PROLOGUE 

 July 7th, 2001, 9:14 AM 

DFW Airport, Dallas, Texas 

 

He pushed up the thatched cover where he had been entombed for the past twenty hours.

The rush of fresh air into his hand-dug tomb tasted good. The sudden assault of Texas sunlight caused his retinas to shrink painfully. 

Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri welcomed each sensation. 

His life expectancy was now being measured in minutes. 

This was jihad, he would be with Allah before this day was out. He rejoiced when he had been chosen for this most important of missions. Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri’s Islamic faith had given him the strength and courage to accept it. 

It would be his fanatical adherence to his faith that would have him sitting with the prophets after the bullets of the non-believers took the only gift worthy of Allah. 

Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri, who had been named, ironically, after the disciple of Mirzh Ali Muhammad of Shiraz, the founder of the pacifist Babis sect, was two hundred meters south of Runway 5A. He stood up and hoisted a Stinger ground-to-air missile launcher to his shoulder. The weapon was close to twenty years old. It had traveled from the United States to Afghanistan in the 80‟s as part of Reagan’s convoluted arms-for-hostages deal. 

It had worked its way to Srpska, where it was stored for seven years. Now, it was back in the US, where, as a single use weapon, it would finally spit its destructive package before casually being tossed aside. 

He heard the pilot spool up the three massive engines of Air Force One. It was the only plane that would be taking off for the next few minutes at this very busy airport. These Americans, Mirza thought, are quite punctual. He knew his chances of killing the president of this Godless country were exactly fifty percent, assuming his Stinger worked properly. The president always traveled with two identical planes to thwart attacks such as the one that was about to occur. 

Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri decided to unleash his missile on the first plane for no other reason than he was anxious to get it over with. He flipped open the safety cover and toggled on the power. 

There was an audible humming and an array of small diodes that told him the Stinger was operative. He was suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. His hands were shaking too. Fortunately, the weapon would be addressing the more delicate aiming chores for him. 

He sighted the Stinger on the now moving Boeing 747-200B as it started to roll down the runway. It took less than two seconds for the internal guidance system to acquire the tremendous heat signature the aircraft was giving off. 

Captain Gerald Larson heard the distinctive beeps generated by the missile warning system built into Air Force One. The last time he had heard those warnings was while jockeying his F/A-18E Hornet over Baghdad during the Gulf War. 

It got his attention then and it got his attention now. Even back in Saudi, however, he never had a missile lock during takeoff! 

His first thought was that there was a malfunction. How the hell could he be painted while on a runway in 

Dallas? Captain Larson had been in the driver’s seat of Air Force One for eighteen months and in the copilot chair for two years prior and had never had anything malfunction. He was flying the best-maintained aircraft in the world. 

Even as he was developing a protocol, his copilot, Captain Shiffman, was running a diagnostic on the cockpit diodes. 

“I’m not seeing any problem here,” he reported. 

“Abort takeoff.” 

Engines were thrown into reverse, wheel brakes were applied and the nose of the plane, which was already light, dove to the tarmac. The eight hundred-thousand-pound craft shuddered to a stop. 

Mirza was confused. Even from his obscured vantage point he could tell it was a dramatic shut down. Having no idea his guidance system had set off a warning in the cockpit he suspected, by some unfortunate turn of events, that he had been compromised. He cursed his impatience and steeled himself against the volley of bullets that would certainly arrive momentarily, dooming his personal jihad to failure. 

But nothing happened. He looked around. There was no movement. The only noise was a chirp from the target acquisition signal of the Stinger. Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri pulled the trigger and unleashed the fury of Allah. 

The missile sprang from its sheath and charged towards the waiting plane. Captain Larson knew immediately what that bright flash meant. This was not the first ground-to-air missile to be shot at him. 

He knew, short of a major and quick malfunction of the weapons guidance system, that it was going to hit his plane and there was nothing he could do about it. Captain Gerald Larson felt very uncomfortable. 

