Threatcon Delta

by Andrew Britton

  With a sweep of the light on its broadest spread, Kealey had a look at the flat terrain. There were no gullies or rocks to watch out for. Refocusing the light in a tight beam, he picked his way onto the plain beside the road.

  “Here,” Phair said, tapping him on the arm and offering him something.

  It was a long stick.

  “You can use it to poke ahead for holes,” the cleric suggested. “That, and herding sheep, is really what they’re for.”

  Kealey looked at it. A broken branch from an anonymous tree. It really was the prophet who made the staff.

  Then why would they need the real one? he wondered. Assuming they were the ones who actually took it?

  “You keep it,” Kealey said. “It looks better on you.”

  With a great many questions and no answers, Kealey started across the narrow stretch that would take them to the gardens and Lieutenant Adjo.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  JEBEL MUSA, SINAI PENINSULA

  As he had planned, Adjo was awakened by breezes shortly after sunset. Even before he sat up, he knew that something had changed.

  There was a dull roar from the human sea just beyond his sight, an expression of oneness, of expectation.

  Things were happening. He wondered what, exactly. It was eerie to hear the voices rise from the dark plain, borne on the wind like the howling of the dead. Maybe it is, he thought, remembering his school days and the stories of the gods and of Anubis in particular, the jackal-headed deity who escorted souls to the underworld. There was something in the crisp starlight and voices coming from ordinarily empty spaces that inspired belief in such tales.

  Illumination below caught his eye.

  Lieutenant General Samra had said Adjo had between sunset and dawn before the Americans arrived. He looked at his watch. The sun would have gone down some twenty minutes ago. Either the Americans were very efficient or there might be trouble ahead: He saw a thin, straight line of light some two hundred meters to his right. He ducked behind a boulder and peered around the side. The light matched the description Samra had provided, but he wasn’t about to bet his life on that. The flashlight was turned to the ground, shifting left then right and back, as though looking for safe passage across unfamiliar terrain.

  Or for someone hiding.

  The light stopped for a moment, then began probing the gardens below methodically. Adjo watched until whoever was holding the light suddenly stopped and cast the light in his general direction.

  They knew where he was supposed to be.

  “Miseh ilkheyr, Adjo,” said someone in the group. It was credible Arabic for “good evening.”

  The light jumped in Adjo’s direction as he spoke. “Good evening,” the Egyptian said in a soft voice.

  The same speaker announced that his name was Phair and he was part of an American tour group.

  “Let me see you,” Adjo said.

  The man said something in English and the flashlight was immediately turned on the man who was holding it, and the others. There were four. That was the correct number.

  His legs once again stiff—but loosening more quickly than before—Adjo walked toward them. “You came earlier than I was expecting,” he said.

  “Sometimes our government is more efficient than any of us expects,” Phair replied affably, again in passable Egyptian Arabic. “Is there any news since the fire?”

  “I believe the prophet is being summoned.”

  “We believe he’s already on his way down the hill,” Phair replied. “Do you have any idea what will happen next?”

  “I have no idea,” Adjo said apologetically. “I know that the monastery has been used as a base by people who are not monks, but that they may be finished with it now. What is your mission—and do you have any water?”

  “Of course.” Phair removed his backpack and produced a bottle. He handed it to Adjo.

  “Also, a cell phone,” he said. “Mine is very nearly dead, I suspect, and I need to contact my superior.”

  Phair fished through his backpack, assisted by the man with the flashlight. That man said something to Phair, who translated.

  “This is our commander, Mr. Kealey,” Phair explained. “He wants to know what we’re saying. I told him.”

  “He is a civilian?” Adjo asked, then chugged half the bottle. “Intelligence?”

  Phair nodded. “I’m the only officer here. A cleric. My government seems to think I can make some sense of this. As for our mission, it was to find a way to discredit this prophet by presenting the true Staff to the pilgrims.”

  “You knew where it was?”

  “Mr. Durst, over there, did,” Phair said. “That’s his granddaughter with him. But when we got to the location of the true Staff it was gone.”

  Phair found the secure TAC-SAT phone and handed it over.

  “I wonder how much that matters,” Adjo said. “These people are blinded by devotion, and I do not think they will remain here much longer. I hope to know more after speaking with headquarters.”

  Adjo phoned Lieutenant General Samra while Phair spoke with the others, presumably telling them what had been discussed.

  The update from Lieutenant General Samra was ominous. “I was about to call you on the other phone,” Samra said. “Radar has spotted fifteen helicopters coming in your direction across the Sinai Desert. They took off from Sharm el-Sheikh International Airport ten minutes ago.”

  “Carrying what?”

  “We’re trying to find out,” Samra told him. “But I’m guessing you’ll know before we do.”

  “True enough.” Depending upon the kind of helicopter and air speed, they would be here in less than an hour.

  Adjo hung up and briefed Phair on the latest development. Phair translated for the others. The leader of the group, the man with the flashlight—who seemed to possess a reassuring air of calm, as far as Adjo could tell from his economic movements and smooth voice—spoke with the translator for a few moments.

  “Mr. Kealey wants to know what you think we should do,” Phair said.

