Fuse of Armageddon (55 page)

Safady was about to reach for his machine gun, but the soldiers arrived. One jumped aboard. The other handed him the backpack. Both ignored the pilot and Safady. Then the soldier on the chopper jumped down.

Once again, the pilot turned to Safady to ask a question, and once again, he was interrupted as another passenger jumped onto the chopper.

A man Safady knew all too well.

A man Safady believed was dead.

Mulvaney Quinn.

52

Temple Mount, Jerusalem • 21:38 GMT


As Quinn jumped on board, he pointed up and yelled at the pilot over the noise of the chopper. “Get this in the air. Now! Hamer’s orders!”

“We’ve got a soldier back there with a girl! Says somebody radioed permission for them to board.”

Quinn only half turned to see an IDF uniform in partial darkness, the soldier cradling a machine gun in his right elbow. With his left hand, he held the hand of a small Arab girl balancing on one leg. She looked frightened.

Quinn wondered if he could afford to waste another minute or two trying to sort this out. He decided against it. There was still time to get to open water and dump the bomb with a small margin of safety. If they left now and there were no complications, everyone would be fine. They’d deal with the soldier’s mission after that.

“In the air!” Quinn said. “Now! I’ll explain as we fly.”

The pilot responded by placing a hand on the controls, and the chopper lifted. Simultaneously he tilted the chopper forward, gaining airspeed.

Quinn harnessed himself into the seat on the passenger side and put on his headset as the chopper moved. He turned again and gave a thumbs-up.

From the shadow, the soldier just stared back.

Quinn’s smile didn’t seem to reassure the girl much either. He turned forward again. He had bigger things to worry about.

Quinn glanced at the time. Twenty minutes left. Eight minutes of margin. If the timer didn’t go early.

In the Air over Western Israel • 21:39 GMT


Had he been recognized?

With his adrenaline flowing, Safady’s skin felt alive, as if it were crawling in ripples. The last man he’d expected to board the helicopter had been Mulvaney Quinn.

Should Safady hijack the chopper now?

Not in Israeli airspace. If the chopper didn’t head directly where it had been ordered, it would alert the ground command that something was wrong. Within minutes—less time than that, even—Israeli jets would swoop in ready to launch missiles.

For that matter, did Quinn’s presence complicate matters? Safady’s machine gun was enough leverage against two men, especially with both strapped into their seats.

It didn’t complicate things unless Quinn had recognized him.

Safady told himself no. He was in the Israeli uniform. Quinn had only glanced back, and Safady had been deep inside the helicopter, his face in the shadows. Quinn had turned away again, showing no reaction. Impossible that he could have guessed.

Yet Safady would not underestimate the man who had been hunting him for five years, getting closer as he eliminated each outer ring of men that Safady had used as protection. Maybe Quinn had hidden the recognition. Maybe he was merely waiting for the right moment.

Safady watched closely, almost enjoying the heightened sensations of a full adrenaline rush.

The chopper was moving in a straight line, and Safady decided he didn’t want to make his move until he had a better sense of where they were headed and why the pilot had been waiting on standby for Quinn.

21:40 GMT


“I’m Billy Orellana.” The pilot’s voice came through Quinn’s headset. “What’s this about? All I was told was to get to open water as fast as possible.”

“We’ve got a low-yield nuclear bomb, and the timer is down to less than twenty minutes.”

To his credit, Orellana didn’t flinch. “We should be a few miles offshore in twelve minutes. Maybe eleven.”

He pointed ahead. The city lights below were thinning. Clear sky. Half-moon. Bright stars. Quinn could already see the glow of Tel Aviv.

“We’ll be south of Tel Aviv,” Orellana said. “That will keep us clear of commercial airspace. No worries.”

”No worries,” Quinn repeated, trying to put the image of a mushroom cloud out of his mind.

“I’m going to contact base and find out who was supposed to radio me about the soldier and where we need to take the girl. If it’s a hospital, the more notice we can give the better.”

Quinn nodded and listened through his headset to Orellana’s communications with Hamer.

