It just so happened that the money, the real money, now lay in the oil-rich Middle East. Dogmatic to the ultimate degree on doctrinal points of faith, the radical fundamentalist imams, mullahs, and their acolytes in the ruling class were pragmatic enough when it came to launching a hammer blow at the Great Satan, U.S.A.
The destruction of New Orleans's Petroleum Receiving Point would be a hammer blow indeed. With the PRP down for the months required to make even the most minimal repairs, the flow of imported oil would be checked at the moment it was needed most. Right at the height of what Washington planners called Operation Petro Surge and the Saudi royals called Cloak of Night.
By any name, both the White House and the current power holders in the House of Saud were counting on the successful delivery of that oil. With it, Washington could continue to maintain its guardianship of the vital sea- lanes in the Persian Gulf and protect the kingdom from Iranian aggression.
If the PRP were out of commission, all those oil-filled supertankers would have no place to go. Oh, there were other port facilities in the United States, but none of them had the massive infrastructure needed to process, store, refine, and distribute the Petro Surge oil influx.
They were already backed up and unable to process their current quota.
Oil was the nation's lifeblood, yet the politicians had dithered year after year, building no new refineries and leaving the ones in operation virtually defenseless against sabotage and terror strikes.
America was wide open for a sucker punch, and Major Marc Vollard was about to deliver it.
The target itself allowed him to make a maxi-strike with minimal forces. The silvery globes that were oil storage tanks massed on the mainland at the PRP were giant incendiary devices just waiting for a pyro with a pack of matches.
No great amount of explosives was needed to touch them off; it would take only the blocks of C-4 and Semtex plastic explosives and a handful of thermite bombs that his twelve-man merc squad could tote in on their backs.
The explosives would be placed at carefully plotted nodal points on the oil storage tank farm grid where they could do the most damage. Once they were planted, the bombs' mechanical timing devices would be set, allowing the merc force to make its getaway.
The plastic explosives would rupture and breach the shells; if they didn't touch off the massive stores of oil, the thermite bombs surely would.
The tanks would become a massive string of firebombs, each blast touching off similar explosions in nearby tanks that hadn't been mined; they in turn would set off other tanks, until the entire field was a blazing inferno, a literal Hell on Earth.
That was the Big Hit, the major component, but the strike was designed to be a one-two punch. The second half was the destruction of the Mississippi River Bridge.
Downed, it would block virtually all major river traffic, barring the route to all but the lightest of small craft vessels. That would prevent upriver refineries from taking up any of the slack from the downed PRP.
More, it would present a major headache in its own right, impeding repairs to the PRP and adding extra months to a rebuilding effort that was sure to take a year if not more. The recent Minnesota bridge collapse had shown the kind of damage such an event could do in the way of impeding river traffic.
The Mississippi River Bridge downfall would make that one look sick by comparison.
Vollard handled most of that operation, obtaining the barge now berthed at Pelican Pier, stocking it with explosives and rigging it for its last voyage. He'd handled every part of it but the recruitment of the actual boat handlers.
It was a suicide run, and that was out of Vollard's line; such strikes were for fanatics, true believers, not mercenaries. Mercs were true believers only in money, and expected to live to enjoy their hard-won loot.
The actual kamikaze run itself would be handled by Ahmed and Rashid, a pair of Yemenite boat pilots who'd been supplied by his Saudi backers, Prince Tariq serving as go-between. The Yemeni mariners were skilled boat handlers, having captained vessels in the Persian Gulf, Arabian Sea, and Red Sea.
They craved holy martyrdom; money to them was just so much trash; their goal was beyond: Paradise.
That element had been a bit tricky, since the purpose of using mercenaries to carry out the strike was to go outside the usual box and use personnel generally not subject to the scrutiny that American authorities focused on the usual suspects from the Middle East.
The Yemenis had flown to Mexico and then been smuggled into New Orleans by boat. Vollard had installed numerous safeguards and double-checks along the way; he was satisfied that they had come in under the radar.
All was now ready to go, and tonight was the night.
Vollard didn't bother going into any detail; he told Jack only that the PRP and the Mississippi River Bridge were targets. Jack was a professional who knew the score, he could figure out the details and fill in the blanks in the short time left for him to live.
Vollard couldn't resist one parting shot, though, a final turn of the knife. He said, 'Operation Petro Surge will never happen again; an incredible opportunity that will be lost to America forever. The prime mover and shaker of the surge, Minister Fedallah, will be assassinated at a council meeting in a few hours by another would-be martyr on a pathway to Paradise. With Fedallah gone, the surge will cease to exist.
'Who knows? Perhaps future historians will date the beginning of the final downfall of the American empire from this night.
'Take that thought to hell with you, Jack. And now, I bid you not au revoir, but… goodbye.'
Vollard turned to Rex de Groot. 'You can have him now. You know what to do. Make him talk — though I doubt he has much to offer — and kill him. Make it quick; if CTU was really closing in, they'd be here in force already. The fact that they sent just two agents shows it was more of a recon job.
'Still, no point in lingering here longer than we have to. When the agents don't report, CTU might move in. We'll accelerate the timetable, launching the boat and moving out now, ahead of schedule.'
Vollard turned, with parade ground snap, and exited the office, Arno trailing after him. Leaving Jack alone with de Groot.
21. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 A.M. AND 2 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
A man entered the partitioned office. Short, stocky, middle-aged, he had a headful of iron-gray, curly hair; bushy eyebrows; and a short, gray-white beard.
De Groot glanced at him, said, 'What do you want, Silva?'
Silva said, 'I want to be in on the fun.' He smiled, a broad, sloppy, loose-mouthed smile with a gleam of drool in the corners.
'Don't you have something better to do?'
Silva shrugged. 'The SUVs are all loaded up, the barge is ready to cast off, the chores are all done. Besides, what's better than torturing a Yanqui spy?'
De Groot snickered. 'You might be of some use at that. Come over here and give me a hand. I need him standing up.'
He and Silva flanked Jack, sitting in the chair. De Groot was on Jack's left, Silva on his right. De Groot leaned down, sticking his face in Jack's, breathing on him. His breath was hot.
De Groot said, 'Let's see how tough you are when you've got a black centipede biting you on the scrotum.' He nodded toward the glass boxes, which were on his side of the room. He turned to Silva. 'Help me lift him up.'
They each hooked a hand under Jack's bound arms, hauling him out of the chair and up on his feet. De Groot said, 'Take down his pants… '
Jack stomped down hard with his heel on top of Silva's foot, breaking some bones. Silva screamed, letting go of him. Jack lurched to the side, dropping a shoulder and slamming it into de Groot's midsection, knocking the air out of him and knocking him off balance. Jack lunged hard to the side, shoving de Groot into the wooden table and
