Countdown to Mecca (23 page)

General Brooks knew that, religious significance aside, the story of the Night Journey taking place at the site was total fiction; Muhammad's journey to heaven almost surely originated much closer to Mecca. But people needed their fictions, large and small; disturb the small fiction of where an incident took place, and the larger and more significant belief would be questioned as well.

Brooks did not believe that religion, even Islam, was fiction. It was something that answered a deep need in the human race. Its power was proof of that. But that power was also its undermining—if enough people were caught up in the surface fictions, the result would be traumatic. For when death and destruction were applauded by religion, there was no stopping them. History made that clear.

No matter the beliefs about it, there was no question that it was a beautiful building. Not a mosque, but a shrine—the dome exterior and the structure's interior glowing with gold. The interior circle wall seemed like a golden halo, sitting over the gray sandy color of the rock where Isaac nearly died and Muhammad was said to have gone to Paradise.
How much more appropriate that this be the target,
Brooks thought. For the symbolism. It could have worked both ways—the intention was to anger the Jews and Christians—but striking the Rock would have angered Muslims as well. That could have made it an ambiguous symbol, and so he had dropped the idea.

There was no way of knowing precisely how much damage would be done by the bomb intended for Jerusalem. As Brooks had said at the meeting, it was the smaller of the two weapons.

The air-burst weapon's initial blast radius would extend roughly five miles in all directions. The poisonous effects would be most severe within about a half mile of ground zero, though ultimately would extend much farther, depending on the wind and the vagaries of chance … such as where people would go before they knew they had been infected with a super-Ebola virus. How many people would they breathe on? How many people would become infected and then infect others? There were too many intangibles, including how much destruction would be caused by the explosive component itself. Although the bomb would be set off above the site, geography would still play a role, absorbing or amplifying the shock wave.

Brooks himself thought the zone of destruction might extend to the outskirts of Jerusalem, roughly five miles to the north. There was a chance the airborne Ebola itself, not just the inhaled super-virus, would spread all the way to the Dead Sea, some fifteen miles to the east. In any event, the center of the city, the birthplace of Christ, would surely be destroyed.

Of course the Israeli conspirators had objected. They would lose many of their countrymen. But they had been the ones to make the argument for the strike in the first place, when Brooks was only talking of destroying Mecca. Without a Jerusalem strike, they persuasively argued, the result would simply be a meandering war—simply a bloodier version of what was happening right now.

It would be like Iraq in 2007,
General Brooks thought. Car bombs and IEDs every hour, in every major city across the United States and Europe. “Rules of Engagement” that handcuffed American soldiers, European governments that decried the sight of blood—but only if it belonged to Muslims, not their own people. A war like that would continue for a hundred years, until the Muslims won.

“Hit both sides,” the brothers argued. And at that point, at least, they were willing to strike Israel, and had even offered up Jerusalem.

Brooks walked through the shrine, fighting off the memories of Iraq. He'd led an army corps during the invasion. The assault was a piece of cake. The aftermath was ecstasy—for a few months. Tired of Saddam, tired of the depression caused by misrule and the UN sanctions, the Iraqi people had welcomed the Americans as liberators. It was like Europe in the summer of 1944.

And then, somehow, somewhere, someone threw a switch.

The first IED in his area went off on a highway a few minutes after a supply convoy passed. It caught everyone by surprise. One of his divisional G-2s thought it was a Saddam-era bomb whose fuse went off by accident.

Brooks had removed him within a month. By then, the mujahideen had become much better at both creating IEDs and setting them off. His forces were taking a dozen casualties a week. The next month, it was a dozen a day.

Military targets weren't enough for the bastards. By the end of the year, civilians were being slaughtered in marketplaces, bazaars, main roads. It had become a religious war as well as one against the United States: Sunni versus Shiite, and vice versa.

Iran was fanning the flames, and American troops were a target for both sides. But the core of the problem was Islam itself: a pre-Medieval religion that had not only never adjusted to modern realities, but was now being driven back to its most violent roots by ignorance and strife.

