Critical Error (40 page)

“I’m sorry Charles, I need to go.”

Ben hung up, not that Charles could blame him. He had a country and four bombs to worry about, not just one city and one bomb. It did, however, mean one thing. He had to track down the same lead that Murphy had and he had about 11 hours to do it in. He spied Sam lying in the sun, drying off from an early morning swim and went to join him. He briefly recounted his chat with Ben. Sam reacted similarly. James Murphy was about to get the name of the ship. How could they not have tracked the same leads as him?

Both hit their phones. The one thing they did know was that Murphy had started his calls in England. After all, the story had been about the British navy.

Sam knew some guys in the SBS, the Special Boat Service, the marine equivalent of the better-known British SAS. Most, if not all, were ex-marines and in the UK, the Royal Marines were part of the Navy - it was the closest he could get to the Navy.

It was proving slow work. Neither Sam nor Charles had the knowledge or list of contacts around the world that James Murphy had. It was going to take some time.

Ben was the last person left in the Knesset building; most had left at lunchtime to travel with their families. Ben had nobody to travel with. His only family were in America, safe in Texas. He closed his office door behind him and automatically began to lock it. He stopped himself mid turn. There was no point, the office was empty. All his papers had already gone. The building was quiet, something he had never experienced before. It wasn’t a nice silence, the eeriness was unnerving.

He picked up his briefcase and walked towards the exit. One lone guard waited for him. He nodded and shut the door behind Ben. Ben didn’t look back. The image of all that he had achieved in building the State of Israel was captured within that building. He didn’t want to remember it dark and desolate. His memories were of life and vitality. Ben’s car and driver awaited his arrival. The driver had no intention of hanging around and as soon as Ben closed the door, he pulled away. The drive to the airport initially confused Ben until he realized they were going to the new airport, a global hub for a new Jerusalem. That was the plan. Jerusalem was not meant to die. That had never been envisioned. Ararat had planned to place Jerusalem at the center of the world. The buildings that would spark a new life into one of the world’s most important and ancient cities sat empty. Ben could have cried as he sped past. His driver was unaware of Ararat, unaware of the greatness it would bring to Jerusalem. His driver was only aware of the danger that was upon them, the devastation that was scheduled to arrive just three short hours away.

As they neared the airport, Ben willed his cell phone to ring. The more he willed it, the more dead it seemed. He checked the signal, it was fine. Ahmed Hameed had obviously seen the past and not the future. Ben walked through the airport. Airplanes that had never touched Israeli soil queued to ferry his people away from danger. Emirates and Qatari jets joined Singapore and Thai Jets, Qantas, All Nippon and LAN Airways. Almost every country in the world had supplied their fleets, although unknowingly, to Israel. The solar flare was a story used to ground the airlines and free up the world’s jets for hire. How else could they move so many people so quickly? For months, Israeli Air Force pilots had retrained to fly the commercial aircraft of the world, Boeing 747’s, 777’s and every other type of Boeing, Airbuses, A380 to the A320. Every plane of any size that could be found had been leased, resurrected from mothballing and generally put to use. Over 2,000 aircraft had flown non-stop for the last two days from pretty much every strip of land capable of handling a jet.

Another ten jets were filled before the last jet pulled up to the gate. Ben and a few stragglers boarded. Many tears were shed as the plane, an EL AL Boeing 747, lifted off. It was the last plane of the night and Ben’s phone still remained silent.

“I’ve got it!” screamed Sam.

“The name?” asked Charles hopefully.

“No, the link to Russia!”

“Oh,” the disappointment was loud and clear.

“No, I know who he called, we’re getting there!”

The Senator looked at the clock. There were less than three hours until midnight in Israel, 6pm EST. The time at which the bomb would go off. Even if they got the name of the boat, the chances of finding it now were almost nil.

Sam dialed the number and as he waited for an answer, he updated his brother. “It seems that the Russian Port of ArchangelSK had an RAF maintenance base. The comic book showed a British convoy heading to Russia and it seems that’s where they found some old equipment. The RAF guy reckons if there’s any old kit around, that’s where you’d find it. After the war, things did sour a little with our Russian allies!”

The phone eventually answered. “Da?”

“Hi...?” replied Sam before being interrupted.

“Don’t hang up this time! I got name you ask for,” replied the Russian shipyard owner.

Sam couldn’t believe his luck, the Russian thought he was James Murphy calling back.

“It’s the Sergey Vazlaz. Goodnight!” The Russian hung up, it was almost midnight in ArchangelSK.

Sam turned to his brother. “The Sergey Vazlav.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?”

“Nope, just the name.”

“Can you track ships?” asked the Senator.

“I have no idea but I know a woman who might!” Sam leaned out the window and called Rebecca in, bringing her up to speed.

“The answer is, in theory, yes. As long as they have a transponder, it’s just like aircraft really, they send a signal out and tell others where they are.”

Both knew about aircraft transponders. Aircraft send out a signal that air traffic controllers use to accurately plot specific aircraft positions.

“Do all boats have to have one?”

“Don’t think so. I think it’s just bigger boats but I’m not sure if our guys would have one transmitting.”

“Oh, they will,” replied Sam. “These guys have fooled everybody, they wouldn’t make a simple mistake like not transponding if they have to. They’d be shining a big spotlight on themselves.”

“OK, well, we just need a computer then.”

“We can do it ourselves?” asked the Senator.

