The Ragnarok Conspiracy (32 page)

The engines on the aircraft changed pitch and throttled up significantly. Jordan looked over toward the machine, watching men scramble on and off and around the thing, confused, uncertain what to do.
No. They're going to get it out while they can! No!
He couldn't allow it to leave, but he saw no way to stop it. In an instant he made a decision and sprinted with his automatic toward the aircraft.

Two men were removing the wheel-stops from underneath the plane. Most of the soldiers were heading away from the aircraft. He was fortunate. They had assumed that they would leave their vulnerable position as the plane left and engage in the firefight erupting around them.
John and Frank.
Jordan knew they would need help, but he also knew that far more people might depend on him
not
helping them at this moment, and getting to that plane. Two of the soldiers slowed, noticing his sprint to the aircraft, which had slowly begun its taxi. The loading ramp had not even been drawn up, although it had started to rise. He was perhaps twenty yards from the plane now. He could reach it before takeoff.

The soldiers turned slowly, at first stunned to see this man shoot like an arrow toward the craft they had just abandoned. Jordan lowered his automatic and sprayed a line of fire across them as he ran past. The two men had begun to aim their weapons but were caught in the spray, each hit by multiple rounds. They pivoted following the impact, then fell toward the ground, one rolling in agony, the other still and unmoving. Jordan turned his attention to the ramp, even as he heard the screams of men now alerted to his presence. Ten yards, five…the plane made a slow pivot toward the main runway, and he closed the remaining distance and leapt onto the ramp. There was hardly room for him, and he quickly rolled into the body of the plane as the ramp slammed shut and locked.

Jordan raised himself on his stomach and aimed his weapon. There was no one there. He paused for a moment and caught his breath. His leg was throbbing. He must have smashed it in the leap onto the ramp. He rolled over as quietly as possible and looked down. Blood stained his thigh next to a large rip in his robes. Red spread slowly across the white of the clothes. He raised his leg to his chest and gasped in pain, but he saw that the laceration was not too deep. He would be able to function for some time, but the leg had just recovered from previous injuries.

He got to his feet slowly, gingerly, keeping low. The aircraft had picked up speed and was taxiing toward the beginning of the runway. Takeoff would occur very soon; Jordan was sure of that. He needed to find a more secure place to position himself until they reached a more stable altitude. The last thing he needed was to be incapacitated at this juncture. He crept into the main cargo chamber as silently as possible. There was an interesting division built into the plane. Instead of a single cargo chamber, there was a split into two sections, divided by a sealed wall with a door.
Is this for when the missile is lowered into the under section?
he wondered. Right now, it didn't matter. He saw the large crate in the center of the hold. To the side was netting of some kind attached to the walls of the plane. He limped over to it and painfully inserted himself into the netting, using the ropes as a set of straps to stabilize him during flight. Just in time—he felt the plane turn ninety degrees as the engines throttled up. The pilots had reached the runway.

Several dead soldiers lay between the two metal storage buildings behind the hangar. Miller and Savas raced across the area as gunfire erupted around them, the ground exploding as countless bullets rained down. A crossfire raged from the point they sought, as Inherp sprayed bullets toward the source of the gunfire. The shooting slowed considerably but continued. As they reached the back side of the building where Inherp
hid behind a corner for shelter, Miller cried out in pain and stumbled forward, crashing hard but rolling behind the shed. Savas was right behind him, slamming into the wall beside Cohen and Inherp. She grabbed him and held him tightly, but both then turned toward Miller, who had crawled up beside them.

“Frank!” she cried out. “Are you OK?”

Miller swore like a sailor. “Tell this shithead of yours that I'm
done
saving his ass!
Fuck!
John, you're a gift of holes for me.” He pulled out a large ka-bar knife from his belt and ripped open his pant legs. An ugly rip ran along his calf, and blood poured out of it profusely. Miller grimaced.

“Well, at least this time they won't be digging any damn metal out of me. It's just a graze. A deep fucking graze, but a graze. Now we need…” His voice trailed off, and he stared into the sky.

“Frank, what's wrong? Wha—” began Savas.

“Quiet! Listen!”

Savas closed his eyes and focused on the noise around him. Two distinct sounds became clear. The first was the roar of an airplane reaching speeds for takeoff. The other was the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades approaching.

“The missile!” Savas yelled in frustration.

“It's gone, John. Look!” Miller gestured toward the sky behind them, and Savas saw a black shadow climb into the air and begin a slow roll to the left. “There's nothing we can do now. We'll just have to wait and hope the air force intercepts.” Miller stood up against the metal wall, gasped in pain, and spoke through gritted teeth. “But we can try to take care of something just as important.”

Savas looked confusedly toward Miller. “What?”

“Gunn. The helicopter has got to be coming for him. They got that plane off the ground quickly, and not just for our attack, I don't think. They know they've been compromised, and they're trying to get their chieftain out of harm's way.”

Inherp turned toward them. “He's right! There is a helipad at the far end of the cargo section—that way!” he gestured. “Maybe three
minutes. If he gets away, the missile is just the beginning! Please, I know this man. Stop him! Before it's too late.”

