It was the perfect choice for the perfect mission.
C-4, an abbreviation for Composition 4, was a military-grade plastic explosive, one that was preferred by the U.S. Special Forces because its velocity of detonation was ideal for metalwork. Not only was it malleable, allowing it to be molded into specific shapes or wedged into the tiniest of spaces, but it was also highly stable. It could be shot, dropped, kicked, or thrown into a fire, but it wasn't going to explode without a detonator. For the past few hours, Schmidt had carried five pounds of it in a shoulder bag and never worried about it blowing up prematurely.
Of course, there were other reasons why he'd selected C-4 for this particular job.
Personal reasons.
Due to its precision, C-4 was frequently used by terrorists, including the bombing of the USS Cole, a guided-missile destroyer refueling in Yemen, and the destruction of the Khobar Towers, a U.S. military housing development in Saudi Arabia where nineteen servicemen were killed. Both of those were horrible tragedies that deserved to be avenged, but in Schmidt's mind, they paled in comparison to the incident at Al-Hada Hospital, where C-4 was used to detonate a fuel truck parked outside the private wing where his men were staying.
That was the attack that fueled his rage.
He thought back to that painful day as he prepared the detonator. For him, it was a simple procedure, one he had done so many times in the past that it was second nature. Like brushing his teeth or tying his shoe. There were no nerves or trepidation. His hands simply did what they were trained to do.
Much like Schmidt himself.
Payne sent the transmission as he and Jones charged up the stairs. "All teams, check in for priority update. Repeat, priority update."
His men responded in turn, waiting to receive the information.
"Jet fuel has been found in the plumbing. Repeat, inside the plumbing. Focus your search on mechanical floors. Tanks and pumps are prime targets. Sweep for explosives."
There was a three-second delay before one of his men spoke. "Are floor numbers known?"
"Negative," Payne answered. "Floor numbers are unknown. But follow pipes when possible. Listen for machinery. Anything to suggest activity."
Jones added, "Maps might be posted in stairs or elevators. Check there before entry."
Payne nodded. It was a good suggestion. "Good luck."
The man they called Luke was positioned high above the central plaza, giving him a bird's-eye view of the entire complex. Up there, he felt like God sitting on his golden throne because he decided who lived and who died.
Staring through his sniper's scope, he made his decision.
Death would come swiftly.
With the ball of his finger, he eased the trigger back, careful not to jerk his rifle. The bullet was discharged at three thousand feet per second and slammed into the base of the target's skull, entering the cerebellum and instantly stopping his motor skills. Pink mist erupted in the lobby as one of Payne's soldiers fell to the floor.
Luke flicked his wrist, ejecting the spent casing before he chambered a new round.
The Arab American never heard the shot. One moment his partner was jogging in front of him, the next he was falling in a violent burst of blood.
Stunned by the development, he reacted the way most people would: he rushed to his friend's side, hoping he could help. Unfortunately, it was a choice that ended his life.
The second shot arrived eight seconds later. Same pinpoint accuracy, same maximum devastation. It punctured iiis red-and-white headdress, entered his skin and skull, then exited the other side, taking chunks of brain with it.
Two dead men in one messy pile.
Payne spotted them across the lobby and shoved Jones behind a thick stone pillar that shielded them from a frontal assault. They peeked around the corner, soaking in the details of the scene, trying to understand what had happened.
"Sniper," guessed Jones, who was familiar with their techniques because he had trained as one before the MANIACs. He scanned the terrain, searching for possible positioning. "Somewhere high, but not too high. Range is too tough to gauge."
Payne listened as he swore under his breath, blaming himself for their deaths.
"Maybe in the hotel. Probably near an exit point."
"What?" Payne asked, trying to focus on what was said. "Which exit?"
Jones pointed toward the tower above them. Of all the buildings, it had the least amount of work done. Nothing more than a steel and concrete skeleton rising five hundred feet into the sky. Not even a third of its intended height. "Up there somewhere."
Payne glanced up. Most of the building was hidden from view, blocked by a large overhang that would eventually support the atrium in the mall. Right now there was no glass, just an empty space that opened to the heavens above. "How'd he get there?"
"Construction elevator. No way he walked it. Snipers need to control their breathing to get a precise shot. That doesn't happen if you're out of breath."
"So he's just sitting up there, waiting to pick us off?"
"Probably."
"Which means he isn't placing a charge."
"Probably not."
"Then we have to leave him," Payne said with regret. "At this point it's all about the math. Bombs can kill a lot more people than the sniper, so we have to focus on the bombs."
Jones nodded in agreement. "Where do you want me?"
"Take building three. I'll warn the men, then slip around back to building two."
Jones turned to leave, then suddenly stopped. "Hey, Jon."
"Yeah?"
"If you find Schmidt, don't focus on the past. Don't hesitate."
Payne shook his head. "Don't worry. I won't."
46
They surged toward Mecca like a dust storm sweeping in from the desert. It started with a slow trickle, a few hundred people who left Tent City right after their required duties, closely followed by a flood of 2.4 million pilgrims, all of them looking to fulfill their hajj obligations.
Payne saw them in the distance on Pedestrian Road, the main route from Mount Arafat, as he rode up the construction elevator attached to the eastern end of Hajar (building two). The crowd's movement was like a ticking clock, for he knew Schmidt would coordinate his attack with their arrival. Thankfully, they were still a mile away, which gave Payne twenty minutes to find the explosives and render them useless.
Floors whizzed by as the open-air elevator continued to rise. One hand on the remote control and one hand on his gun, Payne slowed his ascent as he approached the top floor, more than eight hundred feet above the plaza. Before exiting, he scanned the rooftop, focusing on the corners, making sure he wasn't walking into an ambush.
"Checking roof two," he whispered.
Every few minutes his earpiece would buzz with the latest update from his squad. So far, no luck in any of the towers. No sightings. No discoveries. No explosives. Nothing but two dead soldiers and nothing to show for it.