Shock Warning

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

After Dresden, the fires held no terrors for him. He was the Erlking now, not the boy; the chaser, the pursuer. This whelp, this bastard had bested him, and he could not, would not, rest until he put him in the ground.

As they drove out to the launch site, Skorzeny had seen the Shahed 285s and knew now that scrambling on board one of them was the only way out. And when he saw the Black Hawk, he knew where he must go.

The bastard had her, and he must follow.

The explosions were just starting as he reached the first helicopter. A terrified pilot was already firing it up and making ready to escape.

“You are under my command now,” he intoned. Good. The man recognized him. “You will fly where I tell you. Is that understood?”

Skorzeny spoke with authority. He was a friend of the Islamic Republic. He was a man of parts and property. He also had a gun.

He pointed at the Black Hawk, now soaring away toward the east. “Do you want to be a hero?” he asked the pilot in both French and English. Any educated Iranian spoke one of those Western languages.

The man nodded. “Yes,” he said in English, with a look of understanding in his eyes. Skorzeny might have expected greater resistance, perhaps even greater fear, but this man was docile and cooperative. They were going to get along just fine.

“Get on the radio. I want a fleet. We must chase the Americans and kill them for the insult they have dealt to a holy place. But you must hurry — we must follow.”

The man spoke rapidly into a transmitter as the Shahed rose into the air. It would be no match for the Black Hawk, that he knew, but in numbers there might be strength.

The pilot gave him a thumbs-up and then they were in the air and following the Black Hawk. Skorzeny turned around to see half a dozen more Shaheds following them. As he was now following Devlin. He would follow him to the gates of Hell and beyond if necessary.

Below, fireballs were erupting. And then he saw the Super Hornets, bombing and strafing everything, burying the plant inside the earth forever.

“We’ve got a tail,” said Danny. “Multiple bogies.” He’d picked them up on the radar.

“How long to Desert One?” asked Devlin. He was sitting beside his friend. “We don’t have much time.” Behind them, Maryam and Mlle. Derrida were doing their best to make Amanda Harrington comfortable, but it was a losing battle.

“Half an hour. She’s probably not going to make it,” said Danny.

“We’ll see about that. What about the bogies?”

“Let them tail us. They can’t outrun us. I’ve radioed ahead and alerted the strike force. If these boys want to mix it up, they’re going to be several kinds of sorry.”

Devlin extracted his Android and checked it. The thing had taken a tremendous beating down on the ground, but the son of a bitch still worked. One message:

Devlin thought about his answer for moment, then typed:

“Keep them within sight,” he said to Danny. “I don’t want to lose them.”

“You know we’re leading them right to Desert One.”

“That’s the whole idea. First time farce, second time tragedy, as Marx said.”

“Marx didn’t say that.”

“He would now.”

They were on the Black Hawk’s tail, Skorzeny and his fleet of Shaheds. The pilot was growing increasingly agitated, as reports came in over his radio. Skorzeny had no idea what those reports were, but something was clearly amiss. From time to time the pilot cast a look in his direction, as if they were talking about him, but he saw nothing sinister in the glance. On the other hand, these people did tend to smile just before they cut your throat.

But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was getting her back, and killing him. And if they all died making the attempt, well, it would be a glorious death. A glorious death was something that had never occupied his thoughts much before.

The Black Hawk began to drop down, back into the desert. Skorzeny could tell this was no random location. He was heading somewhere.

The pilot started to jabber in Persian. He seemed very excited about something. He pointed down.

“What is it, man?” shouted Skorzeny.

“Desert One!” he exclaimed. “Desert One!”

So that was it. That would be just like the boy. Symbolism was something Islamic cultures understood; locations and anniversaries were very important to them. Here, at the site of one of America’s most humiliating failures, they were going to make a stand.

“Attack,” shouted Skorzeny. “Attack!” At the first shooting, they would release the passengers and send them scattering into the desert. She could not get far. And he would die.

The pilot squawked away. The other Shaheds, five or six of them, came up and assumed attack formation.

The Black Hawk was on the ground now, a sitting duck.

“Fire,” commanded Skorzeny.

The Shaheds swooped — and then, from out of nowhere, they were riddled with gunfire.

Behind them, five Black Hawks had suddenly appeared. The Shaheds were no match for the Hawks. One went down in flames immediately. Another turned tail and tried to escape, but the Black Hawks cut it off and blew it out of the sky. Another Shahed crashed when its pilot panicked and flew it straight into the ground. Two more were forced down, choosing disgrace over death. Only the chopper with Skorzeny aboard was left in the air.

Two of the Black Hawks flanked Skorzeny’s helicopter and motioned for it to land as well. “Do as they say,” he told the pilot.

“I must not,” said the man. “I have orders never to surrender my helicopter.”

