Rogue Threat (45 page)

The Cuban soldiers would take off in fifteen cargo airplanes headed directly for New Orleans International Airport. It was a one-hour flight, and the pilots thought they would be able to avoid detection because of the short duration. Their mission was to seize the airport and use the airfield to bring in aircraft and supplies to sustain the attack. Primarily, though, their mission was to inflict as much damage and pain as they could.

Of all the participants in the mission, Rafael figured they were the ones who had the most legitimate reason for participating in the operation. For over fifty years, the United States had been ostracizing, quarantining, blockading, and embargoing their country.

Rafael looked at the load master wearing his helmet and visor. The man gave Rafael a flat palm signal, indicating the word had not come yet. He was looking for the thumbs-up sign.

Awaiting the word to attack, Rafael ran his hand down the stock of his AK-47, reassured by its presence.

His revenge would be sweet.

The African coalition
soldiers had traveled by ship, much the same way their ancestors had been transported as slaves. The difference was that this was a liberating mission. While it might not liberate a single African, it would liberate the soul. They were at one with their kindred spirits, who were calling these warriors forward with ghostly, outstretched, bony fingers, seeking their revenge.

Johnny Igansola from Nigeria paced slowly among his men, all as black as the mahogany of the African forests. Their oily, sweaty faces shone up at him; their wide eyes following, questioning.

“When do we attack, Commander?” one man asked from a squatting position beneath a porthole. The brilliant starlight punched through the window above the man’s shaved head.

“This evening we should land in Port of Baltimore. We are only a few miles out and have slowed our speed considerably so that we are not too soon. We await the call.”

The Colombian insurgents
were at first reluctant to risk using their intelligence networks and infiltration routes for the coalition’s purposes, yet they immediately saw the longer-range benefits of cooperating closely with the leaders of the coalition.

By allowing the alliance to use their secretive drug distribution routes, Cartagena’s cartel would benefit richly. They had readily agreed to supplying guides and route information throughout the Caribbean Basin and within the United States.

With Sue Kim
seated next to him, Sung felt grand and powerful. As soon as he got word from Ballantine, or the backup caller, should Ballantine be compromised, Sung would issue the order. They all had agreed that Ballantine’s Predator attacks needed to be successful to wipe out the command and control architecture and radar warning systems to allow the airplanes and ships to arrive at their final destinations without interruption. Sung would follow the plan and await the call, as hard as that would be.

All they needed to do was get a foothold, and they could bring the economy of the most powerful nation to a dead halt. Once that objective was achieved, the Americans would have no option but to sign the international framework the Central Committee had drafted. The end result would be a redistribution of American wealth to the member nations.

Sung looked at Sue Kim. She looked across the room at Ronnie Wood, who nodded ever so slightly at her. Sue Kim turned to Sung, her almond eyes returning his gaze.

“We are ready, sir,” she said. “We await only the call from Ballantine.”

Chapter 51

2100 Hours, Chesapeake Bay, Aboard the Fong Hou

The drink had done him some good. The Percocet was kicking in full strength, and he was feeling just fine. Ballantine looked around the communications room and noticed the many flashing lights, radios, televisions, and Internet switching devices. He was sitting in the middle of a state-of-the-art communications platform.

He had memorized his speech, but thought he might speak with emotion and stray from his prepared remarks. This would be historic, the most widely recorded event in history, he was certain. Mentally rehearsing his opening line, he watched as Admiral Chen gave him a hand signal that he could begin.

He stared directly into the camera with the most hateful look he could muster. It was not difficult. He wanted to achieve a hard edge mixed with aloof humor. A sort of catch-me-if-you-can attitude. Daring, yet calculated. Though he believed his actions to be justified, he wanted the Americans to see him as the evil man in the dark corner of a dark house.
Their house
.

“Good evening, citizens of America. I apologize for interrupting this broadcast, but you all are about to die, and I wanted to be the first to tell you,” Ballantine said in a thick Middle Eastern accent. He watched himself on the television screen upon which the digital camera sat. His face was dark and sinister. His black eyes burned with the hatred that he wanted the American people to see and understand.
They will finally comprehend
, he thought. Their lives had been so easy and protected. These people would finally understand some of what his people and other Arabs had endured for many years.

“Right now your country’s intelligence apparatus has no idea where I am, and so far they have been unable to stop any of our attacks, except the one in Tallahassee, which is of little consequence. Make no mistake, we are very happy with our progress. And you should know that our success would not have been possible without the cooperation and assistance of a very high-level United States government official.”

Ballantine looked at Admiral Chen, who was nodding in agreement.

“Tonight we will begin to unleash attacks on your forces around the world in Iraq, Bosnia, Kosovo, Afghanistan, Somalia, Yemen, the Philippines, Germany, and many other places, as well as here in your homeland. Yes, I said
here
in your homeland. I am amongst you. Why, you ask, have I stolen your satellite time and forced my message into your homes?”

He paused for effect.

“Because I want you to feel the fear that every Arab feels every day. I want you to know that we are in your country and that your government is not only incapable of stopping us but has betrayed you through the cooperation of Mr. Ronnie Wood.”

Ballantine stared hard at the camera, pausing again, selecting his words carefully.

