Countdown to Mecca

by Michael Savage

  “Japan is an island,” said Brooks. “The United States was looking to end a war. We’re looking to start one.”

  This fact, stated bluntly, shut the others’ mouths. As always, Brooks took advantage of the situation.

  “This war must involve everyone, or it will not be decisive,” he went on. “Israel will not stay on the sidelines.”

  “We will not,” said Isaiah. “But we have already borne the brunt of Muslim aggression.”

  “Finally, the main point,” said Lepeur. “You are not willing to make the sacrifice.”

  “I am willing to make any sacrifice,” said Haisd.

  The Frenchman looked at Ashlock, then at Brooks. “And I have said it before, General: America will have no choice but to support Israel in this or risk losing access to oil reserves and to the good will of American Jews.”

  “By your logic, there is no reason to strike Mecca,” countered Isaiah. “Who will get the blame for that, but Israel?”

  “No one will blame Israel,” said Brooks. He needed to take better control of the argument. “Israel will remain the victim. The bomb will be Al Qaeda’s second, blown up prematurely in the airplane shortly after it takes off with Tel Aviv as the target. They wanted to circle the pillar of Islam before setting out. We worked this plan out long ago, Rabbi,” Brooks added, looking at Isaiah’s brother. “If you had objections, you should have voiced them then. Now is too late.”

  “It is not too late. Don’t hit Jerusalem. Or Bethlehem. Or any other site. That is easy.”

  “If we hit Mecca, we definitely start a war, but who knows how much motivation the West will have to finish it?” said Tong, the Taiwanese. “On the other hand, if we hit Jerusalem, every Christian and Jew in the world will take action.”

  “Maybe we should hit Beijing instead and get Asians mad,” said Isaiah.

  “That’s enough,” said Brooks, realizing things were getting out of hand. “Some kind of a strike against Israel is inevitable.”

  “There should be a vote,” insisted Isaiah. “We demand our say. As contributors and planners.”

  “You had your say,” Brooks said firmly. “This is not a democracy, gentlemen. I brought you into this for your help, and, for that, I am truly grateful. I have asked for your advice and guidance, and even your opinions. We discussed these same issues, practically word for word, a year ago. The decision was made then. You all agreed to it, unanimously.” He smiled grimly at each and every one of them. “I did not bring you here for a vote. I brought you here to say that I will give you eight hours’ notice. In the meantime, I suggest you make good use of these days of relative peace. They may very well be the last ones you know in your lifetime.”

  29

  San Francisco, California

  When Jack got back to the safe house, all he saw was hunched shoulders.

  Boaz, Ric, and Sammy were bent over their respective computers; Sol and Doc were tucked over their phones; and Miwa, Ritu, and Ana were leaning over the stove, the chopping block, and Eddie’s doggy dishes.

  When in Rome, he thought and, with nods of acknowledgment from everyone who looked over, Jack went to his own laptop, hunkered down, and tried to track Brooks.

  He wondered why Strategic Command was even involved in anything like this. Various elements of America’s strategic forces—nuclear weapons, satellites, and cyberwarfare units—were all organized under its umbrella. It was a combined command, with units from each service answering to the four-star general in charge. Brooks was the number-two man, and the army’s representative in the leadership. As such, he was essentially untouchable. The perfect person to lead the world into war.

  To Jack’s surprise, Minsky’s powerful Wi-Fi allowed him to access Morton’s history as well. He’d been liaison officer at Livermore and several other labs for about two years. His assignments before that tracked Brooks’s almost to the month. It seemed clear that he had hitched his wagon to Brooks’s stars, and was moving up the ladder with the general’s help.

  That, of course, was interesting, but not exactly helpful at this juncture.

  Jack was about to look over the others’ shoulders when his smartphone buzzed. It was from Dover.

  “Hey, hon, what’s up?”

  Dover dove right in; he could tell that she was on the move, probably making the call while hustling between offices.

  “There’s a lot of traffic—a lot of it—coming out of the Middle East.”

