10:35 / 10:35 A.M. GST
The rattle at the warehouse door had all three men jumping for their guns. Sunlight streamed in, and two silhouettes entered. Abbas sighted up the figures. The door closed, and Abbas saw two men in traditional Emirati clothing. One was striding toward him while the other remained by the door.
“Stop where you are.” Abbas had his AK-74 leveled at the lead man’s chest.
The stranger didn’t slow. “Put down your gun, you fool.”
Abbas recognized the voice. He angled the barrel of his rifle toward the floor. “Who are you? Tell me your name.”
Ignoring the question, the man continued his approach. When he was within three meters, he removed his sunglasses. His eyes sent shivers through Abbas. Those dark, dead orbs had glared at him from behind a black balaclava as he’d lain on the ground earlier that morning, trying to regain his wits. They were the eyes of the man who had humiliated him in front of his own men. The temptation to raise his rifle and regain his pride was great. But he knew that would be foolhardy. Higher stakes were at play today—much bigger than his ego.
“My name is Ahmad al-Qasimi. I was part of your greeting party this morning.”
“I remember.” The inside of his mouth was still raw, and his ribs hurt whenever he breathed too deeply. He had no doubt that al-Qasimi was not this man’s real name. This was no Emirati. He was IRGC through and through.
“Then we can dispense with the pleasantries. Show me what you have done.” Without waiting for Abbas to lead him, al-Qasimi marched to where the Blowfish drones were laid out. Abbas hurried to catch up.
The UAVs were set in five rows of five. Al-Qasimi stopped next to the first one, then squatted and examined it closely. “Talk.”
“As you can see, the batteries have all been tested for full charge and attached. Secured under every drone is an M183 demolition charge. Into each has been inserted a four-detonator bundle. And as you know, they have been programmed to detonate six meters from the building so that the blast radius can expand and not be limited to one or two floors.”
Al-Qasimi nodded in appreciation, and Abbas thought it was probably the closest to a compliment he’d ever dished out. “So you are saying that everything is prepared?”
“It is.” Abbas said it with pride. “At 11:30 we will commence.”
Al-Qasimi checked out the drones once again, then turned to the control station, which held 25 transmitters with wires bundled together and connected to a laptop. A look of stern resolve came across his face. “No need to wait. We will begin the start sequence now.”
10:45 / 10:45 A.M. GST
“This is stupid.” Yossi’s voice came through the coms. “In fact, this is stupider than stupid. It’s like the highest level of stupid that stupid can get.”
Nir had to agree. Just beyond those warehouse doors was probably everything needed to launch a major terrorist attack. Yet here they were outside, sitting on their hands. Time was wasting, and a greater likelihood that more people would die came with every second that passed.
Time is a precious commodity when it comes to operations. It’s a sin to waste it. Besides, sitting and doing nothing is completely against my nature. Okay, then. Let’s make use of this time.
“Everyone, listen up. We’ve all figured out that a terrorist drone attack is about to happen in Dubai. What we don’t know is what the target is.”
“The Burj Khalifa, of course.”
“Okay, Lahav. Why do you say that?”
The man gave an exasperated sigh. “Because I’m not an idiot.”
“Remember our talk about people skills and respecting authority, Lahav?” Nicole said.
“Right. Sorry. Because I’m not an idiot, sir.”
Nir turned to look at Nicole. She just rolled her eyes.
“Elaborate,” said Nir. “Maybe with a little more substance.”
Liora interrupted. “The Burj is an obvious target. Our socially graceless friend here has been going on about the terrorists wanting to make a big statement, which makes perfect sense. And what bigger statement can you make than the Burj Khalifa? If you attack the Atlantis or the Burj Al Arab, you’re essentially duplicating what you did in Abu Dhabi.”
Dafna took over. “Exactly. Our whole premise is that Yas Island was to be a distraction from a bigger attack. Get everybody looking south so you can make the bigger hit to the north. The only thing bigger and more psycho than what they already did is to go after the Burj.”
Nir understood what they were saying, but something still didn’t make sense. “Okay, the Burj. But what can they do to it? It’s not like they can drone the thing into the ground. A UAV is not a 767.”
Only silence came across the coms.
Finally, Nicole spoke up. “While it would be nice to know the why, I don’t think we have enough information to figure that out. Logically speaking, we can pretty well assume the target—the Burj Khalifa. But even that isn’t what really matters. We’re not going to stop this attack at its destination but at its source—right here at this warehouse.”
“Which we can’t do just sitting out here and observing,” Nir grumbled.
“Shh.” Avi was suddenly animated. “Nicole, put your window down. Yaron, turn off the engine.”
Both complied. Avi leaned over the seat into Nicole’s personal space, and she scooted to the left to give him some room.
“You guys hear that?”
Nir closed his eyes and put his head out the window. At first, all he could hear were the sounds coming from a nearby construction yard. Then there it was. Very subtle, like a long bass note underlying the busyness of the rest of the orchestra.
“What do you hear?” Dafna asked from Tel Aviv. But nobody answered her. Nicole and Yaron confirmed they could hear it too.
Then the volume increased exponentially, like someone turning a control knob up to ten. To Nir, the sound was like a massive swarm of bees, and it was emanating from the warehouse.
Filipescu began shouting while staring at his screen. Dima translated. “He says he has signals. Big ones—1,380 MHz. Communication protocol identifies them as Blowfish A2.”
“Of course!” Lahav sounded like he was about to burst. “Makes perfect sense! KSS used the Blowfish A2 in a mortar attack against the Siniya refinery in December.”
“Douăzeci şi cinci! Douăzeci şi cinci!” Filipescu had turned his screen toward Nicole.
“Russkiy,” shouted Dima.
“Dvadtsat’ pyat’!”
Dima looked right at Nir, his eyes big. “Twenty-five military-class UAVs are receiving signal from that warehouse.”
As if to confirm Filipescu’s information, large doors slid open on the side of the warehouse. One by one, Blowfish drones drifted out and shot straight up into the sky. Nir’s eyes followed them a hundred meters, two hundred, five hundred, a thousand, until they were no longer discernable to the naked eye. What was visible as they rose out of sight sent ice through his veins. A package wrapped in brown tape dangled under the empty belly of each drone. Wires wound out from the packages and up to the drones, making them look exactly like what they were—bombs capable of blowing huge, gaping holes into the crowning architectural jewel of the Middle East.