He watched in the same detached perspective one views a developing accident from across a street. Captain Larson had a similar experience on only the second sortie he had flown over Iraq a decade before. A surface-to-air missile had locked on to his plane, making him, he recalled, very uncomfortable then, too. The difference was, while in the air, he could do something about it. 

The missile had acquired the port side engine. Captain Larson admired the true path it was taking. By the time it passed under his cockpit window it seemed to be flying in slow motion, mere yards off the ground. In the superheated speed his mind was operating in, it felt as if it took an extraordinarily long time for the missile to meet the engine. 

But it did. 

The initial explosion blew the engine into thousands of pieces of metal that impregnated the side of the plane, dissecting those in rows twenty-eight through thirty-five. To maximize valuable space aboard the craft, engineers thought to store fuel in the wings. 

The second explosion Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri heard was the twenty-two thousand pounds of fuel in the port side wing erupting. With barely enough time to give thanks to Allah for this wondrous victory, the fuel in the starboard wing exploded.

 Mirza Hoseyn Ali did not hear that third explosion, however, because of the bullet, exactingly delivered by a Secret Service sharp shooter that had opened his head on his port side. 

Within minutes, runway 5A held the smoldering carcass of Air Force One. Engulfed in the carnage was the charred body of the forty-third president of the United States, George W. Bush. 

 

CHAPTER 1

Pre- Apocalypse

July 7, 2001, 10:26 EST 

Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland 

 

Lieutenant General Michael V. Hayden was finally going to have his fourth incisor removed. It had been causing him pain for some weeks now, but every time he made plans to have it addressed, something came up. Today, the world seemed to be in relative peace, so he scheduled the procedure with his oral surgeon for late morning. 

It was no simple matter making the arrangements. 

Michael Hayden was a spook. Not just a spook – Mr. Hayden was the head spook. As director of the National Security Agency, he knew things that could cause the country some embarrassment, if not an outright war, were any of it to slip out while he was under anesthesia. 

While he would be getting the best sleep he’d had in the four years since he’d taken over the NSA, there would have to be two agents, both with the same security clearance as he, watching over the proceedings. As Director Hayden’s classification was Above Top Secret, this necessitated recruiting some very high-placed personnel to sit in on his induced nap. There was a knock on his changing room door. 

“What is it,” he barked with some annoyance as he pulled on a hospital gown. Michael grumpily queried a stern looking nurse earlier as to why he needed to put on a hospital gown for a tooth extraction. 

“Men in your shape are prone to cardiac arrest; we want quick access to your vitals.” He wished he had asked her more nicely. 

“Mike, let me in, there’s been a development.” 

Hayden recognized William Black’s voice. Bill was the Deputy Director. He was one of the two agents assigned to sit in on the procedure. 

Michael pulled his gown on quickly and opened the door. The words “There’s been a development” never suggested good news. 

“What the hell is it, Bill?” He was cranky and feeling foolish standing there with his bare ass hanging out. 

“Air Force One exploded, the president is presumed dead.” 

Christ, Hayden thought. He steadied himself against the door jam and took a breath. President Bush and he had played golf together three weeks ago. 

“Do we know what happened yet?” 

“Preliminary reports are that his plane was struck with a stinger missile while on the tarmac in Dallas. A terrorist was dropped by a Secret Service sharpshooter moments after he lit the stinger off. The body is in a hangar at the airport. The Secret Service guys are searching it, I’ll have a report in a few minutes.” Black took off to arrange for a staff car back to headquarters. 

Michael was already pulling off his hospital gown before the door shut. As he was tying his shoes, Agent Black banged on the door again. 

“Come on in. I’ll be ready in a moment. What do the Service guys know about the shooter?” 

“They haven’t gotten back yet, however, there has been another development.” Bill Black was looking real white. He had to be prompted to give up what he knew. 

“Prime Minister Chretien has been attacked, there are no details yet, this just happened about three minutes ago.” 