“Tonight begins the final destruction of America. This country all of you love so much will collapse upon itself because you are weak. We attacked your country on September 11, the Day of Independence, as we call it. All you could do is send a small force to Afghanistan, of all places, to martyr some of our freedom fighters. And then we lured you into Iraq to set the conditions for this phase of our operation. Your military campaign was as unimpressive as your lack of popular support for your war. Very few wanted to leave their comfortable lifestyles and make a sacrifice. Well, I tell you tonight that you all will sacrifice.”

He looked away and then back at the camera.

“Prepare to die.”

Those words were the cue to the cameraman to cut off the digital camera.

“Very well done, General,” Admiral Chen said.

“Thank you, Admiral. Do you think I have their attention?”

“Certainly, but these people, as you say, they are weak.”

“If others could be so lucky to have half the blessings and freedoms of the Americans . . .” Ballantine muttered.

“We should begin.”

“Yes.”

Ballantine stood and walked, feeling liberated. Perhaps this was how the American soldiers felt as they were unleashed from the border of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait during the two Gulf Wars. Like the Americans had done, he was now advancing toward the objective after months, even years, of waiting.

As Ballantine followed Admiral Chen to the launch deck of the
Fong Hou
, though, his most savory thought was that surely his live broadcast would bring Matt Garrett back into his lair. There was only one person who could deliver Mr. Garrett to the
Fong Hou
, and surely he would succeed. Zachary Garrett would serve his purpose as bait.

Ballantine watched Chinese sailors rig the crude nuclear bombs inside the payload housing in the domes of the Predators. He approvingly walked from Predator to Predator, briefly inspecting the handiwork of the Chinese engineers. The bombs looked like small black boxes with a few protruding wires. The sailors locked each bomb into place, using metal clasps and bungee cords. The only difference Ballantine could make out between the nuclear bombs and the chemical bombs was the size of their housings. The nuclear bombs were about two inches larger in diameter.

“Please have your sailors bring Mr. Garrett to my Sherpa, and activate the nuclear bomb on board,” Ballantine said to Admiral Chen.

The admiral looked at Ballantine and smiled. “You are brave warrior, Ballantine.”

Minutes later, Zachary Garrett walked through the small metal door, hands bound behind his back, ducking his head as he was pulled by one captor and pushed by the other. His footsteps rang like shots in the dim flight-operations dungeon of the ship.

“Mr. Garrett, so nice of you to join us,” Ballantine said as the sailors walked Zachary to the Sherpa. Ballantine walked over to the small airplane, resting his hand on the fuselage and looking a bit like Charles Lindbergh might have after his successful flight.

“Can’t say it’s my pleasure,” Zachary said through gritted teeth. In addition to securing his hands behind his back, his captors had shackled his feet with chains. He still wore the tactical clothing from the jump, including his lightweight, tan combat boots.

“Yes, well, you will observe these eighteen Predators, all loaded with nuclear or chemical bombs, fly off of our aircraft carrier and attack your country. Then, if our timing is good, and I think it is, you will watch me kill your brother,” he said. “And then you and I will take a little flight.” Ballantine enjoyed describing the events to Zachary Garrett.

“Let me ask you a question, Ballantine. Kind of a last request kind of thing,” Zachary said, his words echoing in the chamber.

“Anything, but we don’t have much time,” Ballantine said.

“Why couldn’t you just accept defeat? We beat you in the Gulf War. You were wrong, we were right. The whole world rose up against you,” Zachary said, stalling for time, taking in his surroundings, observing what was going on around him. Though, he also was truly uninterested in Ballantine’s response.

“Not the whole world,” Ballantine said. “There are many countries who despise you, and we are allied against you. The war never ended. You have seen only the beginning.”

“Yeah, but who else is there? You guys hate the Iranians more than you hate us. There’s maybe the Chinese. These guys look sort of Chinese, don’t you think?”

“Of course, there is China, North Korea, Angola, Colombia, Serbia, and others. I believe the American term for this is
blowback
, no? Then, of course, there’s this,” Ballantine said, sweeping his hand across the ship’s interior deck, “which is only part of China’s contribution.”

“Really,” Zachary said. “Since we’re all going to die here, why don’t you enlighten me as to the genius of your plan?”

“We’ve wasted enough time. I’m not sure what you’re trying to do, but events will happen much too quickly for any of your friends to respond, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ballantine said sharply. “Next time you see me, your brother will have a knife to his throat. My brother died coming to rescue me, and yours will die coming to rescue you.”

“Sweet justice, it seems. But then what?”

Ballantine stopped and turned. “Nothing else matters, Garrett. Nothing else matters.”

He stepped away as two guards held Zachary. The ship surgeon produced a syringe and clicked it twice with his index finger. “This will keep you docile.”

Zachary watched through bloodshot eyes as the doctor rolled up his black shirt sleeve and slipped the needle beneath his skin without the slightest pinch.

Only seconds passed before his vision narrowed and his head grew too heavy to hold up. He felt his mind swoon a bit and began hearing dislocated voices saying the words, “Predator One,” “Predator Two,” “Hellerman,” “Signal to go,” “Radio,” and so on.

“In the Sherpa,” Ballantine ordered.

The voices floated around as two people maneuvered him into the cargo compartment of the Sherpa and placed a large, black box next to him. He watched as best he could as the sailors drilled and filed for several minutes, using power drills to screw long bolts into the floor, countersinking the device. Then he watched as they connected wires from the box to what appeared to be a timer.

Though drugged, he instinctively knew he was staring at a nuclear bomb.

Chapter 52