Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (29 page)

“We’ve got trouble,” he said.

“What is it?”

A burst of gunfire answered his question. They ran for the alley and their brothers, and as they approached, the gunfire stopped. Fawcett cautiously peered around the corner, and his heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight before him. They were all dead. Everyone he had known, all of his friends whom he had lived with, trained with, partied with, fought with, were all dead, lying in heaps on the ground, surrounded by about a dozen men, all dressed in black.

One kicked the body of what appeared to be Calvin Brannick. He moaned. The man aimed his arm at Brannick, unleashing a dart, embedding itself in Brannick’s chest.

Rage flamed through Fawcett, his pulse raced as adrenaline fueled the fire of hate that consumed him. He raised his TEC-9 and fired, pulling its twin from his belt, both hands now spitting death as he strode into the alleyway, mowing down the unprepared men. His two companions joined him, flanking him on either side, their weapons belching lead at those who had murdered their companions. It lasted only seconds, the unprepared enemy wiped out without them firing a shot. Fawcett walked amongst the bodies, piled on top of his friends, the rage slowly waning as sorrow tried to push its way through the still glowing embers of hate. His shoulders slumped as he stared at the body of Brannick, several spikes through his chest, his eyes still open in horror, staring up at him, as if asking, “Where were you?” Fawcett closed his eyes and said a silent prayer.

Suddenly the alleyway was basked in light, the roar of an engine echoed through the silent alley, the screech of tires punctuating the arrival of a security patrol. Four men jumped out, shouting in Arabic. Fawcett and his companions spun around and opened fire, eliminating the unsuspecting guards, guards who at worst expected to find someone without a permit within the city limits, not a massacre of proportions never before seen in the holy city.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“We’re going to have company,” said Fawcett as he ran to the truck carrying the weapon. He no longer cared if he was going to live. He only cared that he wouldn’t be the only one to die.

Outskirts of Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Horseback for less than thirty minutes had put them within the city limits of Mecca, or Makkah as the Saudi’s called it. Saudi security was more intent on keeping Christians out, and limiting the number of pilgrims to a manageable two million in the five day period. If a few managed to sneak in through the periphery, they didn’t appear to care, their security covering only the roadways leading into the fabled city.

It was the middle of the night, the streets nearly deserted.
No drunks here.
Dawson and his men remained hidden under their burqas, but a dozen six foot tall women would be conspicuous if any religious police stopped the group. Their Hassassin escort might be able to talk them out of the situation, but they had no time.

Heads down, mouths shut.

Just like good little Muslim women. Dawson mentally kicked himself for that one, although part of him believed it was true. Today he wasn’t here to judge someone’s culture, he was here to prevent a war.

Was that gunfire?

He wasn’t the only one who noticed it—the faint, unmistakable rattle of automatic gunfire in the distance. Anywhere else in the Middle East and he might not have thought anything of it. But in Mecca? During the Hajj? Never.

“How far off would you say that is?” he heard Red ask as he came up beside him.

“Hard to tell with this f’n hood over my ears,” said Spock.

Dawson removed the hood covering his head and cocked his ear. “Can’t be more than a couple of clicks.”

Abdullah rushed over, waving his hands at Dawson. “No no no no no,” he fired rapidly. “You must keep this in place. If you are to be found by the religious police, there will be much trouble.”

Dawson frowned, but pulled the hood back over his head as Abdullah reached in and refastened the veil. He examined Dawson’s coverings and gave a satisfied nod. “Much better. Now come, we must find this gunfire.”

They set out at a trot. Even the hood which muffled the sounds of the footfalls of two dozen men surrounding him couldn’t hide the fact the gunfire was getting louder.

Then it stopped.

And so did they. Their escorts held up their hands for quiet, but it was too quiet. For a city with over a million visitors, it was way too quiet.

Talk about piety.

Dawson took the opportunity to examine their surroundings. To his right towered massive white walls of what he assumed was the mosque where this holy rock Acton had spoken of earlier was housed. And to his left, immense hotels with familiar names such as Hilton, Novotel and Ramada flashing, a capitalist contrast to the solemn view they provided.

