by Conrad Jones
“There is a Task Force unit in pursuit of the last remaining bandit as we speak,” Chen replied.
“Where?” asked the American.
“They have headed back to the port where they arrived, Holyhead. They were obviously expecting to board the Syrian vessel that brought them here.”
Another small screen sprang to life and the American director of intelligence services, Ruth Jones appeared in the picture. She looked flustered.
“Director, we were expecting to talk to the Secretary of State,” Janet Walsh greeted her cautiously, as agency involvement allows signalled big trouble.
“We have a problem,” the American said.
“How can we help?”
“We need to know if the Israelis extracted any specific information about the nature of the potential attack on New York.”
All the heads in the room turned toward the Israeli doctor. He flushed red a little under the scrutiny and appeared to be considering his response.
“No, I’m afraid there was no specific detail,” the doctor answered.
“Is it possible that the attack could be delivered from an airborne position?” the American director asked somewhat cryptically.
Chen looked at Tank and shrugged his shoulders. The fat controller removed his glasses and cleaned them with his tie, while he thought about the question. The Israeli doctor coughed and cleared his throat.
“May I ask why you’re considering that scenario?” Tank asked. He was asking the question that everybody else wanted to know the answer to.
“We obviously need to consider every possible connotation of how this threat may materialise,” the American lied.
“As long as the attackers are willing to destroy the aircraft while it is still airborne, then it would be the perfect way to contaminate a large area. The radioactive dispersal would be assisted by the wind, especially at a reasonably high altitude,” the Israeli answered.
“Is there any specific reason why you are considering that particular scenario?” Tank pushed the issue.
“Doctor Graff, do you have any idea how large these devices may be, taking into consideration the negligible amount of radioactive material that has been intercepted in the United Kingdom?” she asked completely ignoring Tank’s question.
The fat controller chewed the edge of his glasses and smiled at Tank. It was becoming obvious that there was something driving the direction of the American’s questions.
“We can only estimate, but there would be several tons of isotopes in two generators. That is always assuming that they only acquired the contents of two units,” the Israeli answered slowly and in a concerned voice.
“Do you have some inkling that the supposed attack is airborne?” Tank asked a third time. Janet Walsh shot him a withering glance, trying to make him back off.
“What would you estimate the possible dispersion radius of a device that size could be?” again, she ignored the question.
“If the wind was blowing on shore, up the Hudson River, then you could contaminate Manhattan completely with a device of a reasonable size,” the Israeli was uncomfortable speculating.
“Thank you doctor,” she said. Everyone was waiting for her to elaborate.
“If we have any new information regarding this issue we’ll bring you up to date immediately. I do have some unrelated information for you regarding Islamic extremist activity,” she completely changed tack.
“This morning at zero four hundred hours we executed a missile attack on a known terror training camp, which was situated on the Sinai Desert. The aircraft carrier USS Eisenhower carried out the attack using conventional Tomahawk missiles. The strike was a success,” Ruth Jones communicated the missile attack as if it was completely unimportant, just another day at the office.
“We don’t have any suspected training camps in the Sinai,” the fat controller said astonished. He stood up and pulled his pants up above his waist, and then began rooting through his files looking for information to back him up.
“Obviously our data is a little more current than yours Agent Bell, I’ll keep you informed of any political repercussions,” the screen went blank and the connection was broken.
“What on earth was all that about?” Janet Walsh asked flabbergasted.
“One thing is for certain. She was lying through her teeth, and they’re expecting an airborne attack on New York,” Tank said.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Yasser
Yasser didn’t wake up through the entire airplane journey across the Sinai desert. He’d seen three bright yellow light aircraft, which looked almost abandoned next to the hangar at the far end of the runway. Megdah had inspected the dusty aircraft, which Yasser had spotted on his arrival, and found them all in flyable condition. They were serviced, and full of fuel, ready for takeoff. The Eygptian government had dozens of light airplanes dotted all over the country, ready for a quick getaway, in case of an unexpected Israeli invasion. In 1968, the Israelis had launched an attack, which destroyed the entire Egyptian air force in one afternoon. The government built small remote airfields all over the desert to act as emergency backup facilities, in the event of hostile action. The light aircraft were kept ready and serviced, to act as a means of escape for the government’s key officials.
Yasser climbed into the small yellow Cessna, strapped himself in and fell asleep before the aircraft had even taken off. It was the first time for as long as he could remember that he didn’t fall asleep afraid of waking up. The pain in his infected shoulder was subsiding more and more, as it was left alone, and allowed to heal. The horrors of his months of incarceration melted away and he slept like a baby.
