Free Aim and Fire by Cliff Ryder Page A

carry payloads into space. He was well-known in the field, had published papers on aspects of rocket telemetry and aerodynamics and had received awards ranging from business accolades for minority hiring to recognition from a national science organization for advances in fuel efficiency that had been adopted throughout the burgeoning industry.
    He was also one of the deepest cover terrorists working in America.
    Allen had been raised in the strictest sharia ways by his father, who had been one of the founding members of the first American al Qaeda cells, established even before the World Trade Center bombings in 1993. His father had understood the struggle and the sacrifices that would have Aim and Fire
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    to be made, and had chosen to have his son learn from their enemies, to use their own knowledge against them to carry out an attack that would be unlike anything anyone had ever seen. He had changed his name and worked at a factory in Texas, saving every penny he could while indoc-trinating his son.
    Allen had founded Spaceworks with two goals—build a legitimate company with absolutely no ties to any publicly known terrorist operation, and develop the next generation of rocket technology—but for a far more glorious purpose than taking humankind to the stars. His success as a businessman was ironic, since the attack on the United States would come from within, and was being financed, constructed and carried out with backing from the unknowing U.S. government and various venture capitalists.
    “I understand that it arrived before me. May I see it?”
    Narid asked.
    Allen smiled. “Not even here for five minutes and already you’re asking about it. The Barretts arrived safely, as well, glory be to Allah.” Allen went to a locked cabinet, opened it and removed the only item inside, a locked aluminum-sided chest. He brought it out and set it on the desk. “There it is.”
    Narid slowly rose and stood over the case. He flipped the latches and opened the top, revealing the inner workings of the ten-kiloton nuclear weapon that an al Qaeda cell had risked their lives to steal from the Russian arms dealer.
    It was beautiful.
    “We shall fight the pagans all together as they fight us all together, and fight them until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in Allah.”
    Narid bowed his head over the case, and when he raised it again, the tears of true belief shone in his eyes. “My friend, 74

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    we are about to embark on the greatest mission of the jihad our people have ever known. Prepare the installation immediately. In three days, the world will know of our might—and this nation will be forever changed.”
    Narid—whose real name was Sepehr al-Kharzi—
    bowed his head over the case again and intoned his pleasure at seeing his plan coming to fruition, “Allahu Akbar.”
    “God is great.”

    Tracy’s morning hadn’t started well at all. On her way to work, she had picked up the Washington Post to see a below-the-fold headline—DHS Warns Of Potential Water Contamination Plots.
    What the hell—I thought Gilliam said this wasn’t “actionable” enough, she thought. Skimming the article, she found that it delineated exactly what she had laid out in her report. The article painted a chilling picture of what could happen in the event of a water-supply contamination, including the strain on local hospitals and emergency personnel in an area. There were even ominous quotes from Gilliam himself, warning that the DHS “was on top of the situation,” and “already working to strengthen security at waste-treatment plants around the country. This simple plan could incapacitate hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and we must make sure that won’t happen on our soil.”
    Aren’t you the noble mouthpiece, she thought. Of course, there was no mention of the DHS analysis—not that Tracy would have cared. Besides, the tone of the 76

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    article said it all.