Free Gauntlet by Richard Aaron Page B

softly stroking his forehead. He had a headache. He needed to relax.
    Two of the engineers looked at each other, nodded, and said as one, “Vijay Mahendra. In Rawalpindi.”
    “Have him contact me,” replied Yousseff. “He can reach me through Rasta, at the number you already have. There must be no delay. We are already in motion. He must meet me at my Islamabad hangar tomorrow at sunrise.” He intentionally used Marak’s nickname — the only name the Emir and his people had been given. In situations like this it was important for Yousseff and his associates to keep their true identities hidden.
    The Emir motioned to one of the young guards who stood on the outside of the chamber. “Go to Jalalabad,” he barked in sharp tones. “Immediately. Go to our people there and contact Vijay by telephone to give him the directions. Tell him it is my command.”
    “Yes, Emir,” came the sharp retort, and the young man was gone.
    Yousseff was already bidding farewell and readying himself for the long trek back to the Islamabad hangar. He wanted to travel alone and work everything out — it was the only way he would be able to organize his thoughts and go over his plans. A golden opportunity had presented itself. The Emir wanted to destroy, to create chaos for the Great Satan, to wage a jihad . He could give the Emir what he desired, and in the process, he could vastly increase his own wealth and empire. He needed to think, to chase the dragon, to plot things out in the fluidity of opium dreams as he always did when he was faced with a big decision.
    “Let the prophet’s words be wings to your feet. And may Allah be with you on this, the most noble of tasks,” the Emir blessed him, smiling in his condescending way.
    Yousseff smiled back. He didn’t care for this half-mad old man and his barren religion. Yousseff cared only about one thing — money. It bought power and safety. This particular plan would bring him an avalanche of money. The $25 million was just a small down payment. Maybe the crazy old man knew this. Maybe they were just using each other. Then again, that was how the game was played, wasn’t it?
    “And may He also be with you,” he replied.
    Yousseff bowed and left the room, the DVD tucked away in an inner pocket of his coat. He thought again of his great battle with Marak so many years ago, and the lesson he had learned. Impossible odds, yes, but with clarity of mind and precise planning he could do this. One shot, and he would be one of the wealthiest and most powerful men on the planet. One shot, one move. And it would not be the move the world was expecting.
    The Emir returned to his upper chamber and sat in meditation, his gaze drifting over the unending peaks of the Hindu Kush. He felt a stirring in his soul. Truly, one day of jihad was better than a thousand years of prayer in the mosque. Much better.
    T HOUSANDS OF MILES to the east, a string of zeroes flashed across the screen of McMurray’s computer.

5
    A T ZERO HOUR the Dell sent an electronic signal to a series port replicator, which forwarded simultaneous signals to the bank of Amptec timers, which in turn sent instantaneous, but much more powerful, signals to the fusing cables. From there the line went to the archipelago of more or less equidistant blasting caps embedded within the monstrous pile of Semtex, and a chemical reaction took place that, notwithstanding its robust disposition, the Dell would not survive.
    The Semtex was an amalgam of two different explosive compounds, PETN and RDX, held together by an oil-based bonding agent. The two chemicals were relatively stable, even combined, and were therefore reasonably safe to handle. The bonding agent gave the material its elasticity, and hence its utility. But when an initial shock such as that provided by the ignition of a blasting cap occurred, the compound became far from stable. The shock would compress the highly explosive material, heating it, and causing dangerous chemical