Fuse of Armageddon (54 page)

Paulie and Stefan waded in with him, spreading to each side.

Seconds later, Stefan called out. He had the end of a nylon rope and began to pull. “There’s something on the end,” Stefan said, backing out of the water. He reeled in the rope and was rewarded by a slight bumping sound. A watertight plastic container emerged.

Stefan lifted it and grunted. “About the right weight.”

Paulie was already there and helped him set the container down. “Think the lid is rigged?”

“Maybe.”

“Doesn’t look like anyone expected it to be found,” Paulie offered. “That’s in favor of no booby trap.”

“I don’t like the odds,” Stefan said. “Lots of bombs are hidden
and
booby-trapped.”

“How’d she know it was a Crockett unless she saw it?” Paulie asked. “Which means the lid was open not too long ago.”

“Or maybe the shooter told her it was a Crockett and left the lid closed. Really, how many people have even heard of a Crockett, let alone can identify it by looking at it?”

“Or he told her while it was open.”

“Or he didn’t,” Stefan said. “Are we going to flip a coin on this?”

“Think of the time,” Paulie countered. “If we’re wrong about the booby trap and we waste too much playing around with the lid . . .”

“Just as bad as if it’s rigged and we set it off early.” Stefan looked up at the arched stone ceiling. “Even if this one is dialed down, it’s still got a nuclear yield that’s going to blow away the Muslim Quarter.”

Quinn grabbed the empty backpack. “The bomb is stable, right? I mean, if it was going to blow because of movement, it would have happened already.”

“Fair enough,” Stefan said.

“So don’t worry about trying to defuse it,” Quinn said. “Let’s get it out of here.”

“It’s ten minutes back to the plaza. That only leaves, what, a little over twenty more minutes after that till midnight? You know how densely populated it is around here. No way that gives us time to find a spot it can go off without hurting civilians, let alone somewhere that radiation fallout won’t put ten square miles out of commission for a decade.”

Quinn pushed the backpack into Stefan’s hands. “Hold this open and help me load it.”

“Why?”

“Because I hope to prove you wrong.”

Dome of the Rock • 21:35 GMT


Jonathan Silver had picked up Alyiah and cradled her in his arms. He turned his back to Safady, using his body to shield Alyiah. Silver left Alyiah’s crutches behind and took a step away from Safady. A slow but steady step. Only a few more steps to the open door and the evening air on the Temple Mount.

“I can see you!” Safady shouted. “Stop! Or you’re both dead!”

Silver stopped. “How much time left before the explosion?”

“Time enough for us to leave together,” Safady answered.

“Liar,” Silver said. He’d finally figured it out. Safady’s hatred was real. He had not worked with Brad; he had used and betrayed Brad. Safady would gladly have killed Silver by now. Along with Alyiah. So what had been delaying him? Silver knew. “You don’t want to shoot.”

He took another step and braced himself for the roar of death that he doubted he would even hear or comprehend. But Safady didn’t pull the trigger.

Another step. Alyiah shivered against his chest.

“You’ll be dead before you reach the door,” Safady said. His voice now sounded strained. “Stop!”

“You won’t shoot,” Silver said, his back still turned to Safady. “That will draw the Israelis. This entire conversation has been about delaying me longer, then shooting me just before the bomb goes off. That would give you time to get away but not enough time for the soldiers to come in and find it.”

“This is your chance,” Safady said. “If you believe your God will be the victor when the war is over, you’ll have the Dome. You can rebuild the Temple. Isn’t that your life goal?”

“Good-bye. You’d better start running now if you don’t want the Israelis to find you here.”

“You’re bluffing,” Safady said. “You won’t give up your life, even to save the world.”

Silver took another step. He was going to win one way or the other. If he made it outside, he’d find the Israelis. If not, the Israelis would find him, alerted by shots.

The silence stretched for Silver. Such a quiet night outside. He didn’t want to die. But he was praying, and he felt the presence of more than just the pressing silence. He felt the promise of an eternity of peace.

“Oh, Lord,” Silver breathed. “Please spare the child.”

He was close enough to the door now.

He threw himself forward, making sure Alyiah was safely outside.

