The long november, p.4
The Long November, page 4
As she spoke, the clock reached 12:01.
At the Marriott, the first minute of the first day of November had arrived.
4
11:11 P.M., OCTOBER 31
MISHIRA NUCLEAR ARMAMENTS MOBILE LAUNCH FACILITY
THIRTY MILES SOUTHWEST OF ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
Only the slightest sliver of a waning moon’s faltering autumn light shone down upon the wind-swept plateaus and towering mountains of northeastern Pakistan. The first of the interminable evening’s burgeoning fog was rolling in on the high mesas. Blood-tinged fear dripped upon its moist edges.
In the enveloping darkness and expanding mist, a heavily shaded, black-clothed figure, the leader of a lethal force, moved through the thinning forest of spruce, juniper, and mulberry. He headed toward the thick rows of razor-honed concertina upon the wide plain. After a quick look around, he motioned to his followers. Others, identical in dress, began appearing behind him. Their numbers continued to swell. Each carried an assault rifle, satchel charge, and menacing sword. Each was ready to fight to the death for their consecrated cause.
In all, the determined aggressors measured more than two hundred. They outnumbered their adversary four to one. The imposing force split up. Within minutes they were ready. On all sides of the mobile nuclear weapons launch facility the toxic attackers moved toward their target. Their pitiless onslaught would be swift and brutal. No quarter would be given. No mercy shown.
Throughout Pakistan, scores of similar groupings from the fanatical Fedayeen Islam were doing the same. Their missions were identical: seize the nuclear weapons and control them until their sources obtained the launch codes.
Along with many others, Mishira was now perilously close to the retreating Pakistani army’s crumbling front lines. Scores of nuclear launch facilities should have been moved hours, even days, earlier. The orders to withdraw the launchers from their vulnerable locations and move them to safety in the south had been prepared three days prior. Yet, in the chaos, there’d been a monumental mistake. The directives had never been issued. And the nuclear armaments were there for the taking.
The weapons were no direct threat to the United States or Europe. The missiles didn’t have the range to strike such targets. Yet the powerful rockets’ slaying contents could reach to every corner of India. The trio of nuclear weapons on the Mishira plateau were programmed to strike and annihilate the same city: Mumbai, India’s largest, with its twenty million dwellers.
Outside the menacing wire, a dozen Pakistani soldiers patrolled the quarter-mile perimeter. In the hilltop’s center, the three Shaheen-III missiles, each rising from its sixteen-wheel transporter-erector-launcher, pointed skyward. The deadly missiles towered over the handfuls of billowing tents and the dozen or so stationary military vehicles that surrounded them.
The apprehensive sentries outside the barbed wire, like the majority of the country’s crumbling military and confused citizenry, were dispirited and disillusioned. After their defeat by the reviled Indian forces and India’s seizure of the Kashmir territory, the people’s faith in the Islamic nation’s civilian leadership and its military had all but dissipated. The collapse of the central government and the resulting turmoil had left an immense void that the Fedayeen rushed to exploit. Despite the cruelty of their tactics, a significant portion of the populace, with nowhere to turn, had joined the zealots’ ranks. With lightning speed they were seizing control of wide swaths of the country. The Pakistani military, the seventh largest in the world, with its modern weaponry, was powerless when faced with the popular uprising. Like their government, they, too, were in disarray.
No one could have predicted such a dire turn of events. Pakistan’s civilian leadership had always been questionable. But their armed forces had been a source of tremendous pride and stability in this chaotic corner of the planet. Now even they’d lost the support of most of their countrymen.
* * *
• • •
Sheltered by the night, the determined two hundred edged closer to their prize. Inside the makeshift facility’s grounds, elite Strategic Arms Division soldiers prowled. These were the best of the best within the Pakistani forces. Each had been thoroughly vetted and was exceptionally well trained. Each believed in their critical mission with absolute certainty, even in the perplexing events of the past weeks.
