Authors: Pete Barber
In an interrogation room, Quinn sat at a table across from Patton who questioned him about the weapon. What did it do? How did it work? Where was it? How could he obtain it? Who else had knowledge of it? Quinn spoke for an hour. He held nothing back because he had no way of knowing what part of his story, if any, could put him behind bars. The atmosphere remained cordial, and the longer the questioning lasted, the more confident he became that they were going to be okay.
When Patton finished, he escorted Quinn back to the conference room where the others waited for him. Adiba jumped up, ran to him, hugged him and planted a kiss on his good cheek.
“What was that for?” he said.
“For being the bravest man I’ll ever meet, Mr. Quinn. I told them how you saved us, and how you saved those people at the plant.”
“Well, not single-handed. I think we shared the load.” Quinn’s cheeks grew hot.
His cell phone started ringing. An agent passed a bag with his belongings, and he fished the device out and answered. “Quinn here.”
Superintendent Porter’s voice said, “Quinn. Thank god you’re safe. The Yanks briefed me on the refinery. I believe congratulations are in order. You’ve done a great service for your country.”
Quinn had never heard his boss sound so happy. “I don’t know about that, but we’re all okay and looking forward to coming home.”
“From what I hear, you thwarted a major terrorist attack and helped defuse a political crisis. You’re a
bona fide
hero, Detective.”
Quinn opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. The last time he’d spoken to his boss he’d gotten reamed out and told to get on the next plane to London. Finally, he managed, “Thanks, Super.”
“Quinn, I understand the weather in Phoenix is nice this time of year, well, compared with England. Why not take a few days to recuperate, charge the hotel to the department? I’ll sign off on anything within reason.”
“Okay.” Damn, Scott must have done a fantastic sales job.
Abdul and Adiba flew out the next day. Abdul told Quinn that he planned to approach her father as soon as he’d talked to his parents in London. Quinn wished him luck and gave his blessing. The kids’ relationship was certainly battle-tested.
Quinn checked into the Phoenician in Scottsdale, on the outskirts of Phoenix. He ate four meals a day and slept, a lot. The FBI found him a dentist and arranged for medical care. No bones broken, just banged-up, the doctor told him—easy for him to say!
On the third evening, Quinn’s room phone woke him from a late afternoon nap.
“I heard a rumor you were going to play golf. I had to see that for myself,” Scott Shearer said.
“Where are you?” Quinn asked.
“The next room.”
Quinn hung up and opened his door. Scott stood in the hallway and offered his hand. Quinn knocked it aside and gave him a crushing bear hug. “Old friend, you saved my nuts.”
Scott pushed Quinn off. He was blushing.
“Damned stiff Brit,” Quinn said, and they shared a laugh.
After dinner, they retired to the bar and ordered malt whisky.
“The US President’s making a primetime announcement tonight,” Scott said.
“About?”
“Apparently there’s a significant development on the terrorism front.” Scott grinned like the cat that got the cream.
At 7:45 p.m., the major networks cleared their programming and talking heads began speculating. Cameras showed a still of the Oval office. Behind the president’s empty desk, next to the Stars and Stripes, a British flag was on display.
“A Union Jack?” Quinn said.
“You’ll see,” Scott said, still with the knowing grin.
At eight, the president walked into the room, took his place at the desk and faced the cameras.
“My fellow Americans, I want to brief you tonight on a significant development in our ongoing battle against the extremists who wish harm on our country.
“Four days ago, agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation successfully foiled a major terrorist attack on American soil. This attack was carried out by the Islamic-militant group known as Allah’s Revenge. The same terrorists were responsible for the death of two hundred innocents in London, England, and more recently for the massacre at the G20 meeting in Seoul, South Korea, an attack in which the Vice President of the United States lost his life.
“Their target was an ethanol production facility operated by Eudon Alternative Energy near Phoenix, Arizona.
”Thanks to the diligence and enterprise of our intelligence services, the attack was thwarted, and more than five hundred employees at the plant were safely evacuated. However, the refinery was contaminated. The plant has been closed, and a twenty-mile exclusion zone created to ensure the safety of Phoenix residents.
“Mr. Nazar Eudon, the plant owner, and several key staff acted heroically to facilitate our successful intervention. These brave Muslims sacrificed their lives to save the people of Phoenix. Clear proof that the actions of fanatics like Allah’s Revenge do not represent the wishes and desires of the many peaceful Muslims living here in America and elsewhere in the world.”
The president paused, and smiled.
“You will notice behind me, beside Old Glory, the flag of Great Britain. Without the cooperation of the British Secret Service, we may have discovered this terrorist plot too late to avoid the consequences. Earlier today, I called the British Prime Minister and thanked him for his country’s assistance in this matter. Never in recent history has there been a more concrete reason to value the special relationship between our two countries.
“America, and the world, is safer tonight, thanks to the excellent work of our agents in the FBI, the cooperation of the British Secret Service, and a few brave Muslims, equally determined that evil should not prevail. God bless you, and God bless America.”
Quinn turned to Scott. “I thought Allah’s Revenge was finished with Ghazi’s death?”
“According to my sources in the US, rumors of his death are greatly exaggerated,” Scott said.
“But I saw the body. So did Abdul.”
“A cynic would say that makes him an ideal enemy. Easily manipulated yet posing no real threat. Perception is everything!”
Quinn shook his head. “What about the facility? Do you suppose the Americans will start producing ethanol now?”
“Not unless the Midwest corn producers and the oil companies say they can.”
“You really think they’ll bury the technology, discard the solution to the world’s energy crisis?”
Scott called for another shot of whisky and raised his glass. In a voice dripping with sarcasm, he made a toast.
“Long live Ghazi. And God bless the Oily States of America.”
Chapter 43
Two days later, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sat in his office in Washington with the Director of the CIA. They sipped coffee at his conference table. Two dozen framed photographs chronicling the old soldier’s rise through the ranks lined the wall behind his head. They served as a reminder of his seniority.
“I understand the emergency appropriations bill will be fast-tracked,” the Chairman said.
“Two or three days in the House, then early next week to the Senate,” the CIA man replied.
The Chairman nodded, and then smiled. “You’ve requested a significant budget increase?”
“We have strong justification. We need to understand this nanotechnology.”
“Of course . . . and the weapon?”
“We acquired the residue in Phoenix, but it was inert. The nanobots ceased to function when they ran out of fuel. Our people hope to reverse-engineer what we have.”
“What about the Israelis?”
The CIA man spread his hands flat on the table. “They insist the terrorists' lab was empty when they arrived.”
“And our SEAL team?”
“Not found.”
The chairman raised his eyebrows. “Can we corroborate?”
“We have a visual of them entering. The British police officer, Quinnborne, counted seven bodies in the laboratory, five from the weapon, two from gunshots. But we have no leverage with Tel Aviv. We went in covert, and the Israelis are pissed off.”
“Perhaps, in time?”
The CIA man nodded. “Perhaps.”
“If they have the weapon, we have a problem,” the Chairman said.
“At a minimum they have samples of the residue. So do the Koreans, and every one of the G20 countries, even the damned Saudis.”
“It’s a race, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old soldier stood and shook the CIA man’s hand. “Make sure we win.”
. . . THE END . . .
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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and locales, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.
NanoStrike
Copyright © Pete Barber 2012. Manufactured in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published by PJ Publishing, 506 Jones Road, Mill Spring NC 28756. First Edition.
ISBN 978-0-9855230-0-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012907068
Dedication
Thank you, Joyce, for always believing.