Rebecca was already half way out of the room as the others struggled to catch up. The manager was kindly asked if his computer could be borrowed. Faced with the three very anxious faces of Sam, Charles and Rebecca, he had little choice. He left them to his office and went for a break.

“You’ve done this before,” stated the Senator.

“A few times,” replied Rebecca with a smile as she logged onto marinetraffic.com and waited for the map to load.

“OK, I presume we want the East coast?”

“Definitely,” replied Sam as a number of boxes appeared on the map next to America, each with a number in the box, signifying how many ships there were in each sector.

“Jesus, there are hundreds, it’ll take us hours.”

Rebecca shook her head and selected the ‘Vessel’ tab.

“What’s the name?”

Rebecca typed in Sergey Vazlav and the details instantly appeared.

“Gulf of St Lawrence, Canada.”

“Holy shit, we did it!”

“How far are they from New York?” asked Sam, suddenly realizing that was the nearest city.

“Just over six hundred miles, give or take,” replied Rebecca, roughly working it out.

“Jesus, they’re just about in range and they’ll come in over land, not from the sea.”

“I need to use your phone!” The Senator put his hand out to Rebecca. She had assured them earlier that her phone could not be traced or tracked.

Senator Charles Baker made a phone call that made his stomach churn.

“I need to speak with the President urgently!” he said as the White House picked up his call.

As they were retrieving the name of the ship, Akram Rayyan was in the process of making the information irrelevant. They had sailed into the Gulf of St Lawrence and as they approached Prince Edward Island, he had called on his men to make the preparations.

The World War Two equipment was unloaded and the scaffolding blocks were bolted onto the deck as they had been during all their previous test runs. This time was for real. The empty containers which had blocked the outside world’s view were thrown overboard. They were now redundant. The scaffolding ran for sixty feet along the deck and protruded over the water below. While half the crew prepared the catapult, the other half prepared the aircraft. Two wings were removed from one container while the main body of the aircraft came from another. The Second World War fighter came to life as the wings were bolted on. The weapon had already been stored within the fuselage of the aircraft. What had been a deadly fighter in its day seventy years earlier had become the deadliest aircraft ever made seventy years later.

The Hawker Sea Hurricane had been devised as a fighter of last resort to protect the vital convoys plying the seas between America, Britain and Russia. It afforded protection to convoys against the marauding Focke-Wulf of the German Luftwaffe. The Hurricanes were flown by very brave pilots who knew there was nowhere to land once they were propelled into the sky. The Allies, without enough ships to launch aircraft, devised the catapult system, similar to the systems used on modern aircraft carriers. Rockets would fire the aircraft from standing to flight speed almost instantly.

Akram instructed the crew to lift the plane into position. They lifted the relic brought back to life after being found in Malta and guided it carefully onto the runners that now sat on top of the deck. The rocket mechanism was fixed to the base and the thumbs-up signaled around the deck. The plane was ready.

Everything that had to be said, already had been. The pilot, on seeing the thumbs-up, boarded the aircraft and immediately ignited the old but reliable Rolls Royce Merlin engine. It fired into life and warmed up. Akram instructed the ship to turn into the wind. The pins securing the plane were removed and the pilot applied 30 degree flaps and a 1/3 rudder, just as he had been taught during training. He then opened the throttle to full, pushed his head into the headrest and signaled for the rockets to be fired.

The plane surged forward under a hail of Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! And dropped from the end of the rail towards the ocean.

Akram’s heart sank with the plane but the power of the engine kicked and the nose pulled up and leveled before powering the plane up and away. A tear left Akram’s eye as he thought of the glory that would be with them all soon. Before the old plane was out of sight, the deck structure was broken down and discarded overboard. Sergey Vazlav turned and tried to get as much distance between itself and the floating containers as possible.

“I have Senator Charles Baker for you, Mr President,” offered Nancy.

Fortunately, Johnson and Preston who were currently with the President were facing away from her and she did not see the look of horror on their faces.

“OK, put him through.” The President wasn’t quick enough to think of anything else.

“Charles?” said the President.

“Fuck you, Russell…” that was unfortunately the best Charles Baker could come up with on hearing the President’s voice. Sam waved at him wildly to calm down.

“…I’ve got the name and location of the freighter you need,” he added quickly, before the President hung up.

The President had the phone half down when he heard the name and location. He hit the speaker button so all could hear.

“Sergey Vazlav, Gulf of Lawrence.”

“Thank you, Charles,” replied the President with genuine gratitude. He of course was genuine. Charles Baker had just secured Russell’s re-election.

“Before you get too excited, we think they have probably launched. They’re in range of New York.”

“Christ!” said Russell, realizing that two million deaths was synonymous with New York.

Preston was already onto the Joint Chiefs as the President ended the call with Baker. Two minutes later, they called back. The carrier George H.W. Bush was nearest in the vicinity and had sent a squadron of F/A18 Super Hornets to the area. They would be in position in less than twenty minutes.

They were also scrambling every piece of kit that could spot or shoot down the Hurricane towards the Northern states.

Twenty minutes later the President’s office was patched into the chatter between the pilots and the carrier.

“Avenger, this is squadron leader, we have visual on Sergey Vazlav. I repeat we have visual.”

“Team Leader, this is Avenger, can you confirm status of launch?”

“Avenger, no aircraft visible but freighter is steaming North. I repeat steaming North.”

“Fuuuuuuck!” screamed the President, fearing the worst.

“Avenger, crew are on deck, gesticulating at us. Going for closer look.”

“Avenger, crew laughing at us. Fear aircraft launched, reports of containers floating south of here.”