Canada had never had a Prime Minister assassinated, who the hell cares enough about Canada to do something like that? One world leader assassinated could be the work of a lone nut, two world leaders assassinated sounded like a sophisticated plot to destabilize the Western World. Lieutenant General Michael V. Hayden knew that he was going to be living with a painful tooth for the near future. 

During the drive back to NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, Director Hayden learned that Prime Minister Chretien was dead, Prince Charles had been unsuccessfully attacked while in Belfast and that the leaders of half a dozen country’s from the former Soviet Union had been assassinated. 

Commissioned in 1917 by an act of congress, Fort Meade was one of sixteen cantonments built for troops drafted to fight in the war to end all wars. Major General Gordon Meade’s defensive strategy at the Battle of Gettysburg was the turning point for the North a little over half a century before, earning him this high honor. 

From World War One, to Korea, to the Gulf War, over four and a half million men have been trained there. 

Five years after being established by a top-secret presidential directive issued by President Truman on November 4th, 1952, the NSA consolidated its headquarters at Fort Meade. An amalgam of earlier intelligence organizations, the National Security Agency was responsible for military and nonmilitary intelligence interests, both domestic and abroad. 

Hayden looked at the marble signpost erected for the visit of President Bush senior in 1991. It was intended to create a “dignified and professional look.” He thought it did just that. His car screamed down Canine Road, siren blaring, making it difficult to hear what Black was saying. 

Within moments, they were pulling up to the headquarters complex. Made up of two high-rise buildings, it was completed and dedicated by President Reagan in 1986. The complex housed logistical and support activities as well as a technical library. 

Michael Hayden gazed out of the large, bulletproof plate-glass window across from his desk. He was tired and in pain. The reflection bouncing back at him from the glass was not that of the man who took over the NSA four years ago. 

His hair never even had a chance to go gray; it just went. While most men his age celebrated losing weight, Michael couldn’t keep it on. He’d had most of his pants taken in twice in a year. 

His formerly round, cherub-like face was now gaunt and his eyeglasses were almost Coke-bottle thick now. Michael Hayden looked and felt considerably older than the fifty-nine years his birth certificate reported. 

Two squirrels were playing tag on the lawn. Surely there were any numbers of children not far from the NSA compound doing the same, oblivious to the drama developing on the world stage. Twelve thousand miles away, there was a group of men with an agenda that would darken their young lives. 

His contemplative moment was abruptly broken by a parade of specialists filing into his office, each with thick folders held tightly to their chests. He knew they had little in the way of hard reconnaissance. 

In a fast-moving crisis such as this, CNN was usually the best place to gather information. Since recent government cut backs, they now had the best assets in the business. He hated that. 

Michael muted the bank of televisions on the wall and joined his agents at the conference table. 

“What do we know so far?” 

Agent Janice Morrow was the first to answer. Her specialty was international terrorism and it was clear that the transpiring situation was right up her alley. 

Thirty-two years as a spook and a two-pack-a-day habit caused her to hit the wall somewhat prematurely. Her stunning looks had been a great asset to her while she was in the field. Beneath the years of stress and self-abuse were the remnants of that beauty. She stubbed out a cigarette and opened her files. 

“It seems that we have a highly affective terrorist attack going on as we speak. The body at DFW belonged to one Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri. He had entered the country legally with a student visa. 

He was twenty-seven years old, lists his residents in Brooklyn, New York and, other than his driver’s license, sixty-two dollars in cash, a library card and two credit cards, he had a single piece of paper in his pocket with the word  – jihad  -written on it. 

We seem to be in a holy war.” 

“Do we have a record on this guy?” The pain in his mouth was no more noticeable now than the beating of his heart. During his stint as Director, Hayden had overseen any number of possible crisis scenarios, war games, really. The one that caused the most difficulty was painfully like the one that was playing out right now. 

“We’ll have something shortly.” Morrow had twenty-eight agents working this. Within the hour she’d know not only where he was from, but when he had his last bowel movement. 

“Terry, bring me up to date on the carnage.” 

Terry Myers had two hundred and three agents reporting directly to him and was embarrassed that everything he was about to tell Director Hayden came right from television reports. 