Brooks saw then that there was no hope for redemption—no chance that the religion would purge itself of its worst attributes and become a positive force for its adherents. It had entered a fatal downward spiral, like the Byzantine Empire or the American Indian ghost dancers or the German Nazi Party. There was no hope except for self-annihilation.

The reasons were complex, but one look at the center of the Dome of the Rock provided the most obvious clue: superstition and ignorance were ridiculously hard to overcome. Once they reached a critical mass, there was no hope.

The only question was how much of the rest of the world would they take with them. Strike now, and at least there was some hope that the United States and a portion of Europe would miss the worst of it. Wait five years—when Iran would have nuclear weapons, when Saudi Arabia would have clandestinely imported some Pakistani bombs, when perhaps even Al Qaeda or Hezbollah would have access to them—and the toll would be far, far greater. The war had to start now, and it had to start on the West's terms. If the West would not take preemptive action—and not even a competent administration was ready to contemplate it, let alone the boobs they were saddled with—then it would have to be started for them.

Still deep in thought, Brooks walked outside the building. There was much to do, and yet he felt the overwhelming urge to reflect and contemplate. There were two parts to him; he was a man of action and yet a thinker as well. The two sides were constantly at war. It was that way for Patton as well. His diary showed it clearly.

“General, you're going to want to leave for the airport soon if you want to stay on your schedule,” said Colonel Ashlock.

“True,” said Brooks. “Peter, why don't you go on ahead and make sure the vehicle is ready?”

Peter Andrews considered pointing out that the vehicle would certainly be primed and ready to go. Instead, as always, he looked behind and beneath Brooks's words to see what the general actually wanted him to do. The event coordinator smiled thinly, turned, and engaged the security detail—six soldiers from Ashlock's command, and two from Brooks's—in a detailed conversation as to what their duties were here, on the way to the airport, and then at the plane.

Even so, Brooks kept his voice so soft Ashlock had to lean toward him to hear.

“We're at T-minus two days,” Brooks reminded him. “Are you sure your command is ready?”

“Absolutely, General.”

“Arrange for a helicopter to be at your base,” added Brooks. “You'll need to be mobile.”

“I have a pair of Chinooks coming for an exercise the night before,” said Ashlock. “They're due to arrive at 1300.”

“Push them forward to the morning, no later than 1100,” said Brooks. “I want a margin for error. I'm not sure how far to trust the Israeli brothers.”

Ashlock gave him a look of concern, but then nodded.

“If anything happens to me,” added Brooks, “enact all of the contingencies, one by one.”

“I will not fail you,” said Ashlock.

“Good. Now let's move it along, Colonel,” said Brooks loudly. “I'm due in Riyadh in a few hours. I'm having cocktails with the ambassador. I never realized how much work it was saying good-bye to an old command.”

 

31

Fifty Thousand Feet Over the Atlantic

Heading East

Jack had too much time to think, plan, work, and worry on the flight to Riyadh, but at least the time was spent in comfort. Doc had secured a Gulfstream 650, which had already set around-the-world speed records. So the powerful engines on this sleek beast would cover the eight thousand miles at nearly the speed of sound.

Jack sat at one of the four comfortable workstations. The cabin was the longest, widest, and tallest of any private business jet he was ever in, and normally he would have enjoyed it, but its details weren't as important to him as their mission. Thankfully, the time passed quickly. Jack saw to a hundred details, but fretted over missing a hundred more.

He was stepping into the heart of darkness, filled with people who'd like to see nothing less than America in ruins. That and their God was all they lived for.

A God they didn't understand any better than they understood respect for women,
Jack thought.

But, for now, they worked, watched, and waited for the red, white, and blue to lower their guard … just enough.…

Sol had arranged for a line of credit and Jack took a medical insurance policy in case any of them were injured or something went seriously wrong. He then discovered that to get a visa to visit the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, he needed a sponsor. That was not as easy for him to arrange. Who was he going to use: a journalist, a cop, an FBI agent, or an ex-CIA man? But Sol just smiled, said “Leave it to me,” and paid a considerable bribe to take care of the paperwork.