A siren cut through the night, sending them all to the white wall nearest them, which, bathed in light, provided no cover whatsoever with their black robes the starkest of all possible contrasts. They ducked and froze as a police jeep, its single blue light spinning as the siren wailed, sped across the road they were on, entering and exiting from a cross street. They heard the screech of tires as it halted, then a burst of gunfire.

Dawson leapt to his feet and bolted in the direction of the shots, his men, and the Hassassin entourage, with, he noted, Acton and Reading in the midst, following him. As they rounded the corner, they saw the jeep, angled into an alleyway, fifty feet away, the four former occupants dead on the ground.

Dawson ran for the alleyway as he yanked the hood off his head, tossing it aside, and pulled the robe covering his body over his head. He struggled for a moment as he tried to pull it over his shoulders, but one last yank and it was clear. He flung it to the ground and pulled forward his MP5K slung over his shoulder, and halted at the edge of the alleyway, weapon in hand, ready to fight.

He turned to check his men, and noted they all had removed their robes as well. He was about to give instructions when the Hassassin sped past and entered the alleyway. A brief burst of gunfire erupted from the alley. Dawson ducked and, with his back against the wall, leaned in and took a look around the corner to see what was happening.

The gunfire had stopped. The Hassassin stood amidst a pile of bodies, a pile too large for them to have just created. And none moved.

Shit!

Dawson stood and entered the alleyway, pointing at the four corners as he did so. His men rushed to set up covering positions at the near and far end of the alleyway, as Dawson, Acton and Reading walked toward their escorts.

“We needed prisoners,” said Dawson, his jaw clenched in anger.

Abdullah motioned at the men they had evidently just shot. “These men would not have talked.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Acton. “They might have known where Laura is!”

Dawson glanced at Acton, noting how he held his weapon.
Firmly. Calmly. Easily. Like a pro.
Dawson had found over the past day his animosity toward Acton was fading. He almost felt if it wasn’t for London last year that he and Acton could be friends. He didn’t seem afraid to get dirty, knew how to handle a weapon, and had a brass set that couldn’t be denied. Last year Acton was an adversary he
should
respect. This year, he had a feeling Acton was someone he
could
respect.

“Look at this.” Dawson turned to Reading, who was pointing at the middle-section of a nearby delivery truck. There appeared to be a section of it on the ground.

“Is that a ramp?” asked Acton.

Dawson nodded. “Kind of looks like it, doesn’t it?” He knelt down in front and pulled a flashlight from his belt. He turned it on and crawled up the ramp, the small light filled the chamber he found himself in. It was empty, save for a half empty case of water and a few boxes of ammo.

He backed out and stood, shaking his head. “Nothing in there except some water and ammo.”

Red hurried over to Dawson. “We’ve got an audience, BD.” He motioned up with his head. Dawson looked up and saw dozens, if not hundreds, of lights on in the hotel rooms, the faces of curious onlookers pressed against the sealed glass windows.

“Shit!” muttered Dawson. Everyone else looked up, and saw that not only did they have an audience, it apparently was worldwide. Window upon window was filled with cellphone camera toting worshippers, some holding their cameras up, recording the proceedings, some on their phones, excitedly talking to others. “Okay, we’ve only got minutes before this place is swimming with Saudi security.” He pointed at the second truck. “Check it out.”

Red ran to the other truck and climbed up inside. A muffled “holy fuck!” sent Dawson rushing over and climbing up inside as well. He found Red sitting on a bench, staring at the opposite wall. Dawson played his light over the area, and saw the long, gray cylinder of a missile. His eyes immediately focused on the harsh red LED timer that flashed its countdown to destruction, the square numbers counting off by the second.

01:58:12

“Oh shit!”

Behind the Makkah Hilton Hotel, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Acton stepped back as Dawson slid down the ramp, as if he had jumped from inside. Dawson hit the ground, rolled and was on his feet, barking orders. “Mickey, check to see if this truck is still running!” He ducked down and shouted up the ramp. “Red, see if you can disarm that thing.” He pointed to Abdullah. “We found the weapon. We have less than two hours before it detonates.”

