Seven Unholy Days (34 page)

67

7:53 PM EASTERN EUROPE SUMMER TIME (LOCAL)

12:53 PM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

TIME REMAINING: 1 HOUR, 23 MINUTES

PETRA, JORDAN

             
After clearing the perimeter and moving inside the city proper, the contingent of Marines–led by Colonel Masters–was ready to enter what looked to be a fortified compound built inside the caves. The Recon Force had formed a tight perimeter around the area and Spooky was loitering above just in case. Two of the Blackhawks had landed on the top of the canyon wall and had their front floodlights angled down, bathing the area in the blue-white glow of the massive high-intensity-discharge lamps.

Jana, Cunningham, and I were behind an outcropping of rock about fifty yards back from the main entrance when they detonated the C4 on three separate steel doors that were set into the rock wall. Of the thirty-six members of the Fire Teams who had originally converged on Petra in the sand rails, three had been killed and three more injured. The remaining thirty divi
ded into three equal teams and muscled through the rubble into the compound after tossing in flash-bang grenades that would temporarily blind anyone inside who happened to be looking the wrong way, and quite possibly burst their eardrums if they weren’t protected. We heard a lot of shouting but no shots fired. Five minutes later Masters came out through the main entrance and announced that the area was safe for us to approach.

When we got there he said, “I don’t know how many kills there were outside, but we have six live prisoners from inside the complex. Ma’am, let me know when you’re ready and we’ll bring them out. Let me know which one he is. I have orders to isolate him and wait for a special transport detail to arrive.”

Jana nodded and held her chin up, but I saw the fear in her eyes. She reached over and grabbed my hand. I gave a gentle squeeze and said, “It’ll be okay, Jana. You’re safe.”

“Do it,” she said.

Masters barked into his mike and the first one emerged through the opening, flanked by a Marine on each side and another behind him. He wore a black tee-shirt covered in the red dust of Petra sandstone. He had close-cropped blond hair and a torso that looked like it would burst through the tight shirt at any moment. Masters looked at Jana and she shook her head.

The next one, also escorted by a trio of Marines, looked like a local. He was dressed in Bedouin garb and might have had three teeth. He didn’t look like the billionaire psycho type. Jana shook her head again.

The procession continued until five of them had been brought out, none of whom she recognized. “Get out there now!” I heard someone inside shout, followed by sounds of a scuffle. My heart was in my throat as I waited to see this animal who had wrought so much misery on me and the world. And whether my new Marine friends knew it or not, I had plans to find out where my father was.

“Let go of me! You have no right to treat me like this, you cretins!” The Marines didn’t seem concerned about his rights as they drug him out by his feet. He was face down, clawing at the ground for something to hold onto and finding nothing. As they came through the opening I saw a slender man in what had been a solid white suit. His hair was black and wavy, his skin dark. Jana squeezed my hand harder and I heard her breathing quicken as he came more completely into view. He still had his back to us as he got up off the ground. Masters said, “Abraham Hart?”

“Yes, I am Abraham Hart.” He dusted off his clothes as he turned around slowly. “And you will all die for what you have done here tonight!” He suddenly cut his crazy eyes directly at me and said, “And you in particular will die a thousand deaths in the depth of hell, Decker, you sniveling busybody!”

I let go of Jana’s hand, walked over to him, and drew back to deliver my rebuttal to his latest prophecy. Jana caught my hand.

“No, Matt.”

“After what he put you through?” I said.

“I’ve never seen this man before,” she said.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Trust me, I know exactly what Abraham Hart looks like. I don’t know who this imposter is, but it’s not Hart.”

Masters held a finger up for quiet and pressed against his communication earpiece. He listened for a few seconds and said, “We’ve been had. Not only is this not Hart; there’s also no sign of a missile here.”

68

12:09 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

1:09 PM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

TIME REMAINING: 1 HOUR, 7 MINUTES

YELLOW CREEK

              “I am now very close to recovery of this file,” Abdul said as he continued to blow through commands and code at a pyretic pace.

Tarkleton covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Hang on, Abdul, I’m almost through to Matthew.”

“This might be most important.”

“I doubt it’s more important than them being in the wrong place.” Tarkleton paced. “Yes, I have to talk to him right now!” he shouted.

8:10 PM EASTERN EUROPE SUMMER TIME (LOCAL)

1:10 PM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

TIME REMAINING: 1 HOUR, 6 MINUTES

PETRA, JORDAN

I was studying a copy of Hart’s manifesto, looking for any clue, while one of Masters’ men administered a sodium pentothal injection to the imposter in an attempt to glean information. The barbiturate had him happy and babbling, but that’s it. Unlike the movie version of truth serum, the real thing reduces inhibitions but it does not eliminate self-control. The man was well-trained, probably to the point of having practiced under the influence of the chemical. It was a waste of time.

I was focused on two sentences near the end of the doc
ument that struck me as prescient.

