Countdown to Mecca

by Michael Savage

  Dover was silent. She rose, excused herself quietly, and stood down the hall, out of view of Forsyth. She tried to find a way to agree with him, but her compass needle kept swinging back to Jack. And not because of their relationship. His boots were on the ground, he had been through this from the start. Whose gut should she believe? His or the armchair director a dozen yards away?

  Within minutes of leaving her superior’s office, Dover made a call and then shared Forsyth’s estimation with Jack. He put the call on speaker so Doc and the chauffeur could hear.

  “They don’t believe us,” she said.

  All three men appeared stunned. Only Jack said, “What?”

  “They think it’s all a figment of your, and Brooks’s, overactive imaginations.”

  “Imaginations?” Jack said.

  “My imagination is limited to women and handgun concealment,” Doc said. “What kind of psychos do they think we are?”

  “This can’t be happening,” Jack said. He was still processing what she’d told him.

  “They’re stubborn,” she admitted.

  “But how—we’ve got evidence—”

  “Circumstantial, they say.”

  “Dover, they can’t be that blind,” Jack said.

  “Whatever their reason, that’s their position.”

  Jack looked at the chauffeur. They were in a security office half a world away, near the epicenter of the plot. Yet he never felt so disconnected. He addressed the driver. “What’s happening at Yanbu?”

  “The investigators are there now,” the driver reported. “It is as you said. But, as you also said, there is no sign of real radioactivity or actual bomb making. Except for the corpses, it looks like an elaborate hoax for reasons we cannot yet fathom.”

  “But the dead bodies are there!” Jack said. He got back on the phone. “Dover, you have to go back to Forsyth. They can’t be this blasé about it! Too many pieces fit, and fit in a way that doesn’t allow another interpretation!”

  “I know, I know,” Dover said. “But they’ll come up with reasons for the corpses and I’m betting they won’t involve Brooks. Christ, I could come up with other explanations—”

  “You, too, Dover?” Jack didn’t like the fact that he was suddenly echoing a dying Julius Caesar.

  “No!” she protested. “I believe you. Awful as it is, your interpretation is the only one that embraces all the facts. I just don’t think their minds can process what you’re telling them.”

  Jack looked over at Doc and apologized with a twist of his mouth. Doc accepted with a little nod.

  “The thing is, they want Brooks to have died a hero,” Dover said. “They don’t want the military to look bad.”

  “Or nuts,” Doc muttered. It made perfect sense to him. They found an empty bomb. That’s how the authorities were now thinking of Brooks. An empty bomb equals an empty threat.

  “But there was supposedly enough material for two bombs,” Jack told Dover. “And there were several switches and other items, so there may be other bombs, or one other bomb. I don’t know. But we should make sure that your boss knows that.”

  “I did,” she assured him. “I have. But for him and all the others, the operative word is ‘supposedly.’”

  “And the operative phrase,” Doc added sourly, “is ‘I don’t know.’”

  Jack swore under his breath and looked around the room for any straw he could grab onto.

  “So what do we do now?” he asked plaintively.

  “I can’t be seen still working on it,” Dover said quietly. “But Sol, Ric, and Sammy still are. And you know they won’t give up. I just spoke with them before calling you. They’ll do everything they can, and one of us will let you know as soon as we find anything more.”

  “But will it be too late by then?” Jack asked, mostly to himself. But he found that Dover had already disconnected her side of the call.

  Jack looked helplessly down at Doc, who, having seen so much death and destruction in his decades of service, just looked philosophical and shrugged.

  “I guess we’ll find out for sure tomorrow,” he said.

  50

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  The traffic was so heavy that Pyotr told the taxi driver to go directly to the hotel. By the time he stepped into its impressive confines, he had made the transition from Pyotr Ansky back into Peter Andrews. He grinned wickedly, thinking that the power he felt at this moment was greater than he would feel when he performed his last, great act.

  I know something all of you do not, he thought proudly. I know that the world is about to change. Would these people feel awe or terror knowing that he was the chosen one? Probably both.

  If the activity in the lobby was any evidence, nothing was out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until he reached the floor of the general’s suite, however, that things changed noticeably. The place was crawling with military police, medical personnel, American consulate officials, even high-ranking members of the ambassador’s staff. Someone he didn’t know checked his credentials at the elevator door. The guard couldn’t find his name on the approved list for a few moments, which allowed Pyotr to fantasize killing the man with his bare hands.

  Just before the guard was going to check with higher-ups, they both heard “Peter!” They looked over to see Colonel Tristan Ashlock walking toward them, concern etched on his face.

  “Peter, where have you been?” A guard sought to block Pyotr. Ashlock looked at the guard dismissively, and waved him back with an assured, “He’s okay.”

  Andrews opened his mouth to answer the question but Ashlock shushed him while pulling him out of the reach of prying ears.

  “You know what happened, then?” Ashlock asked as they moved through the worried staff.

  “Know?” Andrews retorted. “I was there when it happened. I reported it!”

  “Good Lord!” Ashlock exclaimed. “Then where did you go? All I could get out of the security men was that you ran like a man possessed.”

