Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (26 page)

And now he had it. And with it being an American weapon, his plan was now foolproof. With a Russian weapon, which was what he had expected to acquire, the scientists would have traced the weapon back to them through identifying the plutonium used. There would still be a war, but not necessarily focused in the right direction. But an American weapon. That would be traced right back to the US, and the anger, the Jihad that would result, would be focused on the West, where he wanted it.

He knew how it would play out. The blast would wipe out Mecca, and hundreds of thousands of the devotee lemmings who circled that damned rock day in and day out. The world would react in horror. Aide would pour in, the Saudi government would ask for help in investigating. The UN would send scientists, trace the plutonium’s unique signature straight back to the US, and the war would be on.

American and Western embassies would be attacked overnight, their occupants massacred. Western icons such as McDonalds and KFC would be torched. No business from the West would be safe in any Muslim country. Foreigners would swamp the airports, desperate to flee to safety, but the airports would be swarmed, the waiting throngs hacked to pieces, while the gore played out across the world’s television sets on CNN.

And that would be the first week. At home, the devotees to Islam would begin their own attacks. So called home-grown terrorists would spring up throughout the West, wreaking havoc for months, until finally the population would have enough, and demand their governments put an end to it.

And there was only one way.

They would have to round up all Muslims, place them into camps, and increase security throughout the nation.

Immigration would stop completely.

That would be the first victory.

The camps would be swelling with the millions of people the West had let into their countries, let in in good faith. But it would prove too many.

New Slate already had a campaign in place, ready to fill the Internet through viral videos, messages, emails, along with fliers that would be posted on every lamp post in every city.

Sterilization.

After all, it would be humane. That would be the message. Sterilize them. Those who didn’t want sterilization would be sent back to their homelands. Those that remained would slowly be released back into the population, but under close supervision.

And within a generation, the West would be saved from the demographic time bomb threatening to destroy it as assuredly as the nuclear weapon that would soon save it.

The fear of dealing with the Middle East would force the US government to finally exploit its untapped domestic oil supplies. He and many of the inner circle had already positioned themselves to profit off the inevitable boom in shale oil production and bio-fuels. It would be tough for a few decades, but in the end, the West would be saved. Countries like Iran and Pakistan, with their nuclear weapons, would be dealt with swiftly, and eventually the fundamentalist nut bars would realize their fight was futile, and turn on each other as their economies collapsed when no one needed their oil anymore.

The West would be saved, and the Middle East destroyed, without the power or money remaining to wage war against the “infidel”.

Then they would beg for help.

And we, being the West, would be happy to provide it.

But this time with strings.

You want our money? Then we want freedom of the press. Freedom of speech. Freedom of religion. Equality of the sexes. Democracy.

We want you to drag your asses out of the twelfth century, and into the twenty-first.

They would resist at first, but their populations, inundated with the constant bombardment of information we would be able to inflict upon them, would demand the freedoms, and the first cracks would begin. And that would be all it would take. The floodgates would be opened, and the Muslim world would have its renaissance, its age of enlightenment, its own revolution, and would join the rest of society in a modern, free world, led by a strong, free, proud, and indestructible United States.

He sighed.

I hope I live to see it.

But still that nagging sense of fear.

What was it that was bothering him? Was he having second thoughts? He was about to kill hundreds of thousands, and in the end millions, if not hundreds of millions. He might be remembered as the Hitler or Stalin of his time, if the right people didn’t write the history books.

Could he go through with it?

He had to.

He turned around and tapped on the window. Charlie Parker, who was napping against a crate, snapped awake.

 “Give me the codes.”

“What?”

“Give me the disarming codes.”

Parker removed the code key from around his neck, and handed it through the partition. “Why?”

Cole rolled down the window and tossed it out.

“Jesus! Without those—”

Cole cut him off. “Now activate the failsafe.”

Parker looked at him.  “Are you sure? Once we activate that, there’s no way in hell we can disable it. That thing was designed so even the experts would take hours.”

