“Got it,” Farrell’s laconic voice replied. “Timer set. I’m backing off.”
Climbing back to his chosen perch was a little more difficult this time — mostly because he had to avoid snagging the Mossberg or any of its attachments. Once in the right spot, he settled carefully into position — straddling a thick bough with both legs, his back firmly planted against the oak tree’s trunk.
Thorn pulled the converted shotgun off his shoulder and carefully sighted down the length of the barrel. His eyes narrowed. A tiny droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead. He shook it off impatiently.
He didn’t need anyone else to tell him how crazy this was — in every detail. The Mossberg line launcher kit was designed to fire precisely shaped flotation or distance heads. With the completely unaerodynamic, six-pronged grappling hook attached, its maximum range and the trajectory would both be wildly imprecise — at a time when precision was at an absolute premium.
If he fired just a fraction of an inch too far up or down, or left or right, the grappling hook and the line it carried would slam through the tangle of the surrounding foliage and veer completely off course.
If his shot fell short or the grapple failed to bite on target, a couple hundred feet of super-strong line was going to fall right over the perimeter fence — triggering every alarm system in the compound.
And millions of people would die when Ibrahim’s strike aircraft reached their chosen targets unmolested and undetected.
Plus, he couldn’t be absolutely sure just how his improvised attachment would affect the shotgun’s aim. There hadn’t been either the time or opportunity to test the jury-rigged system. Besides, he thought wryly, where the hell would you go to practice firing off a grappling hook and eight hundred feet of tightly wound line?
Noise should also have been a factor. Nobody could build a silencer for a 12-gauge shotgun. But at least they had a way to deal with that.
Thorn’s hands steadied. He and Helen had gone over the plan a dozen or more times. And this was the only way that offered them even the ghost of a chance to get far enough inside Ibrahim’s heavily guarded compound to make a difference. Well, he thought calmly, if you only had one roll of the dice, you rolled the dice and prayed that you didn’t crap out.
The second hand on his watch swept past the number twelve for the third time since Helen’s signal.
Now.
Two hundred meters away, on the other side of the compound, a digital timer blinked from 00:00:01 to 00:00:00. An improvised circuit closed, sending electric current through a short length of tungsten filament.
The filament heated rapidly — glowing white hot. That, in turn, ignited a fireworks squib. Flame hissed through the gunpowder-filled tube and lit the closest fuse of one of the more than two dozen firecrackers daisy- chained together to a piece of cardboard.
The firecrackers began detonating off one after the other — each small explosion echoing loudly through the trees.
Pop-poppop.pop … Thorn pulled the trigger. The Mossberg kicked back in his arms as it fired — propelling the grappling hook straight through the ragged hole he’d hacked in the tree’s leafy canopy and up into the night sky.
Trailing behind the hook, the Spectra line unwound with dizzying speed from the spool and through the smoking barrel — whining shrilly as it payed out.
He held his breath, waiting.
The grappling hook arced down out of the darkness and disappeared somewhere in the forest of radio and microwave antennas on top of the building seventy meters away.
With Talal close at his heels, Prince Ibrahim al Saud took the steps up from the basement two at a time. He hurried across the open area that filled most of the building’s first floor — ignoring the sleeping figures huddled on cots in the middle of the open space. Since they’d only arrived three days ago, the eight pilots he needed to remotely control his planes hadn’t required more elaborate living quarters.
They were being paid more than enough for their part in the Operation to justify temporary discomfort and a certain lack of privacy.
By rights he should have been asleep himself. But sleep had proved impossibly elusive. The growing excitement as he watched the carefully hidden dream of nearly a lifetime drawing ever closer to reality had kept him awake and pacing through both the planning cell and the aircraft control center.
He went through the door into a room just off the building’s main entrance. Banks of small monitors covered one whole wall — showing the grainy, black-and-white images continuously transmitted by the video surveillance cameras posted around the perimeter fence. Several computers in another part of the room displayed the data gathered by the motion sensors scattered across the compound.
Ibrahim ran his eyes quickly over the camera views — seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He spun toward Hans Jurgen Schaaf, the former East German commando Reichardt had designated as second-in-command of the headquarters security detail.
“Well? You summoned me. What for?”
“Two minutes ago, the outer patrol reported a series of sharp reports — possibly gunshots — coming from the woods to the west.”
“Gunshots?” Ibrahim repeated. His lipstightened.
Schaaf shrugged. “Possibly gunshots.” He nodded toward the calendar.
“But it might also be schoolboys playing pranks with firecrackers.”
Ibrahim nodded. That was true. They were close to the American national holiday, the Fourth of July. And the newspapers were already full of stories about fires set by carelessly handled fireworks. For an instant, he wished again that he could have found some way to set the attack for July 4th — but too many of the military units, intelligence specialists, and political leaders he’d selected as his prime targets would have been gone for the holiday when his strike aircraft arrived.
“What do your sensors show?” he asked.
“Nothing. No movement,” Schaaf answered.
Ibrahim pondered that. “Very well. But let’s not take any chances. Activate the fence.”
The German nodded and began entering the keyboard commands that would send lethal amounts of electricity sleeting through the perimeter fence.
Ibrahim turned to Talal. “Dispatch a four-man team to sweep the woods on that side. Equip them with nightvision gear and automatic weapons. If they encounter unarmed civilians or uniformed police, they are to avoid contact and return here. If they come across either Colonel Thorn or that woman of his — they will shoot to kill. Clear?”
The former Saudi paratrooper nodded. “Yes, Highness.”
For another instant, Ibrahim pondered the wisdom of the orders he’d just issued. Taking into account the four security guards he’d brought from the Middleburg estate and counting themselves, Talal and Schaaf had fourteen men at their disposal but only half were normally awake at any one time. So he was deploying over half his ready- alert force to chase down what might be only a few drunken American teenagers out on a spree after an all-night party. Was that a foolish waste of his manpower?
Then he shook his head. It was better to act than to sit passively — especially with so little time remaining.
Thorn finished securing the line around the oak tree’s massive trunk and then tugged on it again with all his might. It didn’t give an inch. The line stretched away into the darkness — a taut, almost invisible strand heading straight for the top of the headquarters building.
He nodded to himself. Almost as soon as the sound of the firecrackers Farrell had triggered died away, he’d slowly reeled in the grappling hook until it made firm contact with one of the antenna support structures.
Moving quickly but still carefully, he worked his way back down and dropped lightly onto the ground beside Helen.
“Success?” she asked quietly.
“We’re in business,” Thorn replied — taking back the Winchester shotgun and rucksack she offered him. He laid the Mossberg down in the tall grass and then levered himself back into the oak tree. Thirty seconds later, he was back at his perch.