There was time enough for him to see the flash of gunfire reflected on the walls, hear the roar, and feel the impact of pain shredding his back.

51

Old City, Jerusalem • 21:35 GMT


They had made it back to the plaza in eight minutes. From the Struthian Pool, Quinn had taken the first shift of carrying the bomb out in the backpack. Paulie had stayed with Quinn, and they had alternated carrying the backpack, managing to maintain a half-jogging pace. Stefan had raced ahead, knowing he’d need to get closer to the tunnel entrance to make walkie-talkie contact. That had given Hamer enough notice to be waiting for Quinn at the western plaza outside the entrance to the tunnel.

“Tell me you had not yet cleared the choppers from the Temple Mount,” Quinn said to Hamer. He still had on the backpack and didn’t stop walking.

“Stefan got to me in time,” Hamer said, staying with Quinn. “I put my senior pilot on standby up there with the engine running.”

“Have you talked over the math with the pilot? How long to reach the Dead Sea?”

“Under forty miles to the Mediterranean,” Hamer said. “A Black Hawk has top airspeed of two hundred miles an hour. There’s a tailwind. Pilot says with liftoff and acceleration, twelve minutes could get him there, maybe eleven.”

“There’ll only be twenty-two minutes left once we’re in the air,” Quinn said. They were almost at the steps leading up to the Temple Mount. “Dead Sea’s half the distance. Why not take a larger margin of time?”

“We want this bomb three or four hundred feet underwater when it goes. That’s not going to happen in the Dead Sea. It’ll float no different than a fat tourist.”

Hamer pointed at two soldiers about twenty yards away and waved them close.

“Plenty of time to get well out over the Dead Sea. Drop it halfway across, and that explosion won’t do any damage, even with the bomb floating. It’s a low-yield nuclear device.”

“A tailwind to the Med means an offshore breeze to take fallout away from land,” Hamer said. “On the other hand, halfway across the Dead Sea puts the bomb directly on Jordan’s border. Think IDF wants to explain why we dropped a nuclear device within even a couple miles of it? It’s not like we can hide the explosion or deny it.”

“But cutting the margin to ten minutes? What if the timer is not accurate?”

“No choice. At the least, the chopper will be somewhere over the water.”

“You’re putting this pilot on a possible suicide mission.”

“No choice.”

The soldiers reached them. From here, it was only a couple hundred yards up the steps and to the chopper on the Temple Mount.

“Take this man’s backpack and hump it upstairs,” Hamer told them. “Get it inside the chopper that’s on standby. Don’t drop it.”

Quinn followed the soldiers.

“Where are you going?” Hamer asked. He had to hurry to catch Quinn.

“Someone’s got to help the pilot throw the backpack out,” Quinn said. “Especially since we’re cutting it a lot closer to take it into the Mediterranean. When you asked the pilot about his margin of time, did you tell him why?”

“Wasn’t going to say a word until you made it out of the tunnel. Then I’d see how much time was left and if I’d send him out.”

“I’ll be with him. I’ll fly then if he has to bail.”

“You keep playing Russian roulette with your life, sooner or later you’re going to catch a full chamber.”

Quinn gave him a flat stare. “I can always hope.”

Hamer shook his head. “You need therapy.”

That’s when the sound of machine-gun fire up on the Temple Mount reached them.
At the Dome of the Rock.

The gunfire was followed a second later by the sound of exploding grenades.

Dome of the Rock • 21:37 GMT


Inside the shrine, Safady had carried his gym bag and dashed past Jonathan Silver’s body, cursing him, wishing he could stop long enough to spit in his face. From there, Safady had moved away from the Dome, waited until the soldiers had swarmed the mount, then lobbed a couple of grenades away from the holy site hoping to keep them away from the shrine.

Because Silver had guessed right. Who would have expected the old man to be so smart? All Safady had needed was another five minutes. Then he could have killed Silver and the girl. In five minutes, the machine-gun fire would have been the perfect distraction. It would have drawn in the Israeli soldiers. The bodies would have distracted the soldiers for another crucial thirty seconds. Then the explosives would have killed the soldiers and provided the perfect cover for Safady to escape.

