d been here. There was nothing going on. They could have come in with no delay at all, and gotten right off the plane.
The team was fully awake, gathering their things, but there was no word on when they could leave.
A knock came on the cabin door.
Luke pulled the hydraulic latch from left to right and pushed open the door. A man stood on the tarmac, at the bottom of the plane’s fold-out steps. He wore the blue dress uniform of the United States Air Force.
“May I speak with Agent Stone?”
“That’s what you’re doing.”
“I’m Major Dwight of the USAF. I’m a public relations officer attached to the American NATO contingent here at Kleine Brogel. May I come in?”
Luke stepped aside and gestured to enter. He felt a little like a housewife inviting a traveling vacuum salesman into the house. The man literally had his hat in his hand.
“How can we help you, Major Dwight?”
“Well, there’s a problem with getting on the base tonight.”
“We noticed.”
“This is how it goes,” Dwight said. “If you annoy them, they go into passive-aggressive mode. Everything takes forever. If you insist on your own agenda, we’ll be lucky to get you off this airplane before first light.”
“How did we annoy them?” Ed Newsam said. “We just got here, and we haven’t even seen them yet.”
“Not you personally,” Dwight said. “The United States annoyed them by sending you guys over here to double-check on them. They feel they’ve got it under control. They don’t need people looking over their shoulder, deciding they’re not being diligent enough. This is Belgium. Diligence is a dirty word here.”
“They are aware,” Luke said, “aren’t they, that we have intelligence to suggest the base is the target of a—”
Dwight nodded. “They feel certain they are prepared for any contingency.”
“There are nuclear weapons on this base,” Luke said.
“They don’t like to address that issue,” Dwight said. “It’s a very unpopular thing—not just in this country, but all over Western Europe. Many people believe that the presence of nuclear weapons here would make this entire region a target of Russian strategic missiles, which of course it would do.”
“You’re saying would as if you don’t know there are nukes here,” Ed Newsam said. “That’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”
Dwight shook his head. “The Belgian Air Force’s public stance is that there are no nukes on site, but even if there were, the weapons are disarmed through the use of encryption codes, and securely stored in underground bunkers that are impossible for unauthorized personnel to access.”
“If we disembark this plane ourselves,” Luke said, “will they try to stop us?”
Dwight made a pained face. “Agent Stone, I don’t recommend you do that. Where are you going to go? You’re dealing with international relations here. This is a touchy situation, and it requires a certain amount of tact, and some patience, to deal with it. It’s not like shoving your way off the plane is going to gain you access to the bombs. It won’t. All it will do is create more bad feelings. If you’re concerned, I can tell you that we do already have American airmen on this base. If you look out your windows, you’ll see that the base isn’t currently under attack by terrorists. The nukes are perfectly safe. There is no rush.”
Luke glanced out the window again. There was nothing out there—just flashing yellow lights. A little bit of rain began to spit against the glass now.
“What do they want us to do?”
Now Dwight nodded. A ghost of a smile passed across his face. He seemed pleased. “They want to put you and your gear into a passenger van and take you off the base. The village of Kleine Brogel is just a few minutes away. There is a very nice boutique hotel there that can accommodate all of you. It’s located at a restored traveler’s inn originally built in the late 1700s. The rooms are lovely. The place serves a hot breakfast in the morning, and the owner is a retired chef—the food is wonderful, certainly better than you’ll get here.”
“They want us to…”
“Yes. Leave the base, and stay the night in town. Sleep in, relax, and enjoy your breakfast in the morning. Maybe tour the historic village center, if you feel up to it. Then come back here later in the day. You’ll meet the base commander personally, and he’ll walk you through the security measures in place.”
Luke stared at Major Dwight.
“The President of the United States sent us here,” Luke said. “They do know that, don’t they?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
4:30 a.m. Eastern European Time (10:30 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
Incirlik Air Base
Adana, Turkey
“Slowly! Slowly! Be careful.”
Jamal paced the floor of the large hangar. He was beginning to feel frenzied. The entire project, everything they had worked for, could be undone just because they were going too slow. Yet the engineer overseeing the transfer of the warheads kept insisting that they go even slower.
The sun would rise in less than three hours. They had to be far, far away from here before that happened. When daylight came they would be too vulnerable to move.
