Countdown to Mecca

by Michael Savage

  “Yes,” Jack said for the third time. “Thank you. Tell the general I look forward to talking with him.”

  “I will—” Andrews started, but Jack had already ended the call. He slipped the device back in his pocket as he looked at Doc.

  “Rigor not completely set in,” the old soldier intoned. “But they didn’t die from natural causes.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Jack said tightly. He looked at the sun. “So they were recently killed. And now we have a deadline. First the prince, then the general.”

  Doc nodded. “Which means we better find who killed them fast.”

  Jack nodded in return, waved Jimmy over, and the three began shoveling the dirt back over the dead men. Though the temperature was still in the low eighties, Jack’s hands were cold. The back of his neck froze and knotted. Rising when he was done, he felt every muscle stiffen. His legs trembled as he walked to the car.

  “We go now?” Jimmy asked as he opened the driver’s side door. “We get help?” The look on Jack and Doc’s faces gave him his answer. His own expression changed to one of understanding. If any justice was to be found in this godforsaken place, it would be found by them.

  Incongruously, Jimmy smiled like a panther spotting his prey. “We go on, then,” he said, starting the car. “To the Air Force base.”

  Jimmy piloted the car beyond the village of the dead. On the way, they grimly went over what they knew and what they feared.

  “Those men helped Brooks’s people make a bomb,” Jack said. “Then, when the last pieces came in—the switches—they were killed.”

  Doc nodded once, gravely.

  “You think the cops will find the bodies at the village?” Jimmy pressed.

  “Probably not,” Doc said. “Who will tell them? And the bodies will be gone in a few days. Scavengers’ll pick them apart.”

  “Under the sand?”

  “It was a shallow grave. Wind will blow it off. That’s why we use rocks in the field, not—not like this. I’m sure they did it on purpose.”

  Jack considered making an anonymous call to the Saudi authorities, but quickly realized there was no sense in taking that risk. Even if the local police recorded what they found, it was likely to be suppressed.

  “You’re thinking,” Doc noted.

  “Yeah. So their killers can’t be far,” Jack decided. “No way they’d set the workers’ village miles from the base.”

  Sure enough, within minutes, the car reached a large platform, covered with sand but perfectly flat, spread out by the side of the road. Jimmy quickly turned, and they found themselves at the top of a hill. Jimmy stopped the car behind the nearest dune, then the three scurried out to lay at the crest of an overlooking bluff.

  Doc used the digicam. Jack used his smartphone’s camera zoom. Jimmy just used his dark eyes to seemingly see for miles. All of them saw a trio of small buildings set in a little cleft between two hills, about five hundred yards below them. The largest of the three structures looked like a stretched one-car garage—maybe four or five car lengths long and barely much wider than one. It had had an overhead door at its face, and another door near the corner at the side, but was otherwise without openings.

  One of the smaller buildings looked like a cottage, albeit one that might have only two rooms; the other was bunker-like, short and squat. They seemed to be made from concrete, though from this distance, even with the camera at full zoom, it was difficult to tell.

  The small complex was surrounded by razor wire and two very large fences. Two heavily armed men patrolled the perimeter. The guns were HK G36s, easily recognized because of the launcher below the barrel. They were good guns, but definitely not Saudi-issue. The Saudi regular forces were mostly armed with Steyr AUGs; some elite forces used M16 and AR15 variants.

  “Why would they need the grenade launchers?” Jack asked softly.

  “Slow down an attack,” muttered Doc, eye still glued to the soft rubber eyepiece of the digicam. “Blow stuff up. The usual reasons.”

  “Maybe projectile blow up vehicle,” offered Jimmy.

  There were two minivans in the parking lot, along with a pair of white pickup trucks. And a cargo container.

  “There are no guards at the back,” Jack realized. But the gate there was wide open, leading to a driveway that connected to a long runway etched out of the sand. Pointed toward the horizon was a small plane.

  “Man moving,” said Jimmy, pointing at a person leaving the building.

  Doc zoomed in on the man. “Not Saudi.”

  “Westerner?” Jack asked.

  Doc shook his head. “From the facial structure and light hair, I’d say Eastern European.”

