He became aware Abu Bakr was saying something.
“Can you assist in moving the machine closer to the window? For our safety, I want the nozzle outside.”
Moustaph was reluctant, praying he would be forgiven for touching the machine in a greater cause. He was surprised at how easily the large weapon swiveled, the nozzle now inches across the windowsill.
Below, in the dawn’s gray light, Emphani and Andrews saw the protrusion break the plane of the minaret’s side.
“Showtime,” Andrews muttered as he clicked twice on the transmit button of his radio.
They still had to wait, but this time only for seconds. Then they would be executing a plan that worked only with split-second timing.
62
Colonel Wild Bill Hasty tapped gently on the door before a muffled “Come in.”
The “White House” part of the aircraft — the presidential suite, office, and conference room — was located along the starboard of the 747, leaving a hallway along the portside wide enough to accommodate two Secret Service members who were posted there from the time the president entered the plane until the time he left it.
Hasty entered the office section. With its solid wooden desk and heavy leather chairs, there was little to suggest the room was not a normal suite in any office building in the world. Only the muted hum of four General Electric CF6 engines and an occasional tremor of light turbulence suggested otherwise.
As pilot-in-command as well as commanding officer, protocol required that Hasty, not a subordinate, deliver any significant news of the flight.
The president looked up from some papers on the desk, a question on his face. “Yes, Colonel?”
“Looks like we’ll be about forty minutes ahead of schedule, sir.”
The president smiled, always amused at the precision with which things were done aboard this aircraft. “About forty minutes?”
“I’ll have the exact time as soon as the flight engineer completes her recalculations of anticipated ground speed, sir.”
“You have notified the Egyptians of an early arrival?”
“We have, sir. They acknowledged receipt.”
“Sounds as though you and your flight crew have it all under control, Colonel.”
“I believe so.”
The president gave a dismissive nod as he returned to the papers on the desk before him. “Carry on, then.”
Hasty silently slipped back into the hallway.
63
The double clicks told Jason that Emphani and Chief were in place on the western face of the minaret, the side with the window facing away from him that he could not see. An earlier triple radio click had told him Viktor had completed one phase of his assignment and was ready for the next. It should all be over in less than three minutes, 180 seconds Jason knew would stretch into a lifetime.
There was just enough light by now for him not to need the infrared scope. Jason could see the two men ostensibly in conversation just outside the open doorway of the minaret. Four more were scattered within a few feet. None of them seemed interested in joining their fellows inside the mosque as the last of the electrically enhanced muezzin’s chanted adhan, the call to prayer, faded from the loudspeakers mounted on each corner of the mosque. Each man’s loose garments could — and most likely did — conceal an AK-47, which would be of no use to its owner this morning.
Jason placed the scope’s crosshairs on the forehead of the man to the right of the door and took a deep breath, exhaled, took another and held it, held it…
The blast of a .50-caliber rifle or machine gun was stunning in loudness, which was why, under ideal circumstances, the shooter would be wearing some sort of ear protection. So great was the reaction to such a powerful shell, without the unique recoil absorption system of the Barrett, a dislocated shoulder might have been the result.
Jason noticed none of this. A pink mist surrounded the target’s head as the plain-tipped anti-personnel round removed the top third of the man’s skull with near-surgical precision. He was dead seconds before the sound of the shot reached the mosque, and longer than that before his lifeless body hit the ground.
Before Jason could bring the sight to bear again, the remaining guard threw himself into the open doorway of the minaret, fumbling for his weapon as he disappeared behind the mud-brick wall.
Fine with Jason. He had anticipated the move. The next round he had loaded into the Barrett’s clip was silver-tipped armor-piercing incendiary. Focusing the Leupold scope on the edge of the doorway, he could make out the muzzle of an AK-47 poking past the left side. He moved the scope’s sight a few hundredths of an inch left, now seeing nothing but the mottled brown of the dirt building material.
Once again the .50 caliber fired. By the time Jason could bring the scope back, there was a hole the size of a manhole cover in the side of the mosque where a large, wet blob of red dripped down the back wall. Whether the bullet, shards of sun-baked mud, or both had done the job mattered little.
The remaining four men had scattered to what meager cover the courtyard of the mosque offered while firing in every direction, the mark of poorly trained troops. Two were cowering behind the fountain, occasionally taking a shot at imaginary targets. One or two actually hit the hotel’s facade, doing little more than chipping away crumbs of mud. Another, uncertain of the source of the fire, was pressed against the buildings wall in clear sight. The fourth had managed to gain what little shelter the shattered doorway of the minaret provided.
Jason swallowed and withdrew his finger from the trigger. He had to force himself to stop the killing, destroying those people, one man at a time. They had been responsible for 9/11 and Laurin’s death.
But he was not here today to indulge himself in the enjoyment of splattering Al Qaeda brains and intestines against the crude mud brick.
Reluctantly, he stepped away from the Barrett.
64
The shots made Captain Elijah Yahya al Wangam of the National Army of Mali nearly drop his morning coffee. Not that shooting in Timbuktu was that rare. Bandits, FNLA, Tuaregs, Islamic Maghreb, all had made an effort at seizing power in the ethnically diverse and, in al Wangam’s opinion, ungovernable, northern part of the country within the last twelve months. What these people were fighting over, he could not imagine. Sand, stones, mud buildings, a few sheep and goats with an occasional camel. Hardly worth killing people over. Had the politicians in Bamako the intelligence of a pile of camel dung, they would let these people secede in peace and thank them for it.
Now they were at it again, whoever “they” were; and al Wangam and his woefully small garrison would have to restore the peace. He was reaching for the citizens’ band radio just as M’kal, his lieutenant, stuck his head into the room.
“Make sure Paarth is awake and sufficiently sober,” he ordered, referring to the third man on duty that morning, if reporting stumbling and reeking of alcohol could be considered on duty. Yes, he would have loved to fire him, but once again, this decision had to be made in faraway Bamako. “Bring the Suzuki around and make sure the .50 caliber is loaded while I try and raise the off-duty men. We may have a full-scale insurrection on hand.”