Aim and Fire (8 page)

Please affix this to your side window so it is plainly visible.

Mr. Allen will meet you inside the main building, which is straight ahead. Parking will be on your right. Have a good day.” He pressed a button that raised the heavily reinforced metal barrier.

Narid nodded and drove ahead, pleased at how Ameri-canized the young man sounded; blending in with this culture was vital if they were to subvert it. Every man who worked here had been chosen for their dedication to the cause, his education and his unmarked records, having never appearing on any watch list. Many had actually studied in the United States, acquiring the necessary degrees in engineering, physics and sciences to set their plan into motion.

Pulling into a parking space near the building, he stepped out into the blazing heat, so like the summers back home. The dry, hot environment was like a furnace, and Narid welcomed the warmth enveloping his body. He walked to the main door, which buzzed as he approached.

Inside, the temperature was at least twenty-five degrees cooler, and he shivered in the chilly air-conditioned interior. The small foyer was unassuming but comfortable, with a man standing behind a chest-high console at the far end in front of two thick double doors. Narid noticed two cameras in corners of the room, their unblinking black eyes sweeping back and forth, and nodded again. No doubt 70

he had probably been monitored as soon as he had approached within a few miles of the site.

“Mr. al-Gaffari, I have your security badge ready.” The receptionist, also a man, handed him a laminated card, which Narid affixed to his pocket. “If you will please follow me.” The young man spoke into a cell phone earpiece, then swiped a card and led him through the double doors, which clicked as they automatically unlocked and slid into the walls. The man walked down a hallway with pictures of a smiling, light-skinned man of Middle Eastern descent shaking hands with various people, including the current governor of Texas.

The opposite wall had several large windows set into it, and Narid glanced into the room to see at least a dozen men in what looked like a smaller version of the control room at NASA, with computers and large plasma-screen monitors everywhere. Some displayed the rocket outside on the launch pad, while others showed a map of the United States with trajectory arcs from Texas to various destinations in the eastern United States, including estimated flight times.

And on the far wall, high above everything, was a large red digital timer that was currently set to forty-eight hours. The men inside were of different nationalities, from Middle Eastern or Indian to Spanish, Mexican, British and even one white-blond Scandinavian, and each was intent on his task, whether that was programming, running three-dimensional models or conferencing with one another.

The receptionist walked to the end of the hall and swiped his security card through another slot. “Please go inside. Mr. Allen is waiting.”

Pushing open the door, Narid walked into the office.

The room was comfortably furnished, with thick carpet, wood paneling and no windows. In the center were two up-Aim and Fire

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holstered chairs facing a desk with a computer and a man sitting next to it. On the wall to his right were three monitors, one showing the rocket, the other two each divided into four quadrants that flashed on various security cameras around the area, including outside the perimeter.

Another door to his left was open, revealing a small but meticulously clean bathroom.

The man on the other side of the teak desk was dressed in a button-down, dark blue oxford shirt with his sleeves rolled up, a silver tie neatly knotted and dark gray slacks with black wingtips. He was in his early forties. His face lit up as he saw his visitor, a broad smile revealing perfect, capped white teeth. He rose and held his arms out wide as he came toward Narid, who embraced him and returned the traditional, formal Islamic greeting wishing peace, Allah’s mercy and blessings on the other person.

“It is good to see you. We were worried after not hearing from you for so long.” As he spoke, Joseph took a small device from his desktop and walked around the room, studying the needle with every step. Narid watched him pace the perimeter, moving the sensor over the walls, pictures, chairs and desk. He completed his circuit and nodded to Narid, indicating that it was safe to talk. “Something to drink or eat?

You must be hungry—believe me, I know how impossible it can be to find decent meals on a trip like that.”

“Perhaps a bit later, after
wadu.
” All of the travel and motel rooms had left him feeling unclean, and Narid was looking forward to performing the ritual Muslim cleansing. He sank into an overstuffed maroon armchair, luxuri-ating for a moment in its soft embrace before leaning forward, his expression intent despite his exhaustion. “Do you do that often?”

Joseph Allen tossed the bug detector on his desk and sat 72

on one corner. “Twice a day. In this business, everyone is looking for an advantage. The private space race makes the one between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. look like child’s play. Sure, everyone smiles for the camera and says they are doing whatever their program’s goals are to benefit humankind, but the truth is that everyone’s fighting for the same piece of the pie here, whether it’s for an X-Prize award—still a drop in the bucket compared to what we spend on R&D in a year—or federal grants and loans, there’s still only so much to go around. That’s why our security is so high for such a small company, but you already know that.”

Narid was fully aware of the reasons, along with many other things about Allen and his leading-edge aerospace company. The man in front of him was a second-generation American citizen who had spent the past fifteen years founding and building the space-exploration company, getting his master’s degrees in astrophysics and engineering to build the next generation of lightweight, fuel-efficient rockets to carry payloads into space. He was well-known in the field, had published papers on aspects of rocket telemetry and aerodynamics and had received awards ranging from business accolades for minority hiring to recognition from a national science organization for advances in fuel efficiency that had been adopted throughout the burgeoning industry.

He was also one of the deepest cover terrorists working in America.

Allen had been raised in the strictest
sharia
ways by his father, who had been one of the founding members of the first American al Qaeda cells, established even before the World Trade Center bombings in 1993. His father had understood the struggle and the sacrifices that would have Aim and Fire

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to be made, and had chosen to have his son learn from their enemies, to use their own knowledge against them to carry out an attack that would be unlike anything anyone had ever seen. He had changed his name and worked at a factory in Texas, saving every penny he could while indoc-trinating his son.

