Intercept (44 page)

Benny was back into action first, fixing the electronics to the underside of the central area of the fuselage. Every now and then he would issue a curt instruction to Mack.
Gimme six more feet of that wire, the thin black one. Strip the ends for me, will you? Small screwdriver, Mack. Duct tape, cut me four feet. Okay, large battery. That should do it.

It was now twelve minutes after 1 a.m. on Friday morning—Abraham’s Day at Canaan Academy—and Benny Shalit was done. Except he had one worry. “Mack,” he said, “I’m concerned about the strength of that steel floor above our bomb, because it stands between us and the massive amount of explosive stacked inside the bus. I’ve done everything I can to ‘shape’ the charge, making it blast upward, but I’m still afraid that floor might provide too much of a shield.”

“Christ, Benny, I don’t want to take any chances like that,” replied Mack. “Any thoughts?”

“I was thinking of drilling up through the floor again, and connecting their bomb cases directly to our dynamite, which will explode instantly.”

“Det-cord?” said Mack.

“Precisely. We got a good-sized roll of it in that box back there, and it just gives us that one edge that makes us foolproof. When those bundles of dynamite blow, they will fire the det-cord, which I’m gonna feed right into four of their boxes.”

“Okay, buddy. Let’s go. How long?”

“I’d say twenty minutes.”

“Where d’you want me?”

“Right next to the bus, holding the cord, the knife, and the duct tape. Just keep handing the stuff to me. I’m gonna drill through the floor and then through the wooden base of the packing cases.”

“Jesus, don’t drill right into the sacks of ammonium nitrate,” said Mack. “Heat sets ’em off.”

“Right now, Lt. Commander, you are telling God how to open the Pearly Gates.”

Mack laughed as the Israeli slid back underneath the bus, and Mack and Johnny held their breath every time he unleashed the drill, boring straight through the floor of the bus, and up into the wood cases. Four times he drilled, and four times the steel tip drove into the cases above.

Then Benny made one of his most dangerous requests. “Get in the bus, Mack,” he said. “When I feed the det-cord through make sure it goes into the small hole, bottom of the crate. I’ll finish down here, then I’ll come up and help.”

His last request was four fifteen-foot lengths of the military’s favorite explosive, the stuff that burns along at two miles every three seconds. And while Johnny and Mack began to clear up, Benny attached the det-cord to the chassis, and threaded it up through the tiny holes he had made, right into the bus.

By the time he emerged from the underside of the bus, the place was almost ship-shape. The boxes were neatly stowed with the residue of the saboteur’s gear, and they were much lighter. But they still had to be carried away.

Benny and Mack climbed into the bus and Mack heaved the bottom cases upward, while his buddy shoved the det-cord right into the base, through the holes he had bored, to rest about a hundredth of an inch from the high explosive, inside the box.

They gathered at the door, and the little electronic power-indicator flickered cheerfully beneath the school bus, casting a soft, triumphant glow on their skill and daring. Mack hoped to hell that big fella with the goddamned flashlight would not show up again during the night.

Holding the remains of their work in the boxes, they slipped out into the rain, hoods up. Mack re-fitted the chain on the barn door, and turned the key in the padlock. And they set off across the field, walking through the mud, each of them content with their efforts.

Mack had just one last question. “Benny,” he said, “what would happen if that guy did go back to the bus. If he did see the active red light, found it our little gift, and their expert tried to dismantle it?”

“That wouldn’t be good,” said Benny the Bomber. “Not for them.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I booby-trapped it good,” replied Meir Dagan’s right-hand man. “Anyone lays a finger on that device, the whole lot will go up like Nagasaki—bus, barn, and farmhouse. No survivors. Probably better for everyone.”

“Perhaps,” said Mack, “But not really. Because if that happened, the police would be out looking for a culprit. If our plan works they will not
do that. Because the terrorists will plainly have suffered a malfunction in the course of their evil actions. Blew themselves up by mistake, eh? It’s happened before.”

