Part 25 (2/2)

'I am asking, who in America would make an anthrax that kills only Jews?'

The two men looked down and scuffed their feet but still said nothing.

'Someone thinks it is American Muslims?' Fouad ventured.

Master Sergeant called from the Superhawk's cabin. The wind shredded his voice. 'We're leaving, gentlemen. All aboard!'

'Whoever the f.u.c.k it is, it can't be done,' Fergus said to Fouad as they walked back across the rugged field. 'There's no genetic marker or receptor that singles out Jews. You just can't breed that kind of germ. It's a scientific impossibility.'

'So what is it they are trying to accomplish?' Fouad asked.

'Someone's lying,' Fergus said. 'Someone is delivering samples to radical Islamists and telling them a nasty fib. We need to know who, and we'd certainly like to know why.' Fergus clutched his hat under the wash from the blades. Harris helped Fouad, and Fouad pulled up Fergus.

'h.e.l.l, you know what the fanatics around here would likely do,' Fergus said. 'They'd round up six Jews, any old Jews, and dose them-but why do a double-blind and test it on the faithful? That would be an abomination.'

Fouad looked between them. They both returned his look, as if trying to figure out his disposition, his race, the psychology of all Islam, through his dark young eyes.

'Six Kurdish Jews,' Harris muttered. 'And a year ago, seven s.h.i.+tes dead in Baghdad.'

'Sunnis wouldn't mind killing both Jews and s.h.i.+tes,' Fergus said.

'And now you probably know as much as we do,' Harris said to Fouad. 'The more you know, the less it makes sense.'

Master Sergeant welcomed them aboard, grinning with relief. 'The h.e.l.l with this, let's motor motor,' he said. They resumed their seats and strapped in.

'If it is not modified to kill Jews, could it be modified to mislead fanatical Muslims? Simple souls that they are?' Fouad smiled his most ingenuous smile.

Fergus snorted. Harris looked around the helicopter. 'Fred, are you impugning the intelligence of our enemies?' he asked.

'Perhaps to convince these simple souls that there is a way to win an old war,' Fouad said. 'And make them pay great sums of money to get it.'

'An expensive fake-out,' Fergus said with wry appreciation.

Master Sergeant listened intently but his heart wasn't in the discussion. 'The whole world's got to change,' he said.

'If Fred's correct, selling fake anthrax wouldn't be a major crisis, would it?' Harris asked. 'It would be like selling red mercury to the Serbs. That cost Slobodan Milosevic six million dollars for squat-a high-yield explosive that doesn't even exist.'

'But these American suppliers are not stupid people, if they can obtain or modify such anthrax. From who else would they extort money? From fanatics with equal hatred,' Fouad suggested.

'Who would that be?' Harris asked.

'I am thinking out loud,' Fouad said.

'Fred here believes we may not have the complete picture yet,' Fergus said. 'Maybe we're all thinking simplistically.'

'Amen to that,' Harris said. 'That's always been our problem in this part of the world.'

Master Sergeant closed the hatch. The helicopter rose from the old farm field, turned into the snowy wind, and immediately headed west, making a beeline for Turkey.

Once again Fouad had closed his eyes. He was in the middle of a vivid dream of sick and dying cattle. They had the most sympathetic and pain-filled eyes. The cattle began kicking over huge oil drums. He heard rapid sounds of banging metal. As he jerked awake, he saw Fergus slump forward. Harris had crossed the aisle and was fumbling with his hands to cover a fountain of blood from Fergus's chest. Master Sergeant calmly threw flak jackets at them. 'Up front,' he ordered. 'Thicker armor.'

Fouad worked his arms to get into a jacket. He helped Harris drag Fergus forward. Master Sergeant popped open a first aid kit and flung compresses and tourniquets in plastic bags at them. 'Open 'em, tie him off, press 'em wherever there's blood,' he instructed.

'h.e.l.l with that,' Harris shouted back. 'He's dying!'

Fergus was bleeding out in great gushes on the deck. His hands, held up in supplication, shook uncontrollably and his lips were blue in a chalk-white face. Despite the futility, Fouad went to work, helping Harris. They were covered in blood.

The Superhawk roared and veered and careened. 'We're being painted!' the co-pilot shouted. Countermeasures screamed away from the chopper on both sides-flares and chaff. 'Tango Victor Charlie, we got red eyes. Scorpios up our crack and we cannot shake 'em.'

's.h.i.+t on a stick,' Master Sergeant said, and doubled over.

The cabin hissed like a huge snake and filled with smoke and flame.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

Silesia, Ohio.

Sam parked the trailer by the curb at the north end of a pretty little park on the southwestern side of the town, about four miles from the warehouse district and the little bar where he had picked up Darly Fields, forty-two, divorced mother of two, currently working as a network maintenance supervisor for a feed supply company.

Next, he walked around the park with a little flag on a stick checking the wind direction and making notes on his city map of Silesia. On the south side of the park he had already counted three churches, all of medium size.

The wind was slow and relatively warm and dry for this time of year. All good. There was a big Town Talk bakery within a mile of the park, directly downwind. Silesia had three bakeries within range that s.h.i.+pped bread all over the state. There were twelve feed stores, and of course the silos and warehouses.

The Patriarch had told him over and over again, in the presence of his wives and his sons, of his plans for the Endtimes, should the Federales Sata.n.u.s flood down upon them. 'G.o.d and me, we've dreamed up a real surprise,' he had said.

And so they had. But it didn't matter now. s.h.i.+fting obstacles could be outmaneuvered, fixed obstacles could be worked around. Ambitious plans for five or six targets could be reduced to the two most important-and of course, Silesia. In the beginning Sam had hoped to have everything ready by the Fourth of July, but two Julys had pa.s.sed with essential equipment and deals and personnel not yet in place.

Now it had to be a one-two-three punch. First the demo, followed within two months by the first city, and then-in the proper season-the most difficult and inaccessible target of all.

Past maximum heating, this was no time to let loose the first operational Pillar of Fire. He would wait until morning. And if the next morning was not good enough, if the wind had reversed and was blowing away from town, he would wait for the morning after that. But he could not wait forever. Like the Patriarch, Sam would have to put some reliance on G.o.d.

Sam pushed back his hair with one hand and kept a straight face as he walked over the short brown lawns and under the scattered shade of old oak trees. Of late, his features inclined to a fixed scowl of concentration. He was gaining lines in the wrong places. Soon n.o.body would trust him. Not that it mattered. Perhaps in the end he would become a true eagle-eyed John Brown with flames floating above his head, convinced that what he was doing was surely righteous-a true believer, like so many of the pious, hypocritical sons of b.i.t.c.hes downwind from this new American Trinity.

G.o.d would not protect them. They weren't listening any more. Perhaps they never had.

If his instincts were correct, tomorrow was going to begin with a fine calm morning, a breeze blowing ever so lightly from the northwest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.

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