Since their initial nuclear test firing in 1998, the Pakistani government had assured an uneasy world that their policies guaranteed the apocalyptic devices were safe from unwelcome hands. They’d endlessly proclaimed that their measures to safeguard the fearful armaments were more than adequate. Normal policy was for the nuclear warheads and their trigger mechanisms to be separated, rendering their cataclysmic payloads harmless. Yet, as soon as the war with India had begun, the Pakistani nuclear arsenal was assembled and prepared for possible launch. All two hundred fatal armaments were armed and ready. The only thing missing were the launch codes.
The hushed assailants reached the end of the sheltering forest. They were scarcely thirty yards from the stretching wire. A stealthy black figure, his heavily bearded face covered by a matching cloth, slowly unsheathed his glistening, curved sword. The remnants of dried blood clung to the blade’s edges. The moment the guard nearest his position passed, the assassin rushed from the cloaking trees. His lethal weapon was raised high.
The young private heard the approaching footsteps much too late to have any chance. He had little time to turn and none whatsoever to protect himself from the murderous weapon’s blow.
His gruesome task completed, the cold-blooded killer signaled. From every side, the attacking force rushed forward. The fearsome howls of a horrific death for all who opposed them shattered the eerie scene’s uneasy silence. The lethal two hundred raced across the broad mesa. The harrowing force was everywhere the startled defenders looked.
The Pakistani troops scrambled toward their defensive positions. An initial crackle of automatic-rifle fire pierced the ominous darkness. Others soon followed. The hilltop exploded in a riotous calliope of deafening noise and desperate battle.
One of the attackers went down, his death rattle soon upon him. More soon followed. Their fading life’s essence seeped into the plateau’s damp grasses. Yet the illiterate peasants didn’t falter. They raced to seize the immense treasure. No matter how severe their losses, they wouldn’t be dissuaded. Allah’s hand would guide them to a glorious victory. Of that, all were certain.
The ill-prepared regular soldiers outside the wire were soon engaged. Each attempted to fight back. And they most certainly took a toll upon the intense raiders. Even so, the swarming cultists came on. Their overwhelming numbers were far too great for the staggering guards to stop. They roared toward the compound like an irresistible avalanche.
Outside the wire, it was going to be no contest. The surging enemy was far too strong and determined. Their numbers were much too great. In little more than a frenetic minute, the slaughter was complete. All twelve soldiers lay dead.
The deranged mayhem outside the nuclear enclosure now over, the twisted ones turned toward the more daunting task. They had to defeat their deft foes within the menacing concertina. They realized this wasn’t going to be easy. They understood that the forty highly skilled defenders protecting the tantalizing bounty would fight until their dying breath.
From their fortified positions surrounding the missiles, the resolute guardians opened fire. Lethal tracers spewing from the ends of their automatic rifles lit up the night as they went forth in search of venomous prey.
Still, the insatiable insurrectionists remained certain that conquest would be theirs. On each of the compound’s four sides, handfuls of cloaked figures rushed forward. They tossed satchel charges at the sharp-edged rows of concertina that blocked their entry into the isolated outpost. Fierce, smoke-filled explosions rocked the trembling night. Huge holes appeared in the disintegrating barriers. Many more scurried forward to press their advantage. They were soon inside the besieged facility. Running shadows were everywhere.