Savas looked down at Miller's leg. “Frank, can you make it?”

Miller tried taking several steps, but he crouched down, almost falling, and cried out in pain. “Damn bullet's cut through the muscle, John. I won't make it in time. You and Inherp go. I'll stay with Rebecca.”

“No,” said Savas. “I'll go alone. You'll need him to hold them off, Frank.” He turned and kissed Cohen, then looked up to Inherp. “You've kept her safe today. I'm asking you to do it again.”

“Of course,” replied the young man.

Frank pushed Savas forward. “John, shut up and get over there! The damn bird's almost here!”

Savas could hear the approaching craft much more clearly now. He gave one more look to Cohen and sprinted off toward the landing pad.

Miller's cell phone rang. “Yes?!” he called loudly into the microphone. As he listened, his eyes grew large. “What? Yes, I can, but, wait!” He looked increasingly shocked, and he called out, “Wait! Husaam? Are you there?”

Cohen and Inherp looked toward him. He stared at them with a stunned expression. “Well, I'll be damned. Husaam—he's on the plane.”

“How did he get on the plane?” Cohen asked.

“No damn clue,” answered Miller. “But he says we need to get the air force to call him immediately. He says he needs to know how to deactivate a nuclear warhead.”

The takeoff was a rocky one, and the netting that was secured to the wall did not promise the smoothest ride. The plane had begun to level off as he ended the call with Miller. Until they got the required expertise on the phone to him, he had a lot to do. First, he had to get to the missile. The crate was large and the wood thick. He would need tools. He shook his head. He would
really
need tools once he got it open.

He stood up and disentangled himself from the netting. Scanning the cargo hold, he knew the necessary tools would have to be onboard. There was no way they would take this thing up for its mission and not be ready to keep it absolutely serviced, or to change its settings, if the need arose. Aside from the crate, the cargo hold was mostly empty. This plane had little purpose in its preparation outside of this arrow of death. He wondered how long he had until the soldiers of Mjolnir came back to check on their cargo.

There.
In the corner, near the dividing wall in the cargo hold, was a metallic box on four wheels.
A tool case.
He limped up to the case and confirmed his suspicion—an elaborate tool set, with equipment he knew and much he had never seen and could not guess its use. As a gift, lying on top of the box, were several sets of large iron crowbars. He supposed all those able-bodied soldiers worked together to open the crate. He grabbed one and struggled over to the missile.

Despite the pain in his leg and the fatigue he was beginning to feel from the loss of blood, within a little over five minutes he had the top and side panel off the crate—enough to access the missile to open it up and reveal the warhead inside.
With the right tools.
Holding the crowbar
in one hand, he limped back toward the metallic box and was about to open some of its top drawers when the door to the chamber opened up. Jordan and a Mjolnir soldier stood face to face, not more than five feet apart. Both were surprised for an instant, but Jordan reacted faster and swung the crowbar up, striking the man underneath his chin. His head snapped backward, and he fell to the ground unconscious. Jordan himself almost fell over; the stress the movement put on his wounded leg was nearly too much. He righted himself, then walked over to the door and closed it. There was no lock. However, there was no doorknob either, just a rectangular handle jutting toward him; the door itself opened outward. He grabbed several crowbars and wedged them inside the metal handle and across the divider beside the door. It worked like a barricade in an old castle—as the door was pushed forward (or pulled from the outside), the bars caught on the metal handle and the wall, preventing further movement. It would not hold long.
But perhaps long enough.

He wheeled the tool cart over to the missile and parked it next to the warhead.
Now, how on earth did one open this thing?

Andrew Bryant paced in the Operations Room at FBI headquarters. Angel Lightfoote and J. P. Rideout were there with him, as were several other members from Larry Kanter's former division, as well as representatives from the CIA and the US Air Force. Everything had happened so quickly,
too quickly
, but he knew that was the nature of every crisis. For better or worse, it was now centered at the FBI—Savas and Miller, and Mjolnir kidnapping Cohen, had seen to that. This made Kanter's Operations Room as good a congregation point as any. Live feeds to similar crises management teams at the CIA, the air force, and the Pentagon had been established.

Two monitors showed live satellite feeds from the airport. What had been much easier to see a little while before was now mostly obscured by smoke pouring from a large fuel fire. The dark plane identified by Inherp was nowhere to be seen.

The phone rang. Bryant pivoted quickly and watched as Rideout ID'd the call. “It's Inherp,” he said flatly.

“Pick it up, then!” snapped Bryant.

Rideout did so. The call went live to speakers in the room. A computer broke down the speech in real time and flashed it on one of the monitors in front of them.

“This is Michael Inherp.” The sounds of automatic weapons could be heard over the sound system. “We are under heavy fire from Mjolnir troops. I am with Rebecca Cohen and Frank Miller. Miller is wounded in the leg, and John Savas has left us to intercept a helicopter coming in to land. We presume it is here to evacuate William Gunn.”

An air force major looked at Bryant. “Fifteen minutes until the fighters can engage.”

