Project J (14 page)

Chapter 24:
 
Bad News

The American Southwest reminded Khurram Murad of his homeland: it was hot, dry and had vast areas of emptiness.
 
He watched from the window of the airliner as it descended in the landing pattern at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport.
 
His cell phone beeped.
 
The text message it had for him was simple: “Comet.”
 
It was from the only person who knew of his mission to the United States.

Since all the publicity about the American NSA spying on its own people via the PRISM program, they had reduced their cell phone communications to simple code words.
 
‘Comet’ told him there was a news item of importance he should look at.
 
Bring up the smart phone’s browser, he touched the key for CNN.
 
The eighth item down the list caught his attention.
 
Touching on that title, he brought up pretty much the same as the newscast displayed by Dr. Stryker only a few minutes prior as Murad’s plane began its descent.

Keeping his face emotionless, he turned off the phone and put it back in his pocket.
 
This piece of news did not please him.
 
The news about what he thought of as the “False Isa” project was beginning to break.
 
In a country where the press was not as muzzled as in his country, that meant that soon the headlines would be screaming of Jesus’ Second Coming, or some such lurid crap.

The land below began to show many houses, and he knew that soon they would be landing.
 
He would have to get his team together as quickly as possible.
 
There was no time to lose and much to do.
 
There was transportation to arrange, weapons to acquire and a team to assemble and brief.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared to go through the airport security once again.
 
His Middle Eastern appearance always attracted attention when he flew.

He had to prevent the Americans announcing this fake Jesus.
 
He had to.
 
It was Allah’s will.

Chapter 25:
 
Orders

In the same office where he had twice before met with a high ranking church official, a nervous man sat staring out the window at the city lights spread out.
 
Not far off, a freeway showed a broken string of white headlights approaching and red taillights retreating.
 
Even though he had met with the Bishop before, he still twisted his class ring nervously around and around on his finger.

A noise made him jerk, and he turned around to see the expected two men enter the room.
 
Immediately he rose and accepted the offered hand, kissing the large gold ring.

“Have you any news?” the heavy-set man said as he sat behind the desk.

“They have decided to announce a part of the project as the cloning of extinct animals.
 
Not time travel.”

“I know.
 
We have other sources for information.
 
We would like to know who it was leaked information to that Congressman.
 
That wasn’t you, was it?”

The man standing before the desk shivered under the sternness in the Bishop’s voice.
 
“No, your Excellency!
 
I have told no one but you!”

“It is too bad that news of the time machine has been leaked.
 
It may lead to a public announcement; something we do not wish to happen.”

The fat man settled back in the chair and folded his hands over his ample waist.
 
He did not see the man behind him showing a faint smile.
 
“I have been in touch with the highest sources in Rome,” he began, as if confiding a great confidence.
 
“We cannot allow this false Christ to be presented to the public as if he were the real one.
 
I hope you do understand that?”

“Yes, your Excellency.
 
I understand.
 
But what do you want...?”

He was silenced with the wave of a hand.
 
“I will tell you what we want you to do.”
 
He gestured, and the second man handed forth a computer tablet.
 
“This tablet has been programmed with information of a specific type.
 
All you have to do is turn it on and touch the icon that will appear.
 
Then you hand it to the false Jesus...”

Chapter 26:
 
Disruption of the Quiet

Tamara did not get that interview with Jesus.
 
That afternoon, Dr. Myers was “in conference” with his star guest and not to be disturbed.
 
She left a note for him requesting to see him the next day, and returned to finishing up the report she was going to have to turn in sooner or later to her bosses.

It was not an easy report to write.
 
In the end, she simply stated that she had found inappropriate use of computers and other equipment.
 
And that the person responsible had been arrested and charged with several counts.
 
A few other minor discrepancies in accounting practices were noted, along with their correction by the Dry Wells staff.

The report was done.
 
But Tamara did not attach it to a cover letter, encrypt it, and email it off to her superiors.
 
As soon as she did that, they would expect her to return for another assignment, and she did not want that.
 
There was too much she wanted to know; too many questions.
 
She might get in trouble for it, but so long as the Project J staff allowed her to remain, she fully intended to do so.

Closing and saving the file, she checked her email.
 
There was one from Dr. Myers, informing her that he would be happy to see her any time the next morning.
 
With a look of satisfaction, she turned off her terminal and left her little temporary office for an early dinner at the cafeteria and then some relaxing in her apartment.

The next morning, she set off for the Project J building after a good breakfast.
 
She was getting spoiled by the food here.
 
Not like most company cafeterias she had eaten in.

When she first awoke, the morning sky had been showing a few scattered clouds, but as the morning progressed it had become overcast with dark thunderheads over the mountains and a thickening patchwork ceiling above.
 
She knew from her experience that there would be rain soon, the hard summer storm rains that pelted the earth with heavy drops and passed as quickly as they came.
 
She began to walk a little faster when she heard a familiar sound behind her.
 
Spinning around, she looked to the front gate just beyond the parking lot.
 
The sound was gunfire, and it came from the two guards at that gate, both of whom were standing beside the small shack and firing at an on-charging truck.
 
The truck, a two and a half ton, green painted version of the military M35 medium duty truck, was heading directly towards them at high speed.

One guard sprang to the side, narrowly being missed by the truck as it plowed through, the impact snapping off the wooden gate and sending it flying to one side.
 