  “Russian?”

  “Maybe. The two guards as well.”

  Jimmy tapped Jack quickly on the arm. “He going to truck.”

  They watched intently as the man started the truck’s engine and the vehicle started lurching toward the exit driveway, and the plane. The hair on all three men’s necks stood up. It was as if all had been hit by the same thought at the same time.

  “Can you see what the truck is carrying?” Jack asked. As he was speaking he used every pixel his smartphone’s zoom had. He thanked the Lord that the truck was an older one, with just a canvas cover that was rolled up at the back.

  They could all see a crate there, but there was no way Jack could discern the number from this distance.

  “Anything?” he asked Doc intently.

  By all rights, the old soldier’s vision should have weakened by now, but somehow it had only gotten stronger. Even so, even he couldn’t make out anything specific on the crate.

  “No,” Doc said, thumbing the digicam’s zoom repeatedly, hoping against hope that somehow he had missed its optimum level.

  Both men broke from staring at the back of the truck when they heard the trunk of their own car open. They looked over to see Jimmy taking an old-fashioned, nautical, telescoping spyglass out of the compartment. He ran back, and plopped down between them.

  “Gift from SEALs,” Jimmy grunted. As he pulled the object out to its longest setting, Jack saw the inscription on the side. To ol’ Eagle Eye, from a Grateful Crew. Jimmy used it to target the back of the truck as it bounced toward the plane.

  Jack held his breath, but he was already certain that it was the container they had been looking for. What else could it be? What else was worth killing all those buried men for?

  “No numbers,” Jimmy said. “Too bouncy. But crate from same ship. Flower of Asia, yes?”

  “Christ Almighty!” Jack hissed. “They have the bomb, they covered their tracks, now they’ll destroy the base and fly it out. What are we going to do?”

  “Two Glocks against G36’s?” Doc grunted. “Close to suicide.”

  “Close?” Jack snapped back. “But if we don’t try, maybe millions will be…!”

  Jimmy decided the matter for them. Both men’s heads snapped right as they heard the throaty roar of the car. They ran toward it, seeing Jimmy’s smiling face in the driver’s window.

  “Enough talk!” he cried as they leaped in and the car vaulted over the hill.

  39

  The road to the runway didn’t exist. Any driver who wanted to remain alive would have told them that the hill was too steep to go straight down, but Jimmy didn’t care. He piloted the car like a bobsled—Doc and Jack hanging on for dear life. They took one jarring jump, then another, and started sliding to the side.

  “We’re going over!” Jack shouted. He saw what would happen. The car would fishtail, then start rolling, top over bottom, as they were all mashed into pulp between the roof and floor.

  “No!” Jimmy boomed, tromping the pedals and wrestling the wheel. “Never … over…!” Suddenly the car was level and surging ahead. Jack kept his eyes on the plane, but Doc and Jimmy’s eyes were on the front gate’s guards, who had managed to snap their stunned jaws shut and start leveling their compact carbines at the barreling auto.

  Both Doc and Jimmy h
ad their arms straight out from the driver’s side windows, and were pinpointing their aim despite the car’s movement. Doc cursed himself for missing the guard to the left on his first shot, but he knew it had been close, because the guard turned and kneeled. He wouldn’t have bothered if the bullet hadn’t been so near that the man had heard, or even felt, it.

  Jimmy bellowed with rage and glee as he pulled the trigger twice, making the guard to the right fall back. Jack studied the plane as the man in the truck jumped out of the cab and started waving and shouting. The high-winged plane had a sleek turboprop engine on each side, and with its long, cone-like nose looked a bit like an aerodynamic flying troll. “Czech plane,” said Doc, catching a glimpse as he repositioned himself. With the guards running, he and Jimmy could no longer get a clear shot. “It’s an Evektor-Aeotechink, for short runways.”

  “Helpful,” Jack shouted sarcastically over the roar of the car. “Thanks! How do we stop it?”

  “There’s no way that’s a bomber!”

  “All it has to do is fly over its target.”

  Doc tried to find a shot to stop either the plane or the men, but he knew, at this distance, he’d only be wasting bullets. “We can call the Saudis and tell them to shoot it down,” he yelled back to Jack.

