Numbered Account

CHAPTER 65

General Dimitri Marchenko checked his watch, then strode across the hangar floor. The time was 1340 hours. Nearly noon in Zurich, where Ali Mevlevi was arranging the transfer of eight hundred million francs to a government account in Alma-Ata, Kazakhstan. He felt a ruffle at the back of his throat and knew his nerves were acting up. He told himself to be patient. Mevlevi was nothing if not exact. He’d probably call at twelve on the nose. No point worrying until then.

Marchenko walked to a circle of soldiers standing guard around the Kopinskaya IV. He saluted, then approached the bomb. The weapon had been placed on a small wooden table a dozen paces from the Sukhoi attack helicopter. It lay on its side; its inferior lid had been removed. Time to program the altitude at which the bomb would detonate.

The pilot of the helicopter stood next to the table. He was a handsome Palestinian smiling broadly while shaking hands with his Kazakh comrades. Marchenko had learned that there had been fierce competition among the pilots to determine who would receive the honor of dropping “Little Joe,” a knock-down-drag-out fight to see who would joyously be vaporized at the moment of detonation.

The pilot described his flight plan to Marchenko. After takeoff, he would keep the aircraft close to the ground to avoid radar, maintaining a fifty-foot ceiling while keeping his airspeed a brisk hundred forty knots. Five miles from the Israeli military post at Chebaa in the hills overlooking the Lebanese border, the chopper would climb to a thousand feet. He would activate the Israeli transponder and pass himself off for one of dozens of routine flights that daily shuttle between Jerusalem and the border outposts.

Once inside Israeli airspace, he would establish a southeasterly course and make for the settlement of Ariel on the occupied West Bank. The distance was short, about sixty-five miles; flying time less than thirty minutes. Approaching Ariel, he would descend to two hundred feet. He had memorized a map of the town and studied dozens of pictures of it. When he had spotted the town’s central synagogue, he would bring the chopper down to fifty feet and detonate the bomb.

Marchenko imagined what the Kopinskaya IV would do to the small settlement. The initial blast would create a crater more than a hundred feet deep and three hundred feet wide. Every man, woman, and child within five hundred yards would be vaporized instantly, as a fireball hotter than the face of the sun roasted their bodies. Farther out, the shock waves would crumble most wooden structures and ignite any others that were still standing. In little over four seconds, the entire settlement of Ariel, and every living being in it, would cease to exist.

Marchenko lifted the nuclear weapon, bringing the LCD nearer his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, realizing that he would be directly responsible for bringing death to over fifteen thousand innocent souls. He scoffed at his wounded conscience. Who in our world is innocent? He programmed the bomb to detonate at an altitude of twenty-five feet. He checked his watch. Ten minutes before twelve in Zurich. Where was Mevlevi?

Marchenko decided to attach the weapon to the helicopter. He did not want any delays once his money had been transferred. Besides, he had to do something to keep moving or else he’d go mad. As soon as he had word from Mevlevi, he would activate the bomb, gather his men, and proceed back to Syria, where their aircraft waited to ferry them home to Alma-Ata, and to a hero’s welcome.

He ordered the chief mechanic to move the weapon to the Sukhoi and to attach it to its right firing pod. The mechanic cradled the Kopinskaya in both hands and marched to the helicopter. Marchenko himself opened the steel claws that normally held an air-to-ground missile while the mechanic fitted the bomb to the pod. The entire process took one minute. All that remained was to enter the proper sequencing code and the bomb would be primed.

Marchenko ordered the pilot to warm up the engines, then walked briskly from the hangar to the concrete bunker that housed Mevlevi’s communications center. He descended two flights of stairs and passed through a four-inch steel door before entering the radio shack. He ordered the soldier on duty to connect him with Ivlov, now positioned just two kilometers north of the Israeli border. A husky voice came on line.

“Ivlov.”

“What is your status?”

Ivlov laughed. “I have three hundred soldiers a stone’s throw from the border. Half of them are wearing more Semtex than clothing. If you don’t give the order to go soon, they’ll cross on their own. To their minds, they’re dead already. We have a battery of Katyusha rockets pointed at the heart of Ebarach. Rodenko has twice as many aimed at New Zion. It’s perfect fighting weather. We’re waiting for the green light. What the hell is going on?”

“Hang on for a few more minutes. I expect the okay anytime.”

Marchenko ended the communication, then returned to the hangar. The determined young pilot had put on his helmet and climbed into the cockpit of the attack helicopter. A minute later, the turbine engine whined as it came to life. The long rotor blades began to turn.

Marchenko looked at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve in Zurich.

Where the hell was Mevlevi? Where was his money?