Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (25 page)

Their supplier’s eyes shot up for a moment.

Curiosity killed the cat. And the Ay-rab.

Chip nodded. “Uncrated.”

Cole nodded. “Okay, see to it.” Chip ran off toward the men gathered around the growing pile of supplies as Cole approached the truck. He reached inside the tank inlet and searched around the cool, smooth interior. It took a moment to feel the slight indentation in the metal. He pressed against it, and felt the indentation push forward a couple of inches. A click followed by the sound of a latch freeing itself, was followed by the hydraulic hiss of air forced by the pistons controlling the ramp’s descent.

“Anything else I need to know?” he asked, turning to the man.

He nodded then climbed into the truck. “Look here,” he said, pointing to the back of the cab between the two head rests of the well-worn, threadbare seats. Cole looked and noticed nothing special beyond a scraped and scuffed sheet of metal, at one time painted plain white. The man pressed against the center. A portion of the rear panel pushed in about an inch, separating from the rest of the panel where what had appeared to be metal rivets holding panels to either side gave way, their rivets for show. The man slid the panel aside, revealing an opening. “See, you can talk to your men through here.” He grasped the sliver of the panel remaining in view, and pulled it most of the way across, then placing his finger tips on the panel, dragged them across, the metal along with them, until it clicked back into place, hiding the opening. “And when you open it, compartment light goes off, then close it, light goes on. Same with ramp. You like?”

Cole nodded.

“Everything okay?”

Cole nodded.

“You have the rest of my money?”

Cole snapped his fingers and Brannick, his money man, ran over with a brief case. “Pay the man.”

Brannick flipped the case open and around, revealing stacks of Euros. Greed scrawled itself across their contact’s face, his leathery skin stretched in a crooked smile, exposing his blackened teeth, his tongue darting across his dried lips. He took the case in one arm, reached in with another, and grabbed a stack of bills, flipping through them. He checked several more stacks, all the while his head bobbing up and down faster and faster. Finally he snapped the case shut.

“Thank you, I wish you a good day.” He nodded and scurried to a car idling on the road above, the three drivers who had brought the trucks, waiting inside.

Cole watched as the car pulled away, then noticed a flash in the distance. He froze, watching the area intently. Another flash.
Binoculars?
Another flash and he was convinced. He waved Charlie Parker over who had supervised the unloading of the weapon.

“We’re being watched.”

Parker gazed at the horizon. “Are you sure?”

Cole nodded. “Pretty sure. Looked like some sort of lens.”

“Who could know we’re here?”

“I can think of only one thing.”

“Our Ay-rab friends?”

Cole nodded. “They may be better connected than we thought. Have everybody stay sharp, and we’ll have to pick up the pace a bit.” He glanced at the case. “Let’s just hope that thing doesn’t set off any alarms before we can get it into position.”

“Maybe we should arm it now?”

Cole thought for a moment.
A fail safe?
If they armed it now, there would be no stopping it. If something went wrong with the plan, it would still go off, and accomplish their goals. It just meant they wouldn’t be around to see it.

He could live with that.

“Do it.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

Sabir knelt, hands open in front of him, repeating the Salah he had done five times daily since childhood. His hands opened to Allah, his eyes closed, he bowed down, prostrating himself on the ground in submission to Allah’s will, a joy filling his heart as his prayers fulfilled one more time, put him once again in good standing with the creator. He rose to his feet and rolled up the carpet he had laid out on the desert sands minutes before. It had taken ten minutes. Only ten minutes to pay his respects to the one who had created the world he now enjoyed, who had given him life, and who would reward him in the end for being a good Muslim.
Are ten minutes too much to ask?
He thought of the infidel Christians who went to their churches only once a week. He had heard from his Imam that most Christians never even went to church. This hadn’t surprised him. Their world so decadent, filled with blasphemous pleasures he would chastise himself for even trying to imagine, had corrupted their souls, and their path to their God.

Which was another thing that had surprised him in his youth, that the Christian God and Allah were one and the same. As he had learned more of the Quran, he came to realize the Christian path was a lost path, and that Islam was the true path, the only path that would lead to salvation and an eternity of bliss as reward for following it. Christianity had started off well, but was co-opted by the evil Roman Catholic church that had corrupted the original teachings of the Prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, and turned it into the corrupt organization it was today, with its myriads of bastard offspring each trying to correct the deviation of its parent, but with little success.

Islam was the way, and the sooner the world converted, the better the world would be.

His teachings however differed from those of many Muslims. His teachers taught pure Islam, the original version, without the political and cultural leanings Imam’s preached today. Islam is a religion of peace, that is what he was taught. And if peaceful, forcing Christians and Jews and other misguided believers to convert, was wrong. They must see the path themselves, and choose to follow it themselves. With time and patience, and careful guidance, the world would see its way to Islam. It most likely wouldn’t be in his lifetime, or even that of his children or grandchildren, but it was inevitable.

As his Imam taught, the corrupt ways of the West, their decadent lifestyles and obsession with self-gratification, had resulted in a birthrate so low, they could no longer feed themselves. Their insatiable appetites for more than the basic necessities of life had led them to bring in people from around the world, who did not follow their beliefs, who did not share their obsessions, and who bred. His Imam had taught that within one generation, the Muslim populations in the West would be large enough to sway elections, and within two generations, enough to win elections. Within several generations, Islam would win purely through making babies, here, and in the Infidels’ backyards.

Without a drop of blood shed.

This was the way of the true Muslim. Peace and self-awareness, contentment within oneself, at the expense of no one, through peace with one’s God. By leading their lives as Allah willed, they would win. Not through violent Jihad as those who had corrupted much of Islam taught, but through peaceful coexistence. Demographics, as his Imam had said, would win in the end.

