Murray McDonald - Critical Error

The young Arab, she realized, fitted the description of Ahmed Hameed, a young man tipped as future leader of Al Qassam and possibly of Hammas itself. He waited nervously but not for long. Another two Arabs joined, one with a distinct limp and the other with a badly pock-marked face. Both fitted descriptions of Al Qassam commanders. Rebecca strained to control herself. At least another three scumbags would soon be meeting their maker.

“Assalamu Alaikum” could be heard clearly through Rebecca’s headphones. ‘Peace be upon you’ was the standard Arab greeting followed by an embrace.

“Are we early?” asked the young Arab.

“No but The Sheikh will not show himself until we are all here,” replied Pock-Mark.

Rebecca struggled not to respond visibly to the reference to ‘The Sheikh’, the mastermind behind all major atrocities and the most likely candidate for the nuclear explosion in Texas. Not since Osama Bin Laden, had a terrorist been as sought after as the mysterious ‘Sheikh’. Initially, references to ‘The Sheikh’ were believed to be references to Osama. However, it soon became apparent that the two were not one and the same. The Sheikh, unlike Osama, was keen to keep his identity a secret and after five years had remained, much to the world’s intelligence agencies’ embarrassment, nothing more than an urban myth. Rebecca was going to confirm his existence and extinguish it, in one fell swoop.

Before she could fully consider what to do, five more men approached the table. However, only one took a seat and greeted the waiting three. Mohammed Deif, the leader of Al Qassam took his seat. The other four, his bodyguards, stationed themselves carefully, covering all angles. Rebecca heard the words again. In her mind, Pock-Mark had definitely referred to The Sheikh and then Deif had joined them. The mysterious Sheikh was Deif? Surely that connection would have been made already. Rebecca opened her eyes a little more and found herself looking directly into the eyes of one of Deif’s bodyguards who gave her an appraising wink and affirmative smile. Rebecca closed her eyes again and replayed the image in her mind. Two seats remained vacant at the table and other than greetings, conversation was negligible. They were still waiting.

Rebecca did not have long to wait. Less than a minute after Deif arrived, the pool area was swamped by a number of heavily armed and traditionally dressed Arabs who immediately took up strategic positions around the pool area. Deif’s bodyguards were frisked and weapons removed by the significantly more professional and powerful force. Whoever was coming was making it very clear they were in charge. Rebecca struggled to keep her eyes closed under the scrutiny of the Arab guards. Their eyes missed nothing as they scanned continuously. Rebecca thanked God for her skimpy bikini. The eyes of the guards scanned beyond her quickly as the guards desperately tried to avoid being caught looking at the brazen woman. No matter how enthralling the view, none of the fundamentalist guards wanted their Sheikh to believe they were being tempted or weakened by a mere woman. Rebecca also posed little threat, 8 square inches of fabric and an i-pod hardly threatened 12 men with AK47s.

Rebecca heard the chair scrape and slowly lifted her eyelids a fraction. The seat directly facing her had been filled. An average-sized man faced her, head on, but unfortunately was covered, like his guards, from head to toe. His scarf was pulled across his face, allowing only his eyes to be seen. The eyes moved quickly, scanning the area and resting for a brief second on Rebecca’s body, a hint of interest registering before the eyes quickly moved on.

Rebecca listened with interest as the introductions were made around the table. Her listening device was picking up every word loud and clear. Deif was apologizing profusely for the failure of his man to complete the Sheikh’s American Project.

The American Project, Rebecca assumed, must have been the failed nuclear bombing of America. Of course ‘failure’ being detonating the bomb in the middle of nowhere in Texas rather than at the heart of Washington. However, detonating a nuclear bomb and clearing a huge swathe of Texas was hardly a failure. The Americans had replaced 9-11 with the now more infamous 1-11, the day a nuclear device changed the face of America, quite literally, forever. It had obliterated a significant proportion of American real estate and created a no-go zone to the south of the new, more Northerly, US border. It had been decided that the US would rather not have a nuclear waste zone within her borders and as a result, the land was abandoned and Corpus Christi was now the most Southerly Texan city. Nine counties had been entirely evacuated while another three had lost their southern most portions. Laredo, within Webb County, was the most northern city to be evacuated. In all, over 1.3 million Americans had been relocated from an area the size of Belgium and accommodated within the sparsely populated southern Texan states. Texas had lost just over 4 % of her mass, while America had reduced her landmass by an almost negligible 0.29 %. Had it not been for the predominantly Hispanic heritage of the local inhabitants, the furor over the move may have lasted longer. However, with significant relocation allowances, new cities and homes being built and jobs for all, more than a few of those affected by the blast were thanking God for their good fortune.

Rebecca reached down and patted the small bag at her side. She had come prepared for most eventualities but almost twenty heavily armed men were stretching her capabilities to the limit. Underneath her frothy literature, she could feel the steel of her weapons: two fragment grenades, a compact Sig Sauer P229 handgun, a micro Uzi sub machine gun, both with spare magazines, totaling 76 rounds and a knife. Rebecca knew she’d never live through an attack. However, between Deif and the Sheikh, she was guaranteed to avenge her son’s death, a trade she was more than willing to make. She watched the guards carefully as her hand moved towards her Uzi. Nudging the beauty magazine aside, her fingers closed around the grip. Her thumb flicked the safety and she waited. One guard whose Ak47 stood poised was facing her way. All she needed was a second. One sweep of the table would take out The Al Qassam commanders and the Sheikh. Twenty five bullets in one sweep. One second and the scum would be spending eternity in hell. She would probably join them a fraction of a second later as the sixteen bodyguards took aim. Rebecca had considered the grenade but if she didn’t time it right, they may be able to toss it away and she would die in vain. It wasn’t the dying that got to her, it was knowing she hadn’t avenged her son. Rebecca had died the day Joshua had but it was just that they weren’t quite ready to meet up yet.

Rebecca positioned her legs. She was going to have to move quickly but unthreateningly to ensure her window of opportunity was maximized. As the guard moved his head to the side, Rebecca saw her chance. Her hand began to move and the Uzi began to rise.

Rebecca’s hand emerged from the bag. The guards who had watched her move, flinched as the full horror was displayed before them and more importantly their Sheikh.

Rebecca sensed the panic rise and quickly folded her magazine to hide the cover photo of the naked woman. Rebecca listened intently as the Sheikh repeated the words again that had just saved his life and doomed millions of others. I am sending you five nuclear warheads which you must use against Israel.

Present day

September 2011

Sam looked down and smiled as the almost empty ferry docked far below him. A throng of cars waited eagerly, hoping that there’d just be enough room to squeeze them on. Summer season was coming to a close and the island paradise that he had first ventured upon two years earlier would soon be returned to normality. The four months of mayhem were over. Well, mayhem North Haven style that was.