The other guard stood his ground, letting off rapid fire at the vehicle.
 
Tamara could see bullet holes appearing in the windshield, but the truck did not waver or slow down.
 
He was knocked viciously aside as the large truck shredded the side of the guard shack, and then it was through and speeding across the parking lot, almost straight towards her.

For a brief second she was frozen by this totally unexpected event, but she backpedaled rapidly as the truck neared her.
 
As it passed only a dozen feet in front of her, she saw the driver looking out at her.
 
In that brief split-second she noted his youth and the Middle Eastern appearance.
 
A teenager, was her thought.
 
A god-damned teenage terrorist!

The truck screeched to a halt beside the very building she had been walking towards.
 
Four men jumped out, all armed with assault rifles.
 
As they rushed to the entrance to the building, Tamara snapped out of her shock and began running towards them.
 
She had no real plan.
 
The only thought that raced through her brain was that they intended to kidnap or harm Jesus!

Before she reached the open front double door, she heard gunfire from within – three quick shots.
 
The smart thing to do would have been to turn and run.
 
Let the guards take care of this.
 
But she did not flee.
 
Instead, she ran through the glass doors and into the small lobby.

The terrorists were nowhere in sight.
 
On the floor by the desk lay Murphy, a guard she had met a couple times when she went to visit Jesus.
 
A pool of blood was spreading out under his body and three near holes in his uniform explained why.

Without thinking, Tamara knelt and took his gun from the holster.
 
He had not even had the chance to draw it when he was gunned down.
 
With an anger filling her, she stood and raced off in the direction she knew the courtyard and Jesus’ apartment was.

The passageway to the courtyard was long enough for her brain to begin to function a little bit.
 
First, it told her she was stupid for thinking she could do anything.
 
Second, it told her to check the weapon.
 
She cocked back the slide and chambered the first round on the .45 automatic.
 
Then she hurried on.

Ahead there was the sound of more gunfire.
 
Christ! she thought.
 
They’re killing him!
 
And she tried for more speed.

When she burst into the courtyard, she found the terrorists.
 
Two of them were lying on the ground, one still, the other writhing in pain.
 
The other two were standing with their backs to her, facing the door at the other end of the courtyard.
 
Apparently there were more guards in the building than just Murphy, for there were two more uniforms standing at the end of the courtyard, facing the terrorists.

One of them was holding his leg and trying to bring his weapon up for a shot.
 
The other was standing there, braced on wide-spread feet and taking a two-handed grip on his .45.
 
Possibly he was the one who had downed two of the terrorists.

An unfortunate fact of life is that a .45 automatic is no match for an assault rifle in a firefight.
 
The standing guard got off one more shot before a line of holes cut across the front of his uniform. His body was thrown back to hit the wall with a thud.
 
Then assault rifles turned on the other guard and he was cut down also.

Tamara really had no time to think.
 
In a couple seconds those men would be through the door and hunting down Jesus.
 
She had to stop them.

Not one for dramatics, she did not yell for them to halt.
 
She simply took a stance much like the guard had done, pushed the .45 out in front of her with both hands holding it, and took aim at the back of the closest terrorist.

Two shots rang out, and the man she was aiming at lurched, his body arching forward as the rounds struck the middle of his back.
 
The gun bucked in her hands but she brought it back down to aim again.
 
Calmly, as if she did this every day, Tamara turned the weapon to the other man.
 
He was turning, swinging his weapon in an arc that would bring it to bear upon her.

Again she double tapped, squeezing the trigger firmly but without jerking it.
 
The .45 bucked again, then lowered and fired the second shot.
 
Almost as if in slow motion, she saw the deadly end of that AK-47 coming around, and knew that in only a fraction of a second it would be spitting lead at her.
 
She willed herself to fire again, another double tap.

The second double tap was not needed.
 
Of the first two bullets, one passed through the man’s vest, missing his ribs by half an inch.
 
But the second bullet, as is often the case in double tapping, was more accurate.
 
It entered his chest on the right side, tore its way through one lung and ripped into his heart.
 
The man was dead but did not know it yet as his turn made the assault rifle swing wildly upward.
 
Two shots fired as his finger jerked, but that was all.
 
They went wide over Tamara’s head.
 
The man twirled around and spun to the ground.

The sound of gunfire had been loud in the small courtyard, and her ears were ringing as she watched the man twitch once and then lay still.
 
Off to one side, the only terrorist left alive was screaming and holding his belly.
 
Slowly she turned towards him.
 
For a woman who had just been so fast on the uptake, her mind suddenly slowed down.
 
She watched as the man’s hand reached towards his fallen assault rifle, a contorted mask of hate and pain on his face.
 
She watched, unmoving, as he drew the weapon towards himself and fumbled to get his hand onto the handle and his finger into the trigger guard.
 
The barrel was lifting in her direction when another two shots rang out and the man jerked violently.
 
The rifle fell from his lifeless hand.

Looking around, Tamara saw another couple guards who had just come through the same door she had.
 
Both had guns drawn.

Feeling her legs going weak, she stumbled over to one of the chairs and flopped into it.
 
She put the .45 on the table.
 
When one guard came up to her, she looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face.

“I just killed two men,” she said simply.
 
“I’ve never done that before.”