Murray McDonald - Critical Error

Ben had offered this as rock solid proof. If Ahmed didn’t believe him, he should attempt to cross the border after 11pm. Ben emphasized with a smile that he would be well rewarded.

For the first time in his life, Ahmed Hameed was going to listen to the word of a Jew. He stepped down from his car and walked the final 200 yards towards the gates. He looked back and could see the men who held the fate of a nation in their hands, holding the devices that would send the signals. Their eyes were as much on Ahmed as they were on their watches. They were not going to give him a second to spare. Ahmed picked up the pace and waited for the Israeli to prove his doubts wrong.

Ahmed reached the gates, no bullets had struck him yet. He pushed on the gates and his life ended.

The President couldn’t sit still. Two million dead. The number was becoming a reality as he paced his office. Before, it had just seemed like a number. He normally dealt in billions, trillions even but that was dollars not human beings. The number was massive. How could he not have ordered the evacuation? He had not only lost any chance of re-election, he had lost his soul.

Henry Preston tried to keep him calm. They still had ten minutes until midnight in Israel.

“Mr President, we still have time.”

“Even if we get to the bomb now, it’ll be so close it’s irrelevant.”

“Sir, the bomb will only detonate if it is triggered correctly. If we get to it before then, we may be OK.”

Henry looked at the screen in the Situation Room. New York was literally swamped with military fighters. New Yorkers must have thought a war had started with the number of jets that were overhead. Air Force F15, F16 and F22s from as far South as South Carolina were joined by F18s from the Carriers Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush and Harry S Truman.

There was no way the Hurricane could evade such an overwhelming force. There was just no way. It didn’t make sense and in Henry’s book, things didn’t not make sense. He looked again at the map and grabbed the intercom and instructed the search be widened to include Philadelphia and Washington. They couldn’t find him because he was going somewhere else, figured Henry.

Captain John Fuentes had just kicked in his afterburner as he lifted his F-22 raptor off from Langley Air Force Base and was touching Mach 2 as the call came in. He was being reassigned to Philadelphia. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The likelihood of anything happening to Philly was low compared to New York or Washington.

Almost as soon as he had pulled back the throttle, Philadelphia appeared below him. He plugged into the E-3 Sentry that was circling far overhead and looking down on the area below. Nothing. He could see nothing that shouldn’t be there.

But looking down, Captain Fuentes did see what millions of dollars worth of equipment couldn’t. He caught sight of a small flash of light, off to his left. It was moving slowly and it was close to the ground. Had it been on the road, he would have thought it was a fast car but there was no road there, just fields. It was certainly faster than any tractor, thought Fuentes, and it was close to the city limits.

His orders were clear. Do not, under any circumstances allow the pilot to see your approach. He powered up and over the object and pulled back, spinning in behind it. Approaching from the rear, he could see why nobody had spotted it. He was merely 50 feet off the deck and painted a green camouflage.

The pilot could see the cityscape ahead of him, exactly as he had practiced on the flight simulator. He checked his fuel. The needle hovered just above zero. Not really an issue, he just needed enough for the next minute or so. He powered the throttle forward and began his ascent. His target was 2,000 feet and then he’d press the button to detonate the weapon. The run had been timed to perfection. Give or take a few seconds, he had arrived bang on schedule.

His finger hovered over the firing button. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.”

As the clock ticked down to 17.59.50 EST, 23.59.50 in Israel, all just stared at the clock, their breaths held. Ten seconds to detonation if what they had been told was true. The President was almost climbing the wall. The tension in the Situation Room was unbearable.

Captain Fuentes was caught by surprise as the bogey seemingly reacted to his presence. It accelerated and began to pull up. Fuentes followed and selected his AIM-9 Sidewinders and fired.

The pilot watched as his level indicator read 1,900 feet. He caught a flash in the rear mirror that the Hurricane would use to spot enemies from the rear and saw the sidewinder as it sped towards him. He smiled. “Allahu Akbar!” as he reached for the trigger.

As the clock struck 17.19.58, a scream came though the intercom system. The room jumped and the President sank to the floor.

“WOOHOO, one mother fucking bogie is down and out!” screamed Captain Fuentes into the intercom which the E-3 Sentry had fed through to the Situation Room.

Fuentes, for good measure, had fired all 480 of his 20mm cannon rounds from the sidewinders. He would never know that if he hadn’t, the pilot would have destroyed a city and killed almost a million people.

As the President held his head in relief, they waited for news on Israel. The clock, showing the time in Israel, struck midnight.

And his new life started, the gates swung freely. The post was deserted just as Ben said it would be. Ahmed turned to his compatriots who stared at him in disbelief. Surely not, the Jew had not been lying. Ahmed ventured further. There was nothing there. The army base that had kept them prisoners was deserted. Everything was gone. Nothing remained. This was not temporary.

Ahmed returned to the other three controllers and they debated for some time what should be done. Time dragged on. 12.05, 12.15, 12.30. The time kept ticking by as they decided what to do.

A call was made to Lebanon and the West Bank. One border-crossing was no sign of any real change. The Palestinian fighters on the Lebanese — Israeli border were reluctant to move forward. The dead-man alley was exactly that. Anyone who stepped into it died immediately. The Israeli snipers did not shoot warning shots. After some discussion, a young fighter said he would go. He, like Ahmed in the South, walked carefully and cautiously forward, fearful of the bullet that would end his life. It never came. He reached the gates that blocked the road and like Ahmed, he pushed them only to find they fell open. The crossing was deserted. Everything was gone.

The debate still raged. It could all be a trick. The call to the West Bank proved less fruitful. Jerusalem was a hive of activity, nothing appeared to have changed. The reluctant Palestinian who ventured towards the border crossing returned quickly. The border was guarded, he could see men moving around. Ahmed pushed for the man to go further.

As the man ventured further, the three controllers had reached a decision. The Israelis had tried to trick them for the last time. As they were preparing to fire, the phone rang. It was the West Bank Palestinians. Their man had ventured closer. It was not Israelis that were guarding the crossing.

The Sheikh had altered Zak’s ID to show his photo and easily passed through the security perimeter. The President was due within the next hour. News had filtered out during the morning that it was likely that the President would also announce his new Vice President and if the rumor were true, it was going to be Henry Preston. The Sheikh had arranged everything he needed and was now just awaiting the arrival of his targets.

The stage was arranged across the road directly in front of the massive gates that were covered either side by huge sheets. These were the covers that would unveil the memorials. Almost two hundred seats were laid in front of a stage which itself held almost fifty seats. The audience, however, was expected to be closer to a million times that number as the world’s press awaited the announcement of the new VP and an explanation as to the goings on the previous evening.