As it turned out, their biggest break wasn’t an object. It was a sound. A simple sound. Nothing more than a drip of liquid falling on concrete. Like a droplet of rain hitting the sidewalk. Jones heard it as he searched for paperwork. On most occasions it would have blended into the outside world and he would have ignored it. But in this case, his senses were in overdrive. Adrenaline was flowing, and everything around him was part of a much bigger puzzle.
A sound could be a footstep. A sound could mean his death.
Drip. Somewhere to his left.
Drip. Back near the maintenance shaft.
Drip. What was that smell?
Suddenly his curiosity was doubled. Not only was there a noise, but there was an odor. A familiar scent that reminded him of his time in the military. Back when he was flying planes and helicopters. Killing time in hangars. Waiting for his next mission to begin.
He took a few steps forward, searching the ceiling and floor for moisture. Finally he saw it. A small puddle underneath the massive water pipe they had followed from the hatch. Curious, he crouched and inspected the liquid. It was clear like water but had a strong chemical smell. He put his nose closer and took a whiff.
“Jon,” he called over his shoulder. “Come over here.”
Payne spotted him in a catcher’s stance, examining a puddle on the ground. He couldn’t imagine what his friend was doing. “Please tell me you didn’t take a piss.”
Jones ignored him. “I think it’s fuel.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think this pipe is leaking fuel.”
“But that’s a water pipe.”
He nodded. “I know it is. But I’m telling you, this isn’t water.”
Dubious, Payne leaned closer and breathed in the fumes. An acrid stench filled his nostrils, burning the back of his throat and making him gag.
“Told you it isn’t water.”
Payne coughed a few times, trying to catch his breath. “What the hell is that?”
But Jones didn’t answer. Instead, he took a few steps down the maintenance shaft, trying to figure out what was going on. He glanced back into the subbasement, following the plumbing, then back into the shaft again, the pieces still not fitting together. “Where do those pipes go?”
“To some private facility in the desert. Shari said the towers were so big they had to pump in their own water.”
“But that’s not water.”
“I know it’s not water. I’m still choking.” He paused for a second as all the nasty possibilities started to sink in. “Wait. What do you think it is?”
“Aviation fuel.”
45
When designing a skyscraper, water pressure is a significant problem that must be overcome. Large pumps in the basement usually service the lower floors. However, it is impractical to pump water directly to a penthouse, several hundred feet in the air. Most buildings are equipped with mechanical floors, every ten floors or so, which are filled with everything from air-conditioning units to ventilation systems. This is where intermediate pumps are stored, used to push water from one stage to the next until the liquid reaches its highest destination.
Unfortunately, this is an inefficient system in the tallest of buildings, always relying on the pump below to send water to the pump above. One mechanical failure and the water stops. This is a huge concern in emergency situations, when sprinkler systems cannot afford to fail because ground-based fire equipment is incapable of shooting water above certain heights.
To remedy this situation, tanks are often installed on the upper floors, where water is stored in case it is needed.
Sometimes the tanks are small, placed on every mechanical floor in the building. Sometimes they’re large, scattered throughout different parts of the system, based on estimated demand. And occasionally, in really big projects such as the Abraj Al Bait Towers, the designers opted for something different.
In the mechanical penthouse, on top of every tower in the seven-building complex, sat a water tank with a capacity of 40,000 gallons. Engineers designed these tanks with a dual purpose in mind. First and foremost, they could supply water to the 65,000 guests who would fill the towers and all the extra people who used the mall, convention center, and prayer halls. Second, the tanks served as tuned mass dampers, absorbing vibrations from high winds and possible earthquakes—not to mention 2.4 million people as they strolled through the Meccan desert during the hajj season—which helped to protect the structural integrity of the building’s core.
Ironically, the tanks were installed to keep the towers standing, but they were the very things that might bring them down.
Trevor Schmidt smiled as he placed the charge along the base of the water tank.
It was the perfect choice for the perfect mission.
C-4, an abbreviation for Composition 4, was a military-grade plastic explosive, one that was preferred by the U.S. Special Forces because its velocity of detonation was ideal for metalwork. Not only was it malleable, allowing it to be molded into specific shapes or wedged into the tiniest of spaces, but it was also highly stable. It could be shot, dropped, kicked, or thrown into a fire, but it wasn’t going to explode without a detonator. For the past few hours, Schmidt had carried five pounds of it in a shoulder bag and never worried about it blowing up prematurely.
Of course, there were other reasons why he’d selected C-4 for this particular job.
Personal reasons.
Due to its precision, C-4 was frequently used by terrorists, including the bombing of the USS Cole, a guided-missile destroyer refueling in Yemen, and the destruction of the Khobar Towers, a U.S. military housing development in Saudi Arabia where nineteen servicemen were killed. Both of those were horrible tragedies that deserved to be avenged, but in Schmidt’s mind, they paled in comparison to the incident at Al-Hada Hospital, where C-4 was used to detonate a fuel truck parked outside the private wing where his men were staying.
That was the attack that fueled his rage.