  “Yes,” said Andrews. He leaned in conspiratorially and spoke in a stage whisper. “The general had privately charged me with making sure certain details were taken care of in case of his death … if you know what I mean.” Andrews looked both ways to make sure the right people were listening in.

  “Ah,” said Ashlock knowingly. They began walking in the direction Ashlock indicated.

  Andrews smiled inwardly. Say something like that to any American and he will fill in his own blanks, depending on whatever their personal vices happened to be.

  “Then I heard the gunfire in the back areas,” Andrews continued, his voice returned to its regular volume. “What was that all about?”

  “Damned if we know,” said Ashlock. “The surveillance cameras showed nothing.” It was Ashlock’s turn to lower his voice and look around. “I saw to that.” By then they had reached the military police officer in charge. “This man witnessed the general’s—event, Captain. He can tell you what you may be missing.”

  The captain studied Andrews a moment then nodded, taking him by the arm. “Sorry about this,” he said. “But the general ordered that all security cameras and listening devices be removed prior to his checking in.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Andrews. “The general is—” Andrews caught himself, trying not to grin, “was a very important, very private man.”

  “So any information you can provide will be of enormous value,” the captain added.

  The questioning was routine. Andrews, a trusted member of the general’s staff, detailed what he “saw”—using the classic signs of a heart attack within his description. That aligned with what the captain wanted to believe, on the basis of his instructions, so Andrews was free to go about his business within the half hour.

  His business, as he and Ashlock made clear, was to accompany Brooks’s body to the airport and a waiting plane.

  “Military high command wasted no time getting a transport to Riyadh,” Ashlock informed him as they adjourned to the hotel’s loadi
ng dock, where an unmarked ambulance was waiting. “They want Thom swept under the rug as fast as possible.” Ashlock looked at the body swathed in sheets in the back of the van. “They treated him like an old age pensioner. The hotel deals with retirees passing on all the time. They even have a freezer for the bodies.”

  “Remarkably efficient,” Pyotr said.

  The ride across town was uneventful as they prepped the coffin. Ashlock and Andrews even avoided looking at each other, lest they be tempted to say something they’d have to kill the ambulance driver for. They arrived at the designated airport hangar in time to see a subtly marked C-17 taxiing in. They hopped out of the military medical vehicle as a female guard with a clipboard and earpiece approached.

  “Personal effects detail?”

  Ashlock nodded.

  “Good,” the young guard said. “We’ve got a little bit of ceremony to go through, proper handling of the body and all. Then he’s yours. You need help?”

  “We can handle it,” Andrews replied, taking a respectful step backward. It was easy now. All he had to do was wait.

  The big cargo aircraft slowed as it approached. A black hearse drove out from the other side of the hangar. Two black SUVs with flashing blue lights overtook it, passing at the side. Another group of soldiers arrived in a troop truck; they scrambled out and augmented the honor guard already standing at full attention.

  The cargo plane stopped, its lights blinking. Andrews, always a man to appreciate irony, thought of how fitting it was that he was here—after all, the general had made it all possible.

  The honor guard snapped to attention as the plane’s ramp was lowered. The casket, now covered with an American flag, was slowly wheeled up the ramp. That struck Andrews as wrong—a flag-rank officer ought to be carried out, with a band accompanying the solemn parade. But this honor was perfunctory. If Brooks’s superiors had their way, the general would have been dropped off a pier somewhere.

  Andrews waited. Only after the hearse, the honor guard, and the SUVs had left did Colonel Ashlock return to his side. He’d been supervising what the loadmaster called “the disposition of the body.” They stood there for a moment, looking at all the activity of a modern city airport. Even so, they were alone in the crowd.

  “Are you ready?” he asked Andrews.

  “Of course.”

  “All right. Come with me.”

  Ashlock turned abruptly. Andrews followed him into the belly of the jet.

  “It’s there,” said Ashlock, pointing at a large metal crate after glancing to make sure even the pilots were absent. “No one has touched it. You can see by the seals.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You’ll need a forklift,” said Ashlock. “I’ll get the loadmaster to help you. Is everything else ready?”

  “Impeccably so,” Andrews replied.

  Ashlock grimaced. “It’s taken a long time.”

  “Yes,” Andrews agreed. “And much planning.” He looked directly at the colonel. “You will handle the others?”

  “Naturally,” Ashlock muttered. “As far as they’re concerned, everything is on schedule. When Jerusalem and Mecca are not destroyed, I will be as surprised as they.” Ashlock waved a forefinger in the air with mock severity. “I will get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do,” he mimicked his upcoming performance. “Heads will roll.”

  Andrews sniffed, sneering.

  Ashlock nodded, then took a final look at General Thomas Brooks’s remains. His expression was unfathomable. “You fly out tomorrow morning,” he informed Andrews.

  Andrews seemed a little disappointed. “Nothing sooner?”

  Ashlock shrugged. “Although there’s nothing better the army would like than to have him skulked out under cover of darkness, they thought it best to send him home at sunrise. Symbolism of sneaking him out in the dead of night—someone at the DoD might grouse about that.”

  Andrews nodded, happy to have the time to go over the plan yet again. The two looked at one another, and then Ashlock started toward the exit.