In the north, the main force, nearly half of the interlopers, moved toward the primary entranceway into the compound. The outmanned Strategic Arms Division fighters were waiting. The severe numbers and long odds weren’t going to deter them in the slightest. They’d defend their institution and its invaluable weaponry with immense talent and unyielding determination. Inside the compound, a duo of strategically placed machine guns opened fire on the raging miscreants headed toward the opening. In seconds, the first of the extremists attempting to breach the makeshift roadway lay dead, his chest ripped open by the chattering guns. Additional black figures went down. Rifle fire consumed the night. Exploding hand grenades sent hot metal racing across the battlefield. Disorder reigned. The death toll rose for attacker and defender alike. With exacting accuracy, another satchel charge was hurled by a fury-filled invader. Inside the assailed enclosure, a ten-ton truck exploded. Its consuming blaze erupted, lighting up the horrific scene. Additional explosions quickly followed. The first of the outer tents began to burn. The unyielding intensity of the terrifying firefight consumed the blighted hilltop. It menacingly echoed from the not-so-distant mountaintops. Unrelenting screams of august agony pierced the blighted vista. The dead and dying were everywhere the eye surveyed. The unspeakable savagery of the relentless attack went on unabated. At far distances or at arm’s length, the horror-edged fray consumed them. Five…ten…fifteen minutes passed, with neither of the contestants gaining an advantage.
The embattled protectors fought with incredible bravery. The country they loved might have been falling apart, but that mattered not to any of them. They understood what the consequences would be should the frenzied aggressors seize victory.
Still, the howling rabble were equally fixed. And their numbers were great. Despite their losses, they came on with voracious fervor. They were God’s chosen, and with his immeasurable might they’d annihilate and prevail.
The desperate struggle raged past the half-hour point. Two attackers were succumbing for every plateau soldier who fell. The odds, however, were just too great for the defenders to overcome. Through sheer numbers and unceasing will, the merciless ones began pushing them back. The Strategic Arms Division’s despairing soldiers were pressed into an ever-tightening circle around the fearsome missiles in the center of the compound. The hideous battle continued without pause. With each sordid engagement, with every passing minute, the downcast protectors dwindled until only a fitful few remained.
Another succumbed. And yet another. One by one their numbers dropped until there were no more of those wishing to keep the unspeakable weapons out of the dire assailants’ hands.
As the last soldier fell, the victorious attackers ran into the center of the enclosure, intent on claiming their prize. Their anger unfettered, they soon reached the towering missiles. They’d lost more than half their number, but it was of no importance. Those who’d survived the perverse conflict began to celebrate in earnest, firing long bursts into the air and screaming in rapturous victory. They’d done it. The all-devouring weapons were in their hands.
At their leader’s direction, the triumphant throng began stripping everything of significance from the defeated dead and cannibalizing all of the equipment that remained on the fiery hilltop.
Meter by meter, tent by tent, the grinning victors began a systematic search of their imposing conquest. As the clock neared midnight, the exploration of the crippled compound continued. In a nondescript tent near what had been the complex commander’s headquarters waited an unanticipated bounty. To the elated conquerors’ surprise, the fluttering structure contained twelve crates. As his triumphant fighters gathered around, the Fedayeen’s assault leader pried opened the first of the containers. It only took a moment for him to recognize the enormous secret hidden within. A perverse smile came to his grime-streaked face at his momentous discovery. Inside was a modest-sized tactical nuclear weapon. Each of the remaining eleven crates held a similar treasure. The nasty little weapons were intended for use on the front lines to address short-range targets. Fired from artillery pieces, they were designed to create a nuclear explosion encompassing more than a square mile. They’d instantly destroy everything within that space. The resulting blast and malignant radiation would kill even farther out.
The smiling leader looked toward his second-in-command, the pleasure in his words unmistakable. “Our great leader, Salim Basra, will be quite pleased with what we’ve found hidden in these crates.”
“An immense prize indeed.”
“Now we wait for the launch codes to arrive. Once they’re in our hands, we’ll fire the Shaheen missiles and, along with our comrades, level every city in India.”
“And Allah’s glory will be ours.”
“After our men finish searching the camp, send messengers to locate any of our units nearby. They’re to insist each join us in our sainted mission to protect this plateau. Tell them such orders come directly from Basra. We need at least two hundred more warriors if we’re going to succeed. Three hundred would be even better.”
“It will be done.”