Bryant nodded and spoke into a microphone around his neck. “Inherp, this is Andrew Bryant, FBI. I need to know—”

“Wait!” interrupted Inherp. “The plane has taken off. I repeat, the plane has taken off. It is loaded with the missile. Husaam Jordan is on the plane.”

Heads turned and voices mumbled beneath the background sounds over the speakers. The air force major spoke. “Inherp—are you sure? The missile is onboard?”

“Yes, sir. I saw it loaded myself.”

“Do you know where they are headed? What is their target?”

“No, sir. Only something important. Something game-changing, sir. Mr. Gunn believes it will cause a world war with the Muslim nations.”

“
Damn it
, Inherp!” yelled Bryant, “we need to know where this plane is headed.”

“Please, listen to me! Agent Jordan is on the plane. He just called Agent Miller. He must be with the missile. He needs experts to tell him how to disarm it! If we can't shoot the plane down, we can deactivate the missile!”

Voices spoke rapidly over each other in the room, over the phone links with CIA and the Pentagon. Faintly someone could be heard over the speakers asking for a phone.

“Everyone, listen to me!” came the strained voice of Frank Miller.
The room became quiet. “We need someone from the air force to find an engineer,
right now
and conference call him in to Jordan. We're under heavy fire, and we need to move out! He's the one you need to speak with. Get a man on the phone to him!”

The line went dead. A rough voice came over the speakers. “This is General Jim Richards. I am instructing all air force personnel hearing this near me and elsewhere, down to the janitors, get me a weapons engineer with the expertise for this warhead,
yesterday
!”

The air force officers got on their phones and exited the room to make their calls. Bryant placed his fingers to his temple. This was all getting out of his control. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the large monitors flash. He looked up. The satellite feeds were gone, replaced with a flat map of the world. Red dots were appearing in several places across the globe.

“Hey, where is the satellite feed?” called one of the CIA agents. Bryant looked around with irritation.
What the hell?

Rideout glanced over toward Lightfoote, who was furiously working her keyboard. “Angel, is this you?” She continued work but nodded slowly up and down, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Angel, we need to focus on Mexico. Can you switch it back over?”

An air force officer back in the room shouted over him. “Tell her to get that satellite feed back up! What the hell is she doing?” Red dots were popping up in several places, and red lines were being drawn between them. Lightfoote appeared oblivious to the rancor around her. Rideout looked at the screen and understood.

“She's marking out the locations of all the attacks,” he said.

Bryant shouted, “How is that relevant now? Damn it, Rideout, I've had just about enough of that little freak! Override her! Get the satellite feed back up
this instant
!”

Rideout spoke in a measured tone. “Andrew, I've learned to trust Angel's strange but often very important contributions. That's why Larry brought her in.” He turned to his new boss. “I'm going to give this a few minutes. The satellite feed isn't going anywhere.” Bryant glared at Rideout, who stared right back.

Across the world map, red marks appeared. New York, Caracas, London, Sudan, over the South Atlantic—digital thumbtacks at each of the sites of Mjolnir bombings. Red lines were now connecting nearly all of them, creating a shape with some clear sort of structure, but one that was not identifiable to anyone in the room.

Bryant shook his head. “I don't see anything of worth here, Rideout. This meaningless cartoon drawing is wasting our time. If you don't cut this back to the feed, I will have someone remove her.”

“Wait!” Lightfoote shouted, holding up one hand while continuing to type or use the mouse with the other.

Bryant was about to walk over and remove her himself when a digital image appeared on the screen, superimposed over the world map and the web of lines linking the attacks. The image was by now familiar to all in the room—an anchor shaped emblem, but flat at one end and curved to a point, a long shaft sticking out from that end. It was clearly a relic, old metal carved and weathered, the end of the shaft broadening out like the hilt of a sword, the face of a bird carved into the end. It was Thor's hammer.

Lightfoote manipulated the image, first turning it partially transparent to reveal the map underneath it. She then rotated it ninety degrees counterclockwise, resized it, and distorted it in each dimension slightly until the handle of the hammer rested on North and South America, the shaft extending across the Atlantic Ocean into Africa, and the head of the hammer landing on the Arabian Peninsula, with the sharp tip like a pointer centered on Saudi Arabia.

“What the hell?” said Bryant.

“It's pointing where, Angel, Mecca?” said Rideout.

Lightfoote rotated around, the large monitors behind her glowing with the image of a god's hammer laid across the earth. Her eyes were large and bright.

“Not pointing, J. P.” She looked across all the faces. “Smashing. The hammer is smashing.”

The air force major was back in the room. “You mean they mapped out the shape of that thing in their attacks? Pointing to Saudi Arabia? Why on earth?”

Lightfoote shook her head again. “
Not
pointing.
Smashing
.” She looked over at Rideout for help.

“
Oh, my God
,” he said. He turned to Bryant. “Get me Husaam on the line.
Now!
”

Bryant looked stunned. “What is this about?”

Rideout looked at Lightfoote, and she nodded with her eyes large, her expression serious. He spoke flatly. “I know what this attack is all about, Andrew.”