  Andrews had known him for a while, and felt a certain nostalgia at their parting. It wasn’t really an emotion, he thought, just an acknowledgment of shared experiences. They had both been trained by the Russian military at first, although Ashlock had continued in the sleeper spy services. In fact, he was one of their most successful double agents. Andrews could understand why. Ashlock, as a triple agent—even quadruple, if you count his plotting with Brooks and company—had played his role extremely well, fooling everyone—even his Russian masters.

  “Colonel?” Andrews called back.

  Ashlock turned around. “Yes?”

  “You have our eternal gratitude.”

  Ashlock smiled broadly. “My pleasure,” he said with a wave. “Ashokrulillah. Alhamdulillah. Subhanallah.”

  Thanks to Allah, praise to Allah, glory to Allah.

  51

  Jack never thought he’d sleep. He never thought he would be able to sleep until after Brooks’s deadlines for the attacks. But after the prince returned late that night to report that there was no evidence of an actual atomic device having been made—and he would know, right? Jack thought. Jack plopped down into a security office chair … just to rest for a bit, he told himself.

  But as he absently watched the prince return upstairs, and he watched Doc confer with the chauffeur, Jack felt the last two days catching up with him. It reminded him of a colonoscopy, of all things. The doctor assured him that he could watch the procedure on a video screen, and he was actually looking forward to it, but once the anesthesiologist gave him a light sedative and had him count back from ten, he was out until long after it was done.

  Doc glanced over when he first heard Jack’s light snoring. He saw his friend all but collapsed in the chair. Doc smiled grimly. Given Brooks’s declaration and Jack’s rapid eye movements under his lids, the old soldier couldn’t imagine what the reporter might be dreaming.

  Jack was dreaming that he was walking up to the door of the federal office building. There was a big sign on the door that read, CLOSED BECAUSE OF FUNDING DISPUTE. Even so, the door swung open. Jack hesitated, then pushed it all the way open and walked in. He was in the middle of what looked like a bank lobby, with marble walls and fancy tile work on the floor. The place was completely empty.

  There was a safe at the far end. Open. Jack went to it and saw stacks and stacks of thousand-dollar bills. He resisted the temptation to take some, and instead tried closing the massive door. But the door was so heavy it wouldn’t budge. Finally he gave up and went outside.

  The streets were deserted. He heard the sound of an airplane flying above, and watched as it crashed into the Transamerica Tower. A man in a black burka ran up the street, carrying a Kalashnikov. A dozen others followed. Jack watched them pass. He began trailing the last one, moving toward city hall.

  Dozens and then hundreds of men in similar clothes, faces obscured by scarves, appeared and joined them. They seemed not to notice Jack, or at least not to care that he was there. When they got to city hall, Jack saw that television screens had been set up on the sidewalk. They were playing a news program.

  AMERICA UNDER ATTACK! shouted the graphic. A pretty female news anchor sat at the desk, blindfolded; a man held a gun to her head. To Jack’s eyes, she looked like Dover. Jack’s eyes caught the scroll at the bottom of the screen: CONGRESSMEN ARRESTED AS TRAITORS. When he looked back at the anchor and her captor, he saw that the man’s gun had been replaced with a long, thick sword. He started to scream, to warn her, just as her head exploded at the same moment it was chopped from her neck—

  Jack woke with a start. For a moment he thought he was still in the dream, since he was staring at a computer screen that had a BBC international news feed playing. The male anchor, unencumbered by a gun- or sword-wielding captor, was talking about the possibility of another government shutdown in the United States.

  A clever time for an attack, Jack found himself thinking, realizing the
report had seeded his dream. Terrorists could time their strike as the military and security forces were throttled back by furloughs and cuts. Essential forces were not supposed to be affected, but Jack knew from talking to federal workers the last time around that they were hit in hundreds of little ways. Beyond that, morale always suffered. The response to the attack would be slow; vulnerability would be at its height.

  “Hey, you okay?” he heard. Jack looked over to see Doc approaching, while the chauffeur was moving in the opposite direction. “You were quivering like a kitten dreaming of a pit bull.”

  “That’s kind of how I feel,” Jack grumbled, then groaned as he tried to sit up. The awkward position had given him a crick in his neck. “It wasn’t a pit bull,” he muttered. “It was worse. It was Brooks’s worst fear.”

  “Islam taking over America?” Doc suggested, planting his haunch on the side of the desk.

  Jack looked up at his friend, impressed. “Good guess.”

  “You just started all those anti-Commie films they used to show us in school playing in my head,” Doc said. “Hey, if the threat from Islam is any indication, maybe we all had more to fear from the Reds than we realized.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “But the joke’s on us. Who could’ve known we’d end up with a president who would slip us a Pinko Mickey under the guise of social reform.”

  “We’re back to agreeing with one another,” Doc grinned. “But given it was your maze-like brain at work, I doubt your dream left it at that.”

  “Right again,” Jack said, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I think my subconscious was warning me that, if Mecca doesn’t go, the real danger was a U.S. government shutdown being used as a pretext for a takeover.”

  “By?”

  “Sleepers, strategically placed around the seats of power.”