* * *
• • •
Throughout northern Pakistan, the invaders’ conquests were nearly all successful. Along with the tactical nuclear arms discovered at Mishira, the attackers had seized the vast majority of the two hundred nuclear weapons and their accompanying launchers. They were more than adequate to destroy India and kill a significant portion of the neighboring country’s 1.3 billion people. Once fired, they were enough to create an ever-expanding nuclear winter that would lead to the starvation deaths of untold millions across the planet. No corner of the globe would be unaffected.
Until the launch codes arrived, the nuclear missiles were no threat. After the terrorists obtained the firing sequences, however, the horror that an unsuspecting world would face was unmistakable. It would be hours, days at most, before the threat would reach its climax and the world face an undeniable peril. Once the heinous missiles rose from their launch platforms there’d be nothing mankind could do to stop the end result.
With the Pakistani forces in disarray, the immeasurable task of keeping that from happening would fall upon the yet-unaware Americans. And the time remaining to stop incalculable numbers of people from dying was fading.
The clock had reached 12:01.
At the bloodied nuclear sites, the first day of November had arrived.
5
1:37 A.M., NOVEMBER 1
ALPHA COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH MARINE REGIMENT, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
In the middle of the surreal scene, Sam Erickson stood in the center of the queuing relief column. Despite his best efforts, the company commander’s uneasiness showed. With so many innocent lives at stake, he recognized there wasn’t a moment to lose. To have any chance, it was now or never for his Marines. With all haste, they needed to begin the perilous journey.
Erickson turned to look at his gathering force. Without the aid of his night vision equipment he wouldn’t have been able to see more than a few feet in any direction. The sticky fog, as thick and unyielding as any he’d ever witnessed, made sure of that. Yet the enveloping malaise was far from his only worry. For this sinister night held even greater concerns. Within the spanning metropolis, immense fires rose high into the clinging clouds. In every direction, the shattering thunder of the relentless explosions, one after the next, assailed them all. With each passing instant, the flames consuming the city were growing more intense. The horrendous sounds of the nearing battles ebbed and flowed.
What exactly was occurring, Erickson had no way of knowing. Nevertheless, there was no doubt the once-sparkling Pakistani capital was being torn apart. The Fedayeen Islam’s fighters were determined to ensure that not a single structure still stood.
With twelve idling Humvees, 1st and 2nd Platoons were forming on the narrow roadway south of the embassy. Erickson’s eighty-eight-person rescue party would soon be ready. If all went as planned, in no more than half an hour, the lengthy line of well-armed Marines would reach the Marriott.
Swathed in a consuming world of smothering smoke and morose gray, forty-eight Marines would ride to the hotel in the fierce combat vehicles. The remainder of the wary force would be on foot as they rushed to reach those praying for their appearance.
Second Lieutenant Jeffrey Ambrose, 1st Platoon leader, was at the head of the formation. Standing near the thick tree line west of the American compound, he was little more than twenty yards from the Italian embassy. While they marched, Erickson would be positioned one hundred yards behind the column’s leading edge. When the last of his men were ready, Second Lieutenant Zack Marshall, in charge of 2nd Platoon, would take his place at the rear of the relief force.
Behind the forming line, Alpha Company’s final two platoons continued their determined efforts to empty their recently arriving King Stallions and set up a makeshift perimeter. Ghostly figures worked to clear the holds while their comrades went forth to locate solid defensive positions. Cutting through the heavy fog, many rushed about, gathering and carrying the piles of critical supplies toward the huge American complex’s main gate.
At the same moment, inside the embassy grounds, the first four hundred women and children scheduled to leave on the cargo helicopters were being readied for the flight to India. The evacuees represented more than a dozen nationalities.
The opening foray in what would hopefully be thousands of fraught people’s journeys home was minutes away. From each of the area’s retreating embassies, the mothers with the youngest children would be in this initial grouping. Standing inside the American embassy’s protective walls, the apprehensive gathering prepared to leave the harboring complex and cross the parking area to their assigned craft. Steven Gray and a dozen of his men would lead them out and cover their departure.