  “And they’d believe us?!” Jack countered. They had no right to be here, no real evidence, and neither thought a prince-approved interview was going to carry much water in this case.

  “Damn!” yelled Doc, and they watched as the first man started the plane up while the other two disappeared into the main building.

  “They’re running for cover!” Jack enthused. “We got them! Now all we have to do is get in front of the plane, and…!”

  “No!” Doc yelled, pointing. Jack’s eyes followed Doc’s arm, and his blood ran cold. Coming out of the building, charging at them, were now four armed men. “Jimmy…,” Doc started, but he didn’t need to say more. Their driver, grinning like a death’s head, stomped on the accelerator.

  Thrown back in his seat by the acceleration, Jack didn’t realize what was happening until something thumped hard against the car two seconds later. He ducked involuntarily as something else pounded the roof above him. There was a second thud, and the car skidded to a stop. They’d hit not one, but two people.

  Doc leaped from the car. Jack did the same. A rifle lay in the dust just beyond the door. It was a 7.62mm ARM version of the Galil, a sturdy, Israeli-built assault rifle that in this case was configured as a light machine gun. A 25-round box hung from its belly. As Jack grabbed the rifle, he saw something moving on his left out of the corner of his eye. He swung the gun like a baseball bat, connecting with the head of one of the men they’d just knocked over. The man, already battered by the car, fell to the side.

  Jack tightened his grip on the gun and smashed him again, this time on the top of the head. A geyser of blood spurt from the fissure; Jack sent another blow to the man’s chest, then stumbled backward, shocked at what he had just done.

  “Check him for a radio,” Doc yelled, running up behind Jack. He had a Galil in his right hand and an oversize pistol in his left. Even in shock and at this distance, Jack recognized the pistol as a Desert Eagle, a .50 caliber semiautomatic reputed to be the most powerful handgun in the world. The barrel included a muzzle brake, which not only made the weapon look more foreboding but lessened its recoil.

  Jack, still dazed, went down on his knee but drew back his hand as the prone man’s chest heaved. Doc didn’t hesitate—he slid down on the other side and grabbed the man’s sidearm, another Desert Eagle. He hit the man’s forehead with the butt end, then stuffed the gun into his belt.

  The man had a radio in his tac vest but its headpiece had been ripped off when the car hit him. Doc grabbed the small brick and tossed it as far as he could. Then he undid the man’s tac vest and tossed it to Jack.

  “In the car, go, go!” said Doc.

  Jack nodded, fumbling with the gear and looking up as his heart pounded. While they fought, the other two guards had loaded a bomb-shaped crate onto the plane, and the aircraft was starting its takeoff run.

  Doc was saying something as he moved to engage the two remaining guards, but the words didn’t connect to any rational thought. Things were moving too fast. Jack knew from experience that he had to dampen down his adrenaline, and in effect slow the world around him down. Take each piece of action on its own, slowly, and he would win. Life is like a clock, Jack heard his father say. Everything fits together.

  “Jack, duck!” yelled Doc.

  Jack pushed himself toward the door as the windshield shattered. The sheet of broken safety glass flew into the front, punctured by bullets from a gunman thirty feet ahead.

  Jimmy, somehow unaffected by the bullets or debris, aimed to fishtail the rear end of the car into him, but the sand and his speed made him lose control. As he tried to brake, the car went into a three hundred and sixty spin. It whipped around, and then that smacked broadside into the man who’d been firing to stop them.

  The guard went under the car as it continued to spin, getting pulverized by the wheels. No matter how loud the car and plane were, they still didn’t manage to drown out the sickening sound of bone, muscle, and flesh being blended.

  Dizzy, Jack grabbed for the door latch as Doc yelled at him. He ignored his friend, stumbled, then found his footing, and started running toward the plane.

  “Get down, get down!” shouted Doc behind him.

  Jack either fell, or threw himself, to the ground. Bullets hit the dirt nearby, kicking up mini-explosions of grit and sand. Doc maneuvered behind him, trying to get an angle on the final guard. Jack saw a flash of light on his left, down in the sand. It was one of the fallen rifles.