He thought back to that painful day as he prepared the detonator. For him, it was a simple procedure, one he had done so many times in the past that it was second nature. Like brushing his teeth or tying his shoe. There were no nerves or trepidation. His hands simply did what they were trained to do.
Much like Schmidt himself.
Payne sent the transmission as he and Jones charged up the stairs. “All teams, check in for priority update. Repeat, priority update.”
His men responded in turn, waiting to receive the information.
“Jet fuel has been found in the plumbing. Repeat, inside the plumbing. Focus your search on mechanical floors. Tanks and pumps are prime targets. Sweep for explosives.”
There was a three-second delay before one of his men spoke. “Are floor numbers known?”
“Negative,” Payne answered. “Floor numbers are unknown. But follow pipes when possible. Listen for machinery. Anything to suggest activity.”
Jones added, “Maps might be posted in stairs or elevators. Check there before entry.”
Payne nodded. It was a good suggestion. “Good luck.”
The man they called Luke was positioned high above the central plaza, giving him a bird’s-eye view of the entire complex. Up there, he felt like God sitting on his golden throne because he decided who lived and who died.
Staring through his sniper’s scope, he made his decision.
Death would come swiftly.
With the ball of his finger, he eased the trigger back, careful not to jerk his rifle. The bullet was discharged at three thousand feet per second and slammed into the base of the target’s skull, entering the cerebellum and instantly stopping his motor skills. Pink mist erupted in the lobby as one of Payne’s soldiers fell to the floor.
Luke flicked his wrist, ejecting the spent casing before he chambered a new round.
The Arab American never heard the shot. One moment his partner was jogging in front of him, the next he was falling in a violent burst of blood.
> Stunned by the development, he reacted the way most people would: he rushed to his friend’s side, hoping he could help. Unfortunately, it was a choice that ended his life.
The second shot arrived eight seconds later. Same pinpoint accuracy, same maximum devastation. It punctured his red-and-white headdress, entered his skin and skull, then exited the other side, taking chunks of brain with it.
Two dead men in one messy pile.
Payne spotted them across the lobby and shoved Jones behind a thick stone pillar that shielded them from a frontal assault. They peeked around the corner, soaking in the details of the scene, trying to understand what had happened.
“Sniper,” guessed Jones, who was familiar with their techniques because he had trained as one before the MANIACs. He scanned the terrain, searching for possible positioning. “Somewhere high, but not too high. Range is too tough to gauge.”
Payne listened as he swore under his breath, blaming himself for their deaths.
“Maybe in the hotel. Probably near an exit point.”
“What?” Payne asked, trying to focus on what was said. “Which exit?”
Jones pointed toward the tower above them. Of all the buildings, it had the least amount of work done. Nothing more than a steel and concrete skeleton rising five hundred feet into the sky. Not even a third of its intended height. “Up there somewhere.”
Payne glanced up. Most of the building was hidden from view, blocked by a large overhang that would eventually support the atrium in the mall. Right now there was no glass, just an empty space that opened to the heavens above. “How’d he get there?”
“Construction elevator. No way he walked it. Snipers need to control their breathing to get a precise shot. That doesn’t happen if you’re out of breath.”
“So he’s just sitting up there, waiting to pick us off?”
“Probably.”
“Which means he isn’t placing a charge.”
“Probably not.”
“Then we have to leave him,” Payne said with regret. “At this point it’s all about the math. Bombs can kill a lot more people than the sniper, so we have to focus on the bombs.”
Jones nodded in agreement. “Where do you want me?”
“Take building three. I’ll warn the men, then slip around back to building two.”
Jones turned to leave, then suddenly stopped. “Hey, Jon.”
“Yeah?”
“If you find Schmidt, don’t focus on the past. Don’t hesitate.”
Payne shook his head. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
46
They surged toward Mecca like a dust storm sweeping in from the desert. It started with a slow trickle, a few hundred people who left Tent City right after their required duties, closely followed by a flood of 2.4 million pilgrims, all of them looking to fulfill their hajj obligations.
Payne saw them in the distance on Pedestrian Road, the main route from Mount Arafat, as he rode up the construction elevator attached to the eastern end of Hajar (building two). The crowd’s movement was like a ticking clock, for he knew Schmidt would coordinate his attack with their arrival. Thankfully, they were still a mile away, which gave Payne twenty minutes to find the explosives and render them useless.
Floors whizzed by as the open-air elevator continued to rise. One hand on the remote control and one hand on his gun, Payne slowed his ascent as he approached the top floor, more than eight hundred feet above the plaza. Before exiting, he scanned the rooftop, focusing on the corners, making sure he wasn’t walking into an ambush.
“Checking roof two,” he whispered.
Every few minutes his earpiece would buzz with the latest update from his squad. So far, no luck in any of the towers. No sightings. No discoveries. No explosives. Nothing but two dead soldiers and nothing to show for it.
Time was running out.