“Not that it's called a bribe,” Sol told him when Jack pointed out the unfairness. “It's an ‘expediting fee.' That looks much more comfortable in the company books.”

When Jack still shook his head, Sol had just shrugged. “Makes the world go round, Jack, and you're going halfway around the world. Better be ready for anything.” Jack hoped he was, and went over every contingency he could think of. He thought so hard and so long about it, in fact, that it ultimately put him to sleep, visions of mushroom clouds dancing in his head. When he woke up with a start, he found Doc leaning over him, his big paw on Jack's shoulder.

“Glad you could catch some shut-eye,” his lanky old friend told him. “You'll need it. We're starting our descent into Riyadh.”

Doc was wearing a dark tan suit made from a linen/silk weave. As per Boaz's instructions, he wore a long sleeve shirt and tie, which was considered appropriate in Saudi Arabia. Under no circumstances should they show their knees, sport gold chains, and certainly not wear crosses. Since neither had any intention of doing any of that, they felt safer.

Jack glanced out the nearest window to see Riyadh's domed, octagon-shaped airport looking like a fried, sunny-side-up egg on the flat desert surroundings below. He quickly headed to one of the sleeping quarters to change into his own dark poplin suit, and slip on the versatile leather shoes Ric had acquired for him.

“You'll need to be ready for anything,” Sol's assistant had told him, “yet still dress according to the Saudi dress etiquette. So the suit can breathe, is very durable, stain resistant, and there are eight interior pockets for security.”

By the time he was ready, the jet was ready to land. Jack strapped himself in next to Doc, and they exchanged a look of determination and support.

“Stay loose,” Doc advised.

Arriving in Saudi Arabia on a private jet was nothing like coming in on a commercial airliner. Jack and Doc were met on the tarmac by a plainclothes customs agent, who treated them as if they were potential clients looking to spend millions. The check of their bags—one each—was perfunctory. Doc's camera was removed but not turned on, and Jack's laptop wasn't even acknowledged. Jack barely had time to taste the tea the man's assistant offered in the customs office before they were cleared through.

“Pretty nice to a bunch of foreigners whom they don't know,” Jack murmured as they followed the customs agent to the exit.

Doc smiled. “The prince's people probably told them who you are,” he theorized. “They're going to roll out the red carpet so you make him look good.”

The men stepped out onto the bronze stone of the airport's handsome interior, admiring its gold-paneled columns and the many sunlight-infused cathedral ceilings.

“Our car will take you into the city, if you wish,” said the customs official.

Before Jack could reply, Doc nudged him, then pointed at a small, nut-brown man wearing an immaculate white robe that covered him from neck to ankles; brand-new leather, open-toes sandals; and a red-and-white checked headscarf with a neatly knotted rope holding it fashionably in place. The man—in what was called a thawb robe, a ghutrah scarf, and an agai head rope—was holding a small, beautifully lettered sign reading
HATFIELD
.

Jack raised his eyebrows at the long and powerful reach of Sol Minsky. “Thank you,” he told the official, “but I believe our ride is here.”

“As you wish,” replied the customs man, who almost bowed as he took his leave—watching the three until he disappeared back into his offices.

The diminutive, nut-brown-colored man put his hand out as if it were a spear when the two Americans approached. “I am Jimmy,” he said in a deferential, accented tone. Jack shook it, impressed with his solid muscles. “You are Mr. Hatfield.” Jimmy looked at Doc, sticking out his hand again. “And you are Mr. Matson.”

Doc shook, while placing his other hand on Jimmy's shoulder, then his elbow, while looking deep into Jimmy's dark eyes. The Middle Easterner seemed to be made from solid, petrified wood, and by the crinkles around his eyes and mouth, could be any age from forty to a hundred and forty. “That's right,” Doc told him as he leaned down and whispered, “and your reputation precedes you.”