Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

“Of course.” Again, Tracy was torn. She wanted to accept the assignment immediately. On the surface, there was no reason to turn it down, since it could only help her career. However, the logical part of her mind urged her to think it over more. “If you wouldn’t mind, can I let you know before the end of this evening? If my answer is yes, I could be ready to go early tomorrow morning.”

“I understand. Here, take this.” Stephanie held out a small cell phone. “You can contact me on this anytime, day or night. It’s secure, so you don’t have to worry about security protocol.”

Tracy took the device, slipping it into her inside suit jacket pocket, where it rested against her chest. “You sound pretty sure that I’m going to say yes. Otherwise, why give me this?”

“I never assume anything—it’s simply an easier way to get in touch with me, and, should you decide to accept, then I don’t have to drop it off. If you decide not to take the job, DHS will send it back to us.”

“I wouldn’t count on getting it back in a timely fashion.”

Tracy grimaced as she thought about the long delays in getting even the simplest tasks finished.

“We’d be able to keep track of it regardless. I think we’re here,” the FBI agent said.

Tracy looked up to see not the train station she had expected, but a single-story redbrick elementary school that looked very familiar. “This is—”

“North Chevy Chase Elementary, if the directions were right. I think the program has just begun, so you shouldn’t have missed much,” Stephanie said.

Tracy looked from the school to the blond woman and back again. “But—how did you know?”

“You know that old cliché that says the U.S. government is supposed to know everything? Well, in certain very small areas, that happens to be true.” She leaned back in the leather seat. “Your boss said you had to miss a school recital to meet with me. He seemed very pleased by the idea, so I thought the least we could do was get you here on time, or as close as possible. Finding your fiancé’s name was easy, and the rest came from the school’s Web site.” A faraway look crossed her face for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I know all about making sacrifices for the job, Tracy, and even with the importance of what we’ve just discussed here, you shouldn’t have to make this one.” She smiled and patted the seat beside her. “Leave the folder here—we’ll messenger it back to your department. Go on, and please don’t let this influence your final decision in any way.”

“Thank you very much.” Tracy got out of the SUV and reached back in to shake Stephanie’s hand. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve made my decision.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Tracy hurried into the building, eager to surprise Paul and Jennifer, but also dazed to be pondering the momentous decision before her, and wondering how she would explain it to both of them.

Sepehr al-Kharzi sat on a wooden stool in the spotless bathroom at Spaceworks and inhaled a deep breath of the white-tiled room’s fresh scent. He was barefoot, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows. One of the twin sinks was filled with warm water, the other was empty.

“Bismillah,” he said softly, bowing his head briefly before beginning wudu, the ritual Muslim ablution, which started by washing his hands in the water three times.

Cupping a handful of water, he filled his mouth, rinsed it thoroughly, then spat it into the other sink and repeated the process twice more. Next he gently sniffed water up each nostril to clean them, repeating that process three times, as well. He washed his face from ear to ear and from his hairline to his throat, cleansed his arms up to the elbows, then ran his wet hands over his hair from his forehead to the back of his head. Placing his index fingers into his ears, he washed the inside and outside of them three times, as well. Finally, he completed his task by washing his feet to the ankles.

Driving across the country, al-Kharzi had barely had time to perform the washing ritual. But now, for the first time in several days, he felt clean.

Joseph Allen was waiting for him in the office.

“Better, I trust?”

He nodded. “How is it going?”

“We’re running tests on the device now. The most wor-risome issue was the condition of the case—we found a small crack along a bottom seam, which may have released a minuscule amount of radioactive material. We’ve sealed it, and so far there seems to be no further trouble with it.”

He raised a hand to interrupt. “Is there any danger that the leaked material will be discovered?”

Joseph considered that, then shook his head. “The estimated amount was so small that it would be almost impossible to filter out from background radiation that is encountered every day. The Americans would need the latest technology to isolate it. The other matter was a power drain on one of the battery connections, which is being examined now, and will be replaced if necessary. Everything else is in order—including the plutonium. The last steps will be to install the altitude detonator, place Allah’s Fist into the rocket, and then it will be ready to go.”

“Allah’s Fist—I like that. Good, very good. Were there any problems getting it into the country?” al-Kharzi asked.

Joseph looked slightly pained at the question. “The team did have to go to their contingency plan when the vehicle was stopped shortly after crossing the border. Despite re-assurances from our transporters, the Border Patrol found them. They eliminated all witnesses, then took the vehicle and completed the transfer. I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything about it on the news—there has been coverage on the major networks for the past twenty-four hours.”

Al-Kharzi shook his head. “I haven’t had much access to television lately. Is there a concern about discovery?”

“No, current reports indicate that they believe it was a fight among drug smugglers, and even if they did figure out what might have happened, it will be too late.”

Smiling, al-Kharzi clapped his fellow terrorist on the shoulder. “Good, good. All the same, I would feel better if you strengthened the guard rotation. I trust the cameras are all in place and working?”

“They are tested every week, and I will order the perimeter patrols increased to around the clock until our launch.”

“Thank you, my friend. I do have one other request at the moment—the rocket that you’re using to deliver our device—may I have a closer look at it?”

“I thought you would never ask. Come.” Joseph led him through the main building to the entrance, nodding at the man behind the desk. They walked outside and across the grounds to where the sleek, gray, three-story rocket rose into the air like a steel finger pointing toward the heavens. Four slender fins protruded from the lower half, and al-Kharzi bent down to see a complicated-looking flared nozzle underneath. It was mounted on a joint that allowed the controllers on the ground to direct the thrust, steering the rocket, in effect. He shook his head in admiration—while he was a master of armed insurgency, terrorism and fourth-generation warfare, he would be the first to confess that he did not have the slightest idea how this vehicle worked beyond a very basic explanation.

However, he could certainly tell anyone what it could be used for—sowing terror across half a continent.

Joseph had put on a pair of sunglasses, and stood with his arms folded across his chest, like a father watching a favored child. “Built with the most generous assistance of the United States government. We were scheduled to try for the X-Prize last year with a manned model, but unfortunately, our rocket developed an oxidizer-flow problem, which necessitated our dropping out of the contest.” The grin on his face belied the truth of his words.