Vince Flynn - Memorial Day

Harley stepped away from the vehicle and yelled, "And don't get shot!" He jerked his thumb toward the village, "Now get the hell out of here and hurry up!" With that the two vehicles tore off across the field and onto the main road.

The mortar teams had taken the fight out of the enemy and they were in a full retreat toward the mountain pass where a very nasty surprise was waiting for them. A platoon of Navy SEALs was lying in wait ready to spring an ambush. Individual Ranger units were reporting sporadic potshots from the enemy, but any concerted effort to try and launch a counterattack was gone. The Rangers had created a safe corridor around Rattle Snake One's position that they alone controlled. This made the ride into the village very uneventful. Neither of the Fast Attack Vehicles drew or fired a shot.

They stopped in front of the bullet-riddled house, and Rapp was met immediately by Corrigan. The master sergeant brought him inside. Rapp ignored the bound-and-hooded prisoners on the floor and followed Corrigan down the hallway to a bedroom. The Delta trooper turned on a flashlight and pointed it into the subterranean room.

"We gave it a quick check for booby traps, but be careful."

Rapp nodded and took the flashlight from Corrigan. Dropping to the floor he swung his feet into the hole and took one last look before putting the flashlight in his mouth. Leaning forward he grabbed onto the other side of the opening with both hands and let himself drop down until his feet found the damp earth floor. Rapp grabbed the flashlight and slowly did a full turn. There were several computers, along with a number of boxes and files stacked haphazardly all around the room. He found what he was looking for on the last wall and froze, a combination of fear and disbelief coursing through his veins.

He moved closer, studying the map that he knew all too well. The rivers, roads, parks, and landmarks were all infinitely familiar to him. Finding such a map in this remote village was enough to give him pause, but in and of itself, it was not enough to explain his growing alarm. That was caused by what had been drawn over the map. Concentric circles emanated from the center, each one with two numbers written next to it. One was a temperature and the other a body count. The margins were filled with notes written in Arabic analyzing the weather patterns for the region in question.

Rapp stepped back, wondering how much time he had, his head swimming with disastrous possibilities. He had seen this type of map before. It was used to measure the destructive power of a nuclear weapon, and it appeared Washington, D.C., was the target.

FLORIDASTRAITS

Some 8,000 miles away, as nightfall descended on the eastern coast of Florida the forty-four-foot power yacht made its way between the channel buoys and headed for the inlet of the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. It had been a long day for al-Yamani. After killing the captain of the boat, he'd traveled 360 miles, stopping only once in Fort Pierce to top off the fuel tanks. Fortunately, the weather had cooperated and he'd been able to engage the autopilot for at least a third of the journey. Still, the bright sun and wind had beaten his senses relentlessly for twelve hours straight and left him a bit off-kilter.

Now with the boat moving at just under five knots through the calm narrow inlet he was met with an eerie silence punctuated only by the occasional nocturnal cry of animals he couldn't even begin to identify. Al-Yamani was not a man of the sea. He'd grown up in the al-Baha Province of Saudi Arabia, and until recently, he couldn't even swim. His knowledge of boats had been gained entirely in the last year as he'd helped transfer his martyrs on the Caspian Sea from Northern Iran to Kazakhstan. He'd paid close attention to their Iranian captain and how he maneuvered their decrepit flat-bottomed barge. After much cajoling, the captain had agreed to teach the Muslim warrior the ways of the sea, for even then al-Yamani knew he would have to find an unconventional way to enter the United States.

The twin diesel engines purred while the exhaust ports gurgled at the water line and al-Yamani prayed yet again that he would avoid running into any alligators. The thought of such an encounter sent a shiver down his spine. He was a brave man, but he had grown up in the barren landscape of Saudi Arabia and such reptiles gave him near fits. He'd already heard several splashing noises and could imagine the scaly beasts following him up the narrow canal.

He had the running lights on but resisted the urge to use the bright search light. He would have preferred dousing the lights entirely, but if he by chance happened to stumble across some local law enforcement officer, or worse, a DEA agent, he didn't want them to think he was running drugs. His purpose was far more noble than the importing of an illicit substance. It was part of an ongoing battle between his people and the nonbelievers. A battle that had been waged for more than a thousand years.

Al-Yamani kept one hand on the throttle and the other on the wheel while he consulted the GPS readout on the dash. He had memorized all the coordinates. Satellite maps had been purchased on the black market from a retired Russian intelligence officer in the northern Pakistani town of Peshawar. The Russian even helped him pick the point at which he should come ashore. The 140,000-acre refuge was owned and operated by NASA. For years the KGB had moved people in and out of the refuge so they could monitor what the Americans were up to in the race for space.

Mustafa al-Yamani was a cautious man by nature, but when he was pitted against an enemy with almost endless resources, like America, his instincts bordered on paranoia. Before embarking on this mission, he had sent encrypted e-mails to followers who had been in place for years. None of them knew the face or name of the man they were told to meet, only a time and place and that their mission was of the highest order. There were two more locations to be used as backup if something went wrong.

The FBI had increased its surveillance of American Muslims significantly, so they had to be careful. That meant using contacts who did not adhere to the strict Islamic teachings of the Wahhabi sect, which was most unfortunate. Al-Yamani was used to working with those who were truly devoted-men who were willing to martyr themselves without question. He had known many such men over the years and in the past months he had seen dozens of them forfeit their lives to a silent killer they could neither see nor understand. It had happened in a God-forsaken land on the northern edge of the Caspian Sea where the earth was so poisonous only a few mutated forms of life could survive.

Al-Yamani's days were numbered. He too had been exposed to the lethal levels of radiation, but not to the extent of his brave mujahideen. He took pills that helped fight off the nausea and fever, but there was no cure. Mustafa al-Yamani was a dead man walking, but he had just enough life left in him to strike a glorious blow for Islam.

America was a large country with more shoreline than it could ever realistically defend. It was the Great Satan's one glaring weakness, and al-Yamani was planning to exploit it in every phase of his operation. His importance was known to the Western intelligence agencies. A price of ten million dollars had been placed on his head. Several of his own people had been tempted by the bounty, and if not for moles inside both the Pakistani and Saudi intelligence services who had tipped him off, he would now be rotting inside a dungeon somewhere, never to see the light of day again. Instead he was about to unleash the ultimate terror weapon on the arrogant Americans.

Al-Yamani consulted the GPS again and pulled back on the throttles, slipping the engines into neutral. The small bridge where he was to meet his contact was not far up ahead. In the faint glow of the moonlight he could just barely make it out. The retired KGB officer had told him that the canals of the refuge were sometimes only navigable during high tide. Based on the draft of the forty-four-foot Rivarama, he'd calculated that he had a one-hour window to wait for his contact. After that he'd have to leave or risk getting stuck.