A cold war stalemate only worked if the US had someone at the helm who was willing to pull the trigger but hesitant to do so. A calculated overreaction, demanded by the American people for supposed atrocities by the Chinese government — like the bombing of an American airliner — would set off a chain reaction that would not stop until it was too late.
Lee McKeon foresaw how it would happen, and Ran had no reason to doubt him.
Chinese cyber experts would do their best to interrupt air defense systems. Ballistic missiles would be sent first, not to land- or sea-based targets, but to space, to destroy communication and military navigational satellites. The next barrage of missiles would rain down on American bases in Japan and South Korea. Chinese nuclear submarines would creep in close enough to fire dozens of Giant Wave nuclear missiles at cities along the west coast of the United States, while ICBMs arced over the North Pole toward New York, Baltimore, and Washington.
Of course, the US would not stand idly by. Theirs was the most potent and deadly air and sea war machine in the world. They would eventually “win,” but it would prove a Pyrrhic victory. Like the great empires of Persia, Rome, Babylon, and Assyria, America was unbeatable — and like all the others she would fall. When she did, Lee McKeon would be there to stomp on her dying neck.
There was something about him, about his vision, that hypnotized Ran. He made her feel like a small child, full of wonder and amazement — the way her father had done, so many years ago when he was teaching her to kill.
She watched as President Drake began to take questions from the media and imagined the time when she could use those skills on him.
Chapter 58
Tang steadied himself in the mid cabin lavatory, sifting the ground aluminum powder through the espresso sieve to remove the larger bits of foil. Rather than risk detection by staying in the crew quarters too long, he’d decided to finish the process in the lavatory.
He held up a sandwich bag containing nearly five tablespoons of the silver powder. Ma Zhen had assured him that would be more than enough, but still, he worried. Their device was so small for such a large aircraft. He agonized over the thought of merely damaging the plane and rotting in American jail where officious men would order him around all day. He might as well be back in China if that happened.
Crippling waves of doubt pressed him down, making it difficult to breathe. Hu had seen a man locate Gao in his seat as if it was known that he was the killer. This fact made Tang wonder if there were cameras on board. And if there were cameras, they might have noticed patterns in movement by now. In any case, there was some kind of policeman on board, possibly an air marshal. The way Hu described him, Tang was certain it was the guizi child’s father. That made sense. He’d had the predatory look of someone who liked to be in charge.
Tang leaned against the counter, clutching the precious bag of metal in his fist as he stared into the mirror. Bloodshot, stricken eyes looked back at him — eyes that had seen death and knew there was nothing but more of the same in his future. There was no escape when he closed them, only the vision of his wife, strangled at the hand of another while he did nothing to stop it. Tang told himself it was for her own good, to stop her suffering, end her struggle — her jihad. But that did not matter now. Reasons were nothing to a bullet in a gun. He sniffed, steeling himself for what lay ahead, and pushed open the door.
Flight attendants seemed to be everywhere when he came out of the lavatory. He’d washed his face and left it damp so it looked like he’d been sick. A balding man met him mid-aisle and gave him an up-and-down look.
“Where are you seated, sir?” the attendant asked.
“Up front,” Tang said. He let his voice tremble slightly. “Is something wrong? I heard there was a murder.”
“We’re taking care of it,” the attendant said. “Return to your seat and stay there.”
Tang nodded meekly, pressing past the much larger man. Ma Zhen had taken Lin’s seat. It was only right. He was the most righteous, the most zealous. But more than that, he understood how the bomb worked. Now that Lin was gone, he should be the one to detonate it. Tang and Hu would act as guards to make certain he was not stopped.
Another flight attendant passed — this one shorter with dark, intrusive eyes. She moved quickly, counting heads and comparing them to a list in her hand. Not being Chinese, she wasn’t likely to know if Lin was a masculine or feminine name. Tang waited until she hustled by, and then passed Ma Zhen the Baggie of aluminum powder.
Tang leaned forward in his seat, resting his head in his hands. They were so close… so incredibly close. He had to succeed now, for the sake of his wife, for the sake of their children. He had never been much of a praying man, but he listened to Ma Zhen’s whispered prayer and found solace in that.
The bomb was brilliant in that it was so rudimentary. In theory, it was much too small to do much more than punch a small hole through the skin of an aircraft as large as the Airbus. But that was the beauty of it. A small hole would be large enough for his needs.
“Your wife destroyed the detonator,” Ma said, nodding to the open backpack on the floor.
Tang’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Don’t worry, my brother,” Ma said. “I have another. I would never trust the success of this mission to a single point of failure. I must make one more trip to the lavatory.” He held a flask discreetly so other passengers couldn’t see it. He needed to mix the aluminum powder with the PETN and then fill the flasks with water — but that would take no time at all.
Tang craned his head around to look toward the back of the plane. All the flight attendants were still moving backwards, focused on their lists.
“Go now,” he said. “I’ll let Hu know to do his part.”
Ma took a deep breath, his normal frown perking slightly. “In five minutes’ time, our pain will be over,” he said. “And I will see you in Paradise, Allah willing.”
“Yes,” Tang said. “Allah willing.” But he could only think of getting to the back so he could watch the guizi child suffer the fate of his wife.
Chapter 59
Quinn stopped at the aft lounge just long enough to make certain Mattie was safe before contacting the captain on the interphone. He explained the ground aluminum powder and its probable use in an explosive device, but went into less detail about the murders since he’d not seen them himself.
Listening in on the conversation with the captain, Gao began to laugh hysterically when Quinn mentioned that one of the victims was an Asian woman, likely Chinese. Half the passengers were of Asian ethnicity so it was hardly standout news.
“Two murders,” Gao said in Mandarin, though he obviously understood English. “Two dead… Double Happiness…”
Quinn’s mouth went dry when he heard the words. He dropped the phone, letting it swing from the cord as he wheeled and grabbed the cackling man by the collar. “What did you say?”
“Double Happiness,” Gao said, quieter now but still grinning. His big head wagged stupidly back and forth as he spoke. “Lin is dead. I think double happiness is no happiness at all.”
Quinn shoved Gao backwards, letting him fall against the stairs, and ran to fling open the curtain where Mattie sat with Madonna Foss. He knelt beside his daughter.
Gao’s bellowing had been easy enough to hear. Quinn hoped the slurred Mandarin had been more difficult for Mattie to understand. The look on her face said he hadn’t been that lucky.
“Is Lin all right?” Mattie said. “I heard that man say ‘double happiness.’ That’s what I drew on the card I made for her. He said the word dead. Is she really dead?”