Then Quinn looked back at the soldier after Hamer reported with a negative. No IDF soldier had been ordered onto the chopper by any other commanding officer.

Dome of the Rock • 21:40 GMT


Stefan and Paulie had reached the shrine. Both were breathing hard from the sprint up the steps from the western plaza and the dash across the Temple Mount.

Neither had put on protective gear. Yet. Other soldiers were carrying it behind them. What was more important right now was to assess the situation. If any part of the shrine was damaged, the consequences would be far too grave.

With no hesitation, they rushed to the entrance, ignoring a woman kneeling on the ground beside a man, cradling his head.

Both had flashlights, and they found the C-4 easily. There had been no effort put into hiding it. They rushed toward the explosives, knowing the C-4 could blow any second.

Tel Aviv Airspace • 21:44 GMT


It didn’t take long—the little girl frozen in fear beside him—for Safady to confirm the westward direction of the chopper. It was easy to identify Tel Aviv fast approaching, an irregular mass of lights with a jagged black edge where the sea stopped the city’s growth. He saw the border of darkness, the line north and south, where the clusters of lights of different cities along the coast ended. To the right, he identified Haifa.

Was Tel Aviv the destination? If so, it was probably to take Quinn back to Mossad or IDF headquarters.

Safady had chosen the chopper as an escape route, knowing anything was better than remaining on the Temple Mount. Should he now divert the flight into the Gaza Strip?

No, he decided. Israel controlled airspace over Gaza. Escort jets would remain a threat. If Safady survived that threat, trying to get the chopper landed in Gaza was an almost certain suicide mission; it would draw ground fire from trigger-happy kids. Even if he did get down without injury, he’d essentially be imprisoning himself. Escaping Gaza would be an entirely new problem.

But the Lebanon border was only sixty miles north. Beyond Lebanon was Syria. How long would it take the chopper to get him there? But escort jets wouldn’t let the chopper stay above land.

Safady did some rough calculations. What if he made the chopper go out into international waters before heading north? On this heading, it wouldn’t take long to get out of Israeli territory. When the solution hit him, he realized that he’d been given a gift. With both men in their harnesses, they would be unable to do anything to stop him.

His choice was made easier by Quinn. The man had turned and was staring harder at him. There was enough light from the instrument panel for Safady to notice a sudden tightening of Quinn’s features.

Recognition. Movement of his lips. Quinn was speaking to the pilot through the headset. Safady wrapped one arm around the girl’s shoulders and dragged her forward.

He wasn’t worried about the pilot. Orellana had to keep the chopper in the air. Safady could watch his hands easily enough. But he didn’t know if Quinn was armed, able to come up with a pistol while Safady focused on the pilot. Safady knew he needed to prevent any communication between the two of them, prevent them from planning a surprise to stop him.

Safady swung the stock of his machine gun hard, smashing it flat against Quinn’s head. It sent the man forward against his harness straps. Quinn hung limp briefly, then straightened.

Safady ripped off Quinn’s headset and put it on his own head. Pressing the barrel of the machine gun against the base of Quinn’s neck, he moved to the side so he was looking over Quinn’s head at the pilot. Now he could watch both. The girl, struggling to keep her balance, was no threat.

“Do you hear me?” he asked the pilot. Safady almost pulled the trigger to blow apart Quinn’s head. But he was too conscious that the bullet might do serious damage to the interior of the chopper. Quinn was more leverage alive than dead.

“I hear you,” the pilot replied. “Just have no idea why you’re doing this.”

“Roll this or drop it to make me fall,” Safady said, “and I’ll hold the trigger on the machine gun until it runs dry. Think your chopper can sustain that kind of internal gunfire?”

“Whatever you want, give me time to—”

“I want to hear you tell air control that you’re going to change your heading. We’re going to Syria.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Get over the water; head into international waters. When the jets appear, don’t give them any reason to think this chopper is going to be a threat to any civilian targets.”

“Listen—”

“
You
listen,” Safady said. “Or he dies. And the girl is next.”

Temple Mount, Jerusalem • 21:44 GMT


Jonathan Silver was dying.