You are henceforth warned that things are often not what they seem. Rely on my Word for your sustenance and survival.

Things had definitely turned out not to be what they seemed. Petra was an elaborate ruse, a distraction that worked to perfection. And the instruction in the next sentence to rely on his “Word,” which I assumed to mean the Bible, seemed out of character since he had thoroughly trashed it a few paragraphs earlier. I felt certain that sentence was a clue, but without a Bible or Tark—

“Decker!” I looked around and saw a Marine headed my way with a handheld radio. “Some guy they’ve patched through from the States. Says he has to talk to you right now. Name’s something like Tart.”

“Tark?” I said, shocked yet not surprised.

“Matthew, we may have been—”

“Hart’s not here. Neither are the missiles.”

“I figured as much. I shouldn’t have been so gullible as to miss the only logical place for him to be for his big finale.”

“We’re short on time. Where, Tark, tell me where!”

“Armageddon, of course.”

“I thought that was more or less mythical.”

“Oh, heavens no. Been the site of countless battles through the ages. It was located on one of the most important ancient highways in existence and—”

“Tark, I’d really love to hear all about it when I get back, but for now I just need to know where it is.”

“Sorry. Its modern name is Tel Megiddo. Lots of ruins there that were being excavated until a few years ago when Israel had to clamp down so tight on everything. It’s right at the mouth of the Jezreel Valley. The Israeli authorities can take you right to it, I’m sure.”

“Thanks, I’ll be in touch.” I shut off the radio and handed it back to Masters. He heard enough of the conversation and was on his own radio by the time I finished with John. Jana had just gotten back from a restroom break in a cave–with Sergeant Cunningham faithfully in tow—and I brought her up to speed. “Are we going there?” she said.

“Yes,” Masters said over the din of a Blackhawk that was se
ttling down into the city between the canyon walls. “The four of us will go now. The other Blackhawks will load up with men and be right behind us. I’ve also called the Reagan and they’ll have air cover in place by the time we arrive.” We shielded our faces against the rotor wash sandstorm and climbed aboard the instant the chopper settled.

“How long will it take us to get there?” I said as we lifted off.

“We’re right across the border from Israel now. Fortunately, the whole country’s about the size of New Jersey. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“We better be or there may not be a country left,” I said.

2:02 PM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

1:02 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

YELLOW CREEK

TIME REMAINING: 50 MINUTES

“Oh my goodness, James Lee Tarkleton, this file is not good.”

“Put it on screen,” Tarkleton said. He watched as the main display transitioned from a map of the Central region to an elaborate animation of Israel and the surrounding area.

The animation began with a simple overhead view of a map. A neon-red line then ripped from bottom to top, generally along the route of the Jordan River until it approached the top of the map, where it took a left-hand diagonal turn and raced across Lebanon to the Mediterranean. A label, also neon-red, faded into view: JORDAN FAULT. As soon as the line was complete, three yellow bull’s-eye icons appeared along the line one at a time, pulsating in a short-short-long sequence.

Seconds later, a single spot—Tarkleton recognized it as Tel Megiddo—flashed three times. From the flashes came three missiles. They fanned out from the source, dotted lines marking their trajectory. The bottom missile flew directly toward the lowest of the three bull’s-eye icons. The middle unit assumed more of an arc before angling back down toward its target, and the top one flew an arc that was higher still. The result was si
multaneous impact on the three target icons.

The icons exploded and the map rotated into a three-dimensional view, as if the viewer were standing south of the area, able to see a cross-section of Israel and the ground beneath it, outlined by the now-pulsating red neon line. Flat along the top, representing the surface. A vertical line on the right edge extended down into the ground, then turned left—west—and deepened as it approached the Mediterranean. The overall effect was that Israel rested atop a wedge-shaped chunk of earth.

Suddenly the wedge broke loose from the land on the right, directly along the red line, and began a slide down and to the left. It moved slowly at first and then accelerated as the whole mass slid away from the continent on the right and into the Mediterranean Sea. A huge animated wave swelled and spread out, headed for the coastal areas that formed the oval basin of the sea.

The image faded to black. Until now the animation had been silent. Now a lone trumpet wailed and bright red letters filled the screen:

There was a great earthquake, such a mighty and great earthquake as had not occurred since men were on the earth. Revelation 16:18 

The screen faded again, as did the trumpet.

“Dear sweet Jesus,” Tarkleton said as the pipe fell from his mouth. It clattered onto the console, then rolled off and fell to the floor.

“We should tell the president, yes?”

A new voice said, “I’m doing the telling around here right now, assholes.”

Tarkleton slowly picked up his pipe and sighed when he saw him. “What’s the point in this, Rowe? Your horse is out of the race. Get over it,” Tark said. Rowe had appeared behind them, filthy, stubbly beard, reeking of body odor, and holding a double-barrel shotgun.