  Traffic meant communications, and if this sort of traffic reached the FBI it wasn’t just one person saying “hi” to another person. The NSA routinely snagged messages on the Internet and from phone lines, decrypting them by the millions. Specific messages, however, rarely provided direct intelligence—few terrorists were stupid enough to say, we are going to bomb point x at time z, even if they were encrypting their message.

  Code guessing—interpreting the meaning of code words—was still an art akin to crystal ball gazing; it was one thing for a psychologist to declare that action words were used as coded commands ninety percent of the time, and quite another for a program to pick the right words out, let alone correlate them to a specific action.

  But patterns in the messages sent—time, volume, length, direction, etc.—were much more easier to detect and interpret. In the years following 9/11, the intelligence services had become increasingly adept at measuring upticks in “traffic,” to name one of the simpler metrics, and interpreting their importance.

  “Terrorist attack kind of traffic?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing definitive yet. I just wanted you to know people are concerned because of the amount of traffic. And…”

  “And?”

  Her next words came in a rushed whisper. “The Agency has ramped up its efforts to find the missing toxin, and is concentrating on Saudi Arabia. Gotta go.”

  “Texting you the code to Sol’s sanctum,” Jack said. “In case you need a safe place to work.”

  The call was disconnected just as Ana announced that the meal was ready. Jack looked around at everyone else’s reactions—they were all standing and stretching—then quietly said into the dead phone, “So do I.”

  The team gathered around the simple, yet elegant, rectangular table: Sol and Jack in the end chairs; Sammy, Ana, and Ric on one side; and Boaz, Ritu, and Miwa on the other. The ladies had made their specialties; fish stew, chicken curry, and sesame noodles. Although stereotypical, they were delicious. Jack and Doc especially savored it. It might be their last solid meal for the foreseeable future. But even before they had all swallowed their first bites, the progress reports began.

  “Got the transport,” said Doc, reaching for some rice. “Someone who owes me a favor has someone else who owes him a favor. We can fly to Saudi Arabia on a private jet. Gulfstream. Very fast, very sleek. And very private.”

  Jack opened his mouth to ask how he pulled that off, then decided he didn’t want to know. He shoved a piece of white fish in instead. As he chewed the surprisingly delicious halibut, he asked, “When?”

  “Tonight,” Doc said around a piece of chicken.

  “Got the translator,” said Sol, twisting some noodles around his fork. “You’ll be met at the airport.”

  “And I’ve got the Riad al-Saud interview scheduled,” Boaz continued. “Tomorrow afternoon.” He checked his watch. “About six hours after you land.”

  “That should give you enough time to check out the Flower of Asia,” Ric reported. “It’s scheduled to dock around two hours after you arrive.”

  Jack was impressed and pleased at the team’s ability. If all went well, they might even be able to, in Doc’s favorite parlance, “cut the shipment off at the pass” and nip the entire conspiracy in the bud. He looked down to see Eddie happily awaiting any table scraps. The sight of the little guy made Jack happy, as well as wistful. Who knew when he’d be seeing man’s best friend again? At least he knew he was leaving Eddie in many good hands.

  “What’s the progress on Morton’s hard drive?�
� Sol asked.

  Suddenly all eyes were on Sammy. He looked back at them with embarrassment. “So far, what I’ve got is just a lot of pictures of his kids,” he mumbled. “It’s not easy you know. It’s a military hard drive, there’s all sorts of firewalls.”

  Just then there was a sharp sound that hurt their ears and made everything on the table jump. They all looked over in surprise at Sol, who had slammed one meaty paw on the table. But he stared only at Sammy, and waited until Sammy stared back.

  “The only person who doesn’t know you’re a valued part of this team is you,” Sol said, pointing between Sammy’s eyes. “That ends now. We don’t have time for it. No more apologies … just do the job you know you can do. Get me, Sergeant?”

  Sammy looked shaken and glanced at Ana. It was her look of caring encouragement that caused his jaw to set and his brow to darken with determination. He looked back at Sol, seemingly a changed man. “Yes, sir.”

