Nick stood back and held the man at arm’s length smiling into the face of a fellow warrior. “Ibrahim, my brother.”
“You broke my heart, brother,” he continued somberly. “But then,” he smiled, “you put it back together and now it is much stronger!”
Nick knew he was referring to his killing the Caliph and then the shooting of the President. One act explained another.
“I wished I could have told you, but the Americans needed to believe I was their hero. I needed their trust and I needed my shot at the President. Why my bullet didn’t fly true, only Allah can know.”
“Allah wants the man to witness the disaster that will befall his corrupt and evil empire. Death would have been the easy route. Allah wants to punish him more,” Ibrahim said.
Ibrahim had been another of the men he had met on that fateful night in Afghanistan a year earlier; another man whose family had lived thanks to Nick’s quick thinking. A former Pakistani soldier, Ibrahim had joined the cause to fight the infidels who were destroying their world. Meeting Nick had been a turning point for Ibrahim, a young raw soldier. He’d been destined to join many of his friends and family in an early grave. Under Nick’s tutelage, however, he had grown to become a feared warrior, leading and training warriors of the future. It was thanks to Nick that he had been sent to the Sudanese camp to train their newest and most promising recruits to continue the struggle.
“Impressive!’ said Nick focusing on the many men before them in the desert.
“Thanks to you, my brother, we select only the most devoted and most capable, just as you instructed us,” replied Ibrahim proudly, watching the men go through a further exercise routine before they would be rewarded with breakfast.
Nick turned towards the body of the camp and spotted the group that had met him at the aircraft and gestured toward them, squinting his face in question.
“Hmm, yes, a rich benefactor’s wayward son and friends,” he explained. “Even within our cause we have to play the political game.”
“Send them home. They have no place in our army,” said Nick.
Ibrahim shook his head. “I have tried, brother. The boy’s father is too powerful. They are here on the request of the new Caliph.”
Nick paused. He had not known a new Caliph had been selected. A number of candidates had stepped forward to fill the shoes of Zahir Al Zahrani, the Caliph he had assassinated. These candidates would follow Al Zahrani’s path of uniting the jihadist world to form one united and far stronger army. A few far more radical candidates favored a much more insular approach, by increasing the number of low scale attacks to initiate a war of terror from within America. They all seemed to agree that the war needed to be taken to the Americans; it was just the methodology that differed. Nick’s plan rested on the grand-scale approach. He had hoped to have achieved consensus before a new Caliph was announced, during the mourning period, and ultimately in the memory and honor of Caliph Zahir Al Zahrani. Nick had made promises to Caliph Al Zahrani that he had every intention of keeping. A new Caliph could put an end to everything, particularly if he disagreed with unification.
“I am speaking out of turn, the decision has not yet been finalized,” said Ibrahim, regretting his indiscretion.
“I must meet with who you believe will be the new Caliph and I must convince him to follow Caliph Al Zahrani’s plan,” said Nick, his concern growing over the potential for a major upset to the Caliph’s plan.
Ibrahim smiled. “Well you are in the right place, my brother, he will be here tonight.”
“Here? In this camp?”
“Yes and I don’t think it is a coincidence. I’ve only just been told of his arrival. I imagine he wishes to meet you too.”
Nick felt a sudden lump in his stomach. The list of candidates was long and illustrious within Al Qaeda with many men more than capable of taking over the head of the organization. However, one name stood out and Nick began to panic.
“It’s not…no it can’t be… He’s too young?” said Nick, trying to rule it out.
Ibrahim realized he had guessed and smiled, not realizing just how devastating the appointment could be for Nick.
The Caliph’s plan was dead in the water. Nick was a dead man walking.
“Al Zahrani’s son?” said Nick. His face remained impassive as his internal organs convulsed.
“Yes, can you believe it?” replied Ibrahim excitedly. “He is desperate to meet you!”
Nick couldn’t believe it, and was very sure that his victim’s son was desperate to meet him. Unfortunately, not for the reasons Ibrahim thought. Nick prayed for some divine intervention. Otherwise, he would never see another sunrise.
Chapter 41
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Flynn, slamming down the lid on the safety deposit box and removing his paper mask. He flipped it back up so the others could see the contents and walked away in disgust.
Frankie retrieved the contents: a debit card and two credit cards in the name of Monsieur Jacques Guillon, along with a driving license and passport in the same name. The metal briefcase was nowhere to be found.
The manager looked on, confused. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“He knew we would find the Jacques Guillon identity. He’s telling us that he’s not using it anymore.”
“Ahh,” said the manager, his smile widening.
Reid spotted the smile and knew exactly what the manager was thinking. “Which means we’ll need to seize the accounts and any monies still in them,” she explained quickly before the manager’s imagination got the better of him.
The manager’s smile stayed fixed on his lips but died in his eyes.
“What I don’t get,” Frankie said to no one in particular, “is why lead us here in the first place if he just planned to ditch it? Why even bother?”
“Let’s grab some images off of their security systems and get moving,” said Flynn, agitated at another wasted trip.