  Jack leaped on it like a drowning man on a life preserver. He squirreled around to get it into position and put his eye near the scope to see. Meanwhile, the white flashes in front of him rose, and the mini-explosions came closer. Jack put his finger on the trigger and the rifle roared, a dozen bullets spitting out before he could stop it.

  There were no more flashes, and no more gunfire. Jack looked behind him but couldn’t see Doc, Jimmy, or the car. He rose to his knees, searching, then heard the plane’s engines whine.

  Gotta stop the plane! he thought.

  He was a good twenty feet from the edge of the runway, and the plane was at the far end, another thousand or so beyond. He’d never run that distance fast enough to stop the aircraft from taking off.

  Then the car was beside him, Jimmy’s maniacal smile filling his addled vision. Jack all but clutched at it, his arms somehow wrapping around the section between the passenger side windows. There was no longer any glass to prevent his bear hug. The windshield glass was draped across the wheel and the passenger seat. The engine screeched, and then he was yanked off the ground as the car hurtled toward the taxiing plane.

  Jack dug at the glass, trying to reach the door handle. The wheels spun but caught enough solid ground to lurch the vehicle forward again, making his fingers scramble across the door. Jack held on for dear life as the battered car skidded and veered across the concrete.

  The plane was moving down the runway. There was gunfire to Jack’s right, and flashes down near the building. Something burst through the side window behind him.

  “Stop the plane!” he howled. Because I’m dead anyway, he thought.

  There were no other ideas in his head, no great philosophies, no justifications, or moral arguments about good and evil. He was utterly focused on the car and the runway and plane. The desert wind bit at his face. He smelled the blood of the men they’d hit and the fumes of the car. He felt the bruises that covered his body. He heard the car and airplane thundering toward each other.

  A light flashed on and the EV-55’s turbines whined, the plane’s pilot finally realizing the car was coming for him. The two vehicles roared at each other, racing together like a pair of mad dervishes. The plane started to move left; Jack felt the rear wheels slide out of
control. White light flashed in his face and the earth seemed to fall below him; there was a roar so loud his eardrums felt as if they broke.

  “Jimmy!” he screamed, as he fell. “Jump!”

  Then a tornado of dirt, fire, fuel, and oil spun him around, pummeling his head until he shot into a black hole of pain.

  40

  Unconsciousness was a purgatory of pain and confusion—a dizzy swirl where the world made no sense. Jack’s mind churned at a level below dreams and sensation. He was at the bottom of a deep ocean, able to breathe only through some accidental miracle. Finally, something prodded Jack to rise. It was a feeling of light, color, and shape that pushed slowly upward. Only gravity was holding him back. His head was heavy. More lights, colors, and shapes began to drift out of the blackness before him. He began rising more quickly. His chest hurt. His legs were bent at odd angles. His ribs screamed with pain.

  His heart pounded. He wondered, Am I going to die? Am I dead already?

  But then he saw the desert sky above him, and felt the desert sand beneath him, as well as the desert heat all around him. Finally, he was conscious, looking up at a familiar face he couldn’t quite recognize.

  “D-Doc?” Jack finally sputtered.

  The old soldier nodded. “Good boy. Stay awake. Upsy daisy.”

  “W-what?”

  “Come to papa, Jack.” Doc pushed his arm under him and lifted, scooping him to his feet. Still dizzy, Jack began sliding in the direction of Doc’s tugs. “You’re just in time,” Doc said gravely. “He’s been asking for you.”

  “W-who? What is going on?” Jack shook his head, trying to clear his eyes and his mind. “The plane…!”

  “Yeah,” Doc said, slowly lowering him back to the ground. “The plane.”

  Jack found himself sitting amid a circle of bent metal and broken glass. He vaguely recognized some of it—a wheel here, a wing there. It was the twisted remnants of the car and the plane.

  It wasn’t like in the movies. The crash hadn’t resulted in fireballs and explosions. Just two man-made machines torn apart by velocity and contact. A strange elation tore into Jack’s head, but it only brought more stabbing pain. Even so, through the haze, he thought: We had done it. We stopped the plane. But then there was another, unwanted, thought. At what cost?