Megdah flew the aircraft across the desert to an airfield north of the Red Sea resort of Taba. Officially a military airport, it is also the main tourist entry point for the northern part of the country. It consists of one single, purpose built, air conditioned building. The building was split into two sections, arrivals and departures. The runway had been reinforced to accommodate the huge commercial jets full of tourists that landed, bringing people from all over Europe.
Apart from the modern terminal building, the rest of the airfield resembled the one that they had just left. Small flat roofed buildings were dotted about. There was a larger hangar building, which had three yellow light aircraft parked inside it, a water tower, and a guardhouse for the soldiers who were stationed there. Abdul had considerable influence in the area, owning three of the larger hotels in the resort. He had wangled a landing permit for the yellow Cessna and had a car there to greet Megdah and his notorious passenger. A significant amount of money changed hands, and the guards turned a blind eye.
When they landed Megdah tried to wake Yasser, but he couldn’t rouse him from his sleep. The driver of the car that had been sent to pick them up, helped Megdah to carry the weakened terrorist, and placed him flat out on the back seat of the car. Yasser slept all the way through the road journey until they reached the coast. The road from Taba airport, to the Red Sea, was cut through a winding, twisting valley, which snaked through towering granite mountains on its way to the shore. As the vehicle approached its destination the driver called Abdul on the car phone.
“We are nearly at the hotel Abdul,” the driver said.
“How is our distinguished guest?”
“Asleep. Where do you want us to take him, the hotel?” the driver hadn’t been given any specific instructions.
“No, take him to the staff quarters, the doctor is waiting there to see him. I will join you there the day after tomorrow,” Abdul said.
“And how are Megdah and Melad, my loyal friends?” he asked.
“I am fine Abdul,” Megdah answered, “but we had to leave Melad behind. We will need to send someone back to pick him up.”
“Oh, why did you leave him behind?”
“Yasser didn’t like him I’m afraid,” Megdah explained.
“I see,” Abdul said slowly, not really understanding but wary that Yasser could h
ear the hands free conversation.
“I will explain when you arrive,” Megdah said.
“No, don’t wait until then. Call me when you arrive at the hotel,” Abdul answered concerned.
“I will, Maa As-salaam,” Megdah said goodbye to his employer.
“They arrived at the gates of just one of Abdul’s hotels. The gate was built to impress the tourists as they arrived. It was fifty feet high and eighty feet wide, rendered with smooth plaster, which had been painted a terracotta colour, almost salmon pink. There was a high archway cut through it, which was edged with marble coving, through which a nonstop convoy of coaches arrived and departed. In the centre of the archway was an ugly wooden hut, which had a steel barrier on either side of it. Three security guards checked vehicle authorisation in and out of the hotel complex. The driver and the security guards exchanged brief greetings and the barrier was raised allowing the vehicle to pass, containing the sleeping terrorist leader.
When Yasser finally awoke he felt completely disorientated. He was lying between crisp cotton sheets in a room that he didn’t recognise. The room was bright and airy, its furniture was made from carved mahogany, and there was the gentle hum of an air-conditioning unit. He sat up and looked around the room, trying to familiarise himself with his surroundings. The wound on his shoulder had been cleaned and dressed, and it smelled of antiseptic. There was a clear tube attached to a drip, which was fixed into his hand. He didn’t know what was in it, but it didn’t concern him. He felt better than he had felt for as long as he could remember.
“Ahlan Wa Sahlan,” Abdul welcomed Yasser back from his slumber. He stood up from the chair that he had been sat in and walked over to the bed.
“Shukraan,” Yasser greeted Abdul and thanked him for his freedom. He raised his hand and Abdul squeezed it gently in greeting.
“How are you feeling?” Abdul asked.
“Better than I have felt for a long time,” Yasser answered.
“The doctor has injected you with some antibiotics, your shoulder was infected,” Abdul explained.
“Thank him for me. How long have I been asleep?”
“Two days. We were very lucky to get you out of the airfield Yasser,” Abdul’s tone became very morbid, as he emphasised the situation.
“I am grateful for your intervention Abdul, you are a true Mujahideen,” Yasser stroked his ego.
“Yes Yasser, I appreciate your kind words, but we were truly lucky to get you from the airfield in time.”
“You seem to be making a point that I’m not grasping Abdul,” Yasser was becoming bored with the man’s inane self-preening.
“Yesterday morning at sunrise the airfield was completely destroyed. There was an attack, which left nothing standing at all. We were truly lucky to get you out in time,” Abdul laboured the point.
“So the Americans know that I’m no longer enjoying their hospitality. It is good that the airfield will never be used for rendition flights ever again. They have done us a favour Abdul,” Yasser couldn’t care less. If he had the hardware, he’d destroy the lot of them.
“That is true Yasser, and realise how you have suffered at their hands, but my friend Melad was still on the airbase when they destroyed,” Abdul had gone all around the houses to get to the point. He thought that it was extremely ungrateful and disrespectful of Yasser to leave Melad behind, but he didn’t want to offend him.
