John Thompson - Armageddon Conspiracy

It was only a summer storm, he told himself as Anneliës began to drive, but he sensed an approaching maelstrom that was anything but normal. Was this God speaking? A band of rain lashed the windshield then stopped. Wind buffeted the heavy car, rocking it on its axles. Biddle closed his eyes and tried to picture himself as a Christian warrior striding across a vanquished earth, but he saw only the image of a normal man.

They were a half mile from his estate when Anneliës braked savagely to a halt. The headlights glistened on the wet pavement, and leaves skittered past in the wind. The sight reminded him more of autumn and death than summer. Anneliës hammered the steering wheel with her fist. “You can’t do this!”

“You don’t have to come.”

She gave him a bloodless smile. “You don’t understand any of it!”

Biddle looked at her with dawning awareness. “What’s to understand?”

“I know what Abu Sayeed is capable of!”

He kept staring at her in stunned silence. Finally, she continued. “Sayeed hired me. He paid me to gain your confidence, and I was willing to do it. I just had no idea that I would fall in love with you!”

Biddle felt numb. One part of him wanted to believe what she was telling him, but the analytical part cried out that she was lying, that she’d been lying from the very start. “The Lord wants me to confront the infidels.”

Anneliës sat with her head bowed, hands locked on the wheel, appearing to wrestle with some decision. Finally she turned to him, her eyes filled with tiny points of red light. “Abu Sayeed is not going to follow your plan!”

“He has to!” Biddle cried.

“He’s going to fire his missiles into Manhattan and then use you as a hostage to escape!”

Biddle put his palms over his ears, as if by shutting out her words he could make them false.

“You’re his enemy!” Anneliës shouted.

“God will make Abu Sayeed fulfill His purpose!” he roared. His mind could not—would not—contemplate another possibility.

“Well, Abu Sayeed’s God may have a different plan!”

His wild rush of anger took him by surprise. He slapped her hard enough to draw blood at the edge of her lip. She made no sound but turned her eyes away, and he felt something draw back into her, almost like heat leaving a room.

“ Never take the name of the Lord in vain or talk about other gods as His equal,” he said in a tight voice. He paused and waited for a response.

She kept her eyes on the road. “Idiot!” she snapped.

Biddle watched her and tried to analyze the enormity of what had just taken place. She had suddenly become a different person, someone hard and cold. Only it couldn’t be. God would not let him lose her, not now, not when he was so close to returning Jesus to earth!

LONG ISLAND, JULY 2

BRENT PACED THE NARROW SPACE between Maggie’s Toyota and Kosinsky’s truck and tried to wrestle his emotions under control. Impatience and anxiety raged against his guilt that others were taking so much risk.

“Hey,” Maggie said, sounding exasperated, “will you please pay attention. We only have time to review this once.”

They were parked behind a McDonald’s, beside the enclosure for the trash container. Maggie had her door open, her feet on the pavement. Fred Lucas and Kosinsky stood to either side, while DeLeyon sat in the passenger seat. Maggie held the aerial photograph spread across her lap and used a small flashlight as a pointer.

Brent relented and came over to watch as she traced Biddle’s driveway. “Remember, there are three private security guards on duty, one right inside the gate.” She indicated the small octagonal hut that Brent had pointed out earlier. “Another up here beside the main house.” She pointed to an identical small building on one side of what looked like a six or eight car garage. She indicated a third structure down along the water, between the dock and the house. “And there’s number three,” she said. “I called the security company and verified that there are three guards on duty at all times, and that they’re long-time employees.”

“Which means they’re probably ignorant of what’s going on,” Kosinsky added.

Maggie nodded. “We have to hope that’s the case. It’s Biddle’s best bet for a tight alibi. If the guards are innocent, they won’t be expecting an attack, so we just have to keep them busy. Even if there’s shooting away from the house, they probably won’t try to be heroes. They’ll hunker down and call the police. That leaves the terrorists.” She turned toward DeLeyon. “Okay, what’s your job?”

“I’m lost,” DeLeyon answered. “I stop right here,” he said pointing to the driveway entrance. “I ring the bell on the front gate and yell that I be needing some help. I ask to use the phone.”

“Just keep him distracted,” Maggie said.

Brent felt another stab of guilt. “Be damn careful,” he snapped. “You’re an African American kid in a rich white neighborhood late at night. You don’t know how some rent-a-cop might react.”

DeLeyon raised his hand up in front of his face, and his eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh, Lawdy, look at me! I am African American! I never notice that before!”

“It’s not funny,” Brent growled.

Maggie reached out and gave Brent’s hand a quick squeeze. “He’s just trying to lighten things up,” she said gently.

Brent shrugged but said nothing.

“Okay, when DeLeyon distracts the guard, we go over the wall,” Maggie continued. She looked up at Fred. “When we do, you’re going to split off and get yourself into position near the house.”

Brent took a quick glance at his uncle and thought that for once in his life he looked serious. Fred nodded and cast a dour glance into the back of Kosinsky’s truck at the cardboard liquor carton. The two half gallon bottles in the carton had been full of Boodles Gin until a few minutes earlier but now held gasoline. Wet rags protruded from the top of each.

“You may not need to use them,” Maggie cautioned. “The three of us will head for the cottage in the back.”

“Who takes Biddle down?” Brent demanded, unable to get past the idea that Biddle might escape.

“There’ll be no place he can run,” Maggie said.

“I know how you feel about Biddle,” Kosinsky said. “But the missiles and terrorists have to be our first objective.”

Brent started to fire back a reply, but then he caught himself and nodded. Kosinsky was right.

“Give me the signal,” Fred said. “I’ll hit the garage.”

Brent pointed at the guard station that was right beside the garage. “It’s too risky. What if the guard starts shooting?”

“It’s there, or it’s no place. I need to make sure people can get out.”

Maggie indicated what looked like a porch or perhaps a sunroom extending off the opposite end of the house. “What about here?”

Fred scowled, but he studied the picture for a few more seconds. Finally, he shrugged. “I guess that’s okay,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Maggie said. “Steve, Brent, and I go in along this side of the property.” She traced a line down the property’s border that would keep them well clear of Biddle’s guards.

“We need to spread out before we go through those trees,” Kosinsky said, indicating the trees that screened the cottage. He reached for the infrared close-up taken earlier that day. It showed a sharp green glow in the trees and two duller glows beneath the cottage roof. “There are three of these guys, one posted outside.” He pointed to the brightest glow. “He’ll almost certainly have night vision.” He glanced up at Maggie and Brent. “Until we get the fires going, he’ll be able to see us like it’s daylight.”