At the Marriott, the first minute of the first day of November had arrived.
4
11:11 P.M., OCTOBER 31
MISHIRA NUCLEAR ARMAMENTS MOBILE LAUNCH FACILITY
THIRTY MILES SOUTHWEST OF ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
Only the slightest sliver of a waning moon’s faltering autumn light shone down upon the wind-swept plateaus and towering mountains of northeastern Pakistan. The first of the interminable evening’s burgeoning fog was rolling in on the high mesas. Blood-tinged fear dripped upon its moist edges.
In the enveloping darkness and expanding mist, a heavily shaded, black-clothed figure, the leader of a lethal force, moved through the thinning forest of spruce, juniper, and mulberry. He headed toward the thick rows of razor-honed concertina upon the wide plain. After a quick look around, he motioned to his followers. Others, identical in dress, began appearing behind him. Their numbers continued to swell. Each carried an assault rifle, satchel charge, and menacing sword. Each was ready to fight to the death for their consecrated cause.
In all, the determined aggressors measured more than two hundred. They outnumbered their adversary four to one. The imposing force split up. Within minutes they were ready. On all sides of the mobile nuclear weapons launch facility the toxic attackers moved toward their target. Their pitiless onslaught would be swift and brutal. No quarter would be given. No mercy shown.
Throughout Pakistan, scores of similar groupings from the fanatical Fedayeen Islam were doing the same. Their missions were identical: seize the nuclear weapons and control them until their sources obtained the launch codes.
Along with many others, Mishira was now perilously close to the retreating Pakistani army’s crumbling front lines. Scores of nuclear launch facilities should have been moved hours, even days, earlier. The orders to withdraw the launchers from their vulnerable locations and move them to safety in the south had been prepared three days prior. Yet, in the chaos, there’d been a monumental mistake. The directives had never been issued. And the nuclear armaments were there for the taking.
The weapons were no direct threat to the United States or Europe. The missiles didn’t have the range to strike such targets. Yet the powerful rockets’ slaying contents could reach to every corner of India. The trio of nuclear weapons on the Mishira plateau were programmed to strike and annihilate the same city: Mumbai, India’s largest, with its twenty million dwellers.
Outside the menacing wire, a dozen Pakistani soldiers patrolled the quarter-mile perimeter. In the hilltop’s center, the three Shaheen-III missiles, each rising from its sixteen-wheel transporter-erector-launcher, pointed skyward. The deadly missiles towered over the handfuls of billowing tents and the dozen or so stationary military vehicles that surrounded them.
The apprehensive sentries outside the barbed wire, like the majority of the country’s crumbling military and confused citizenry, were dispirited and disillusioned. After their defeat by the reviled Indian forces and India’s seizure of the Kashmir territory, the people’s faith in the Islamic nation’s civilian leadership and its military had all but dissipated. The collapse of the central government and the resulting turmoil had left an immense void that the Fedayeen rushed to exploit. Despite the cruelty of their tactics, a significant portion of the populace, with nowhere to turn, had joined the zealots’ ranks. With lightning speed they were seizing control of wide swaths of the country. The Pakistani military, the seventh largest in the world, with its modern weaponry, was powerless when faced with the popular uprising. Like their government, they, too, were in disarray.
No one could have predicted such a dire turn of events. Pakistan’s civilian leadership had always been questionable. But their armed forces had been a source of tremendous pride and stability in this chaotic corner of the planet. Now even they’d lost the support of most of their countrymen.
* * *
• • •
Sheltered by the night, the determined two hundred edged closer to their prize. Inside the makeshift facility’s grounds, elite Strategic Arms Division soldiers prowled. These were the best of the best within the Pakistani forces. Each had been thoroughly vetted and was exceptionally well trained. Each believed in their critical mission with absolute certainty, even in the perplexing events of the past weeks.