“Your friend Melad was a coward, and he is better off dead than living his life slithering around on his belly like a snake. We are fighting a war Abdul, I have no time for cowards, and no time for the friends of cowards,” Yasser looked into Abdul’s eyes and saw fear. He too was a coward, but a useful one for the time being.
“Of course, you’re correct, he’s a casualty of war, expendable, his death is of no consequence,” Abdul waffled, trying to placate the psychopath. Megdah had told him everything that had happened at the airfield. He had told Abdul that he had unleashed a beast.
“Good, then let’s not waste any more time talking about him,” Yasser took the drip from his hand and stood up, making Abdul even more nervous.
“You have woken up just in time Yasser Ahmed, we’ve put plans into action in your honour, Yasser Ahmed,” Abdul rolled the name off his tongue as if he enjoyed saying it.
“I’m both rested and intrigued,” Yasser said humouring him.
“Your students have been busy in your absence Yasser, a plan of extraordinary proportions has begun to gather pace as it unfolds,” Abdul explained.
“What is the objective?” Yasser asked.
“The complete destruction of the Jewish state of Israel.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
America
Director Ruth Jones was sitting in a padded leather chair, chewing the end of a pencil. She had been notified earlier that an aircraft was flying from the African continent, directly across the Atlantic, heading into American airspace, without the proper authorisation codes. America was in a state of heightened alert. Normally the threat would be dealt with by the military, but because terrorists were suspected, the intelligence agencies were in the driving seat.
“What type of aircraft is it again?” she asked confused.
“It is an Antonov-124, Russian made, and last registered with the Ukrainian air force. There is a sale registered from the Ukrainian air force to an Egyptian construction company two months ago,” Japey answered.
“And it can fly across the Atlantic unnoticed?” she asked sarcastically.
“No director, we have noticed it. As soon as it was noticed, it was challenged for the proper requirements, which it has failed to disclose. It is definitely up to no good, and we need to deal with it as an unidentified enemy aircraft,” Japey tried to keep his cool.
He really didn’t like working for Ruth Jones. She was too abrupt, too analytical, and she had sussed him out far too quickly. It made him very uncomfortable, working for a woman, especially one as sharp as Ruth Jones. Japey was a raving homosexual, but he really didn’t want everyone to know that he was. He was fully aware that the new director of operations had realised that he was a poof the first time she met him, and that worried him. Nothing had been said about his sexuality, but there was something in her eyes, something that mocked him. She was far too sharp for his liking.
“Where did they say that they were flying to?” she asked for clarification. Shooting down a civilian aircraft had certain protocols that needed to be followed.
“They reported that they were flying to Floyd Bennet field, to take part in the Adirondack hot air balloon festival,” Japey clarified the airplanes supposed destination.
“Why is that not feasible?”
“Floyd Bennet Airfield is situated on Long Island. It was New York’s first municipal airport, and it closed to aircraft in 1971 director. The balloon festival is held annually at the Floyd Bennet memorial airport, which is in Queensbury, Warren County. They are two completely different places, but easy to confuse, “ he expanded.
“Someone hasn’t done their homework then,” the director said thoughtfully.
“Some bright spark at the Federal Aviation Authority only picked it up because the pilot reported his authorisation codes as lost. He is saying that they have been mislaid and that he doesn’t have enough fuel to turn around and go back,” Japey explained further.
“Have we tried to divert the aircraft?”
“Yes director, the pilot has refused to alter course,” Japey said.
“Bearing in mind that we are expecting an extremist attack against New York, we have to treat this aircraft as a suspected potential threat to American lives,” Ruth said, thinking aloud.
“The Israelis suspect that an airborne device could weigh upwards of a ton. A cargo plane would be the ideal vehicle to deliver a dirty bomb across the Atlantic,” Japey clasped his well-manicured hands together.
“Then we have no other option. I’m going to have to recommend to Washington, that we shoot it down, before it reaches New
York airspace. Aren’t we keeping the air force busy this week?” Ruth Jones put the pencil on the desk calmly.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Holyhead
Ali Rasser twisted the throttle of the Honda Blackbird, propelling the bike over a hundred miles an hour. A row of three pubs known locally as the three sisters, the Dublin Packet, the Blossoms and the Holland Arms went passed in a blur of colour as the engine roared down the road. Ali Rasser blasted past the bus station, heading for the harbour. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there, but it seemed like the only place to go. Ali had shot Boris McGuiness and his sons, and he didn’t think that the British police would allow him to go home unpunished. They would try and shoot him, he was certain of that. If he could get to the Syrian ship then he may be able to hide somewhere beneath the decks. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only plan that he had.
