FIFTY-ONE

John Gallagher’s counterterrorism team consisted of him, a fellow former FBI agent, a local sheriff’s deputy, and three farmers. That’s all he had to work with. But they were all in position.

Frank Treumeth, Deputy Colwin, and Blackie Horvath were situated on the left side of the clearing, spread out in cross-fire fashion along the flank of the metal barn. Blackie had the high-powered deer rifle with a scope, since Frank and Colwin figured he had kept up with his distance shooting more than they had. Frank had his own handgun and a Western-style Winchester rifle. When Blackie saw it, he kidded Frank and called him “the Rifleman,” after the old black-and-white television western. Colwin was holding the riot-quelling shotgun that he had snatched from his squad car.

Gallagher and Dumpster were on the other side of the clearing, scanning the metal barn. Their angle of aim was forty-five degrees to the front of the barn, the same as Frank’s team on the other side. That way the two teams wouldn’t inadvertently fire at each other.

Dumpster lay behind a bush at the edge of the woods, about twenty yards from Gallagher. He was sighting through the scope of his big .45-caliber rifle. According to the plan, when the armed men appeared, Deputy Colwin would use his bullhorn to shout a warning for them to drop their weapons. After a full two seconds, when they didn’t obey, Dumpster would fire first. He’d try to hit the first gunman in the nearest shoulder. Then he’d fire off a second shot, aiming at whichever man was closest.

Then Blackie would fire, aiming for either the gunman nearest him or any of the men that Dumpster missed, though Blackie said matter-of-factly, “Dumpster doesn’t miss.”

Ruby Horvath with her Remington over-and-under pump-action shotgun was positioned about an eighth of a mile down the long gravel drive that led to the metal barn. That way if the truck got through somehow, she would stop it, though Gallagher was also hoping that Ruby would be clear of any fireworks.

“Call me old-fashioned,” Gallagher cracked, “but I like to keep the womenfolk protected.”

They waited. Ten minutes went by. Twenty minutes. Forty-five. Gallagher started getting restless. He looked at the cars parked in front of the barn. They were empty. And no one was in the white panel truck, which had a sign for a plumbing service painted on its side. He wondered if the bomb had even been loaded yet. What if it had? What if it hadn’t? Each scenario carried its own catastrophic risk, but Gallagher resigned himself to the fact that they would have to play the ball where it lay — wherever that happened to be.

He kept asking himself one question, and it was starting to drive him crazy:

What are they waiting for?

Near Union Beach, New Jersey, the three commandos waited in their SUV, parked near the side of the sewage treatment plant bordering the machine shop. The engine was running. The curved dish of their longrange listening device was pointed at the machine shop, and they were relaying all of the audio to Jim Yaniky who was still positioned miles away. He, in turn, was feeding it to a translation service so that the translation could be bulleted back upstream to the three commandos. The voices were saying:

“The engineers should be ready to board by now.”

“What does the gas gauge on the truck say?”

To that someone answered, “Don’t worry. Filled it yesterday.”

Several references to “Allah.”

Someone asked about the GPS on the truck. Another man said he had checked it out and it worked.

But nothing about a bomb … or their departure time.

The commandos would have to wait.

In his position in a neighboring town, Jim Yaniky tapped his hands on the steering wheel of his Hummer. He gazed out the window at a colored wind sock atop a local deli shop across the street. The wind had picked up. He worried about the quality of the audio feed of the listening device being affected.

Jim looked at the wind sock again. The wind was gusting to the east, in the direction of the ocean.

“Ethan you have no idea … your timing … oh, I don’t know how to describe this …”

“Just start talking, Deb.”

“So are you really in Israel right now? This exact minute?”

“One hundred percent in Tel Aviv. Sitting at the airport. What’s going on? You sound — ”

“Thank You, God,” she whispered, “that Ethan’s here …”

“Deb, talk to me.”

“Dad’s been taken …”

“What do you mean? Taken where?”

