Tom Lowe - The Black Bullet

Jason said nothing, his eyes on the blade. Sharif said, “Turn on the camera.”

O’Brien and Hunter drove a rented Toyota 4-Runner from the airport. Plenty of room for the assault rifles. He was still carrying the Luger along with his Glock.

Hunter’s cell rang. “What do you have?” he asked. He listened, nodding his head. “Send back-up. No sirens.”

“What is it?”

“We got an address: 2973 Sycamore Drive. Turn left at the next light.” Hunter quickly entered the address in the GPS, then added, “A neighbor-lady across the street apparently saw five, I’m quoting here, ‘five bin Laden types’ get into a large blue cargo van and leave with something wrapped in a quilt. One of the men looked American-a young guy who was walking with a limp.”

“How far is Sycamore Drive?”

“GPS says twenty-five miles. When we get there, Sharif will be long gone.”

“We’ll start helicopter surveillance for a blue cargo van.”

A SWAT team surrounded the home on Sycamore Drive, a green Land Rover still in the driveway. O’Brien and Hunter, along with four FBI agents went through the front door. The men cleared each room.

O’Brien motioned to a smaller door behind a kitchen alcove. He slowly turned the handle, the smell of sulfur-gunfire and blood was at the top of the steps.

“Jesus Mary ….” a younger agent said.

“Oh, God,” whispered another.

Lisa Toffler had been shot through the forehead. Her father’s headless body was on the floor, the bloody head propped in the dead girl’s lap with a note stuck in the mouth. Hunter pulled it out and read, “‘America, your children carry the weight of your mistakes. Your doctrine was not written for the world … Mohammed Sharif.’”

The younger agent opened a door to the backyard. He vomited in the shrubbery.

Hunter’s cell rang. “Yes!” he barked, closing his eyes to try to hear over the agent’s heaving outside the door. “How far is that?” he asked. “Excellent! Give me choppers. Deploy the F-16s! Move!”

The agents turned toward Hunter. He said, “A small airfield outside of Augusta. Sort of an executive airport. A mechanic was closing when he saw a blue van pull up and men get out. Didn’t think much about it until he saw that one of the men had his hands tied behind his back. The mechanic spotted him when the other guys left the rear doors open after they off-loaded something in a blanket.”

“Let’s roll!” O’Brien said, taking two steps each up the stairs. “Where is the mechanic now?” he asked. “Sheriff’s dispatch has been trying his cell. No answer.”

“Not good,” O’Brien said. “Not good at all.”

One of Sharif’s men measured the bomb under the quilt and then measured the cargo area of the plane. “We’ll have to remove the two back seats,” he said.

Sharif looked at his watch. “Hurry!” he shouted. “The Americans might be close. He looked at Jason in the van. “We will videotape you getting on the aircraft, taking your last ride as you and Waahid bomb the city of Atlanta. I know the history during your Civil War, which I believe has never ended. General Sherman marched through Atlanta, almost burned it to the ground. We will do what the general failed to do. I hear Atlanta is the home of Coca Cola … the real thing, no?”

“Might as well kill me now,” Jason said. “No way in hell I’m going to drop a nuclear bomb on an American city.”

“You and Waahid will not ‘drop’ the bomb. You will crash the aircraft into the heart of the city. You are part of the bomb! For Waahid, it will be the threshold to paradise. Masalaama. For you, and your narrow-view religion, it is the end.”

O’Brien drove as he and Hunter listened to the FBI analyst on the speakerphone. She said, “The airport is between Highway 17 and 37 in southern Madison County. Have a satellite aerial. We count six people. Not known if all are hostiles. They are outside a building. There are five buildings, two large enough to be hangers. Hostiles are in front of the second large building to the right of the entrance drive. Some may be in the building. One person is in a prone position. Assumed dead. You can approach from the service road and drive up to the rear of the hangers to minimize the risk of a visual. There are two large trees that might offer cover. ”

“Thanks, Patti,” Hunter said. “Give me an open channel to Mark and the team.”

“Stand by.”

O’Brien said, “We need to surround these guys and avoid crossfire.”

“Understand,” Hunter said.

“Channel is open,” said the analyst.

“All units,” Hunter said, “follow us through a spur road leading to the rear of the airport. From there we’ll have teams of two fan-out and cover the perimeter best we can. Hostiles are in front of the second hanger to the right. Some could be in the building. The goal is to keep the twin-engine Beechcraft from taking off.”

“Roger,” said a voice on the speakerphone.

Sharif’s men entered a hangar and began searching for tools. “This should work,” said one man lifting a red toolbox off a bench. We can have the rear seats out in a few minutes. Come, Samir, you are good with your hands.”

“Abdul, go to the aircraft. Stand guard.” Sharif punched numbers on his satellite phone, waited for the connection as he stood in the wide hangar door and watched the men unbolt the rear seats. In Arabic he said, “The hour is here. We will have the plane in the air within five minutes. The great American city of Atlanta will go down in a ball of heat … yes … Allah has led us here … Allah akbar, hamdulillah! ”

O’Brien drove down the dirt spur road, careful not to stir dust. Three SUVs loaded with federal agents followed. They parked beneath two large live oaks about one hundred feet from the rear of the hangars.

O’Brien said, “Remember, they’re holding a hostage. You all have the description of Jason Canfield. He needs to walk out of here. His father died on the bombing of the USS Cole. This one is for Jason’s dad! Let’s make sure his son lives.”

Both rear seats were on the tarmac to the left of the Beechcraft. The men removed the quilt from the bomb and walked it over to the open doors on the plane. The bomb was like a fat torpedo. More than four feet in length. Two feet thick. Ugly gray, a dark tapered point. Twin fins on the tail. It took five men to lift it into the plane.

One man held a video camera recording everything. Three others stood guard holding AK-47 assault rifles. Sharif and Rashid Aahmed were at the hangar door. Sharif just ended a phone call while Rashid scanned the area for intruders. “It is time,” Sharif said, walking toward the plane. “Bring Canfield.”

In front of the plane, Waahid-Barak dropped to his knees, body facing east and lowered his forehead to the ground. When he stood, Sharif kissed both of his cheeks and said, “You will be the martyr all our children’s children will respect. You are mujaddid . You were chosen by Allah. You will have a special place in paradise. Salaam alaikum .”

Waahid bowed his head. The men watched as he climbed in the pilot seat.

Two men lifted Jason who screamed, “Shoot me now assholes! I’m not going on your bombing mission!”

One man hit Jason in the jaw with the butt of his pistol. Jason dropped to his knees. The man with the video camera zoomed in closer on Jason’s face. Sharif shouted, “Jason Canfield! The choice is yours. Renounce the atrocities of your government and you live. If you do not, you will have a front row seat to the greatest explosion ever to happen on American soil.”