“There have been attacks on twenty-three world leaders.” He looked down at the papers he had compiled in front of him. “Let’s see, we are acutely aware of the loss of President Bush. Prince Charles has superficial wounds, but his son, William is dead. Chretien up in Canada is dead. Prime Minister Vajpayee of India is in a coma, not expected to live. The Prime Minister of the Republic of Ireland, John Bruton, is no more…” 

He shuffled through his pile of unbound papers, each containing information about a dead or dying head of state. “The Honorable John Howard of Australia survived a failed attack. Simitis of Greece also survived an attack; there is no word on his condition. Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder of Germany is dead.  

“His counterpart in Austria may not have fared any better, reports are sketchy, but Herr Chancellor Klima will not be waltzing any time soon, if ever. That’s it for the majors, so far.” This was a crisis in progress. Every head of state not dead or in a hospital by now was in a bunker somewhere fearing for his or her life. 

“Every country in the former Soviet Union, except for Srpska, has had some sort of an attack. We’re not even positive who’s running a number of those country’s. Even CNN is unclear as to what’s going on out there. And, this late breaking news,” he was looking at one of the muted televisions on the wall, “if President Luzhkov of Russia was in that car, he’s dead too.” 

When faced with such a staggering amount of information, Hayden’s investigative instincts kicked in and he quickly looked for anything that stood out of the norm. “What the hell is going on in Srpska, how did they dodge this?” 

“You’ll recall that there was a coup there almost two months ago, very bloody,” Agent Myers volunteered. “The Muslim party lost almost all its seats in the elections held last spring. There was overwhelming evidence of fraud by the majority Croatian Democratic Alliance. 

“The aggrieved Muslims slaughtered the Serbs. Of course, a few years ago, the Muslims were the object of an ethnic cleansing, courtesy of the Serbs. The Muslims publicly executed the president, Radovan Karadzic, and formed a majority Muslim government. The acting president, Adel Taner An Sari, is the suspected leader of what had been considered a small terrorist organization named Gamat Islamya.” 

The instability in Srpska had been an area of major concern for Terry and his group all spring. 

“The Squad of Terror,” Morrow added. “It started out as a small group working in the Middle East. They seem to be a resurrection of the fanatical Kharijites, dating from the seventh century. Headed by a thug named Mou Stafa Hamza in the early nineties, they were mostly responsible for suicide bombings in Israeli marketplaces. Particularly brutal in that they seemed to target civilians. An Sari took over after Mossad blew Hamza’s head off with an exploding cellphone. Neat little trick, they successfully altered the brain patterns of two big name terrorists that way,” Janice admired the ingenuity demonstrated time and again by her counterparts in Israel. 

“An Sari lived in Bosnia-Hercegovina as a child, emigrated to Syria after his parents were killed. He’s a charismatic leader, very young to be in a position of power.” She looked in a file before her, “Twenty-eight or nine. He’s secretive, as to be expected, we have very little information on him. Under his leadership, Gamat Islamya grew exponentially. 

“Three years ago, he moved back to his home town of Visegrad, where he was able to take a beaten Muslim population and whip them into a powerful political organization. They are quite fanatical. An Sari is a fundamentalist of the Ayatollah Khomeini sort, has a strong hatred for the West and, of course, America in particular. 

“Most fledgling governments welcome diplomatic contact with the US. He wouldn’t let former President Carter across the border… just a minute,” the phone in front of Agent Morrow rang. She listened for a moment. “Keep me up to date.” As she hung up the phone, she looked over to Hayden, “There’s a connection between Mirza Hoseyn Ali Nuri and Gamat Islamya, I’ll have more shortly.” 

“This just in, sir.” Warren Cooper, Hayden’s secretary, charged through the door and handed Hayden a piece of paper. 

He impatiently grabbed it from his hand, he knew it was not good news. “NORAD is reporting a ballistic missile launch outside of Kharkiv, Ukraine.” 

                                                                                                      And then… it all goes wrong.