A squat, heavy crane was loading the final bombs onto the last truck in line. The crane operator moved each bomb with exquisite care, his movements so slow that his crane almost seemed to be standing still. He had arrived at this stea
dy state because of the beseeching of the engineer.
The engineer’s name was John, after the writer of the Christian scriptures, Jamal supposed, or perhaps John the Baptist. He was very thin, even frail, with thick glasses and a goatee. His eyes were wide and goggling behind his glasses. His mother was from Saudi Arabia. He had grown up in London, studied chemistry and physics, and had spent four years in the Royal Air Force. He knew about as much as a person could know about storing and safely transporting nuclear weapons.
John was working carefully, guiding the nuclear warheads with his own hands as the bomb loader moved them through the air. His touch was almost a caress. John was not a man in the same way the mujahideen fighters were—but clearly he felt passion, and even love. He was in love with the bombs.
He scrambled onto the truck as the workmen bolted the warheads into position.
“Careful, careful,” Jamal heard him murmur.
“John!” Jamal shouted. “May I speak with you a moment?”
The man looked up from his communion with the warhead. He seemed disturbed by the interruption. When he saw it was Jamal who had shouted, he jumped from the truck and walked over to him.
“Your men need to be more careful,” he said. “The bombs won’t go off on their own. Nothing like that. But they are very sensitive to changes in their environment. This is by design. If they are being moved in a way that’s inconsistent with the intentions of their creators, it is possible they will disable themselves. Yes, there are mechanisms built in for this purpose. Small, shaped charges that can destroy the detonator. Regulators that will disperse the plutonium, rendering the weapon useless. Would you like to be standing here when the plutonium is dispersed into this chamber?”
Jamal smiled. They were stealing sixteen warheads, only one of which needed to be operational when the time came. Everything after that was a bonus. What if they managed to keep four of them intact and functioning? Jamal sometimes tantalized himself with fantasies like that. Four warheads, each one with ten times the payload of the Hiroshima bomb? He nearly laughed in delight at the thought of it.
“John, I’m glad that you came. Your assistance has been invaluable. But I want to tell you something. We’re leaving as soon as that last warhead is loaded, and we’re going to have to fight our way out of here. It’s going to be quite dangerous.”
John nodded. “Fine. Will someone escort me back through the tunnel?”
Jamal gently shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. The tunnel has to be destroyed. It’s already wired for detonation. It will blow as soon as the mujahideen start the attack.”
Now John seemed puzzled. “So I’m to stay here, then?”
“No. We can’t risk your capture. Our opponents will surely torture you, and learn everything about this operation.”
John stared at Jamal, his eyes darting like startled fish behind his glasses.
Jamal pulled his sidearm from its holster. He took a sound suppressor from his pocket and slowly screwed it to the barrel of the gun. There was no threat from John and no real danger of the man attempting to run—he seemed perfectly frozen in place. His body began to tremble. Jamal felt that this was a time for complete honesty.
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” he said. “I pray that the Holiest of the Holy will accept your sacrifice as jihad, and I believe very strongly that he will do this.”
For a moment, he directed his comments away from John and to Allah Himself. “Heavenly One, I humbly ask you to throw open the gates of paradise to my brother John this very night.”
He lifted the gun and held it to John’s face.
“Wait!” John said. He lifted his hands, as if the fragile flesh and bones would block the bullet. “Don’t!”
Jamal pulled the trigger. The same instant, John crumpled to the ground. Blood ran onto the stone floor.
Two of the Turkish soldiers came running over.
“Dispose of the body,” Jamal said. “I want no one to find it or identify it. And tell those men I want the warheads loaded and locked down in the next five minutes. There is no more time to waste.”
Along the far wall of the cavernous chamber, about twenty mujahideen lounged, relaxing against their supply packs and their weapons. Some were checking their weapons. A few smoked cigarettes and chatted quietly.
Jamal approached them. If they noticed that he had just murdered the engineer, they made no indication of it. They lived with death every day.
These were fierce men. Jamal had great respect for them, but he did not fear them. He went directly to their leader, a man with a thick, graying beard. The man’s face was deeply grooved. His left arm was gone at the elbow. He had fought, and survived, for many years.
“Abdullah,” Jamal said. “Are your men ready?”
