Greg Bear - Quantico

‘Chief, would you like to explain what we’re looking at?’

‘Sir, Special Agent Rowland identified an individual in our target group who may be using a GPS-equipped sat phone to call various females in Israel. Once he switches on that phone, we can pinpoint his position.’ The chief handed Jane a pair of gogs, then reached across to switch on her display and tune it to a more specific level of detail. She smiled at the chief, who returned her smile with technical camaraderie-and barely restrained male admiration.

‘Special Agent Rowland will remain on the Heinlein and attempt to spot and track our cell-phone junky,’ Grange said.

Jane started to protest, but Rebecca had maneuvered behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

‘The rest of us will receive deep-canal earphones-slash-wireless nodes and eyeglass gogs to receive guidance from our remote trackers.’

Rebecca squeezed Jane’s shoulder, hard, then let go and patted it. Jane swallowed her disappointment-for the time being-and stared at the display.

In the officer’s lounge, Grange sat across from William and Rebecca. ‘Two hours nap in the staterooms. Then, a whisper bird picks us up and delivers us to the rendezvous point.’

Captain Periglas entered the lounge and pulled up a chair. ‘Permission to register an opinion.’

‘Of course,’ Grange said.

‘I assume none of you are with the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, or any similar organization, correct?’

They nodded.

‘Marines from this vessel will volunteer, and Navy Seals could join us and accompany you within the hour.’

‘Your offer is sincerely appreciated,’ Grange said. ‘But our instructions are explicit.’

‘Mecca has turned into hell even for the faithful,’ Periglas observed. ‘For non-Muslims, discovery means…well, having your throat cut would be a mercy. Thousands of pilgrims are already sick and they’re not getting any level of medical care. Give this to the Saudis, they kept the Hajj running like a clock for generations. Now the clock has wound down. We may see ten or twenty thousand dead before the week is out.’

Grange looked blankly at the deck. ‘Thank you, Captain. Get us in there, tell us where to go, and make sure we get out. That’s all we ask.’

Periglas lifted his watch. ‘We’ll have you on your way at ten hundred hours.’

William reached to the upper bunk and nudged Grange’s shoulder. Grange nearly pranged his head on an overhead beam.

‘Showtime,’ William said.

In the corridor outside, Jane Rowland was arguing with Rebecca. ‘I’ve taught the chief everything he needs to know,’ Jane said, her voice cracking. ‘It isn’t right, not letting me go in-you of all people know that.’

‘It’s not her call,’ Grange said, still blinking away sleep. ‘We only have passes and documents for one woman.’

Jane looked stunned. ‘I didn’t realize what it meant,’ she said. ‘It just hits me. I don’t…I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say to make you change your mind.’

‘You’re our guardian angel,’ Rebecca said. ‘If you get any of us killed, you better believe I’ll come back and haunt you. So shut up and focus. ’

Stengler guided Jane across the corridor into the TSC.

‘Tough lady,’ William said as they took their seats in the ready room. Rebecca ignored him.

Two pilots in bright green flight suits sat in the front row. They turned and examined their three passengers. ‘Too old for real baseball, don’t you think?’ the bald one commented dryly. ‘Not in the majors, anyway.’

The second and younger pilot smiled.

‘Stow that crap, Birnbaum,’ Captain Periglas said to the bald pilot as he came through the door.

‘Sir, I’m older than at least one of them.’

‘As I said…’

‘Stinking and stowed, sir.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Birnbaum. This is Higashi. Welcome to Plan B, folks. Nobody ever picks us for Plan A.’

Mecca 9th Day, Dhu-Al-Hijjah

Gershon pushed the button and the steel garage door rumbled open. There were no shops on the short street and only a few stragglers. Yigal drove the truck forward. The canvas covers had been dropped and rolled and tied securely and Menachem and Baruch squatted in the back clutching the Chinese AKs they had purchased from a Pakistani arms dealer the day before. In the back, tied and gagged and propped between two crates, Larry Winters kept still, eyes half-closed. They had cinched his bonds tight enough that his arms and feet were insensible.

Have mercy. Let it be over, one way or the other.

The truck lurched. Brakes squealed. They were beginning the journey to the outskirts of Mina. Traffic was heavy on the King Abdul Aziz Road but they had all day. Twelve, fifteen hours, perhaps less, before they pulled back the tarps and opened the tops of the crates, depending on the whim of the breeze blowing across the desert.

The truck rumbled over cobbles, then over asphalt, then dirt, searching for its place.

In the bloody end, surrounded by young monsters, in pain, his memory flickering like a candle in a high wind, he was wracked with fever as he struggled with the knots. They had been wrapped with cord, the cord hidden behind more duct tape. He was still thoroughly bound and he had plucked his fingers raw.

The memory had faded but not the emotion. He did not know why he felt such rage, such grief, or why he was bound. He tried to scream but the tape would not budge. He tried to cry, but the tape had been pressed into his eyes.

He twitched up against the crate and went slack, energy gone.

Then, unexpectedly, there was light.

‘You stink,’ Yigal said. ‘You’ve fouled yourself. Look at me! Say something!’ To Menachem, squeezed up between the tarp and the crate, he added, ‘Cut him loose. Let him go off to die. He’s disgusting.’

SAPTAO Airspace Saudi Arabian Peninsula Tactical Area of Operations Mecca

The whisper bird, true to its name, came in low and quiet in the early morning darkness over the almost waveless beach. The back of the stealth craft could carry up to twenty troops but now it held only three: William, Rebecca, and David Grange.

‘We’ve got our coordinates from the Jannies,’ Higashi said to Grange from the cockpit. ‘A small group will meet us east of Mina. We’ll touch down, drop you, hover for just a few seconds, so you’ll have to hustle.’

‘Right,’ Grange said.

Rebecca turned her head side to side. Right now, she and William were seeing the landing site from the POV of a midge. OSMOs had found the Jannies based on their American diet and zeroed in. Hundreds of midges were zipping back and forth through the mountain passes around Mina and Mecca proper. Soon, UAV mothers would deploy thousands more across the plain of Arafat. They networked like birds or bats, swooping and dispersing through the dark sky, swirling up in little gray tornadoes like starlings, then breaking and scattering to examine suspect scent trails.

Jane Rowland spoke from the Heinlein, her voice soft and steady in their earnodes. ‘We’ve got hotspots around the richer sections of the tent city. Chief Dalrymple tells me it’s chicken, lamb, beef, lots of olive oil, vegetable protein. No surprise. If our suspects are hiding in there, it could take forever to find them.’

‘No lovesick phone calls?’ Rebecca asked, finally mastering the display.

‘None so far.’

‘Someone’s taking potshots at our midges,’ Periglas said. He relayed video clips of men with rifles outside the brilliantly lit Grand Mosque, firing automatic weapons and rifles into the air. Their scent profiles showed they were drunk.