Atomic Fracture. Don Pendleton

“Can I tell you something, Mani?” he said, whispering almost as softly as Catherine had done.

      “Of course,” Mussawi said, letting his eyebrows furrow slightly to show concern.

      “It’s a little embarrassing,” Karns said, then cleared his throat. “But I didn’t like you much at first. I suppose I was something of a bigot. Especially after 9/11, I looked at all Arabs with suspicion. Even hated them.” He coughed a little nervously, then went on. “But we’ve been pals for what now? Ten years or so?”

      “Something like that,” Mussawi said. He feigned interest. He’d heard the same no-longer-a-racist speech from several other men and women who worked at the facility, and knew practically word for word, what was coming.

      “Well,” said Karns, “you’ve changed my attitude.”

      And now I know we’re all brothers under the skin, Mussawi mentally predicted would be the man’s next words.

      “You’ve made me realize we’re all the same no matter what we look like,” said Karns.

      “We’re all individuals regardless of our ethnic backgrounds. Some people are good, some bad. But we’re all brothers and sisters.”

      More elaborate than usual, Mussawi thought, but essentially the same self-serving speech. “That is a great compliment, Sarge,” he said. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome,” Karns said before walking away.

      Mussawi returned to his computer screen and keyboard. As quickly as he could, he moved through the next complex set of checks and balances to access the twelve backpack nukes that were to be shipped to Florida.

      Twelve. An even dozen. Mussawi’s hand moved to the cross suspended around his neck. Twelve was also the same number as the apostles of the Jesus that Hilderbrand kept trying to sell him on.

      Mussawi made several more entries to the file. And one deletion. And when he was through, only ten of the original dozen nuclear weapons had been cleared for shipment from the Colorado Springs facility.

      The other two had simply disappeared, as if they’d never existed.

      Mussawi sat back and clasped his hands behind his head, stretching his back as his most genuine smile of the day curled his lips upward. It was impossible to completely erase the trail he had left in his wake. His deception would be discovered. But today was Friday, and it would be Monday—at the soonest—before the backpack nukes would be missed. And by then he would be long gone from this facility in the side of the mountain.

      With the two missing nukes. On his way home to Radestan.

      As if ordered by God himself, Ralph Perkins—Mussawi’s direct supervisor—walked past as Mussawi closed his files and made his screen go black. “Ralph,” he said, his voice sounding slightly weak. “I am not feeling so good.”

      Perkins stopped in his tracks, then took a slight step back from Mussawi’s desk. “What are your symptoms?” he asked.

      “Nausea. Sore throat. And it feels like a headache’s coming on.”

      “There’s a lot of flu going around,” Perkins said. He glanced at an air duct in the ceiling. “Get out of here before it circulates through the vents and makes everybody else sick, too.”

      Mussawi nodded, stood and started toward the door. He wanted very badly to smile again. But it would not fit the illusion of pain and illness he had just created. So he looked down at his feet, shuffling slightly as he walked.

      In his heart, however, he celebrated.

      Now it was time for the final leg of his mission. The fulfillment of the destiny God had for him. He had been placed here as a mole more than fifteen years ago. To do exactly what, he had not then known. His job had been to lie low and wait for orders when the correct opportunity arose.

      And finally that opportunity had arisen. The insane political correctness and tolerance of all belief systems that had infected America like the HIV virus had made it possible. Political correctness had been the most crucial element in the sham he had just pulled off.

      Americans were so afraid they might offend someone that they opened themselves up to all manner of attack.

      Mussawi reached the elevator in the hallway and pressed the up button. As he waited, he thought of a passage he had read in a philosophy class years before when he’d still been an undergraduate student at Yale. It had been by Friedrich Nietzsche, an atheist who God would banish forever into the tortures of Hades. But like all nonbelievers, Nietzsche had mixed truth with blasphemy to confuse the righteous. And one of those truths came back to Mussawi now.

      Mussawi could not quote the philosopher verbatim but essentially Nietzsche had said that when a nation reaches a certain level of power it begins to feel sorry for, and sympathizes with, its enemies.

      Which was exactly what the United States of America was doing right now.

      As the elevator doors opened and Mussawi began what would be his final exit from the nuclear storage facility, the irony of it all struck him and, now alone, he laughed out loud. For years the Americans had worried that nuclear weapons might be smuggled into their beloved country. What was about to happen, however, was just the opposite.

      Mussawi was about to smuggle two nukes out of the United States. They would go to Radestan. One would be set off in the desert as a demonstration of power. The other would then be used as a bargaining chip. A big bargaining chip. His Islamic freedom-fighting brothers would threaten to detonate the other backpack nuke in downtown Ramesh if the current president did not immediately step down and turn the country over to al Qaeda.

      The mole rode upward in the elevator, watching the numbers above the door light up, then go dark again as he passed each floor. The situation would never get to the point where Ramesh had to be destroyed; Emad Nosiar had assured him of that. The current government was weak, and the president would give in. There would be no need for the second bomb. No innocents would die.

      Mussawi whistled the “Star Spangled Banner” softly as he walked toward his car. Nazis, Communists, Islamic terrorists—none of them could ever really bring down the United States. Not completely, anyway. But his adopted country was about to implode when it was discovered that the nukes going to Radestan had come from America.

      Because Nietzsche had been right. The U.S. felt so guilty that they were successful that they tried to make up for it with political correctness.And political correctness would be the downfall of the United States.

      Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

      AARON “THE BEAR” Kurtzman grasped the arms of his wheelchair and swiveled it slightly as he picked up the telephone next to the computer. Stony Man Farm’s number-one cyber expert pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yeah, Hal?” he said into the mouthpiece.

      “I’m on my way in,” Brognola advised in his familiar, deep, level voice. In the background Kurtzman could hear the rotor hum of what he knew must be a helicopter.

      “I’ll be here,” Kurtzman said, then hung up the phone.

      Fifteen minutes later Hal Brognola came through the door to the Farm’s Computer Room and walked up the wheelchair ramp that led to Kurtzman’s long bank of computers. Clamped between Brognola’s teeth was the stub of a well-chewed cigar—one of his trademarks.

      The atmosphere at the top-secret counterterrorist facility known as Stony Man Farm was serious but familiar. Each individual who worked out of the Farm was a top expert in his or her field, and everyone else was aware of that fact. So while there was still a sort of paramilitary order to be followed, the warriors—both on the home front and in the field—were on a first-name basis with one another thanks to mutual respect.

      So when Kurtzman said, “Hello, Mr. Director,” over his shoulder without looking toward Brognola or stopping his fingers, which were flying across the keyboard, it came out sounding more like a nickname than a title.

      “Ah,”