Since their initial nuclear test firing in 1998, the Pakistani government had assured an uneasy world that their policies guaranteed the apocalyptic devices were safe from unwelcome hands. They’d endlessly proclaimed that their measures to safeguard the fearful armaments were more than adequate. Normal policy was for the nuclear warheads and their trigger mechanisms to be separated, rendering their cataclysmic payloads harmless. Yet, as soon as the war with India had begun, the Pakistani nuclear arsenal was assembled and prepared for possible launch. All two hundred fatal armaments were armed and ready. The only thing missing were the launch codes.
The hushed assailants reached the end of the sheltering forest. They were scarcely thirty yards from the stretching wire. A stealthy black figure, his heavily bearded face covered by a matching cloth, slowly unsheathed his glistening, curved sword. The remnants of dried blood clung to the blade’s edges. The moment the guard nearest his position passed, the assassin rushed from the cloaking trees. His lethal weapon was raised high.
The young private heard the approaching footsteps much too late to have any chance. He had little time to turn and none whatsoever to protect himself from the murderous weapon’s blow.
His gruesome task completed, the cold-blooded killer signaled. From every side, the attacking force rushed forward. The fearsome howls of a horrific death for all who opposed them shattered the eerie scene’s uneasy silence. The lethal two hundred raced across the broad mesa. The harrowing force was everywhere the startled defenders looked.
The Pakistani troops scrambled toward their defensive positions. An initial crackle of automatic-rifle fire pierced the ominous darkness. Others soon followed. The hilltop exploded in a riotous calliope of deafening noise and desperate battle.
One of the attackers went down, his death rattle soon upon him. More soon followed. Their fading life’s essence seeped into the plateau’s damp grasses. Yet the illiterate peasants didn’t falter. They raced to seize the immense treasure. No matter how severe their losses, they wouldn’t be dissuaded. Allah’s hand would guide them to a glorious victory. Of that, all were certain.
The ill-prepared regular soldiers outside the wire were soon engaged. Each attempted to fight back. And they most certainly took a toll upon the intense raiders. Even so, the swarming cultists came on. Their overwhelming numbers were far too great for the staggering guards to stop. They roared toward the compound like an irresistible avalanche.
Outside the wire, it was going to be no contest. The surging enemy was far too strong and determined. Their numbers were much too great. In little more than a frenetic minute, the slaughter was complete. All twelve soldiers lay dead.
The deranged mayhem outside the nuclear enclosure now over, the twisted ones turned toward the more daunting task. They had to defeat their deft foes within the menacing concertina. They realized this wasn’t going to be easy. They understood that the forty highly skilled defenders protecting the tantalizing bounty would fight until their dying breath.
From their fortified positions surrounding the missiles, the resolute guardians opened fire. Lethal tracers spewing from the ends of their automatic rifles lit up the night as they went forth in search of venomous prey.
Still, the insatiable insurrectionists remained certain that conquest would be theirs. On each of the compound’s four sides, handfuls of cloaked figures rushed forward. They tossed satchel charges at the sharp-edged rows of concertina that blocked their entry into the isolated outpost. Fierce, smoke-filled explosions rocked the trembling night. Huge holes appeared in the disintegrating barriers. Many more scurried forward to press their advantage. They were soon inside the besieged facility. Running shadows were everywhere.