 

IBRAHIM SPREAD OUT
the school floor plan and, as an afterthought, called Ben al-Turabi over and checked he had locked the barn. He knew the Palestinian was a very focused killer, but matters he considered trivial were inclined to go by the board.

“You lock up after you left the barn?”

“Wasn’t locked, boss. I left it like I found it.”

“What do you mean, not locked ? I did it myself when we left. With the key.”

“I didn’t see the lock,” said Ben.

Ibrahim thought al-Turabi was a kind of a whacko much of the time. And he just said, “Asif, go and check the barn’s locked up, will you?”

And three minutes later, the former bin Laden hit-man, now living in the United States, was back.

“Barn’s locked, chief,” he said. “Regular chain and padlock, like always. Couldn’t open it. No problem.”

Ibrahim glanced around for Ben al-Turabi, couldn’t see him, and rolled his eyes heavenward. “And stay out of the pastry tin,” he called out. “You’re getting heavy.”

Back at the Nissan, Benny fired up the computer, shoving the special plug into the Titan’s electric socket. The radar screen came on, and two small lights flashed to confirm the satellite connection. Three miles away, and Benny could “see” the bus as if it were right in front of him.

“You beautiful little thing,” he muttered, as the radar sweep began. Mack backed out of the woods and onto the dark, deserted lane. They crept back into the hotel about ten minutes later, transporting their gear in the boxes.

There wasn’t a sound in the sleepy hotel as Mack opened the back door and they crept along the upstairs corridor into their rooms. They would shower and change, but there would be little sleep for anyone this night. They needed to keep track of that atom bomb of a school bus every minute. While Mack did not expect it to move much before 10 a.m., this was a chance he could not afford to take. They would work two-hour shifts, with two on duty while the other one slept. All the while they would keep an eye on the radar and on the GPS locater.

Mack and Johnny took the first shift, watching the screen until 4 a.m. They observed no movement on the farm. The radar scarcely varied
except for the occasional automobile on the road. When Benny took over for Johnny, there wasn’t much to see either. At 6 a.m., Mack finally rested for a couple of hours, until breakfast was ordered and delivered to the room.

All the while they watched the screen, and the bus never moved.

 

BY NINE THE NEXT MORNING
, all ten of Ibrahim’s soldiers were ready. Most were armed with automatic pistols, which had arrived with the ammonium nitrate. But every one of them was armed with an AK-47 slung across his shoulder like a Mexican bandit. Ibrahim lined them up in the barn, in military formation, two rows of five. Each man wore regular civilian clothes, shirts with a collar and a tie. But each man wore a long, dark blue work-coat, with a name stitched on to the left-chest pocket in white letters. An American name, like Skip, Fred, Charlie, Frank, Ray, or Richie.

The assault team leader, now with a full black beard and full authority, spoke to them formally, and he told them their plan had been prepared and strategically perfected very brilliantly. So far there had been no major problems, and it was the will of Allah that they would go in with their courage high, and carry out the attack, which may very well drive the Great Satan out of the Middle East for ever.

“To you alone will there be glory on this great day,” he said. “You alone will be remembered in all of our history. School children in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran and Iraq, Syria and Lebanon, will learn of your triumph for decades to come.

“You will be remembered as the Holy Warriors who followed in the teaching and footsteps of the Great Osama. You will touch Allah with immortality. For there is but one God. And that God is Allah . . . ”

And all ten responded, “Allah is Great. And He alone will lead us to the light.”

“Gentlemen,” said Ibrahim, “many of us have spent long years in captivity. Many of us have been tortured and humiliated. Our religion has been kicked aside, our beliefs scorned, our faith challenged. We have borne witness to the insults made against the Prophet, and to the Koran, which contains his sacred words.

“But today is the Day of our Revenge. Allah has decreed this shall be our Day. American blood will be spilled, as ours has been spilled. Allah has sworn that revenge shall be ours: that our enemies shall lie dead at our feet. Allah has given us
THIS DAY!
”

And Ibrahim’s voice rose as he bellowed: “DEATH TO THE INFIDEL! DEATH TO THE INFIDEL!