“Do it.”

Parker nodded and leaned over the weapon for a few seconds, then sat back down.

“It’s done,” he said, his voice slightly subdued.

Cole turned back to face the road.

“Now there’s no going back.

Somewhere over the Red Sea

Abdullah’s plan was more twelfth century than Dawson had patience for. Horseback to the coast, boat, albeit modern, across the Red Sea, land in a secluded spot along the coast and rendezvous with an Hassassin cell on the other side.
Too slow.
Especially with a nuke in play and, however clichéd it sounded to him, the fate of the world in the balance. He had been on enough missions where he had heard similar clichés used, and never really bought into it, until today. If these nut-bars succeeded, it would be a holy war unlike any other, in which only one side would remain in the end.

They must be stopped.

This was exactly why they now screamed thirty feet above the chop, across the Red Sea in their Black Hawk helicopter. Dawson, half his team, Acton, Reading, Abdullah and Rahim, along with Abdullah’s two bodyguards, sat in the back of the chopper.

“Look!” said Mickey, pointing through the side window.

Dawson looked and saw the dark outline of the another chopper, borrowed from the Egyptians,  carrying Red and the rest of the team as they caught up. Dawson checked his watch.
Perfect timing.

“Wings, report!” he yelled to the pilot.

“Five minutes, BD”

Dawson turned to Abdullah. “You’re sure your people will be there?”

Abdullah raised both hands, palms facing him, nodding his head, his eyes closed. “Absolutely, there is nothing to be worrying about.”

Dawson nodded then turned to his men. “Weapons check, we land in five.”

Jeddah-Makkah Highway, Saudi Arabia

“You’ll need to get in the back now.”

Cole opened his eyes and looked over at Jason Sharpe, one of three drivers who had been preparing for months for this mission.

“What’s that?”

“Look.” Sharpe jutted his chin at the windshield, the thick, long beard he had grown and tended over the past six months pointing the way. Cole followed the follicles and saw that traffic had picked up since he last looked. It was still sparse, the odd car scattered across the blacktop shimmering into the distance, but even one was too many if they saw the transfer.

Cole nodded. “Okay, find us a spot.”

Sharpe pointed up ahead where a turnoff led to a smaller road. “We’ll drive up a bit, should give us cover.”

Cole slid the window to the hidden compartment open and peered inside. “Get ready, I’ll be coming in as soon as we stop. Let’s make this fast.”

Brannick nodded as he and Parker shuffled around to make room. Cole slid the partition closed, hiding it from view, as Sharpe turned off the main highway, and onto a smaller road. Cole looked at Sharpe, his white Ihram robe contrasting with the dark tan he had developed over the past summer. Daily visits to the tanning booth had given him a full body tan that would meet any inspection up to and including a cavity search, Sharpe having informed everyone of his cheek spreading technique when tanning, and then demonstrating it to everyone when doubted. Cole shook his head at the memory.
Nasty!

Sharpe geared down, bringing the truck to a slow stop on the side of the road.

Cole pointed at the beard. “Let’s hope that thing works. You’ve got your papers?”

Sharpe nodded and patted the travel documents laying on the dash. “Good to go.”

“Don’t forget you’re deaf.”

Sharpe smiled. “What?”

Cole leapt out and took one last look in the cab. “Good luck,” he said, then slammed the door shut, unscrewed the gas cap and the outer ring, then reached inside, pressing the switch. The hydraulic hiss was followed by the ramp lowering to the ground. He quickly returned the caps to their former positions, then, looking both ways to confirm there were no cars in sight, ducked down and climbed inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

“What the hell have you two been doing in here?” he asked as he crawled up the ramp and pushed himself to his feet.

“Sweating,” said Brannick as he yanked the chain attached to the ramp, pulling it up, the clicking of the latch indicating the floor was again secure. He and Parker, who had been holding their feet up off the floor, got comfortable again as Cole took the spot farthest from the ramp’s exit. He rapped on the rear of the cab. He heard Sharpe shift the truck into gear as Brannick and Parker raised their feet, bracing them against the opposite stack of supplies.

