Murray McDonald - Critical Error

Akram instructed the crew to lift the plane into position. They lifted the relic brought back to life after being found in Malta and guided it carefully onto the runners that now sat on top of the deck. The rocket mechanism was fixed to the base and the thumbs-up signaled around the deck. The plane was ready.

Everything that had to be said, already had been. The pilot, on seeing the thumbs-up, boarded the aircraft and immediately ignited the old but reliable Rolls Royce Merlin engine. It fired into life and warmed up. Akram instructed the ship to turn into the wind. The pins securing the plane were removed and the pilot applied 30 degree flaps and a 1/3 rudder, just as he had been taught during training. He then opened the throttle to full, pushed his head into the headrest and signaled for the rockets to be fired.

The plane surged forward under a hail of Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! And dropped from the end of the rail towards the ocean.

Akram’s heart sank with the plane but the power of the engine kicked and the nose pulled up and leveled before powering the plane up and away. A tear left Akram’s eye as he thought of the glory that would be with them all soon. Before the old plane was out of sight, the deck structure was broken down and discarded overboard. Sergey Vazlav turned and tried to get as much distance between itself and the floating containers as possible.

“I have Senator Charles Baker for you, Mr President,” offered Nancy.

Fortunately, Johnson and Preston who were currently with the President were facing away from her and she did not see the look of horror on their faces.

“OK, put him through.” The President wasn’t quick enough to think of anything else.

“Charles?” said the President.

“Fuck you, Russell…” that was unfortunately the best Charles Baker could come up with on hearing the President’s voice. Sam waved at him wildly to calm down.

“…I’ve got the name and location of the freighter you need,” he added quickly, before the President hung up.

The President had the phone half down when he heard the name and location. He hit the speaker button so all could hear.

“Sergey Vazlav, Gulf of Lawrence.”

“Thank you, Charles,” replied the President with genuine gratitude. He of course was genuine. Charles Baker had just secured Russell’s re-election.

“Before you get too excited, we think they have probably launched. They’re in range of New York.”

“Christ!” said Russell, realizing that two million deaths was synonymous with New York.

Preston was already onto the Joint Chiefs as the President ended the call with Baker. Two minutes later, they called back. The carrier George H.W. Bush was nearest in the vicinity and had sent a squadron of F/A18 Super Hornets to the area. They would be in position in less than twenty minutes.

They were also scrambling every piece of kit that could spot or shoot down the Hurricane towards the Northern states.

Twenty minutes later the President’s office was patched into the chatter between the pilots and the carrier.

“Avenger, this is squadron leader, we have visual on Sergey Vazlav. I repeat we have visual.”

“Team Leader, this is Avenger, can you confirm status of launch?”

“Avenger, no aircraft visible but freighter is steaming North. I repeat steaming North.”

“Fuuuuuuck!” screamed the President, fearing the worst.

“Avenger, crew are on deck, gesticulating at us. Going for closer look.”

“Avenger, crew laughing at us. Fear aircraft launched, reports of containers floating south of here.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!!!” screamed the President slamming his desk. The phone buzzed. Preston answered.

“It’s the Joint Chiefs, Mr President. What do you want them to do? Our nearest asset is two hours away. The Canadians can take them into custody. They can be there in twenty minutes. Our fighters can keep watch on them until then.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?! The Canadians will never hand them over. Those pricks will be on planes back to wherever they crawled from in a month!”

“Blow them the fuck away and I mean away!”

“Yes, Mr President.”

Akram had seen the jets shooting towards them over the horizon and knew they had been found. The Americans were too late, the plane was already on its way. He called his men on deck who jumped and whooped as the American fighters flew past with inches to spare.

Akram knew it was over when four pulled off and swooped up in the sky. He had seen enough movies to know that they were positioning themselves for an attack. He called his men together and they prayed to Allah as the four missiles evaporated them.

“Avenger, this is Team Leader. I hope you don’t mind but we used four Harpoons, those fuckers are well and truly gone!”

The President slammed the desk as the news came though. “Every one of those boys gets a medal from me. I want them in Corpus tomorrow, Henry.”

“Yes, Mr President.”

“Now find that plane!”

It seemed Deif had one more trick up his sleeve. The pilot of the Hurricane flew less than a hundred feet above the ground. His route carefully calculated to minimize likely sightings which, in the sparsely populated North Eastern states of America, was not difficult. His small GPS device ensured he was within meters of where his route should be and gave him a significant advantage over his predecessors. The route took him inland, before commencing his run to the South, running past New York and turning to the heart of the birth of the American nation, just 77 miles away, to Philadelphia. Although smaller than New York, the city was contained within a smaller area. A 2000 feet airburst over Philadelphia was, according to the calculations, up near the million mark.

Deif had anticipated the evacuation of both New York and Washington and as such, had ruled them out. He wanted to maximize the death toll and Philadelphia, un-evacuated, gave him the largest potential death toll he could achieve.

Ahmed Hameed had talked until he was blue in the face but nobody was listening. His network had come through and he had tracked down the three other controllers. He had spent the last three hours trying to make them understand the opportunity that lay before them. Firing the devices would end nothing. Not firing them could end everything. As the time neared midnight, the men prepared to leave. They had orders to follow. Deif had been explicit. Unless he told them otherwise, the weapons should be fired.

Ahmed explained again that were Deif there, he would want them not to fire. The opportunity for a true Palestinian nation was at their fingertips. The scoffs of derision at the words of Ben Meir being believed insulted Ahmed. It was one thing to scoff at Ben Meir but these men were now scoffing at him.

He stood up and commanded silence. He gave each of them an ultimatum that, should he be wrong, they should fire their weapons immediately.

All looked at each other and nodded. If Ahmed Hameed wanted to commit suicide, that was his problem. At least two of the men fancied their chances at taking command. And if Ahmed was to be believed, Deif would not be coming back anyway.

Nods around the table gave Ahmed the go ahead. However, he was warned that he had until midnight or else the weapons would be fired.

Ahmed checked his watch. Just 15 minutes remained. Hardly time to get to the border, never mind trying to get through, he thought, as he ran towards the cars parked below. A small crowd followed him and then a convoy was soon tracing its way towards the Israeli border. Its walls loomed large, its watchtowers looming even higher. The snipers that waited for any attempt to break her defenses, watched on silently.