In the north, the main force, nearly half of the interlopers, moved toward the primary entranceway into the compound. The outmanned Strategic Arms Division fighters were waiting. The severe numbers and long odds weren’t going to deter them in the slightest. They’d defend their institution and its invaluable weaponry with immense talent and unyielding determination. Inside the compound, a duo of strategically placed machine guns opened fire on the raging miscreants headed toward the opening. In seconds, the first of the extremists attempting to breach the makeshift roadway lay dead, his chest ripped open by the chattering guns. Additional black figures went down. Rifle fire consumed the night. Exploding hand grenades sent hot metal racing across the battlefield. Disorder reigned. The death toll rose for attacker and defender alike. With exacting accuracy, another satchel charge was hurled by a fury-filled invader. Inside the assailed enclosure, a ten-ton truck exploded. Its consuming blaze erupted, lighting up the horrific scene. Additional explosions quickly followed. The first of the outer tents began to burn. The unyielding intensity of the terrifying firefight consumed the blighted hilltop. It menacingly echoed from the not-so-distant mountaintops. Unrelenting screams of august agony pierced the blighted vista. The dead and dying were everywhere the eye surveyed. The unspeakable savagery of the relentless attack went on unabated. At far distances or at arm’s length, the horror-edged fray consumed them. Five…ten…fifteen minutes passed, with neither of the contestants gaining an advantage.
The embattled protectors fought with incredible bravery. The country they loved might have been falling apart, but that mattered not to any of them. They understood what the consequences would be should the frenzied aggressors seize victory.
Still, the howling rabble were equally fixed. And their numbers were great. Despite their losses, they came on with voracious fervor. They were God’s chosen, and with his immeasurable might they’d annihilate and prevail.
The desperate struggle raged past the half-hour point. Two attackers were succumbing for every plateau soldier who fell. The odds, however, were just too great for the defenders to overcome. Through sheer numbers and unceasing will, the merciless ones began pushing them back. The Strategic Arms Division’s despairing soldiers were pressed into an ever-tightening circle around the fearsome missiles in the center of the compound. The hideous battle continued without pause. With each sordid engagement, with every passing minute, the downcast protectors dwindled until only a fitful few remained.
Another succumbed. And yet another. One by one their numbers dropped until there were no more of those wishing to keep the unspeakable weapons out of the dire assailants’ hands.
As the last soldier fell, the victorious attackers ran into the center of the enclosure, intent on claiming their prize. Their anger unfettered, they soon reached the towering missiles. They’d lost more than half their number, but it was of no importance. Those who’d survived the perverse conflict began to celebrate in earnest, firing long bursts into the air and screaming in rapturous victory. They’d done it. The all-devouring weapons were in their hands.
At their leader’s direction, the triumphant throng began stripping everything of significance from the defeated dead and cannibalizing all of the equipment that remained on the fiery hilltop.
Meter by meter, tent by tent, the grinning victors began a systematic search of their imposing conquest. As the clock neared midnight, the exploration of the crippled compound continued. In a nondescript tent near what had been the complex commander’s headquarters waited an unanticipated bounty. To the elated conquerors’ surprise, the fluttering structure contained twelve crates. As his triumphant fighters gathered around, the Fedayeen’s assault leader pried opened the first of the containers. It only took a moment for him to recognize the enormous secret hidden within. A perverse smile came to his grime-streaked face at his momentous discovery. Inside was a modest-sized tactical nuclear weapon. Each of the remaining eleven crates held a similar treasure. The nasty little weapons were intended for use on the front lines to address short-range targets. Fired from artillery pieces, they were designed to create a nuclear explosion encompassing more than a square mile. They’d instantly destroy everything within that space. The resulting blast and malignant radiation would kill even farther out.
The smiling leader looked toward his second-in-command, the pleasure in his words unmistakable. “Our great leader, Salim Basra, will be quite pleased with what we’ve found hidden in these crates.”
“An immense prize indeed.”
“Now we wait for the launch codes to arrive. Once they’re in our hands, we’ll fire the Shaheen missiles and, along with our comrades, level every city in India.”
“And Allah’s glory will be ours.”
“After our men finish searching the camp, send messengers to locate any of our units nearby. They’re to insist each join us in our sainted mission to protect this plateau. Tell them such orders come directly from Basra. We need at least two hundred more warriors if we’re going to succeed. Three hundred would be even better.”
“It will be done.”