Allen had founded Spaceworks with two goals—build a legitimate company with absolutely no ties to any publicly known terrorist operation, and develop the next generation of rocket technology—but for a far more glorious purpose than taking humankind to the stars. His success as a businessman was ironic, since the attack on the United States would come from within, and was being financed, constructed and carried out with backing from the unknowing U.S. government and various venture capitalists.

“I understand that it arrived before me. May I see it?”

Narid asked.

Allen smiled. “Not even here for five minutes and already you’re asking about it. The Barretts arrived safely, as well, glory be to Allah.” Allen went to a locked cabinet, opened it and removed the only item inside, a locked aluminum-sided chest. He brought it out and set it on the desk. “There it is.”

Narid slowly rose and stood over the case. He flipped the latches and opened the top, revealing the inner workings of the ten-kiloton nuclear weapon that an al Qaeda cell had risked their lives to steal from the Russian arms dealer.

It was beautiful.

“We shall fight the pagans all together as they fight us all together, and fight them until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in Allah.”

Narid bowed his head over the case, and when he raised it again, the tears of true belief shone in his eyes. “My friend, 74

we are about to embark on the greatest mission of the jihad our people have ever known. Prepare the installation immediately. In three days, the world will know of our might—and this nation will be forever changed.”

Narid—whose real name was Sepehr al-Kharzi—

bowed his head over the case again and intoned his pleasure at seeing his plan coming to fruition,
“Allahu Akbar.”

“God is great.”

Tracy’s morning hadn’t started well at all. On her way to work, she had picked up the
Washington Post
to see a below-the-fold headline—DHS Warns Of Potential Water Contamination Plots.

What the hell—I thought Gilliam said this wasn’t “actionable” enough,
she thought. Skimming the article, she found that it delineated exactly what she had laid out in her report. The article painted a chilling picture of what could happen in the event of a water-supply contamination, including the strain on local hospitals and emergency personnel in an area. There were even ominous quotes from Gilliam himself, warning that the DHS “was on top of the situation,” and “already working to strengthen security at waste-treatment plants around the country. This simple plan could incapacitate hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and we must make sure that won’t happen on our soil.”

Aren’t you the noble mouthpiece,
she thought. Of course, there was no mention of the DHS analysis—not that Tracy would have cared. Besides, the tone of the 76

article said it all. He’d sent the report upstream anyway yesterday. But why?
And why lie to me about its importance?
There could have been any number of reasons, she supposed. Perhaps he didn’t want a leak to be revealed before the article was published. Was there some kind of turf battle at headquarters? Most likely, the top brass was pressuring him for something they could show to the press, and he had seized on this. But she couldn’t understand why he’d told her he was going to delay it, then pass it up the chain right away.
Is he just that much of a glory-hogging
dick? Maybe they’re pressuring him for something from the
department, and he’s parading this out as his own idea,
she thought.

After clearing security, Tracy walked to her cubicle to find a triple latte sitting at her desk, and Mark sitting across from her with a copy of the
Post
in his hands. “Congratulations, you really nailed that one.” His expression, however, was hangdog.

“Thanks, but at my meeting yesterday, Gilliam told me the actual threat level was too low for review, and he was going to sit on that report for the next few months. I don’t understand why he told me that, then rushed it upchannel so fast.”

“So you haven’t heard? Gilliam’s taken the credit for your report internally. He’s saying it was his idea from the start, and that you had expanded it only under his explicit direction.”

“What? That’s totally untrue! I can’t believe he’d stoop to…” Tracy trailed off as she replayed the conversation in her mind. “Oh, my God.”

Not catching her last words or the incredulous look on her face as she sank into her chair, Mark kept talking.

“What I can’t believe is why he thinks you won’t contest his version of events—I mean, by all rights, he should be Aim and Fire

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trumpeting your work on the project all over the place. This is low, even for him.”

“Because he knows I won’t say anything, that’s why.”

Tracy shook her head in despair. “At our meeting yesterday, he said that my app for the fusion center was being approved, and asked if I’d thought about where I wanted to be stationed. He claimed he’d put in a good word for me. Like an idiot, I said I was looking at the Virginia center. If I speak up now, he’ll be sure to kill any chance I have of getting the assignment. There must be something else going on above us that we don’t know about.”

“What, you mean like everything? All I can say for sure is that I can smell the stench of backroom wheeling and dealing from here.” Mark spun around in his chair and woke up his computer. “I’m just sorry you got caught in the cross fire, or whatever’s going down with this.”

“Yeah, me, too—maybe I’ll get lucky, and can work this into that fusion center assignment anyway. After all, he needs me to remain quiet about this, as well, else I could raise a big stink about it.” She raised the steaming cardboard cup of coffee with a malicious grin. “Thanks for the java, by the way.”

“I figured you’d need it, especially after you saw that headline.”

Tracy killed the screensaver on her computer and scrolled through her e-mails. The first one from Gilliam was as terse as ever, making her brow furrow in annoyance.

Send all related data on sewage-contamination analysis to me ASAP.

He hadn’t even bothered to sign it. Now Tracy’s blood began to boil.
It’s bad enough that he snakes this report
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from me—now he’s treating me like his personal secretary,
she fumed. She compressed the hundreds of pages of technical analysis she had used to generate her report into a single file and sent it off, wondering all the while why he had requested it, since there was zero chance he’d even be able to comprehend it, much less utilize it in a manner that would make any sense. “I hope he chokes on it,” she muttered.

Still angry, she scanned through her other messages, sorting items that needed immediate attention from the usual stream of interoffice detritus that flowed around the system. One message in particular caught her eye—a summary report and attachments from the El Paso Customs and Border Protection office. She opened it, scanned it quickly and then began researching.