Greg Bear - Quantico

‘What reason does Farrow have to lie? He’s still confessing to knowing dangerous stuff.’ William swung his clenched fists in a half-circle and hammered the railing. Rebecca stepped back in surprise. The study lounge was empty. ‘If any of this is true, what the hell can we do-by ourselves?’

‘Nothing,’ Rebecca said. ‘We need to reach out and ask questions. But we need to be extremely careful. Some people would kill to keep this big an albatross off their necks.’

‘Back to Newsome?’ William asked.

‘Not yet. We need to poke through the cracks in the bricks. Outside confirmation. I know just the guy.’

‘The one who pissed you off,’ William said. ‘What was his name-Grange, from DS. You thought he might be BuDark.’

Rebecca looked at William, her eyes both sad and bright. ‘Simpatico,’ she said.

They walked past security and through the swinging glass doors to the car. William drove and Rebecca did not object. As they approached the inner gate, they saw several lines of black SUVs and Crown Victorias arranged in zig-zag patterns, marked off with orange traffic cones and blocking the gatehouses and the road beyond.

‘Uh-oh,’ Rebecca said.

William slowed to a stop, then rolled down his window as a man with short-cropped hair and a linebacker’s build approached. He wore a dark blue suit and suspiciously thick sunglasses.

‘Secret Service,’ he announced, leaning to peer into the open window. His gaze wavered minutely back and forth; he was comparing their faces to ID photos popping up on the inside of his lenses.

William and Rebecca kept a tense silence.

‘We have a match,’ the agent said. Two other agents in dark suits approached the other side. ‘William Griffin, Rebecca Rose, step out of the car and keep your hands in plain sight.’

‘What’s going on?’ William asked.

‘Are you carrying weapons? Irritants? Are you on a grid?’

William and Rebecca answered yes and no and again no, slowly exited the car, and held up their arms. The agents kicked their legs apart and pushed them up against the hood and trunk, bending them over until their cheeks were pressed hard on the painted metal. Their weapons were taken and deactivated. There were no niceties-the agent frisking Rebecca was male. She was cuffed and led away to one car and William to another. She gave him a backward glance, lips tight, dimples etched deep.

Through a long, long evening and into the early morning, they both did exactly as they were told.

Turkey, Iraq

‘Get your Janny boys up and ready to ship out. Let’s do it, now!’

Fouad jerked up from a light doze and stared at the bald colonel leaning through the open metal door. The colonel pulled back and Fouad wondered if he had been dreaming, but then he heard the sirens wailing throughout the base.

He quickly slipped into his flak vest and camouflage uniform, then checked his pack.

In the NCO mess hall, he spoke quickly with the twentytwo Jannies under his command. He did not like that name and they did not use it among themselves, but at Incirlik that was what they had been called, and it was now just below the level of official-Jannies or Janissaries.

Outside the barracks, on the runways, dozens of transport aircraft were roaring and fanning thin clouds of sand and dirt as if trying to imitate the recent dust storms.

Another colonel pointed them across the cracked asphalt runway to a truck. They climbed in with what gear they carried. Another truck arrived and soldiers threw some boxes in after them. Nobody knew what was happening. It was six in the morning and dawn gleamed like a sleep-folded eye in the eastern sky.

As they approached their aircraft, another colonel in flight gear ran alongside, pulled himself into the rear of the truck, and called out to Fouad. ‘They have Turkish troops circling the base. They don’t seem to like us right now, so we’re pulling out all mobile commands. That includes Jannies and BuDark teams. We’ll reconnoiter at a site yet to be determined but way the hell away from here. Questions?’

They had none-for this colonel. They were a tight-knit group now, having trained together for weeks, friendly enough but suspicious of the soldiers, airmen, and officers around them. They were wide awake but not too curious. Life thus far had been boring. Something new was welcome even on such short notice.

The young men around Fouad shook hands and clapped shoulders. Then they passed around a thermos of hot coffee.

‘What are they going to do with us?’ they asked him, as if he might know.

‘Just a guess,’ Fouad said. ‘I think the fighting around Mecca is going badly. Wahhabi insurgents are coming in with pilgrims to the Hajj. Someone is losing control.’

‘Are we?’ they asked. By which they meant, ‘Muslims?’

‘We, Americans,’ Fouad countered softly, ‘and the people we supply, more likely. Anger among the faithful is burning like a fever. It must be getting particularly bad for Turkey to want us out. Hajj is almost upon us. It is a delicate time.’

‘When will they brief us? Why don’t we fight? What are they saving us for?’

‘God only knows,’ Fouad said. ‘Living near the heart of the world takes patience.’

Early in the morning, their plane landed at another nameless forward mobile air base, a patch of flat rocky terrain, nothing more than a bare airstrip carved from the desert. There were few guards and only light air support so they remained near the aircraft, five transports arranged in a pentacle, and took turns running and timing each other until the breezes subsided and the day became too hot.

Later that afternoon, more sandstorms moved in and they slept and played cards and watched videos inside the hot cargo holds.

After the evening repast of MREs-some containing pork ribs, which they quietly set aside-an Air Force military intelligence officer approached Fouad. ‘Can we talk?’ the older man asked. He was short, gray-haired and big-shouldered, with just the slightest gut which he tried to hide by tightening his belt. ‘Do you know anything about OWL?’ the officer asked. He pulled out a secure slate and calling up a display tagged Quantum Confirm ACCESS Only. This ACCESS is remotely logged.

Fouad shook his head. ‘Owl, O-W-L. No. It is not familiar.’

‘I have been instructed to give you a tactical briefing on how to call down an OWL strike. Don’t ask me why. Neither system has been fully tested, and personally, I wouldn’t rely on them, but orders are orders.’

OWL, Fouad learned, stood for Orbital Warhead Lancet, an enhanced self-guided kinetic kill weapon designed to pierce deep bunkers. As he listened, Fouad’s eyes watered with a hot combination of anger, fear, and exaltation.

Perhaps there would be no bloodshed after all. Blood would not have time to flow.

And there would be no bodies left to bury.

Mecca

Mr. John Brown had moved most of the settlers’ sons into the tent city in Mina. They had kept the hotel room, and two of the young men were staying there to maintain their vigil over the garage where the trucks were stored.

Opening the sealed walls and privileges of the house of Saud had brought chaos and death to the Hajj, as in the times of old, but nothing could stop the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims; their accumulated power and passion had sobered even these sons of Zion, of Eretz Israel, and had turned them inward as they rested in their tent through the long night.

The enormity of what they were about to do had finally subdued Winter’s boys.

Once again after decades of tight Saudi control Mecca was dangerous. Thieves and rogue police and soldiers like lost ants worked the outskirts of the crowds. There had been beatings and rapes-of men and women, some said-and even murders. Yet around them now, in a bubble of enterprise and faith maintained by vigilance and a bond between the local merchants and pilgrims, they saw little but brotherhood and joy and a shared passion for God.