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The mechanic put the drive in reverse and started backing away. “So you men are Pepsi smugglers?” he asked.
“Is there a radio aboard?” Cabrillo asked.
The mechanic turned a dial on the dash. “What’s your poison?”
“Find the news,” Cabrillo said.
Cabrillo and the mechanic sat in the moonlight, bobbing in the bay.
A CHEVROLET SUBURBAN blew past the Pepsi truck headed in the opposite direction just as the driver exited off the main road onto the one to Jeddah’s port. The driver steered down the road he was instructed to take, then pulled to a stop with the nose of the truck facing the sea. He flashed the lights three times, then waited.
A SHORT DISTANCE out in the water, the tiny red lights from the bow of a boat answered.
“Okay, men,” the driver said, “I’m done here. There’s a boat coming in to get you.”
The first man climbed out of the cab and helped Perkins to the ground. Once the two men had stepped away from the cab, the last man climbed down.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, closing the door.
“I’ll send you the bill,” the driver shouted through the open window as he started his engine and backed out.
The three men made their way out
to the edge of the water just as the Akbar’s shore boat edged itself on land. Cabrillo slipped over the side and helped the three men aboard, then climbed back inside.
“Home, James,” he said to the mechanic.
“How’d you know my name was James?” the mechanic asked, backing away from shore.
As soon as Perkins and his men were safely on board, Cabrillo ordered Joseph to begin steaming north up the coastline at high speed.
ON THE OREGON, Hanley was monitoring the various operations. It was just after 1 A.M. when the truck that had been dispatched to pick up Skutter and his men reported that they had left Medina and were racing toward Jeddah.
The distance was a little less than a hundred miles.
Barring any surprises, part two was almost completed.
Hanley reached for the phone and called Cabrillo.
“Jones met up with the group with the prayer rugs and all is well,” he said. “They have been doused with antiviral agents, given clean clothes, and are now sleeping. Team two in Medina has completed their mission and is on their way toward you now. They should be arriving in a few hours.”
“They found explosives?” Cabrillo asked.
“Apparently enough to level the Prophet’s Mosque,” Hanley said. “They disabled them and left them in the tunnel. The CIA or someone will eventually need to handle that.”
“Then it’s all up to Kasim,” Cabrillo said.
“So it seems.”
AT THAT EXACT instant, Kasim and his team were approaching the mosque containing the Kaaba. Even being U.S. citizens did not provide the team much comfort—they were deep inside a foreign country whose capital punishment was beheading. And they were entering the holiest of the country’s sites for a mission that could be easily mistaken for a terrorist action. The fourteen servicemen and Kasim were very conscious of that fact.
One mistake, one misstep, and the entire operation would unravel.
AT THE SAME time Kasim was walking through one of the gates leading into the courtyard where the Kaaba was sheathed in cloth, a C-17A troop transport plane was lifting off the runway in Qatar. The Boeing-built jet, a replacement for the venerable Lockheed-Martin C-130 prop plane, could carry 102 troops or 169,000 pounds of cargo.
Designed to land on either short or rough dirt airfields, she was manned by a crew of three. The C-17A had a range of three thousand miles and tonight she would need that.
After leaving Qatar on the Persian Gulf, she was scheduled to fly out over the Gulf of Oman and into the Indian Ocean. There she would turn, fly over the Arabian Sea, into the Gulf of Adan, then through the gap between Yemen and Djibouti, Africa, and into the Red Sea. She would loiter there until called or released.