“But that’s not enough time!” exclaimed Acton. “There’s no way we can evacuate that many people in time!” His stomach roiled with the realization their situation was hopeless. When he had heard about the weapon, it had never occurred to him it might actually go off, that these terrorists would ever actually succeed. He had been focused on Laura, on saving her from them, not of saving a holy rock worshipped by the devotees to a religion he didn’t even share.

Dawson nodded. “We’re not going to evacuate the people.” He pulled his mike and squawked it several times. “Bravo One to Control.”

“Control here, go ahead Bravo One.”

“Item located, and it’s armed. Two hours, repeat, two hours on the timer, we need that evac now.”

“Roger that, evac on its way. ETA eighteen minutes.”

“Confirmed, will light the target at my present coordinates, over and out.”

Dawson turned to Abdullah and pointed at an open area that led to a large ramp that curved into the Kaaba shrine. “We need to keep that area clear for thirty minutes.”

Abdullah nodded. “It shall be so.”

He motioned to his men to follow him as he exited the alley.

As if on cue, more sirens sliced through the night.

“What’s going on?” asked Acton. “What’s happening in eighteen minutes?”

Red poked his head out from the ramp. “No way I’m disarming this thing without setting it off, BD! They’ve got some sort of failsafe device installed. I uploaded some close-ups to Control and they said there’s no way to know if they can disarm it in time.”

Dawson waved at Stucco and Casey who stood guard at the closer end of the alleyway. “Help Red get that thing out of there.” They nodded and shouldered their weapons, quickly diving in to the inner bowels of the truck.

Dawson checked his watch.

Acton gripped him by the shirt. “What’s happening!”

Dawson stopped and glared at him for a second. Acton stared directly back at him, realizing Dawson respected strength. The glare eased and Acton breathed a slow sigh of relief.

“The weapon is armed and set to detonate in under two hours. We can’t disarm it. I’ve requested evac.”

“Of us?” asked Reading. “There’s no way I’m leaving all these civilians here to die, not while we can still warn them.”

Acton noticed a slight smile from Dawson, almost a glimmer of recognition of one soldier by another.

“Did you serve?” asked Dawson.

“Falklands.”

Dawson nodded, his lips pursed in respect. “I had you pegged when we last met.” He relaxed his stance slightly. “The evac is for the weapon. We need to hold a landing area, and get the weapon in position for the evac.”

“Landing area?” asked Acton. “You’re flying it out?”

Dawson nodded. “A Harrier is inbound now.”

USS Enterprise, Carrier Strike Group Enterprise, Red Sea

“Control to Carrier Strike Group Enterprise, roll the package, I say again, roll the package.”

“Roger that control, rolling package Tango X-Ray.” Captain Leland Dexter, the Carrier Strike Group Enterprise CAG, motioned to the carrier’s Air Boss.

“Light-House, you are cleared for takeoff.”

The distinct sound of the catapult pulling the Harrier along the deck, its afterburners churning out 23,500 pounds of thrust as it raced for the end of the deck and the dead of space after it, signaled the launch. It had been re-tasked from the Marine assault ship USS Kearsarge specifically for this mission, arriving only minutes earlier to refuel and receive its specially briefed pilot.

“Light-House away, Knight-Hawks One and Two, cleared for takeoff.”

Dexter turned his attention away from flight control and to the skipper. “Sir, flight operations under deployment for package Tango X-ray.”

Captain Halloway nodded and turned to his Executive Officer. “XO, as soon as the last bird is in the air, turn the fleet to course oh-four-five, flank speed.”

Dexter watched the flight deck as the last of the dozen Super Hornets left the deck, accompanied by six high-speed Seahawk choppers.

The Saudis are going to shit their pants when they see this on their screens.

He walked over to the ATC station and checked the scope. He saw their aircraft steadily progressing toward the Saudi coast, the F/A-18E’s quickly opening a large gap on the choppers. Suddenly the scope lit with missile lock warnings and several new bogeys appeared.

“Saudi’s are scrambling to intercept, sir.”