* * *
• • •
Throughout northern Pakistan, the invaders’ conquests were nearly all successful. Along with the tactical nuclear arms discovered at Mishira, the attackers had seized the vast majority of the two hundred nuclear weapons and their accompanying launchers. They were more than adequate to destroy India and kill a significant portion of the neighboring country’s 1.3 billion people. Once fired, they were enough to create an ever-expanding nuclear winter that would lead to the starvation deaths of untold millions across the planet. No corner of the globe would be unaffected.
Until the launch codes arrived, the nuclear missiles were no threat. After the terrorists obtained the firing sequences, however, the horror that an unsuspecting world would face was unmistakable. It would be hours, days at most, before the threat would reach its climax and the world face an undeniable peril. Once the heinous missiles rose from their launch platforms there’d be nothing mankind could do to stop the end result.
With the Pakistani forces in disarray, the immeasurable task of keeping that from happening would fall upon the yet-unaware Americans. And the time remaining to stop incalculable numbers of people from dying was fading.
The clock had reached 12:01.
At the bloodied nuclear sites, the first day of November had arrived.
5
1:37 A.M., NOVEMBER 1
ALPHA COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, 6TH MARINE REGIMENT, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
In the middle of the surreal scene, Sam Erickson stood in the center of the queuing relief column. Despite his best efforts, the company commander’s uneasiness showed. With so many innocent lives at stake, he recognized there wasn’t a moment to lose. To have any chance, it was now or never for his Marines. With all haste, they needed to begin the perilous journey.
Erickson turned to look at his gathering force. Without the aid of his night vision equipment he wouldn’t have been able to see more than a few feet in any direction. The sticky fog, as thick and unyielding as any he’d ever witnessed, made sure of that. Yet the enveloping malaise was far from his only worry. For this sinister night held even greater concerns. Within the spanning metropolis, immense fires rose high into the clinging clouds. In every direction, the shattering thunder of the relentless explosions, one after the next, assailed them all. With each passing instant, the flames consuming the city were growing more intense. The horrendous sounds of the nearing battles ebbed and flowed.
What exactly was occurring, Erickson had no way of knowing. Nevertheless, there was no doubt the once-sparkling Pakistani capital was being torn apart. The Fedayeen Islam’s fighters were determined to ensure that not a single structure still stood.
With twelve idling Humvees, 1st and 2nd Platoons were forming on the narrow roadway south of the embassy. Erickson’s eighty-eight-person rescue party would soon be ready. If all went as planned, in no more than half an hour, the lengthy line of well-armed Marines would reach the Marriott.
Swathed in a consuming world of smothering smoke and morose gray, forty-eight Marines would ride to the hotel in the fierce combat vehicles. The remainder of the wary force would be on foot as they rushed to reach those praying for their appearance.
Second Lieutenant Jeffrey Ambrose, 1st Platoon leader, was at the head of the formation. Standing near the thick tree line west of the American compound, he was little more than twenty yards from the Italian embassy. While they marched, Erickson would be positioned one hundred yards behind the column’s leading edge. When the last of his men were ready, Second Lieutenant Zack Marshall, in charge of 2nd Platoon, would take his place at the rear of the relief force.
Behind the forming line, Alpha Company’s final two platoons continued their determined efforts to empty their recently arriving King Stallions and set up a makeshift perimeter. Ghostly figures worked to clear the holds while their comrades went forth to locate solid defensive positions. Cutting through the heavy fog, many rushed about, gathering and carrying the piles of critical supplies toward the huge American complex’s main gate.
At the same moment, inside the embassy grounds, the first four hundred women and children scheduled to leave on the cargo helicopters were being readied for the flight to India. The evacuees represented more than a dozen nationalities.
The opening foray in what would hopefully be thousands of fraught people’s journeys home was minutes away. From each of the area’s retreating embassies, the mothers with the youngest children would be in this initial grouping. Standing inside the American embassy’s protective walls, the apprehensive gathering prepared to leave the harboring complex and cross the parking area to their assigned craft. Steven Gray and a dozen of his men would lead them out and cover their departure.