Which was why today, his duty was of extreme importance. He was told by the Imam of his local chapter of the Hassassin, that a group of American Infidels was trying to start a war between Islam and Christianity, and if they succeeded, the bloodshed from all previous conflicts would pale by comparison. And it was something they must all fight to prevent, even if it meant their deaths.

He mounted his steed standing patiently by his side as he prayed, retrieved a set of binoculars from a pouch on the saddle, and scanned the coastline for any activity. The sandy beach flashed past his eyes as he searched for anomalies, the gentle ebb and flow of the waves as they hit the coast lost in the blur.

He saw something.

He stopped his left to right motion and slowly scanned back until he found it. A boat, betrayed by the sun glinting off the white of the hull, gently bobbed in the water, several smaller boats ferried men and equipment to the beach, where to his ire, several trucks waited.

Only traitors to Islam would help them here!

With Westerners few and far between in Saudi Arabia, he knew whoever was supplying these Infidels was corrupted by greed. That money was the root of all evil was no doubt true, as was evidenced by this display. His heart pounded in fury, his mind imagining racing his horse into their midst, sword drawn, and separating the heads from the shoulders of those who would betray their beliefs for a few pieces of paper made by man, inscribed with a blasphemous phrase, In God We Trust. To associate money with God was an affront to all who truly believed. To associate the source of all greed with the source of all that is divine.

Sabir took a deep breath in through his nose and slowly let it out through his mouth, closing his eyes.
Allah give me strength.

He repeated his mantra several times, then opened his eyes again. He reached into his robes and pulled a cellphone from an inner pocket. He flipped it open and hit the speed dial. It picked up on the first ring.

“Marhaba?”

“This is Sabir. Please tell the Master that I have spotted them from my location. They have three vehicles, lorries, here waiting for them.”

“Follow them and report in one hour.”

“I will.”

He snapped the phone shut and returned it to its previous hiding place, buried deep within the many layers of clothing he wore to keep him cool in the desert heat. He glanced through the binoculars again, and saw the trucks leave the beach, the boat heading back to sea.

He clicked his tongue, urging his horse forward with a flick of his reigns. The beast started forward, knowing Sabir’s wishes as if they were one, the two together for almost a decade. She was getting old, but she was reliable, calm in battle, and one of the few things in his life outside of his brotherhood, that he could rely on without question.

He patted her neck as they cleared the crest of the small dune he had been perched on, heading down to the road the trucks had just turned on.

Had just turned south on.

So it is true.

Sabir leaned forward and urged his horse faster. He needed to get closer to get a better description of the vehicles to pass on to the next lookouts.

Everything depended on it.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, Former UNICEF Camp

Dawson activated his comm. “Bravo Leader to Control, come in, over.”

“Control to Bravo Leader, go ahead, over.”

“Bravo Leader to Control, we have a possible target for the package.” Dawson paused and looked at Acton who nodded. “We believe the target is Mecca, Saudi Arabia, over.”

A pause then a burst of static. “Say again, Bravo One? Did you say Mecca?”

Dawson recognized Clancy’s voice taking over the conversation, probably having just jacked his headset into the conversation.

“That’s correct, sir, Mecca, over.”

Again a pause. “How reliable is this intel?”

“High. We have met some”—Dawson paused for a moment, carefully choosing his words as he looked at Abdullah—“friends here, who had someone on the inside of the deal. They confirm the target is Mecca, and they have a day’s head start.”

“Options?”

“We’ll require stealth insertion at the target.”

Abdullah cleared his throat.

“Standby, Control, over.”

Dawson turned to Abdullah. “What is it?”

“If I may be permitted to interrupt?” asked Abdullah, not waiting for Dawson’s permission. “We can get you in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Most assuredly. As we speak our brothers are already gathering in Mecca and arranging transport. We can be there before nightfall.”

Dawson nodded, having no doubt this man could deliver.

“Bravo One to Control, we’ve secured transport to the target, will contact you in sixty mikes with an update, over and out.”

Dawson deactivated his comm, imagining what the Colonel must be thinking.
And doing.
He imagined the Colonel was moving as many assets as he could into the area, and briefing the White House on the fact they were about to send troops onto the shores of a country who was a tenuous ally at best, whether that ally liked it or not. He wondered what the President would say, considering he got the job about a year ago after Dawson’s unit had wreaked havoc across London.

Above my pay grade. Don’t care.

Dawson turned to Abdullah.

“What’s your plan?”

Jeddah-Makkah Highway, Saudi Arabia

Cole eyed the flat, jet black asphalt stretched out before them. The heat from the afternoon sun played tricks on the eyes as shimmers of phantom lakes danced just out of reach. He closed his eyes, as he thought of the timer in the container behind him, its inexorable countdown to extinction ticking off the seconds, unless they themselves chose to stop it. His heart beat a little bit faster than usual.
Is that fear?
Why would he feel fear? It concerned him. He knew he was doing the right thing. He knew this was the only way to save the way of life he loved. He was doing this for all those in the West who were asleep to the threat Islam posed.

He had read the books. He had studied the demographics himself. He knew eventually there would be too many to defeat. They were a billion now. They bred at three times the rate of the West. And that included those our own leaders had let in as immigrants. They made up only a few percent of the population now in the US, but in ten years? Who knew? When would it be too late?

He couldn’t take that chance. This was the one opportunity to wipe the slate clean. One all-out war, a war the West would have no choice but to win, would end this once and for all.

He had played it out in his head for years, but had never dreamed he would ever get the means to do it. He had thought he would need to use some sort of chemical or biological weapon to trigger his plan, but when he had heard the rumors shudder through the black market of a nuclear weapon being available, he had focused all his energies on acquiring it.