Payne took a deep breath and sprinted across the beige roof, trying to reach the mechanical penthouse as quickly as possible. Although this building was currently the tallest one in Mecca, he was surrounded by eight tower cranes that could easily conceal a sniper. Sliding to a stop behind a stack of decorative stones, he turned back and stared at the closest mast, which rose two hundred feet above him and had a working arm capable of lifting twenty tons. Thankfully, no one was up there, but it was the type of machine that could lift a massive water tank and move it into place.
“Going in,” he whispered.
The access door was thick and unlocked. He turned the handle and eased it open six inches, just enough space to glance inside. A set of metal stairs descended into shadows. The only light was the sun, peeking over his shoulder. Time was precious, so he didn’t hesitate. He slipped through the gap and closed the door. He was instantly swallowed by darkness.
Instincts told him he had nothing to fear, that Schmidt and his men wouldn’t be sitting in the dark, waiting to strike. Manpower was too valuable. So Payne slid his hand along the wall until he found a switch. One flick of his finger and the room filled with fluorescent light.
Gun in hand, he eased down the stairs, step by step, scanning his path for booby traps. From there, he shifted his focus to the room itself. Equipment and supplies were scattered along the perimeter wall, nothing that posed a threat or seemed out of place. Then, and only then, did he turn his attention inward, focusing on the object that dominated the center of the room.
The water tank was the size of a small bus. Supported by steel cables attached to the building’s frame, it appeared to hover in space. Payne was familiar with the basic principles of tuned mass dampers—skyscrapers sometimes swayed several feet in the wind, and TMDs were designed to counteract that, acting like a pendulum—but he had never seen one like this.
If Schmidt had filled one of these with jet fuel, an explosion would be catastrophic. Not only from the force of the blast, but also the lingering effects of the burning fuel, which would pour over the roof like a waterfall of fire, dousing millions of pilgrims, literally melting them in the streets. The prolonged heat would be so intense that the steel columns in the tower would start to melt and buckle. Couple that with the added sway from the disabled TMD and a pancake effect would occur. One floor would fall upon the next, which would fall upon the next, until the whole building collapsed in a pile of rubble. Just like the World Trade Center.
The impact and the debris and the panic and the fire would turn the Great Mosque into a war zone. No one would be safe. No one would be protected. Chaos would run rampant in the city.
It would be the worst man-made disaster in history.
Payne tried to block those thoughts from his mind as he searched the room for explosives. It didn’t take long to find one. Made out of C-4, it was molded to the northern side of the tank and armed with a timed detonator. At first glance it appeared to be a simple design, one he could disarm by separating the explosive from the device, but Payne knew things weren’t always as they seemed, especially in the world of munitions.
Who knew what kind of trigger was concealed?
Just to be safe, he decided to get a second opinion.
“Device located. I repeat, device located in building two.”
There was a slight delay before Jones’s voice filled his earpiece. “Location?”
“Attached to a water tank in the mechanical penthouse.”
A crackle of updates filled his ear as the remaining soldiers scrambled to check the penthouse tanks in their assigned buildings. Once things calmed down, Jones spoke again.
“Type of device?”
“C-four. Armed with a timed detonator.”
“How much time?”
Payne stared at the mechanism. “Good question. The timer is covered in the housing.”
“Any triggers?”
“You tell me.”
Jones paused. “Sorry, I can’t see any from here.”
“No shit. I meant, what should I be looking for?”
“You’re in the penthouse, right? Don’t worry about mercury swi
tches or tilt detonators. There’s too much sway up (here to risk it.”
“What would you use?”
“A hidden tripwire. I’d attach it to the water tank from the back of the casing. That way, if someone removed the device, it would detonate.”
Payne looked closer and spotted everything that Jones had described. A thin green wire dangled out of the device, affixed to the tank with some kind of epoxy. “Okay. I found one.”
“You did? Then you owe me lunch because I just saved your ass.”
“Not a problem. Tell me what to do and the falafel are (in me.”
“Do you have any tools? A screwdriver? Anything like I hat?”
Payne smiled. He reached up his sleeve and pulled a blade from its sheath. “I have a knife.”
“Of course you do,” Jones said with a laugh, well aware of Payne’s fascination with knives. “With one hand, hold the wire steady against the casing. Do not let it pull away.”
“Okay.”
“With your other hand, use the knife to pry the wire off of the tank.”
“That’s it?”
“But don’t cut the wire.”
“I won’t.”
“Or let it pull away from the casing.”
“You already said that.”
“I know, but I really want to get a falafel.”
Payne smiled, thankful for the tension breaker. “Is there anything else?”
“Nope, that’s everything. Just do what I said and you’ll be fine.”
He nodded, taking a deep breath. “In that case, get back to work. I need to get this done and you need to search your tower.”
47
Payne held the knife like a surgeon—confident, yet with the utmost care.
His left hand secured the green wire against the casing while his right hand guided the blade, sliding the tip along I he edge of the water tank until he felt residue from the epoxy. He knew different formulas produced different strengths. Some were weaker than modeling glue; others were used in aerospace construction. Obviously, he was hoping for the former.
Sword of God Page 22