Now?

The Temple Mount seemed empty except for the two choppers. One of them had its engine running and blades turning slowly.

And directly in front of Safady was the crippled girl. Without her crutches.

He scooped her up and kept running.

He could only hope it would take too long for the Israelis to arrive. If they got there too soon, it would be simple to disarm the timer. The bomb was not sophisticated. There’d been no need for it.

Safady was looking for movement that would signal a convergence of soldiers on the Temple Mount. He needed to escape. He was not a martyr. He could have gone back and triggered the explosives himself, taking down the shrine in a final blaze of glory. Except none would have known he deserved the glory. Except he’d be dead, unable to use the events on the Temple Mount to transform himself into a leader able to unite Muslims across the world.

No, he was not a martyr. If the Dome was not blown up tonight, he would make sure the Muslim world heard about the events that had taken place. The media would broadcast everywhere that the hated Christians had taken their red heifer there for sacrifice, that they’d placed explosives inside the Dome of the Rock. Outrage would spread in waves of violence—violence that could only be answered with violence. When the war was over—when all the Muslims across the globe had united to defeat America and Israel and their allies—his people would have Palestine returned to them.

Yes. He needed to survive. He needed to escape.

He had his machine gun.

He had more grenades.

Safady stopped briefly. The girl was struggling, but it was ineffectual. He hit her once and got another grenade from the gym bag. He pulled the pin, throwing it hard and as far away as possible. Then another grenade. And another.

There was a five-second delay. He covered another dozen yards at a full run.

Perfect timing.

The first grenade blew. After a short delay, the second followed. And the third. That would distract the soldiers when they arrived.

Still running hard, he made it to the open area near the helicopters.

The gunfire and the grenades had worked.

Except for two men running toward the chopper with a shared load, the Israeli soldiers at the top of the steps were headed where the grenades had exploded.

Safady grinned. Allah had blessed him with the foresight to wear an Israeli uniform.

There was one way to get off the Temple Mount, and the opening was there, right in front of him.

He boldly stepped toward the chopper. The girl was struggling again.

“Say a word,” he hissed in Arabic, “and the pilot dies. Do you want to kill an innocent man?”

Temple Mount, Jerusalem • 21:37 GMT


Esther had reached Jonathan Silver’s bleeding body when the Israeli soldiers cautiously approached the steps leading up to the shrine. She crouched.

He lay facedown. Blood soaked the back of his shirt.

Esther yelled at the soldiers. “I need medical help for this man.”

“We’ve got orders to contain this situation,” one soldier said. “Whatever it is.”

“
Uunnngh.
” Silver’s groan was barely audible to Esther. She knelt, her face close to his.

“Bomb inside,” he muttered.

Bomb inside!

Esther was up again in a flash. “He says there are explosives inside.”

She and the soldier locked eyes briefly, each knowing the implications of an explosion inside the Dome of the Rock. Then he lifted his walkie-talkie and barked orders into it. “We need a bomb squad. Now!”

Esther tried lifting Jonathan. “He’s too heavy,” she grunted. “Help me.”

“Find a way,” the soldier said. “No time.”

21:38 GMT


Safady used perfect Hebrew speaking to the helicopter pilot. “This is the girl,” he yelled. “She needs to be evacuated. Diabetic shock. Someone radioed you, right?”

Safady recognized the pilot. He’d been flying the other chopper, the one that supposedly took ground fire. Even though he’d put a pistol to this man’s head earlier, Safady didn’t worry about being recognized. On the way out of Gaza, he’d been dressed as a Palestinian terrorist, complete with face scarf. Now he was in an IDF uniform.

The pilot nodded. “I’ve been on standby.”

Safady had expected he would have to bluff that the order had not reached the pilot. All he needed was to get close enough to catch the pilot unawares and hijack the chopper. This was a bonus.

The pilot reached down to help them up. When Safady and the girl were on the chopper, the pilot put up his hand and turned away from Safady, obviously taking another call.

Seconds later, the pilot turned around again. “What’s going on?” he shouted to Safady. “I’m supposed to wait for two soldiers and a backpack.”