  That was when Jack’s phone rang. Looking down at it, he was expecting Dover’s number, but it was one he didn’t recognize—one that was obviously coming from overseas. He vaguely recognized the international codes. Then it hit him.

  “It’s from Israel!” he blurted.

  Ric was up like a shot, and grabbed the device from his hand. “Over here, over here,” he said, all but running to his computer console. “Quick!”

  They all followed, Jack in the lead, as Ric frenziedly searched through the desk’s many wires until he found the one he was looking for. He shoved it into one of the phone’s receptors, and thrust it back to Jack.

  “Hurry,” he said. “Before it goes to voice mail.”

  Jack accepted the call. “Hello?”

  “Is this Jack Hatfield?” came a lightly accented voice Jack could only describe as coolly condescending. “From the television series Truth Tellers?”

  “It is,” he answered, seeing all the others looking at him, except Ric, who only had eyes for a program that was running on his screen—recording, analyzing, and tracing the conversation. “Who is this?”

  There was a slight pause, as if the caller was deciding what to say. “I am on General Thomas Brooks’s staff. You requested an interview?”

  Ana put her hands over her mouth. Sammy put his arms around her. Boaz put one hand on Ritu’s shoulder. Miwa quickly stepped over to stand beside Ric. Jack shifted his gaze between Sol and Doc.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I did.”

  The next words were not what anyone was expecting. “This is your lucky day,” said the caller. “Can you be in Riyadh, the capital city of Saudi Arabia, tomorrow?” He said it like he was expecting Jack to say something like “that’s impossible.” But he seemed unfazed when Jack replied in the affirmative—while looking incredulously at Doc and Sol.

  “Yes. I think I could arrange that.”

  Sol gave him a thumbs-up, appreciating that Jack was sharp enough to say “I” and not “we.”

  “What time?” Jack asked, hoping it wouldn’t conflict with the prince’s interview. It didn’t.

  “The general is busy all day,” came the reply. “Would you be willing to interview him in the evening?”

  “Of course,” Jack answered. “I know how busy he is. I serve at the general’s pleasure.” That seemed to charm the speaker. “Excellent. Can I reach you at this number?”

  Jack looked quickly at Ric, who nodded and gave him the thumbs-up. “Yes.”

  “Then I will call you with the exact time and location.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said quickly. “I’ll be bringing my cameraman and interpreter, if that’s all right.” Jack nearly smiled when he saw Sol silently celebrate Jack’s quick thinking.

  “I don’t see why not,” said the man. “If for any reason you don’t hear from me by tomorrow afternoon, call me at this number.”

  “And who should I ask for?”

  “The name is Andrews,” came the clipped reply—the speaker hitting every syllable of his name as if saying it for the first time. “Peter Andrews. I am the general’s event coordinator.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” Jack replied.

  “Bon voyage, Jack,” Andrews replied frostily in kind. “See you tomorrow. Fly safe.”

  30

  Jerusalem, Israel

  The golden Dome of the Rock stood out from the light clay and dark green colors of the area around it like a half moon in the night sky. General Thomas Brooks stared up at it, letting its beauty and significance bathe him. It was an indulgence, he knew. He really didn’t have time for it. But, deciding to make a virtue of his hardship, Brooks indulged himself in a last-minute visit. There was a very good chance it was the last time he would see the site—sacred to all three major religions—during this lifetime. There was also a distinct possibility it was one of the last times anyone would see it.

  It had been years since Brooks had visited any part of Jerusalem, and he let Colonel Ashlock act as his tour guide, channeling his own indulgence onto the colonel and even his event coordinator as Ashlock pointed out various historical and archaeological highlights. The colonel knew a good deal about the Rock; he knew much more.