Cole looked at them curiously, Parker opening his mouth to say something when the truck lurched forward, sending Cole to his feet, and splayed over the weapon occupying the bulk of the available cargo space inside the hidden partition. Someone gripped the back of his shirt and pulled him back into his seat.

“Sorry, forgot to warn you to brace yourself,” said Parker. “Whoever thought having the seats facing backward was a good idea should be shot.”

Brannick nodded. “Definitely not designed for comfort.”

Cole, seated again, stretched his legs out in front of him and pushed his feet against a case of water lying opposite. “Well, we better get comfortable. With traffic and security, we could be in here for hours.”

Brannick farted. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have eaten that Ay-rab shit yesterday.”

Cole eyeballed Brannick as the odor assaulted his nostrils. “Do that again and I’ll chain you to that fuckin’ thing,” he said, pointing at the nuke.

Parker leaned toward Brannick and whispered, intentionally loud, “You think he’s kidding, well uh-uh,” shaking his head and pursing his lips. “You’re lucky you ain’t a rag head, he’d kick you out right now, without slowing down.”

Cole chuckled as he tried to get comfortable on the hard metal seat, the temperature easily over one hundred degrees.

“Get some rest, we’re going to need it. Next stop, Mecca.”

Saudi Arabian Coast

“Sixty seconds!” yelled Wings through the comm. “Get out and get clear, the skids are on the ground for no more than thirty seconds!”

Dawson nodded and positioned himself at the door. He gripped the latch and yanked it open, sliding the door to the rear of the chopper. He turned to his men. “Take up covering positions as soon as we exit, but don’t fire. Remember, we are rendezvousing with friendlies, no matter how much they look like the enemy!”

“Yes, Sergeant!” shouted his men who shuffled closer to the now open door. The wind howled through the cabin, the rotors overhead beating down on them drowning out the sound of Wings as he yelled from the front.

“Hold on, this will be a little bumpy!”

Dawson gripped a handhold as he took a knee at the exit, looking out over the helicopter edge. He saw Red’s chopper landing about ten seconds ahead of them, his men already jumping out and taking up covering positions. Wings was hurtling toward the ground.

Jesus Christ!

“Hang on!” he yelled to the others and reached forward with his free hand and grabbed onto some nearby cargo netting. His head still out the door, he watched the sand of the beach race toward them, and at the last minute, Wings pulled up, slowing their descent dramatically. A second later they hit the ground, jostling everyone inside.

“Go! Go! Go!” yelled Wings.

Dawson leapt out and searched for Red and his men. The other chopper, fifty feet away, was already leaving the ground, the pilot banking hard toward the water then pushing the stick forward to gain as much speed, and as little altitude, as he could, in an effort to get into international waters as quickly as possible.

Dawson spotted Red near a berm with Spock and Atlas, peaking over the edge. He waved at Dawson then pointed at his eyes, then inland. Dawson knew what he meant.
We have company.

Dawson’s men jumped from the chopper, racing into position with the rest of the team, and to his surprise, Acton and Reading were already out, helping Abdullah and his compatriots to the ground. Rahim jumped to the ground as the chopper powered up, then rose. Dawson looked at Wings who gave him the thumbs up, then banked away, leaving a cloud of dust as he chased after the other helicopter to safety.

“Get to that ridge!” said Dawson in a hoarse whisper, motioning to the civilians to head for where Red was positioned. Acton and Reading immediately responded, racing, hunched over, toward the hill.

Abdullah and his men didn’t, instead sauntering casually for the ridge.

“Do not worry, Sergeant. All is according to plan.”

Dawson looked at him in frustration, then spun around as he heard the grinding of gears and the unmistakable pounding of horses’ hoofs on sand. He took several steps back, placing himself between the oncoming sound, and Abdullah, in case he had to use him as a hostage to gain control of whatever situation might arise.