And the Holy Warriors raised their AK-47’s above their heads, and they chorused together: “DEATH TO THE INFIDEL! ALLAH IS GREAT!”

Ibrahim paced in front of them and began to speak more calmly. “My brothers,” he said, “when this mission was planned, we had hoped it could be modeled on the great triumph of the departed Islamic commander Shamil Basayev, he of the immortal brotherhood of the Riyadus-Salikhin Reconnaissance.

“Never forget their mission was financed and trained by al-Qaeda, and they held the great Russian army at bay for three days in their own town of Beslan. They stormed and then dominated the school, and then the town. No military operation since 2001 ever brought such endless glory upon our jihadist revolution. Or such world attention.”

Ibrahim allowed the words to sink in. And then he said, “We had thought it a dress rehearsal, that we might one day copy the plan. But increased U.S. security has made that impossible. Today we must fight as a smaller, yet equally well-armed force. We could not place a reconnaissance team in the school, and neither can we storm it.

“But much has been learned and perfected. It was the high explosive that conquered Beslan. And the high explosive will bring down Canaan.

“The objective, as before, is the total destruction of the school and everyone in it. Students, teaching staff, and parents. All of them will be Americans, many of them sons of the great Wall Street financial families. As an added bonus, most of them will be Zionists.”

Ibrahim pointed out that the mission was a little more than an hour from start time. And he added, “As before we have selected the day when the school will be most crowded. In Beslan it was the first day of the autumn semester.

“At Canaan Academy, it will be Abraham’s Day, when the Zionists honor the founding father of Israel. You have all studied the operational plan, and you all know the two entry doors we will use. The school bus will not look in any way suspicious, and we will pull up on the edge of the circle with the bus facing down that north side of the school.”

At this point, for emphasis, Ibrahim flourished the school architectural plan and pointed to the wide concrete area that led to a double swing door at the side of the school.

“This one is always open,” he said. “But the second door, about fifty feet further along may be shut. Not locked, but closed in cold weather. Like
now. Our first handcart, with two crates on board, will go straight to that door, pushed by Fred and Charlie.

“The second handcart, pushed by Joe and Skip, will have three boxes on board. They will go directly in through the first door, and turn right down that corridor. At the end they will find the dining room, walk straight across it to the serving area on the left, and unload their three boxes. They will place one box under the back stairs, and the other two, labeled “Flour” and “Sugar,” outside the kitchen door.”

Someone asked if there was any possibility they may be challenged?

“Absolutely not,” said Ibrahim. “You look like delivery men, and you will be acting like delivery men. And anyway, the entire faculty at this time will be in the assembly hall for the start of the morning choral concert.”

“But what if someone asked where the hell we thought we were going? What if some parent gets suspicious and calls security?”

“That, my dear Ben,” said Ibrahim, “is the beauty of this operation. Like most American schools, there is no security. That is why the Great Ones chose this place.

“However, each of you will have your rifle tucked into your belt beneath your left arm, barrel pointed downward. Should you be challenged, you will draw it, and shoot down the person instantly. Remember they will all die anyway.”

Abu Hassan Akbar, aka “Joe,” liked that part. He raised his Kalashnikov and confirmed their creed, “DEATH TO THE INFIDEL!”

Ibrahim, despite his calm and calculating demeanor, wanted to tell the ridiculous little killer to shut up, but at this stage that might have seemed sacrilegious. He nodded only an affirmation of Abu’s natural aggression.

“You will have noticed,” he continued, “that we differ from Beslan in one very special way. Shamil Besayev felt the need to storm the school and capture it. That got them world headlines. But it was the destruction of the school, the enormous death toll, which earned them immortality.

“Changing circumstances in America’s
national
security have forced us to refine our plan. But the Great Ones may have reached those conclusions alone. Thus our mission is sharp-pointed, focused. And our aim is clear—the total destruction of the school.

“We have dispensed with the more colorful aspects of Beslan, the recce team in School Number One all summer, the spectacular forced entry, the glory of watching the Russians squirm before us, the stand-off where our Muslim brothers held all the cards.