“No, taken. Captured. They think by some terror group. Possibly Iranian. I’ve been pleading for more information, but the IDF won’t tell me any more than that … I’ve spoken to my mom, and she doesn’t know anything more either. You know my mom. She just said, ‘Stay put. Stay safe. Let the IDF take care of it.’ ”

Ethan March was stunned. He tried to sort it all out.

Deborah’s voice cracked. “Please come down here.”

“Where?”

“Jerusalem. I’m staying at the King David Hotel. I wanted to head up to IDF headquarters in Tel Aviv to see if I can get more information, but Esther Kinney … a friend … says it’s too dangerous. Tel Aviv and most of Israel is under some kind of alert. Nobody seems to know why. Esther’s husband was wounded in the same attack involving my dad. He’s in a hospital in southern Israel.”

“That explains the chaos I see going on up here in the Tel Aviv airport.”

“Can you get down here?”

“I’ll be there. I’m leaving right now. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

Ethan grabbed his bag and rushed out to the ground-transportation area outside of baggage claim. There was a line of horn-honking cabs and minibuses, all filled, all trying to get out of Ben Gurion Airport and the greater Tel Aviv area. He pleaded with several cabbies, but they all turned him down. Every one of them was crowded to capacity.

Across the boulevard Ethan saw an older man leaning on a car, talking on a cell phone. The car had a sign that said something in Hebrew, but in English it read, “All Israel Tours.”

Ethan threaded his way through the traffic and over to the car.

The man finished his call, clicked it shut, and waved to Ethan. “Sorry, no tours today …”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want a tour. I need a ride — ”

“You and the rest of Israel.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“My friend, I have a wife down at the Kibbutz at Kiryat Anavim and I need to join her. She heard the news, and she’s going crazy. Our country is under an alert.”

“I need to get to Jerusalem.”

The tour guide lifted an eyebrow. “What’s the rush … other than staying alive?”

“My girlfriend is down there in Jerusalem. It’s a long story.”

“If it’s about a woman, the story is always long.”

“Can you take me?”

“I can take you, my friend, as far as Kiryat Anavim, where my home is. It’s right outside Jerusalem.”

“Please, I need to get into Jerusalem, to the King David Hotel …”

Ethan didn’t wait; he tossed his bag into the car, ran around to the passenger side, and hopped in.

The tour guide shook his head at the sky. Then he climbed in behind the wheel and pulled into the traffic.

“You look too young to have hearing problems. I said I could take you to the outskirts of Jerusalem …”

As they slowly snaked through the traffic, Ethan said, “The long story is not about the girl. I’m falling in love with her. That’s just the short story. Haven’t known her for long. But I don’t need to …”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“The real story is that her father is an American military hero … Air Force colonel. He came over here to help Israel. Now he’s in deep trouble; he’s being held by the Iranians. So I need to get to his daughter, to look after her … she’s the woman I’m in love with. There. That’s the long story.”

“And you? Your story?”

“I was in the Air Force with this colonel. He’s true blue. He’s my personal hero.”

“So, this colonel … what kind of ‘help’ was he giving to Israel, exactly?”

“He invents defensive weapons.”

The man drummed his index fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed his head. Then he said, “My name is Nony.” He reached over to shake Ethan’s hand.

“Good to meet you, Nony. My name’s Ethan.”

Nony said, “Okay. So, I think we can make a little side trip into Jerusalem, to the King David Hotel … drop you off before I hightail it back to my condo and my wife. I’ll call her and tell her right now.”

When they finally left the airport and were on Highway 1 southeast to Jerusalem, they looked ahead. Stretching as far as the eye could see was a line of slow-moving cars, also heading to Jerusalem.

“They tell us,” Nony said, ”when we have these air-raid drills to put on our gas masks. But you know what? This won’t be gas. That madman Ahmadinejad has nuclear bombs. Forget about the gas masks …”