Reid didn’t move. She was still pondering Frankie’s question. “Why is he doing this?” she asked out loud. “Frankie’s right, it doesn’t make any sense. He only came here to show us he knew that we knew. But why?”
“He’s just showing us he’s smarter,” said Flynn.
“But that’s just it, that’s not Nick. He doesn’t care whether people think he’s smart or not. They assume, because he was a soldier, that he’s not. But as we both know, he’s usually the smartest guy in the room,” said Frankie, following her logic. “He laughs at guys who try to show how smart they are.”
“So, if he’s not showing off?”
“He’s playing with us, keeping us busy and out of his way,” surmised Frankie.
Before they could consider what that meant, Frankie’s cell buzzed. The caller id told her it was Harry.
“Harry?” she answered.
“We’ve got a lead on Nick.”
“Timbuktu?”
“Not quite,” he said surprised by her attitude. “Right continent though. Sudan.”
“What did he do, send you a postcard?” she asked.
“No, he’s just used a cell phone.”
“I’m sorry, Harry, but we’ll get there and he’ll be gone and we’ll have just wasted another day. He’s playing with us.”
“Not this time,” said Harry.
“Seriously, Harry, from all the increased chatter, out of all the billions of calls that take place every hour, you’ve managed to identify his voice on a phone call? Bullshit!”
“Good point. But I didn’t say we identified his voice. Two youths were assaulted in Morocco yesterday. Their phones were taken and both of those cells were recently turned on briefly in the desert in northern Sudan. The attacker who stole those two cells fits the description of Nick as Jacques Guillon.”
“He’s not that stupid, Harry.”
“We all slip up now and then. He’s in the middle of a desert with no cell signal, he’d not think for a second a brief power up of the cell would pinpoint his location. The ph
ones were on for less than a second, not even time for the SIM cards to register a network if there even were one to connect to. He doesn’t know we can do this, hell I didn’t even know we could track cells from what he just did. Anyway, we’ve pinpointed the location and have a satellite pass set up in the next thirty minutes.”
“Okay, we’re on our way! But Harry?”
“Yes?”
“You and I both know, Nick doesn’t slip up!”
Chapter 42
After breakfast, Nick took Ibrahim aside.
“My brother, I need to test your men,” he said apologetically.
“Of course, brother. Please, it would be my honor.”
“I don’t think you understand. I need to test that they are ready to fight and die for Allah.”
“Of course, I expect nothing less,” Ibrahim said.
“Some will die during the test,” explained Nick.
Ibrahim’s heart sank. These were men he had trained and honed to perfection. They were men to whom he had promised a fight against the infidel. Dying in the desert sands for no reason other than to test their resolve was unworthy of the warriors he had produced for Allah. However, he was not going to question Nick. He was there with a plan direct from the Caliph and therefore from Allah himself.
“I understand,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.
“On the plus side, I’m sure I can get the benefactor’s useless son and friends out of your way.”
“You can’t kill them!” Ibrahim said in a panicked voice.
“No, but I can show them what is expected of them if they stay here and fight with us for Allah!”
Ibrahim nodded reluctantly. “What do you need?”
“I need a lift back to the plane to pick up a few things that will assist me.”
Ibrahim pointed to the benefactor’s group and instructed them to take him back.
Ninety minutes later, as the sun was beginning to heat the desert floor, they arrived back at the plane. Nick told the boys to wait while he jumped aboard the plane. His Berretta, satchel and the metal briefcase sat where he had left them. There wasn’t a living soul within three hundred miles of them; it was probably one of the safest places on the planet. He checked the Berretta and removed the two stolen cell phones from the satchel. He reinserted the batteries and turned them on briefly, pleased to see both had juice. There was every likelihood he’d be needing them sometime soon.
“We’re getting toasted out here, man!” shouted one of the boys from outside the plane.
Nick put the cells back in his satchel, grabbed everything he needed, and jumped back down to the desert floor.
“What’s in the fancy briefcase?” asked another of the youths as Nick approached the truck.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” smiled Nick climbing into the passenger seat. “Now get us back and quick!”
Nick settled in for the wild ride across the desert at twice the speed the truck was meant to travel in rough terrain. Not that he had any intention of complaining, the further away from the plane the better as far as he was concerned. He had calculated that the camp was about fifty miles from the makeshift runway. They’d have to search an area of roughly two thousand square miles to find the camp. Even then, the camp was well camouflaged and not easily visible. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
“What the fuck’s up with these dudes?” asked the driver as they bounced over the entrance ramp.
Nick woke up, not sure what had woken him first, the driver’s voice or the bang on the head as he bounced into the air. However, on opening his eyes, it became far less important to know the answer. The soldiers that had been happily training when they left were still training on their return. Unfortunately, about twenty of them were training their weapons on the truck and Ibrahim was standing amongst them, pointing at Nick.
Fuck, thought Nick, this doesn’t look good.