  That caused Adjo a flash of consternation. He was hoping these people had some ideas. Perhaps they did and were just being polite. Or, as strangers in his country, maybe they were being smart. That was encouraging.

  “I believe the monks in the monastery have either been taken elsewhere or are being held captive,” Adjo said.

  “If the monastery has been commandeered by rogue elements, the monks are most likely still there,” Phair said. “They would be needed in case questions arose about the church’s operation, or a familiar voice was required on the telephone, or a password on a computer.”

  “That is true,” Adjo said. “Then if they are there, they may be able to tell us who is behind this masquerade and perhaps something of what their intentions are.”

  “So you think we need to talk to them,” Phair said.

  Adjo liked the man’s style. He nodded.

  “I agree. What about those helicopters from the Red Sea?” Phair asked. “Any thoughts?”

  “Since they are not military but seem to be together, I have to assume they are coming to support the prophet, perhaps to take him elsewhere.”

  “Out of sight, away from scrutiny,” Phair said. “As in the mountaintop video.”

  “I took that,” Adjo said proudly. “I agree—they were very careful that he should not be seen too closely, or by too many.”

  At Kealey’s urging, Phair stopped and translated. The cleric informed Adjo that Kealey agreed with both assessments. Then he pointed to Durst. “This man has to try and get close to the prophet, to see his staff. Mr. Kealey still wishes to know whether it is false and perhaps use that against them. But these three do not speak the language or look like pilgrims. Will that attract attention?”

  “There are many people with many different dialects among those gathered here, and they will be attending the prophet, not each other. Besides, it is night so the clothing should not matter. But there will be a great deal of
jostling. It will be difficult to get very close, and to see very clearly.”

  “Hopefully, he can tell from a distance.”

  Kealey asked something else and Phair translated.

  “Do many of the people out there have cell phones?” Phair asked, indicating the plain.

  “They seem to,” Adjo replied.

  “That is how they’re getting word out,” Phair said. “Viral terrorism. It’s a new world.”

  “New indeed,” Adjo said. “I have spent a career keeping foreign elements from disrupting my country. Yet here I am, working with foreign operatives to do just such a thing.”

  “I have similar issues, Lieutenant,” Phair said as he slipped on his backpack. He moved slowly, purposefully, like a man who was used to shouldering loads.

  “You have worked with Arabs before, I assume,” Adjo remarked. “Your language skills are—”

  “I have lived among Arabs and many are as brothers to me,” Phair interrupted. “No, Lieutenant. That’s not what I meant.’

  Phair didn’t elaborate and Adjo didn’t press him. He assumed when the American mentioned “issues” he was referring to his current teammates, possibly the girl with the accent. Ultimately, it wasn’t important. Only the job mattered.

  It was quickly arranged that Phair and Adjo would go to the monastery and the leader—Kealey—would go with the others, Carla and Durst. As Phair said to Adjo when the decision had been made, “I’m a priest. I belong at church.” They would stay in touch by phone. Adjo told them to try and collect intelligence about the helicopters when they arrived and get him the information so he could make his own quick assessment and forward it to Task Force headquarters. Then the three set out quickly, and Phair waited while Adjo hid everything he still possessed under a bush where it wouldn’t be discovered.

  “Either that is a formidable disguise or you’ve been through a lot,” Phair told the man.

  “A day ago, these were new,” Adjo told him. “It’s a strange thing about the desert. The new quickly becomes old, yet the very old endures like new.”

  The men set out along the gently sloping expanse, moving westward. A crescent moon had risen and provided sufficient illumination for their walk.

  “It’s humbling to be in this place,” Phair said as they walked, his staff moving in counterpoint to his steps. “I wish I had time to appreciate that feeling.”

  “Have you ever been to Egypt?” Adjo asked.

  “No. I was in Iraq for sixteen years, but never here.”

  “You were with the military?”

  “Yes—and no,” Phair said. “I chose to stay behind. I wanted to try and understand the roots of their religious strife, and to help wherever I might.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “I helped a little,” Phair said. “As for understanding—I think a core of us are too close to the serpent and too far from God, still. Those people are angry and need to fight about something, anything. If they didn’t embrace one cause it would be another, or another. They fight over theologies that aren’t much different, over politics that share mostly the same ideas, over borders that don’t matter at all, really. And they drag others into the struggle. It’s sad.”

  “And yet here, today, I have seen all manner of people, all nationalities, out in the plains in peace,” Adjo said.

  “For now,” Phair said. “They are potential zealots who need only a match. Would you prefer to wait until that flame is ignited?”

  “No,” Adjo said. “Though I wonder.”

  “About?”

  “My country possesses a character that has endured for millennia, a culture and personality that is worth preserving,” Adjo said, surprised by his tone that was wistful rather than proud, defiant. “Civilized nations create ways for people to share that culture with them. We have done that. My work has been about welcoming an orderly international community without changing the nature of the home I love. An assault on the desert, which may yet be inevitable, is not the best way to achieve that.”

  “My church is the same way,” Phair said. “It creates comfort for those who are within and intimidates those who might wish to do more than visit. I don’t have the solution, Lieutenant. I wish I did.”

