Sword of God

He nodded. 'I know it is. But I'm telling you, this isn't water.'

Dubious, Payne leaned closer and breathed in the fumes. An acrid stench filled his nostrils, burning the back of his throat and making him gag.

'Told you it isn't water.'

Payne coughed a few times, trying to catch his breath. 'What the hell is that?'

But Jones didn't answer. Instead, he took a few steps down the maintenance shaft, trying to figure out what was going on. He glanced back into the subbasement, following the plumbing, then back into the shaft again, the pieces still not fitting together. 'Where do those pipes go?'

'To some private facility in the desert. Shari said the towers were so big they had to pump in their own water.'

'But that's not water.'

'I know it's not water. I'm still choking.' He paused for a second as all the nasty possibilities started to sink in. 'Wait. What do you think it is?'

'Aviation fuel.'

45

When designing a skyscraper, water pressure is a significant problem that must be overcome. Large pumps in the basement usually service the lower floors. However, it is impractical to pump water directly to a penthouse, several hundred feet in the air. Most buildings are equipped with mechanical floors, every ten floors or so, which are filled with everything from air-conditioning units to ventilation systems. This is where intermediate pumps are stored, used to push water from one stage to the next until the liquid reaches its highest destination.

Unfortunately, this is an inefficient system in the tallest of buildings, always relying on the pump below to send water to the pump above. One mechanical failure and the water stops. This is a huge concern in emergency situations, when sprinkler systems cannot afford to fail because ground-based fire equipment is incapable of shooting water above certain heights.

To remedy this situation, tanks are often installed on the upper floors, where water is stored in case it is needed.

Sometimes the tanks are small, placed on every mechanical lloor in the building. Sometimes they're large, scattered throughout different parts of the system, based on estimated demand. And occasionally, in really big projects such as the Abraj Al Bait Towers, the designers opted for something different.

In the mechanical penthouse, on top of every tower in the seven-building complex, sat a water tank with a capacity of 40,000 gallons. Engineers designed these tanks with a dual purpose in mind. First and foremost, they could supply water to the 65,000 guests who would fill the towers and all the extra people who used the mall, convention center, and prayer halls. Second, the tanks served as tuned mass dampers, absorbing vibrations from high winds and possible earthquakes-not to mention 2.4 million people as they strolled through the Meccan desert during the hajj season-which helped to protect the structural integrity of the building's core.

Ironically, the tanks were installed to keep the towers standing, but they were the very things that might bring them down.

Trevor Schmidt smiled as he placed the charge along the base of the water tank.

It was the perfect choice for the perfect mission.

C-4, an abbreviation for Composition 4, was a military-grade plastic explosive, one that was preferred by the U.S. Special Forces because its velocity of detonation was ideal for metalwork. Not only was it malleable, allowing it to be molded into specific shapes or wedged into the tiniest of spaces, but it was also highly stable. It could be shot, dropped, kicked, or thrown into a fire, but it wasn't going to explode without a detonator. For the past few hours, Schmidt had carried five pounds of it in a shoulder bag and never worried about it blowing up prematurely.

Of course, there were other reasons why he'd selected C-4 for this particular job.

Personal reasons.

Due to its precision, C-4 was frequently used by terrorists, including the bombing of the USS Cole, a guided-missile destroyer refueling in Yemen, and the destruction of the Khobar Towers, a U.S. military housing development in Saudi Arabia where nineteen servicemen were killed. Both of those were horrible tragedies that deserved to be avenged, but in Schmidt's mind, they paled in comparison to the incident at Al-Hada Hospital, where C-4 was used to detonate a fuel truck parked outside the private wing where his men were staying.

That was the attack that fueled his rage.

He thought back to that painful day as he prepared the detonator. For him, it was a simple procedure, one he had done so many times in the past that it was second nature. Like brushing his teeth or tying his shoe. There were no nerves or trepidation. His hands simply did what they were trained to do.

Much like Schmidt himself.

Payne sent the transmission as he and Jones charged up the stairs. 'All teams, check in for priority update. Repeat, priority update.'

His men responded in turn, waiting to receive the information.

'Jet fuel has been found in the plumbing. Repeat, inside the plumbing. Focus your search on mechanical floors. Tanks and pumps are prime targets. Sweep for explosives.'

There was a three-second delay before one of his men spoke. 'Are floor numbers known?'

'Negative,' Payne answered. 'Floor numbers are unknown. But follow pipes when possible. Listen for machinery. Anything to suggest activity.'

Jones added, 'Maps might be posted in stairs or elevators. Check there before entry.'

Payne nodded. It was a good suggestion. 'Good luck.'

The man they called Luke was positioned high above the central plaza, giving him a bird's-eye view of the entire complex. Up there, he felt like God sitting on his golden throne because he decided who lived and who died.

Staring through his sniper's scope, he made his decision.

Death would come swiftly.

With the ball of his finger, he eased the trigger back, careful not to jerk his rifle. The bullet was discharged at three thousand feet per second and slammed into the base of the target's skull, entering the cerebellum and instantly stopping his motor skills. Pink mist erupted in the lobby as one of Payne's soldiers fell to the floor.

Luke flicked his wrist, ejecting the spent casing before he chambered a new round.

The Arab American never heard the shot. One moment his partner was jogging in front of him, the next he was falling in a violent burst of blood.

Stunned by the development, he reacted the way most people would: he rushed to his friend's side, hoping he could help. Unfortunately, it was a choice that ended his life.

The second shot arrived eight seconds later. Same pinpoint accuracy, same maximum devastation. It punctured iiis red-and-white headdress, entered his skin and skull, then exited the other side, taking chunks of brain with it.

Two dead men in one messy pile.

Payne spotted them across the lobby and shoved Jones behind a thick stone pillar that shielded them from a frontal assault. They peeked around the corner, soaking in the details of the scene, trying to understand what had happened.

'Sniper,' guessed Jones, who was familiar with their techniques because he had trained as one before the MANIACs. He scanned the terrain, searching for possible positioning. 'Somewhere high, but not too high. Range is too tough to gauge.'

Payne listened as he swore under his breath, blaming himself for their deaths.

'Maybe in the hotel. Probably near an exit point.'