Esther was on her knees, cradling his head, just as she’d cradled the Waqf guard who had died earlier that evening. She could not get any soldiers to help her. Two men had rushed past her into the shrine. She couldn’t lift Silver, nor did she dare leave him and search for help from anyone else.

Then she looked up and saw the red heifer. It wandered closer and closer until it was just above Esther and Silver. The end of its halter dragged on the ground.

Had
it been sent by God?

It stood placidly, ignoring the sounds of soldiers moving.

Esther only had to move her right hand a couple of inches to reach the end of the halter. She remained cautious and slow, hoping she would not spook the miracle. Only when the rope was firmly in her palm did she gently set down Silver’s head with her other hand.

Speaking in a low, soothing voice, she eased into a standing position and patted the heifer’s back.

Tel Aviv Airspace • 21:46 GMT


The shock of recognition had nearly the same impact on Quinn as the unexpected blow from the butt of the machine gun.

He’d been trying to tell Orellana to get the chopper over the water at all costs when Safady swung the gun without warning. It felt as though his upper cheekbone was shattered; the pain was a beacon of light keeping away the darkness of oblivion.

Quinn blinked hard, trying to keep his thoughts from dissolving into confusion.
Priority: get the nuclear device over the water. Then figure out a way to save the pilot and the girl.

The urgency of the moment put his pain into the background. Quinn kept organizing his thoughts.

Safady did not want to die. That’s why he’d hijacked the chopper. Safady would keep the passengers alive as long as possible. That was his leverage.

But Safady did not realize there was a nuclear device on board. If he did, he’d be trying to force the pilot to dump it over Tel Aviv. Not only to save his life but because of the destruction it could mean for Israeli citizens below.

Get the nuclear device over the water. Even if we all die when it explodes.

Quinn lifted his hand—the one nearest the pilot—and pointed straight ahead. Orellana nodded and kept the chopper flying toward the Mediterranean at two hundred miles per hour.

Quinn had expected another blow. When it didn’t come, he again lifted his hand and motioned for the pilot’s headset.

He was hoping, betting, praying that Safady would be curious enough to allow it. That would buy Quinn extra time to get the chopper away from Tel Aviv, now directly below them.

Again Quinn braced for another blow. It didn’t come.

But the headset did.

It hurt badly to slip it over his head but was well worth the pain. Especially when he heard Safady’s voice.

“Make this happen,” Safady said. “You’ll live. They’ll live.”

“Make what happen?” Quinn asked. The chopper had not changed direction. He needed as much conversation as possible until there was no chance the nuclear device would harm anyone but them.

“I want to reach Syria. You negotiate for me. You make sure Israeli jets allow us to get out of this airspace.”

“How do you guarantee our safety?” By the digital readout on the chopper’s instrument panel, Quinn knew down to the second how much time was left before the nuclear device detonated. It was crucial not to look at the device itself to confirm it. Safady must not find out what it was. “What’s to stop you from killing your hostages when you get there?”

“You tell me,” Safady said. “Isn’t that your job? Negotiating?”

Just ahead was the black of the water, stretching out to the horizon. Quinn glanced at the altitude showing on a dial. Fifteen hundred feet. How low would it need to be for the girl to drop down safely?

Maybe there was a way to get the pilot and girl out of this alive. And a way to take out Safady.

“First we drop the pilot and girl into the water,” Quinn said. “I fly this the rest of the way to Syria.”

“Not good enough,” Safady said. “I don’t trust you.”

“Just the two of us. Once we’re over Syrian water, same thing. I drop you in the water just offshore, then fly back. In Syrian water, you’re safe.“

“Give me a reason to trust you.”

“Here’s why it works,” Quinn said. “You won’t shoot me while I’m flying, or it kills you. For that matter, if you try to kill me as you bail out, the chopper crash could easily land on you in the water.”

“That’s your leverage,” Safady said. “What’s mine?”

“You decide if I want you dead badly enough to commit suicide. Because short of crashing the helicopter, how else can I stop you?”