“We have to go through the cow yard,” Tarid added. He’d been born and raised in Tehran and had little tolerance for the beasts. “Your boots will be dirty.”
“A minor inconvenience.”
“Yes, Imam.”
Tarid sped up as they neared the village. Here the security was much better, and the lookouts far less likely to be sleeping. Hidden in the rocks above were two watchmen armed with the latest rocket-propelled grenades available from China. Tarid had not only supplied the rockets, but had figured out where they should be placed to provide maximum coverage. They were the first line of defense for the village, meant to give the machine guns nearby ample targets to fire at. Aware of how easy a target he was, he had no desire to linger.
Tarid was roughly the same age as Aberhadji, but anyone looking at the two men would think him a full generation older. Like Aberhadji, he had fought as a teenager in the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s. But he had been in many more battles, fighting from the very beginning of the conflict to its inconclusive yet bitter end. So many of his friends had died by his side that he often asked Allah, blessed be His name, why he had been spared. Even now he was not sure whether he had been chosen or simply overlooked.
Past the initial lookout points, Tarid hit the brakes and turned into the yard in front of the milk factory, driving past the small sheds toward the barn and processing building at the rear. The two biggest problems for industry anywhere in Africa were power and clean water. Water for the factory, and the rest of the village, came from an underground aquifer at the base of the hills. It was plentiful year-round, and unlike the streams, disease-free.
The village’s electricity was not as dependable. It came from two sources: the regional grid, which had power lines running through the area, and a series of diesel engines, scavenged from train locomotives, adapted and used as generators. These were located at the southeastern end of town, near the highway in a fenced lot protected around the clock by Colonel Zsar’s best troops. But those sources were not enough for the milk factory; it used two large generators of its own to supplement power. A three-month backup supply of diesel oil from Kenya, paid for by Bani Aberhadji, was stored in a lot behind the farm yard.
A guard peered out from the barn door as the Jeeps drove into the yard.
“Why is he hiding?” said Aberhadji. His voice was soft but his tone reproachful.
“It would be unusual to have a guard watching over the plant,” said Tarid. “He is trying to be discreet.”
“If that is his goal, he has achieved the opposite. Better to show himself. This makes it look as if he has something to hide.”
Tarid avoided arguing with Aberhadji, saying instead that they would have to go through a door at the rear of the building.
“No one challenges us?” Aberhadji asked as they got out of the vehicle.
“The men above and the man here recognize the Jeeps,” Tarid repeated. “There are not many vehicles like them in this part of Sudan. They know who I am. To challenge their benefactor would be a great insult.”
“They should challenge us,” insisted Aberhadji. “For form’s sake if nothing else.”
Tarid led him around the back of the building. It was difficult for foreigners, especially those who knew the country’s history of war, to understand the mores here. Tarid had practically had to install locks on the doors himself. The burglar alarm and closed-circuit video were real novelties.
He put his key in the door, though he knew from experience there was only a fifty percent chance the door was actually locked. Inside, he led Aberhadji down a long corridor toward what looked like a storage area. He paused in front of the restroom, then entered. The light flicked on automatically, powered by a sensor.
At the far end of the bathroom, he opened a closet, revealing an inner door. Tarid pushed it open and stepped inside a narrow hallway that sloped gently downward for about twenty feet. A guard stood at the end of the hall, an AK-47 in his hands.
Tarid nodded at the man, whom he recognized from previous visits. The man stepped back, allowing the two Iranians to pass through a thick metal door anchored in the stone of the hill above.
“Careful of the steps,” said Tarid. “The way is not well lit.”
The stairs, cut from the rock, ended at a steel mesh walkway, which extended through a natural cave for a good ten yards. Another guard stood on the metal deck near the end of the walk. He, too, was armed with an AK-47, and he too made way for the Iranians.
Beyond the guard was a Sheetrock wall framed with steel studs. The wall was little more than a year old, but already the dampness had eaten into the plaster and lines of mold were starting to appear, black streaks and freckles that popped through the whitewashed surface.
A doorway opened into the room at the right. To gain entrance, Tarid had to ring a bell at the side. A buzzer sounded, and the lock flew back. He pulled the door open, holding it so Aberhadji could enter.
Six men were working at the far side of the room. They were clad in white lab coats. One wore a lead apron and thick rubber gloves. He was using a large set of prongs to remove a small jar from what looked like an oversized metal oven.
The oven was part of a centrifuge assembly. Aberhadji had arrived at an opportune time—the plant had just received a piece of yellowcake uranium and begun processing it. Ordinarily the facility would be empty at this time of day.
“We should not get much closer,” said Tarid, holding Aberhadji back. “The material is highly toxic. If there is an accident, breathing it would be dangerous.”
In its present state, the refined uranium was not nearly as dangerous as Tarid believed. Nor was it quite pure enough for its ultimate purpose. That would be completed at the next stage of its processing, in a factory in lower Kenya also funded and controlled by Aberhadji. But Aberhadji had no need to go any farther. He had seen all that he wanted to see.
“They work as soon as a shipment comes,” said Tarid. “The work is done in a few days now. Then they relax, until the next one.”
Aberhadji nodded. He was extremely pleased.
“Let us say hello to Colonel Zsar,” he told Tarid. “Then we must go. I have much to do.”
14
Base Camp Alpha
Sudan
THE FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS FOR DANNY AND THE OTHERS at the fake dinosaur dig was to prepare in case Red Henri or the Sudanese army decided to pay another visit. To do that, defense and intelligence had to be strengthened.
The first was accomplished by mounting several automated weapons around the perimeter. Bullet panels and mines were deployed along the road and hooked to a central control station at the house, a small laptop computer. The bullet panels, first developed by the Dreamland weapons team a decade before, were literally that—panels with projectiles that could be individually fired, or launched en masse at an enemy. As originally conceived, the weapon was nonlethal, intended for crowd control. These panels, however, fired the equivalent of magnum rounds, each capable of stopping a 300 pound man and piercing all but the newest body armor. Boston described them to Sugar as “claymores on steroids.”
The mines were meant to make it harder for anyone to launch a flank attack. They were fused to miniature motion detectors, which could be focused by command on specific areas, providing wide or narrow field protection. They could be detonated by radio as well, and included a fail-safe protection circuit “tuned” to the rings the Whiplash members wore. This prevented a Whiplash team member from setting off the mines accidentally—though no one wanted to personally test the circuitry. The mines could also be turned off and on from the central command station.