Chapter 43
Carson and Turner paced the operations center, waiting for the satellite to get into position over Sudan. At 3:00 a.m., the staffing levels were reduced but with most of the investigative work being done in time zones outside of the US, the building was still relatively busy. The image on the main screen suddenly changed.
“Deputy Director Turner!” shouted an analyst unnecessarily. Turner’s eyes were already fixed on the image.
Whoever was controlling the satellite image knew what they were doing. The image sharpened quickly revealing a barren beige landscape.
“Are we on the coordinates yet?” asked Carson into the speakerphone that was connecting them to the National Reconnaissance Office operator, controlling the satellite image.
“No, sir, we’re a few degrees short. We should be on the precise coordinates in about thirty seconds.”
Carson muted the call. “What did the NSA say was the margin of error on those coordinates?” he asked Turner.
“Ten miles.”
Carson unmuted. “We’ve got a ten mile radius of those coordinates,” he advised.
“Yes, sir, I’m factoring that in. My colleague’s looking at a wider range than I’m sending to your screen. He’ll feed anything of interest from that on to me and onto your screen.”
With every second that passed, their hopes faded. The land was utterly desolate and the rocky and rough terrain was not conducive to tracks being laid that could be followed. Unless they were still there, it was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack the size of Rhode Island with a limited time frame.
“We’ve got something. I’m just changing the image now,” informed the NRO operator though the phone line.
Everybody watched as the image changed to that of a small propeller aircraft sitting in the middle of the desert. The faint lines of two tracks running parallel to one another made it clear that there was a runway of sorts in place.
The excitement level increased significantly within the NCTC when the plane came into view.
“I’m afraid our infrared suggests it’s empty,” said the operator.
Carson was already on his cell when Turner turned to him. He waited and listened.
“Yes Admiral, thank you, I’m good,” said Carson. He noticed Turner watching and grabbed a pad and pen and wrote ‘Commanding Officer CSG2’
Turner shrugged. He had no idea what CSG2 meant.
“How quickly can you get assets in place?”
Turner looked on in frustration. He had no idea what was happening.
“Excellent, I’ll call you right back.” He hung up and looked at Turner. “That was the Commander of Carrier Strike Group 2. They’re based in the Eastern Mediterranean. I was just arranging a welcome party for whoever comes back to that plane.”
“How long?”
“Two F18s will be on station within twenty minutes and will remain out of sight and sound but just five minutes’ striking distance away.”
“How long can they remain there?”
“Until they’re needed, or at least until they’re relieved by another two planes and we’ll keep that up until we get them,” replied Carson confidently. “We’ve got a Hawkeye inbound as well, so we’ll see what’s going on down there long before they get back to their plane,” he added.
“Hawkeye?”
“It’s an early warning aircraft, like an E3 Sentry only smaller and able to operate from a carrier,” replied Carson.
Turner had a rough idea of what he meant. “So how are the F18s going to capture them?”
“Who said anything about capture? As soon as we have him in our sights, the two F18s will swoop down and blow him the fuck away.”
“I’d rather capture him.”
“And I’d rather be thirty years younger and dating a supermodel,” replied Carson.
“I’d still prefer we captured him.”
“Be my guest, capture him if you can,” replied Carson.
“Let me call the Admiral,” said Turner, reaching out for Carson’s cell.
“Oh no, if the FB
I want him captured, you capture him. The DOD will end this the first chance we get. Those are the Admiral’s orders and they stand.”
“But—”
“They are seven hundred miles deep in the desert. We don’t have a chopper that flies that far and our planes on the carrier don’t have the range to get there and back. Beyond that, Nick Geller is trained to evade and defend with the best of them. You try and capture him, lives are going to be lost. I’m not sending any men to their deaths over this. If we get the shot, we’re taking it,” replied Carson, ending any further discussion.
Turner walked back to his office and called Reid’s cell. She answered by the second ring.
“What took you so long?” he blurted when she answered.
“Sorry, my lightning reactions have been dulled by a lack of sleep over the last four days.”
“How long until you land at the coordinates?”
“Four hours, but I’m not sure we can; it sounds like it’s a dust strip in the middle of the desert and we’re on a fairly heavy plane!”
“Shit, I didn’t think of that, so what’s the plan?”
“Hold on,” she said.
He heard her hand go over the microphone as she talked to the pilot, their muffled conversation unintelligible to him.
“We’re landing at Abu Simbel Airport, it’s in Southern Egypt about two hundred and fifty miles from the coordinates. We’ll pick up jeeps or a ride somehow there to take us into the desert.”
“I’ll try to get a smaller plane to take you in. How long until you land?”
“Three and a half hours.”
“I’ll have something waiting!” he promised and hung up.
He picked up the handset and dialed Barry, who answered on the first ring. “Can you get one of your CIA teams to Southern Egypt in three hours?”
“I can get you more than one!” said Barry excitedly. Having been sidelined by Carson, Barry was more than happy to rejoin the fold. More importantly, Turner knew Barry wanted the chance to interrogate Nick as well.
ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS Page 80