  The long history of the site was as complicated and symbolic as any part of Jerusalem. Believed by Jews to be the site where Abraham offered to sacrifice his son Isaac, it was also believed to be the site of Solomon’s Temple—though firm archaeological evidence was lacking. The Jewish Second Temple, the holy structure built after the Jews returned from the Babylon Captivity, was known to have been built here. Reconstructed by Herod, the temple was destroyed by the Romans during the Jewish revolt. Later, its place was taken by Christian churches and a basilica. After Jerusalem was conquered by the Muslims, Caliph Abd el-Malik decided that a shrine would be built on the location to protect the site, said to be the rock where Muhammad had undertaken the holy Night Journey, ascending to heaven and speaking to God.

  General Brooks knew that, religious significance aside, the story of the Night Journey taking place at the site was total fiction; Muhammad’s journey to heaven almost surely originated much closer to Mecca. But people needed their fictions, large and small; disturb the small fiction of where an incident took place, and the larger and more significant belief would be questioned as well.

  Brooks did not believe that religion, even Islam, was fiction. It was something that answered a deep need in the human race. Its power was proof of that. But that power was also its undermining—if enough people were caught up in the surface fictions, the result would be traumatic. For when death and destruction were applauded by religion, there was no stopping them. History made that clear.

  No matter the beliefs about it, there was no question that it was a beautiful building. Not a mosque, but a shrine—the dome exterior and the structure’s interior glowing with gold. The interior circle wall seemed like a golden halo, sitting over the gray sandy color of the rock where Isaac nearly died and Muhammad was said to have gone to Paradise. How much more appropriate that this be the target, Brooks thought. For the symbolism. It could have worked both ways—the intention was to anger the Jews and Christians—but striking the Rock would have angered Muslims as well. That could have made it an ambiguous symbol, and so he had dropped the idea.

  There was no way of knowing precisely how much damage would be done by the bomb intended for Jerusalem. As Brooks had said at the meeting, it was the smaller of the two weapons.

  The air-burst weapon’s initial blast radius would extend roughly five miles in all directions. The poisonous effects would be most severe within about a half mile of ground zero, though ultimately would extend much farther, depending on the wind and the vagaries of chance … such as where people would go before they knew they had been infected with a super-Ebola virus. How many people would they breathe on? How many people would become infected and then infect others? There were too many intangibles, including how much destruction would be caused by the explosive component itself. Although the bomb would be set off above the site, geography would
still play a role, absorbing or amplifying the shock wave.

  Brooks himself thought the zone of destruction might extend to the outskirts of Jerusalem, roughly five miles to the north. There was a chance the airborne Ebola itself, not just the inhaled super-virus, would spread all the way to the Dead Sea, some fifteen miles to the east. In any event, the center of the city, the birthplace of Christ, would surely be destroyed.

  Of course the Israeli conspirators had objected. They would lose many of their countrymen. But they had been the ones to make the argument for the strike in the first place, when Brooks was only talking of destroying Mecca. Without a Jerusalem strike, they persuasively argued, the result would simply be a meandering war—simply a bloodier version of what was happening right now.

  It would be like Iraq in 2007, General Brooks thought. Car bombs and IEDs every hour, in every major city across the United States and Europe. “Rules of Engagement” that handcuffed American soldiers, European governments that decried the sight of blood—but only if it belonged to Muslims, not their own people. A war like that would continue for a hundred years, until the Muslims won.

  “Hit both sides,” the brothers argued. And at that point, at least, they were willing to strike Israel, and had even offered up Jerusalem.

  Brooks walked through the shrine, fighting off the memories of Iraq. He’d led an army corps during the invasion. The assault was a piece of cake. The aftermath was ecstasy—for a few months. Tired of Saddam, tired of the depression caused by misrule and the UN sanctions, the Iraqi people had welcomed the Americans as liberators. It was like Europe in the summer of 1944.

  And then, somehow, somewhere, someone threw a switch.

  The first IED in his area went off on a highway a few minutes after a supply convoy passed. It caught everyone by surprise. One of his divisional G-2s thought it was a Saddam-era bomb whose fuse went off by accident.

  Brooks had removed him within a month. By then, the mujahideen had become much better at both creating IEDs and setting them off. His forces were taking a dozen casualties a week. The next month, it was a dozen a day.