Read Online Armageddon Conspiracy by john thompson - Free Book Online
Authors: john thompson
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expose himself like this, but he detested the ship’s confinement and the sea’s constant smell of putrefaction. He craved the sensation of wide-open space. He believed Allah would not deny him this moment.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar thump and whoosh, the unmistakablesound of a heavy mortar being fired. It came from someplace to his right. He reacted instantly, dropping to his belly, bracing for the explosion that would follow, while he heard Naif and Mohammed inside the salon do the same. Only, when the explosion came, there was no destruction, only a huge blossom of colored sparks in the sky overhead.
All three men crawled to the salon windows on the port side and squatted with their eyes pressed to small slits in the Venetian blinds as the line of fireworks barges sent rocket after rocket into the air. It was beautiful, Abu Sayeed thought, even though the sound of the explosions churned his stomach.
A moment later as they approached the dock, they could see the shoreline and Biddle’s mansion and a crowd of guests in a large tent. Servers dressed in dark pants and white shirts scurried like worker ants, carrying trays to and from a nearby preparation tent.
Abu Sayeed let out a tense breath. So far, the execution had been flawless. The container had been floating at almost the exact intended coordinates, the beacon had worked perfectly, and they’d picked up Mohammed and the missiles at around two that afternoon. Now, all three of them were dressed like the servers. It was a clever way to bring everything to shore.
The hundred-foot Hatteras reversed engines, the bow thrusters engaged, and they bumped gently against padded pilings. The mate and captain were the same two men who had delivered the cases of Coke in Penn Station and served as Biddle’s bodyguards in Paris. Abu Sayeed had taken pains to keep them separated from his men. When they were all in the same small space for even a short time, he could feel a fog of inchoate violence start to gather.
He heard one of Biddle’s men jump onto to the dock where he secured the lines and fixed the gangplank. The other one shut down the engines, and Abu Sayeed tensed as he awaited their signal.
Several minutes passed. Finally, footsteps came up the gangplank. It was the red-haired guard. “Follow me!” he snapped. As Abu Sayeed came off the yacht, he spotted Biddle’s other man far ahead on the shore, positioned where he would be able to turn back curious guests.
At Abu Sayeed’s soft whistle, Naif and Mohammed brought one of the two missile crates off the yacht. Abu Sayeed walked ahead of them with a tablecloth folded over his arm, his silenced Heckler & Koch MP5A3 sub-machine gun beneath. Anyone who noticed them would assume they were carrying party supplies.
The ground lights near the dock had been turned off, and when they entered the pool of shadow, Biddle’s men led them away from the party. They passed through a narrow opening in a tall hedge and came into a brick courtyard between a garage and a stone cottage with heavy slate roof.
Biddle’s man unlocked the cottage, handed Abu Sayeed the key, and the three Arabs hurried inside. They put the crate in the small living room. Abu Sayeed re-locked the door before they returned for the second crate and the heavy duffel that held their extra weapons and ammunition.
When they finished unloading, the larger of Biddle’s men loomed in the cottage doorway. “Keep the curtains closed and the noise down,” he ordered. “Stay inside until morning. Even then don’t go beyond the hedges. Mr. Biddle has private security, and they mustn’t know you’re here.” He pointed to a walkie-talkie on the dining table. “We’ll call before we come. Otherwise, don’t answer the door.”
Abu Sayeed felt a cold rage in his stomach at the man’s tone. He glanced around, saw calm in Naif’s eyes but blind hatred in Mohammed’s. He put his hand on Mohammed’s arm and squeezed until a level of self-control began
Suddenly, he heard a familiar thump and whoosh, the unmistakablesound of a heavy mortar being fired. It came from someplace to his right. He reacted instantly, dropping to his belly, bracing for the explosion that would follow, while he heard Naif and Mohammed inside the salon do the same. Only, when the explosion came, there was no destruction, only a huge blossom of colored sparks in the sky overhead.
All three men crawled to the salon windows on the port side and squatted with their eyes pressed to small slits in the Venetian blinds as the line of fireworks barges sent rocket after rocket into the air. It was beautiful, Abu Sayeed thought, even though the sound of the explosions churned his stomach.
A moment later as they approached the dock, they could see the shoreline and Biddle’s mansion and a crowd of guests in a large tent. Servers dressed in dark pants and white shirts scurried like worker ants, carrying trays to and from a nearby preparation tent.
Abu Sayeed let out a tense breath. So far, the execution had been flawless. The container had been floating at almost the exact intended coordinates, the beacon had worked perfectly, and they’d picked up Mohammed and the missiles at around two that afternoon. Now, all three of them were dressed like the servers. It was a clever way to bring everything to shore.
The hundred-foot Hatteras reversed engines, the bow thrusters engaged, and they bumped gently against padded pilings. The mate and captain were the same two men who had delivered the cases of Coke in Penn Station and served as Biddle’s bodyguards in Paris. Abu Sayeed had taken pains to keep them separated from his men. When they were all in the same small space for even a short time, he could feel a fog of inchoate violence start to gather.
He heard one of Biddle’s men jump onto to the dock where he secured the lines and fixed the gangplank. The other one shut down the engines, and Abu Sayeed tensed as he awaited their signal.
Several minutes passed. Finally, footsteps came up the gangplank. It was the red-haired guard. “Follow me!” he snapped. As Abu Sayeed came off the yacht, he spotted Biddle’s other man far ahead on the shore, positioned where he would be able to turn back curious guests.
At Abu Sayeed’s soft whistle, Naif and Mohammed brought one of the two missile crates off the yacht. Abu Sayeed walked ahead of them with a tablecloth folded over his arm, his silenced Heckler & Koch MP5A3 sub-machine gun beneath. Anyone who noticed them would assume they were carrying party supplies.
The ground lights near the dock had been turned off, and when they entered the pool of shadow, Biddle’s men led them away from the party. They passed through a narrow opening in a tall hedge and came into a brick courtyard between a garage and a stone cottage with heavy slate roof.
Biddle’s man unlocked the cottage, handed Abu Sayeed the key, and the three Arabs hurried inside. They put the crate in the small living room. Abu Sayeed re-locked the door before they returned for the second crate and the heavy duffel that held their extra weapons and ammunition.
When they finished unloading, the larger of Biddle’s men loomed in the cottage doorway. “Keep the curtains closed and the noise down,” he ordered. “Stay inside until morning. Even then don’t go beyond the hedges. Mr. Biddle has private security, and they mustn’t know you’re here.” He pointed to a walkie-talkie on the dining table. “We’ll call before we come. Otherwise, don’t answer the door.”
Abu Sayeed felt a cold rage in his stomach at the man’s tone. He glanced around, saw calm in Naif’s eyes but blind hatred in Mohammed’s. He put his hand on Mohammed’s arm and squeezed until a level of self-control began
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