Jamal Khan, the younger brother of Salim, watched as the Sikorsky set
down, then pushed the starter button on the white electric cart, urging
it to life. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Nothing he had
ever done in years past matched up to this, not even the airline
hijackings. The only drawback was his comrades. Like, for example, this
wise-ass Israeli, Peretz.
Dore Peretz, for his own part, waited until the cart--a three-wheel, on-
site mover--had started, and then he swung onto the back. Neither spoke
as they silently motored through the sunshine, the breeze in their
hair, headed for the just-landed helo.
The sparkling morning did not improve the atmosphere between the two
men: only the sunshine contributed warmth to the moment. Peretz had
contempt for the Iranian's arrogance and intensity; the bearded Iranian
resented the Israeli's technical skills, his attitude, and the fact
that he was Israeli. None of it could easily be forgiven. Jamal further
could not forgive the Israeli for having no commitment to driving the
Americans from the Middle East, for being here only for the money.
When they reached the Sikorsky, now settled on the tarmac, Jamal pulled
the cart to a halt, then switched off the motor and stepped down. It
would take all hands to manage the off-loading.
Helling and the two other Germans were already waiting in the sunshine,
and as Jamal looked them over, he found himself liking them even less
than he did Peretz. The truth was, they were little more than
bureaucrats, regardless of whatever they called themselves. They ranted
about America being the prisoner of the Zionists, but it was just
rhetoric. . . .
The door of the Sikorsky was opening now and "Abdoullah," the first of
the three Pakistani engineers, was emerging, followed by "Rais" and
"Shujat." All three had their dark hair swathed in a traditional
Palestinian black and white _kaffiyeh_, part of their "disguise."
Jamal tried not to smile as he watched them--grim-faced college boys--
awkwardly slam clips into their Uzis and look around, as though they
were about to lead an assault. It was a wonderful joke.
"Abdoullah" actually had a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering from Berkeley.
While in America he had developed a taste for the good life--cars,
designer clothes, and gold jewelry--and then when he came back and went
to work at Kahuta, Pakistan's top-secret uranium enrichment plant, he
had discovered sex.
The instrument of this discovery was a hard-eyed Palestinian girl,
Ramala, whose fiery politics were matched only by her skills in bed. He
became a convert to her and then to her cause--which played directly
into the hands of Ramirez. Ramirez had, Jamal knew, been working on
this setup for five years. Money here, information there, it all had
finally paid off.
Of all Ramirez's recruits, "Abdoullah's" contribution had been the most
crucial, since he had been the one who had arranged the theft of the
two items now crated and ready in the cargo bay of the Sikorsky. He and
his two engineer-colleagues spoke English by choice, and to Jamal they
looked almost identical, all with new coal-black beards and designer
"commando" sweatbands under their _kaffiyeh_. They were trying to get
with the look of revolutionary chic, he thought with disdain. They'd
just made the big time, but they still thought they were in a Chuck
Norris movie. Fortunately, they'd already served their main purpose. In
two more days, they would be totally expendable.
The Sikorsky had landed approximately fifty yards from the entrance to
the blockhouse of the launch facility, placing them a mere two hundred
yards away from the SatCom space vehicles, VX-1 and VX-2. Those spires
seemed to preside over everything, casting long shadows, and the three
Pakistani engineers paused, still gripping their Uzis, to gaze up and
admire them.
"Don't stand there gawking." Peretz curtly brought them to attention.
"We've got to get moving. If anybody has started any satellite recon of
this place, we could be on TV by now. A U.S. KH-12 can read the address
on a fucking postcard." He signaled for the pilot to release the rear
entry ramp. "Let's get going. We're taking them in immediately."
The Pakistanis saluted in paramilitary style, secured their Uzis into
their black leg-holsters, and moved expectantly to the rear of the
helo. As the ramp slowly came down, there strapped and waiting in the
aft bay were two wooden crates cushioned in a bed of clear plastic
bubble-wrap, each approximately a meter square and weighing just under
a hundred kilos.
Phase four had begun.