“There is much to prepare—”
“Coward,” Ibrahim said, icily cutting off the other man in mid-sentence. “You will remain here — with me. If you fail me, you will remain here permanently — without me. You understand me, Hashemi?”
His secretary nodded hurriedly, bowed, and backed away.
Ibrahim dismissed the matter from his mind. There would be time enough to deal with Hashemi’s disloyalty once the Operation was complete. He strode through a nearby door and into the conference room Reichardt had used for planning meetings.
Talal and two of his personal security guards followed closely at his back.
The men already crowding the room rose to their feet at his entrance.
Ibrahim wasted no time in pleasantries. These men prided themselves on their professionalism. Let them prove their competence now.
“Reichardt and Brandt are dead — apparently at the hands of a pair of rogue American agents. Effective immediately, Captain Talal will take charge of security for this complex. We will go to maximum alert starting now.”
He regarded Reichardt’s chosen cadre carefully — studying the assembled planners, technicians, and security troops behind a bland expression that masked his true thoughts. How far could he really trust these men? he wondered. They were mercenaries motivated almost purely by greed. Oh, he knew that Reichardt’s Germans were all highly skilled and experts in their assigned fields. But he decided that he would still have welcomed the presence of a few Palestinians from the camps fanatical, poorly educated, and rash perhaps, but utterly loyal, and absolutely willing to lay down their lives for the greater glory of God and their oppressed people.
He had opted for competence over faith. Perhaps that had been an error.
Ibrahim made a mental note to assign the troops Talal had brought to key points. If his mercenaries showed signs of wavering under pressure, they could always be kept at their posts by force — should that prove necessary.
He continued. “Herr Reichardt’s demise does not affect any part of the Operation in any way. The countdown continues. I will assume personal command and remain here — until the planes are launched and we initiate our evacuation.”
He paused for a brief moment. Not to allow them to ask questions. Just to give them a moment to absorb his instructions.
“Very well. You have your orders. You know your assignments. Carry on.”
As they filed out, Ibrahim signaled one of the few noneuropeans in the room, a young, stick-thin, Egyptian- born computer specialist. “Dr. Saleh?”
Saleh scurried over. “Highness?”
“I understand you have completed the attack simulation Herr Reichardt commissioned?”
The Egyptian nodded. “Yes, Highness.”
“Show it to me,” Ibrahim ordered. It was time for a final look at his master plan.
The computer expert led the way back into the crowded room used by the planning cell. With Ibrahim hovering behind him, he quickly booted up the computer at his desk. The large monitor glowed to life — revealing a digitized satellite display of the United States. It was as though a camera hovered in space several hundred miles above the surface of the earth.
The Egyptian’s hands paused over the keyboard. “I am ready, Highness.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Begin.”
Saleh’s hands danced over the keyboard, inputting instructions.
A cursor flashed over the eastern seaboard, vanished, and then reappeared as the camera zoomed in. Washington, D.C and its surrounding suburbs filled the screen.
The Egyptian pushed one final key, activating the computer simulation.
“Initiating the attack sequence, Highness.”
A thin white line appeared — heading out from Godfrey Field and moving southeast. The camera zoomed in even tighten-now focused tightly on the areas just north and south of the Potomac River. A blinking crosshairs appeared, centered on the Pentagon. The white line merged with the crosshairs.
“Detonation,” Saleh said calmly.
A fireball appeared on the screen — a roiling cloud of flame that swallowed the Pentagon whole and blossomed out over the Potomac. A shock wave rippled outward, toppling buildings, smashing highway overpasses and bridges, shattering windows — biting deep into Washington, roaring over the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the White House, and the Capitol. More graphic overlays appeared on the altered satellite image. Each showed the expected areas of maximum overpressure, heat, fire, wind, and radiation damage.
The screen froze, showing a sea of searing flame as a firestorm spread through the devastated area.
Ibrahim smiled at the screen, imagining the chaos this one weapon would cause. “And the results, Doctor?” he asked calmly.
The Egyptian tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Assuming an airburst height of three hundred meters and taking into account only deaths and severe injuries from blast, heat, and radiation.”
“And the results?” Ibrahim asked again, this time in a firmer voice.
Saleh dropped back into reality from his abstract mathematical universe. “Two hundred thousand dead, Highness. With perhaps another two or three hundred thousand seriously injured. Including, of course, the vast majority of America’s top political and military leadership.”
Ibrahim nodded. Perfect.
“The detonation point for this bomb is unusually low in order to achieve maximum damage against the Pentagon, Highness,” the computer specialist commented. “We could achieve even more significant civilian casualties with a higher altitude airburst. One more along the lines of the others — two thousand feet, for example.”
“No.” Ibrahim shook his head. His first target in Washington was America’s military nerve center. Its total destruction was his top priority. Dead American civilians came second. They were a welcome dividend, however. This was not just a surgical strike.
He wanted to twist the knife as he struck home.
He leaned closer to the screen. “Continue.”
Saleh obeyed.
The monitor cycled through a succession of images — showing nuclear destruction spreading across another nineteen targets spread out across the length and breadth of the United States.
Langley and Fort Meade were vaporized next — taking with them the headquarters of the CIA and the National Security Agency. Then the heart of Fort Bragg — home of the 82nd Airborne Division, the Delta Force, and the J.S.O.C-vanished in the blink of an eye. A fifth bomb destroyed the key areas of Fort Campbell-headquarters of the 101st Air Assault Division and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. A sixth destroyed the U.S. Central and Special Operations Commands at Mcdill Air Force Base, near Tampa. A seventh and eighth tore the guts out of the Ranger battalions, mechanized troops, and training units stationed at Georgia’s Fort Stewart and Fort Benning.
More bombs detonated — vaporizing the central areas of the U.S. Marine Corps bases at Camps Pendleton and Lejeune.
Other weapons slammed into the Air Force bases in Delaware, Idaho, New Mexico, Missouri, Texas, and Washington state — eliminating whole wings of C-5, C-141, and C-17 transports, KC-10 and KC-135 tankers, B-1B and B-2 strategic bombers, F-15 and F-16 fighters, and F-117 Stealth fighter bombers.
Four more rained down across the vast naval bases at Norfolk and San Diego — the home ports for a large number of America’s aircraft carriers and amphibious warships. Many of the ships would be at sea, but crucial support facilities and the personnel needed to man them would be wiped off the face of the earth.
When the dazzling images receded, Ibrahim turned slowly toward Saleh.
“So what is your final assessment, Doctor?”
The specialist punched in one last key. His monitor displayed a series of numbers. “At a minimum, I would expect total American military casualties to run close to three hundred thousand dead and critically wounded. Equipment and aircraft losses will run from fifty to seventy percent for each unit we have targeted.”
“And the ‘collateral damage’?” Ibrahim asked, consciously using the sterile, inhuman jargon adopted by the
