May 1
Merrick Freight & Storage
159 Tyler Street
Newark, New Jersey
3:16 P.M. EDT
It was an older building, built the way that industrial operations had once needed: thick brick walls, flat tarred roofs—but most importantly now—large windows, each crisscrossed with multiple panes of glass to provide the light which artificial illumination could not then match.
When the building was converted from manufacturing into storage, some of these had been bricked up for both weather protection and overall security.
But not here, on the top floor. Here, the May sunlight poured in, lighting every dusty corner brightly: the benevolence of a western exposure that offered an unobstructed vista almost to the horizon.
Almost. Because slightly to the southwest, the modernistic terminal complex of Newark Liberty International Airport spread wide, commanding the pattern of runways and taxiways and support roadways beneath it.
Hakki Akdari surveyed the scene, squinting as he checked the skies: empty again, as they had been for the previous six hours he had been here—a distinct difference from the usual metronome of landings and takeoffs.
Anything that flies this day will be military, Hakki told himself. Or filled with very important people from their government.
After the successful attack on Washington, one of the first steps ordered had been the grounding of private, commercial, and all other “nonessential” aircraft.
There had been but one exception here. A quarter hour before, a very large and very private jet airplane had ghosted to a landing, its blue and white fuselage prominently emblazoned UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
It had matched one of two pictures, torn from a glossy magazine, that Hakki had found in an unmarked envelope wedged into the door of his van in the pre-dawn hours. There had been a red “x” Magic-Markered across that photo.
But on the second—a helicopter, similarly lettered but with a white cowling over a green fuselage—had been a green-inked checkmark.
He yawned, stretched, checked his watch: 3:16. It had been a long day, though not as long as some of the days he spent preparing döner, mısır, kıymalı börek and other Turkish fast-food delicacies at his small Newark café.
Hours earlier, Hakki had been awakened by the soft buzz of his cell phone, not aware how long it had been ringing. But he knew it was still dark outside, hearing neither traffic noises nor the chirping of any early birds through the open window.
He shook himself partially awake. He had been up quite late; like most in the country, he had been fixated on the televised news coverage over the past twenty-four hours, even if his motivation was vastly more jubilant than that of most fellow viewers.
He flipped open the inexpensive phone; only a number glowed on its undersized screen.
“Excelsior Towing,” he mumbled, despite his grogginess remembering the code phrase that would identify him to the only people who might need to do so.
“I am stalled. Can you send a truck to assist?” The voice had been without accent.
Fully awake now.
“The vehicle is worthless,” the voice continued, “likely a destroyed transmission. I will want you to tow it to a junkyard. Can you do that?”
“I will leave immediately,” Hakki said. “The salvage yard will require all necessary documentation, of course.”
“I have already arranged for the information—the registration, with the needed numbers—to be sent to you, in your vehicle.”
“Very good. Then I will be on my way. You may expect me shortly.”
“I expected no less. The vehicle is just off Ferry Street, at Magazine.”
Hakki repeated the location—meaningless, intentionally far from the airport.
“You may be forced to wait there. Perhaps for some time. Perhaps into the afternoon hours. But I depend on you.”
“Yes. You can. You can depend on me.”
Then, without another word, the phone went silent. Hakki had snapped shut his own, fighting the elation that pulsed through his body.
Then, with calm, he had assembled the items he would need.
They were not many in number: a prayer rug, rolled into a tight cylinder; his copy of the Noble Qur’an, in Anatolian Turkish; a towel and small metal basin, for the ritual washing.
Everything else was already in place at the warehouse, stored and ready.
As he now was.
Hakki dried his hands and forearms, a reverence in his movements.
He rose, stood for a moment of final prayer; then he walked without haste across the rough wooden floor to where the light through the massive windows shone like the gates of Paradise.
The most important item Hakki now adjusted minutely, elevating its launch tube just a touch on the olive-green, tri-legged pedestal: a Swedish-made, laser-guided RBS-70 surface-to-air missile.
He had already calibrated the laser designator, which would project unerringly to the target a beam of unseen photons. Along this beam, the missile—a four-foot-long aircraft-killer, traveling half again the speed of sound—would ride, immune to distracting flares or electronic jamming. At that time, his only concern would be to keep the “pipper dot” centered in the crosshairs and over the inverted “v” of the control unit.
A final step: yes. The proximity fuse was set to the proper position, a Swedish pictogram that indicated “small target.” A direct hit would not be needed, since at a programmed distance the shaped-charge warhead would detonate automatically, sending 3,000 tungsten shrapnel spheres to shred and slice and smash.
He again checked to ensure that all systems were ready, again reassured himself that the missile would pierce through the lattice of glass panes without deflection, and again settled back to wait.