  “That is what I was wondering,” Adjo said. “Perhaps that is why people come to a place like this. To get to the root of things without the adornments, without the ritualized prayers or manmade boundaries. Part of me hopes that we have calculated wrongly, that all of this is about a true and innocent search.”

  “How do you feel, being here under these conditions—with pilgrims at the foot of the holy mountain and a prophet in its peaks?”

  Adjo laughed. “As Moses did. Alone. Wondering what in the name of the Lord I am to do next!”

  Phair chuckled. “I have to admit one thing, Lieutenant,” he went on, quickly growing serious. “I understand your feelings about home. I would go to the smallest, dirtiest church in Iraq, with the smell of dung in the doorway and people sleeping in the pews. Yet God was still the most powerful presence.” He looked at Adjo. “You saw the staff turn into a serpent. Did you believe it, even for a moment?”

  “No, even before I heard what our analysts said, that it was a snake all along, drugged to muscular rigidity. They point to the fact that the object was cast down rather than merely laid down.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “A blow would have triggered a brief, automatic reaction in what they call an enforced anti-kinesian state,” Adjo said.

  “Paralysis?” Phair said, apparently uncertain of the Egyptian translation.

  “Yes,” Adjo told him. “They couldn’t afford to administer some kind of counteragent, I was told, because after the demonstration the snake would then have remained mobile instead of becoming stiff once again—as it was supposed to have done for Moses.”

  “Of course, if we’re being true to the Bible, it was Aaron’s staff that was cast down, not the rod of Moses.”

  “That is another point,” Adjo said thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter whether this is the actual Staff. The men behind this are clearly seeking an emotional reaction, not a logical one.”

  “For these masses, that may be true,” Phair replied. “The first wave of any religious movement is usually the blind adherents and the seekers of anything new or potentially a revelation. If their objective is to establish a new cult, the closer scrutiny will be where it succeeds or fails.”

  “The Staff itself.”

  “That’s right. Which is why I wonder if that’s their actual goal,” Phair said.

  “I was thinking of that myself, just before you arrived,” Adjo said. “To thousands of pilgrims, I wonder if what they saw today was not the Burning Bush but the Biblical Pillar of Fire, the harbinger of the destruction of the army of Pharaoh.”

  “Very possibly,” Phair said. “And the helicopters?”

  “I don’t know. Angels?”

  “There aren’t any in that story. Only chariots.”

  “Either way, we have some difficult hours ahead of us.”

  “Speaking of difficulty, do you have a plan for getting into the monastery?”

  “Not as yet. I was hoping that upon seeing the enclave, an American special operative would have some insight on that.”

  “I believe I do. Have you a weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  Phair was quiet for a long moment. “Where is the front entrance?”

  “To the east. Why?”

  “Because that is how we are going to enter,” Phair replied.

  “You have a plan.” It was a statement that was really a question.

  “Yes. It will get us inside, I hope. After that, I may be able to talk them into ignoring us.”

  “How?”

  “By being unimportant,” he said.

  “And if that fails?” Adjo asked, though he knew the answer. That was why Phair had asked if he had a gun.

  “It won’t be by our doing if violence becomes necessary,
” Phair replied.

  The gun suddenly felt clammy in Adjo’s hand. Not like a foreign object he wished to be rid of, but almost organic.

  There was apparently nothing more to be said as they left the refreshing coolness of the garden for the ominous cobbled expanse outside the monastery. Adjo noticed that the cleric had discarded his staff somewhere behind them. Perhaps he didn’t want to be perceived as a prophet impersonator and brushed aside. A part of Adjo wished he hadn’t done that.

  Any opportunity for a miracle should not be overlooked, he thought, as they strode through the faint moonlight toward the main gate and a plan that sounded like it might get them in the door and nothing more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  JEBEL MUSA, SINAI PENINSULA

  Ryan Kealey shouldered his way through the crowd, followed closely by Lukas Durst and Carla. Everyone on the plain was standing, watching the torches move along the side of the mountain. There was one light in the center of the circle, but it said nothing about whoever was holding it. Kealey guessed it was the prophet, of course, the other hand wrapped firmly on his staff. The man of the hour was probably surrounded so that someone would show him the way down or catch him if he stumbled. It wouldn’t be terribly impressive for the Deliverer to drop full on his face.

  The crowd was not unusually dense at the foot of the path from the mountaintop. The pilgrims no doubt assumed that the prophet would come to them. Many were probably tired from the journey and baking in the sun, and not everyone wanted to walk about the plains in the dark.

  “They are all such sheep to think this could possibly be real,” Durst said with disgust.

  “I’d watch what I say,” Kealey cautioned.

  “Why? Another Nazi allusion?” Carla snapped.

  Kealey stopped and glared at her. “No,” he said quietly. “I’d watch what I say in English, German, or Spanish. Anything but a regional accent may draw unwanted attention. Though the shoe does fit, doesn’t it?”

  Carla’s head ticced to the side in embarrassed little moves, but Durst nodded in agreement. The man might be a loutish fascist, but ego wasn’t a large part of what guided him. He could be reasoned with.