“You don’t have any choice,” Skorzeny informed him. “If you don’t take us down, they will annihilate us.”

“Ah, but I do, infidel,” said the man, who suddenly holding a pistol on him. “The Grand Ayatollah himself has pronounced fatwa on you, and it is my sacred duty to kill you.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Skorzeny with a tone of contempt.

The man fired.

By some holy miracle, he missed. Even though Skorzeny was sitting right beside him, he missed. The shifting wind currents no doubt were to blame, the buffeting the Shahed was receiving from the two Black Hawks near it.

Emanuel Skorzeny had not lived this long without knowing how to take care of himself. Before the man could fire a second shot, he grabbed the gun and wrested it from his hand. He trained the gun on the pilot. “Down,” he said.

Down they went. The Black Hawks saw they were obeying orders and peeled off.

Devlin was waiting for them as they landed. He was alone. Near a piece of charred, rusted, twisted metal, perhaps a piece of the Sea Stallion chopper that had collided with the Hercules transport plane — a memento mori of the debacle. A fine sand mist, kicked up by the helicopters, was starting to fill the air.

Skorzeny didn’t wait. As soon as he hit the ground he raised his weapon and fired at Devlin as the sand enveloped him. He fired again and again, shooting at the ghost he knew must be there.

A blow to the head felled him. The gun flew from his grasp. He felt himself being dragged across the desert, then lashed to something.

“She’s dying,” came the voice. “You’ve killed her. I’m doing my best to save her, but thanks to you it’s probably too late. Live with that, for as long as you live.”

As quickly as it had come up, the sand mist cleared. There was the face he had loathed for so long, mocking him.

“Show me. I must see her.”

“No.”

“I must see her.” He was, he realized, bound to the wreckage and immobilized.

“No,” repeated Devlin.

“Yes,” came a voice behind him.

Held up by Maryam, Emanuelle Derrida, and Danny, Amanda Harrington was making her way toward them. “Look,” she said, pointing up at the sky.

Two images, the Virgin and the Prophet, rapidly descending as night fell.

“You recognize them, don’t you?” said Devlin. “You wanted to change the world with them, to set Muslim against Christian, to set nation against nation. And for what? How much money do you need?”

“It was not for money,” gasped Skorzeny. “Never for money.”

“Then what was it for?” asked Amanda. They lay her down next to Skorzeny, and Emanuelle kissed her gently as she released her.

“It was to end it all,” whispered Skorzeny. “To finally quiet the ghosts.”

“I hear them too,” said Devlin. “Every day. Every night. But I’ve learned that you can never silence them. They go on with us, ’til the end of the time. Until the Last Days.”

“These are the Last Days,” said Skorzeny.

“And I,” said Devlin, “am Malak al-Maut.”

Mary and Mohammed were drawing closer, losing their material shape and turning into pillars of light in the desert, merging, combining into a single beam—

“No!” screamed Skorzeny, understanding. “You can’t.”

“It is finished,” said Devlin. “Amanda, you don’t have to do this. Come with us. You’ll make it.”

“No,” she said, “I won’t. I can’t. Besides, my place is here with him. In expiation for all my sins. And for his.”

They could feel the heat of the approaching lasers — now under American control — dissipating the chill of the desert. Amanda gestured to Danny, who ran over to her. She drew him close:

“Kiss them all for me. Kiss her for me. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them… tell them I’ll pray for them.”

Danny handed her the picture. “Take this with you,” he said.

Devlin lookd at Skorzeny and Amanda. The man was a liar to the end. He was not dying to end it all. In his own twisted way, he was dying for love. He was just too consumed with bitterness to realize it.

“Let’s go,” said Devlin.

The Black Hawks rose and circled as the lasers met, fused. The Shaheds on the ground exploded as the lasers grazed them. Even at this altitude, Devlin could feel the heat rising. In a vision of heaven, he had unleashed hell.

Maryam clung to Devlin as they watched the awful, inevitable progression….

On the ground, Amanda gazed for the last time at the picture, which was gradually curling in her hands. It burst into flames. But she did not feel the heat. Pain could not harm her anymore. Her last vision was not of hellfire, but of redemption. By the time her skin started to char, she was already dead.

Skorzeny screamed as his clothes caught on fire. His hair burned off and then his skin melted away in the terrible heat. And still he screamed, howling curses at the heavens, unrepentant to the last. The only thing left of him was rage.

He was still screaming when Devlin fired a single round from the Viper into his head. “I am the Angel of Death,” he whispered as he pulled the trigger.

“O Mother,” he shouted, “O Father. You are avenged.”

The Black Hawk wafted upward, as if borne aloft on heavenly hands. Then it turned toward the southeast, the Eisenhower, and home, and disappeared into the night.