Abdullah sat crossed-legged on the floor. “The men you see here, and the others with us, are the bravest, most experienced fighters alive. There is no fear in their hearts. They are always ready to die. If you had seen them holding the line against the infidels at Tikrit… it was a beautiful thing to witness.”
“I have no doubt of this,” Jamal said. “The trucks will be loaded any moment. Once you launch your attack, we will make our run for the gates. I wish you peace, and if Allah wills it, that you look upon His face today, and for all eternity.”
Abdullah nodded. “I know who you are. The nameless one, the rumor, the one they call the Phantom.” The man seemed almost like he would laugh, but he didn’t. His hard eyes stared into Jamal’s.
“Some say Allah protects you. Some say the Devil. It’s a strange feeling to see you with my own eyes—until today, I was not sure you were even real. If it pleases Allah, I would wish you everything you would bestow upon me. But I think the Great One has other plans.”
Jamal didn’t answer for a long moment. “Five minutes,” he said. “Then I would like the shooting to begin.”
Now Abdullah smiled. There was a black gap where many years before, his right front tooth had been. He climbed to his feet. “Five minutes. We’ll be ready. And perhaps you and I will meet again, in Heaven, or maybe in Hell.”
Jamal turned and walked to the lead truck. He climbed into the passenger seat. A submachine gun leaned against the seat, waiting for him. He looked at the driver, a young man nervously smoking a cigarette.
“Let’s go,” Jamal said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
10:35 p.m.
The Situation Room
The White House, Washington, DC
“Turkey has fallen into chaos.”
Susan sat at the head of the conference table. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her jeans and sweatshirt. She stared as Kurt Kimball made one dire assessment after another. After months of unrest, Turkey appeared to be collapsing at lightning speed.
On the screen behind him, images of violence were interspersed with maps of the country. “We have street fighting in a dozen cities. The army is attempting to impose martial law, but we haven’t even been able to determine which units are loyal to the President, and which are in on the coup attempt. The Presidential Palace has been the site of a vicious firefight. There are tanks lined up on the plaza outside the Palace.”
“Any word from the president himself?” Haley Lawrence said.
Kurt shook his head. “There was an announcement that the president was going to go on national TV to reassure the people, but the power has been out in most of the country for over an hour. The TV stations are down. The internet is down.”
Susan thought of the president, Ismet Batur. She had hosted him one afternoon about three months ago. He seemed like a kind man. They’d had lunch together, one of those “long-time allies, discussing issues of mutual interest and concern” meetings. The Russians had just seized three Turkish islands in the Black Sea without firing a shot. Outside of lodging a complaint, there wasn’t much to be done. Apocalyptic wars didn’t happen over islands with three thousand people on them—not in Susan’s world.
“What
about Incirlik Air Base?”
Kurt nodded. “It seems okay at the moment. Our Thirty-ninth Air Wing is stationed there. We share it with the Turkish Air Force, and a small contingent of the Royal Air Force, each group in their own section. The power has been cut off at the base, and all flights are grounded, both in and out. There have been sporadic attacks on the base during the past couple of hours, so far easily repelled. We’ve sustained a few minor injuries, and inflicted what appear to be heavy losses on the attacking force.”
“Who is the attacking force?” Susan said.
Kurt shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Rogue elements of the Turkish military? An Islamist militia? The fighting has been in total darkness. In the morning, we should be able to discover more.”
“Does it concern you,” Haley said, “that there are nuclear weapons on that base?”
“Very much so,” Kurt said. “Fully twenty-five percent of our stockpile in Europe is stored at Incirlik. Perhaps a hundred B61 missiles, and also some obsolete W84 warheads.”
Now Susan stared. “I thought those weapons were safe, off the table, so to speak.”
“They should be,” Kurt said. “We have five thousand troops stationed at that base. They don’t control the entire base, but the likelihood of any part of that base being overrun, and the weapons stolen, with that number of American troops onsite, is pretty low. A massive force would have to attack that base to defeat our troops, and it’s clear that nothing of the sort is happening.”
Susan got a sinking feeling in her gut from this talk. “Is it possible,” she said, “that this is the attack Don Morris was talking about? That he had it wrong—the attack wasn’t against the base in Belgium, it was against the base in Turkey?”
“It’s possible,” Kurt said. “But unlikely. Coup attempt or not, Incirlik really is a hard target.”
