book

by Unknown

  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 iiis 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 histor
y.

  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 switches 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 die 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 die 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

  I'nyne 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 qioxy. 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.

  With a hint of pressure, he inched his knife into the resin, uying to pry the wire loose. It quivered slightly, moving with his effort as he slowly broke the bond that held it secure.

  First a chip. Then a crack. Then a huge sigh of relief as the wire popped free from the tank but stayed imbedded in I lie detonator. Just like Jones had promised.

  Shit. I owe him afalafel.

  Payne smiled at the thought, realizing it was a debt he'd gladly pay if he managed to get out of the city alive. Unfortunately, he wasn't ready yet. Not even close. The

  tripwire was one thing; the bomb itself was another. Not only did he have to disarm the timer mechanism, he also had to figure out what to do with the C-4 so it wasn't used by someone else. Whether that be Schmidt. Or the Saudis. Or some terrorist group that operated out of the area.

  Which meant he had to do more than disarm the bomb.

  He had to take the damn thing with him.

  Jones finished his search of building three but came up empty. Literally.

  The mechanical penthouse did have a water tank, just like Payne had described in building two, but there was no liquid inside. The massive tank was bone dry, not a drop of water or jet fuel to be found. When he tapped on its side, it sounded like a hollow drum.

  "Three is clear," he announced.

  Jones hustled back across the roof and into the construction elevator. Due to the death of his soldiers, there were still two more towers to inspect. Building five (Sarah) sat to his west, in the back corner of the complex. Strategically, it would be the least likely target, since it posed the smallest threat. On the other hand, building seven (Safa) was right up front, overlooking the main road that would soon be filled with pilgrims. In his mind, that made it a probable target until he stared down at it from the elevator and saw that the top floor was still being built. There was no water tank or mechanical penthouse. There wasn't even a roof. That meant unless Schmidt found some other weakness on the lower floors, the odds were against its attack.

  To Jones, the building that seemed most vulnerable was building six (Marwah). It was closest to the Great Mosque, sitting just north of Payne's tower, and its construction seemed to be the farthest along. He saw windows. And stonework. And painting. All the little details that get taken care of after the big stuff was finished. Including the installation of pipes and water tanks.

  "Building six, what's your status?"

  There was a slight delay. "The elevator is broke, so I'm hooting it to the penthouse."

  "Current location?"

  "Floor nine."

  "Nine? What's the holdup?"

  "There's scaffolding everywhere, and I keep tripping on my goddamn dress."

  Payne heard the transmission and nearly burst out laughing; the only thing that prevented it was the severity of the situation. "If Nancy needs my help, I'm available."

  Jones smiled, glad that Payne was still alive. "Is two clear?"

  "Two is finally clear."

  "Glad to hear it."

  Payne continued. "I spotted a walkway that connects my building with six. I can get to the penthouse before he can."

  "Where do you want him?"

  "Send him to one of the remaining towers. Whichever is closest to the mosque."

  "Sending him to seven."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "I'm going to ..." Jones stopped, breaking off his response in midthought. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. "I think I see the sniper."

  The soldiers known as Matthew and Mark were getting frustrated. According to their watches, they should have hccn heading toward their rendezvous point, not dicking around with the detonator in building six. The explosive had been placed, and fuel was in the tank. Just as it should be. Unfortunately, when Mark tried to set the timer on the device, it wouldn't start. Either it was defective or broken or its battery was lacking juice.

  Whatever the case, the damn thing didn't work.

  At this point, they didn't have many options. The other device was set to go off in less than twenty minutes, and when it did, they didn't want to be anywhere near the complex.

  The clock was ticking and the pressure was building.

  They couldn't afford any more delays.

  Spotting the sniper was nothing more than a lucky break. Jones was in the construction elevator in building three, studying the layout of the complex. While he spoke to Payne, he saw a flash of movement in building one. The Hotel Tower would eventually be twice as tall as the others; however, right now it was just a partial shell, a third of its eventual height.

  Jones slowed the el
evator for a better look and confirmed his initial sighting. There was a man with a rifle positioned near the northeastern corner. He was gathering his things, getting ready to leave. Maybe to find a better spot. More likely to evacuate the site. Whichever the case, Jones knew this was his best chance to stop him.

  Payne had mentioned a walkway between two and six, and Jones knew the same thing existed between one and three. In fact, all of the buildings were interconnected with a series of bridges and corridors. Two connected with four and six. Three connected with five and seven. And one connected with two and three.

  Seven buildings, but no need to walk through the lobby to move between towers.

  At least that's how it would be when the complex was done. Right now, the only ming connecting one and three was a series of long steel beams separated by the width of a car. No floor. No ceiling. No windows. Just a lot of open air and five hundred feet to fall if he took a misstep or a strong gust of wind decided to knock him off. If so, he would land in the central plaza, creating a much bigger mess than the two soldiers who were killed by the sniper.

  Screw it, he thought. This guy is mine.

  Jones exited the elevator and walked to the edge of the steel frame. In his mind, the key to staying calm was getting things over with before he had a chance to get nervous, so he pulled his thobe above his knees—not wanting to trip— took a deep breath, and stepped onto the narrow beam. It felt solid underneath his feet, like walking on a curb.

  Step after careful step, he moved at a steady speed. Never looking down. Always focusing on a point five feet in front of him. Make it there, then move to the next. Nothing but small segments. Never large. It was the best way to avoid being overwhelmed.

  The entire trip took thirty seconds. By the end, his heart was pounding and his left hand was quivering from all the adrenaline. He flexed the hand a few times, took a deep breath, then continued forward. Refusing to look back at what he had conquered.

  More concerned with the perils that waited around the corner.