“You people, especially Golden Boy, cost me a king’s ransom. Get over it? Not likely. But tell me where I can find Decker and maybe I’ll let you live.”

“No problem,” Tarkleton said, pointing with his pipe. “Go down this way about five thousand miles and hang a left.”

“Don’t be flippant with me.”

“Decker’s in Israel.”

“For what?”

“Stopping your boss, you double-crossing slug.”

“You’re getting pretty cocky for someone with a shotgun pointed at him.”

“I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Now what is it you plan to do? We seriously need to talk to the president or more inn
ocent people are going to die, Rowe. You want more on your conscious?”

Rowe was fully involved in the conversation with Tarkleton now, pacing back and forth along the console, holding the sho
tgun in one hand. Abdul rotated his chair during one of the three-step passes when Rowe’s back was to them, and stepped around the end of the console. He squat-walked quickly to the other end of the console and waited.

Rowe was staring at Tarkleton and didn’t notice that Abdul wasn’t in his chair. “I don’t have a con—” Abdul connected a solid blow to his kidney. He spun around to face Abdul and Tark grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. Rowe squeezed the triggers and fired both barrels just as Tark pushed the muzzle upward. A cluster of acoustic treatment showered from the cei
ling. The impact of the shot jarred Tark’s grip loose and he fell back against the console. Rowe swung the butt around and caught Tark in the jaw; blood poured from his mouth.

Rowe reached into his jacket and pulled out two more 12-gauge shells. Abdul dove toward him and grabbed the barrels. Rowe had opened the gun and the spent hulls ejected. Abdul tried to wrestle the gun away from him as he fought to plug the new shells into the breech, but his thin frame was a handicap vs. the much larger Bob Rowe. Sensing the impending loss of his grip on the gun, he changed strategy.

First he let go of the rusty barrel. He immediately hit Rowe with a bull’s-eye right hook, then knocked the shells away with his left hand and jumped to his feet. Rowe stood up too, digging in his pocket for a fresh load of ammunition.

“I’m gonna mop the floor with you, you little bastard!” Rowe said. Abdul’s punch had been solid, opening a cut above the left eye. Blood was streaming down his face, making him look even more like a deranged monster.

Abdul saw Rowe’s hand come out of the pocket with more shells. Now or never. He backed away and ducked behind a large support column near the middle of the room.

“No need to hide, little man. Come on out and take your medicine.” A brief metallic ring sounded as he slammed the breech shut. He pulled back the creaky old hammers and made his way toward the column. When he reached it, he bent his knees to better absorb the recoil and quickly stepped around it.

Abdul squeezed the handle of the fire extinguisher and directed the Halon blast into Rowe’s eyes. He screamed and started backing away, wiping at his eyes with his left hand and holding the shotgun in the right. The chemical fog hung in the air just long enough for Abdul, now the hunter instead of the hunted, to slip around behind his prey without being seen. He raised the fire extinguisher above his head and brought its heavy steel cylinder down on Rowe’s head with every ounce of strength he could summon from his wiry 5’9” frame. It was enough. Rowe’s legs melted like Jell-O and he fell face first onto the floor.

Tark pulled himself upright, smiled a bloody smile, and said, “Nice work, Abdul.”

“Thank you, James Lee Tarkleton. Now we must talk to the president.”

2:14 PM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

TIME REMAINING: 38 MINUTES

“Someone please tell me this is impossible,” President Sta
nson said when the animated presentation ended. His voice echoed slightly off the long table and the paneled walls, but no one answered. He slammed the butt of his fist down on the table. “It’s a hell of a time for this group to turn into damn mutes.”

“Sir,” NSA Rich Henning said, “the truth is we don’t know. It is, however, a certainty that this guy did his homework and it’s likely he was the one behind the disappearance and subs
equent murder of Dr. Hilton. We have to take it seriously.”

“Ramifications?” Stanson said.

“I’ve been studying the documents that were attached to the file Tarkleton sent,” Admiral Stockton said.

“And?”

“The Israeli land mass is thicker than the Med is deep so the whole thing won’t exactly sink, but building and infrastructure destruction will for all practical purposes be total. Estimate loss of five million lives in Israel alone. Everything on the Med coast and one to two miles inland will be destroyed by the resulting wave. That kills a few million more people.”

The president shook his head. Stockton flipped a page on the document in his hand and continued. “The waves will take out the Suez Canal. Repair will take years and the economic and p
olitical fallout from that will be devastating.” He laid the document on the table.

“Is that all?”

Stockton’s head drooped, an element of posture not native to the man. “No sir.”

“Spit it out, man!”

“The Reagan, sir. Remember, she’s in the Med, along with her escorts. Ten or twelve thousand of our finest men and women.”

“The ships can’t withstand the waves?”

“Sir, we’re talking about a hundred thousand cubic kilometers of land sliding into the water. The resulting tsunami will be massive and it will be followed by a series of heavy aftershocks; no ship will withstand these waves.”