Fly by Wire: A Novel by Ward Larsen

quite useless. Like so much here, it was only for show. He made quick work of the fence, and once inside Moustafa pulled his heavy bag through the gap. He then pulled the silenced 9mm Beretta from his pocket. The gun felt awkward, unfamiliar in his hand. He was not an expert in handling weapons, yet Moustafa knew he did not need to be -- the guard carried only a radio.
    He pulled his heavy satchel to a spot outside the building's delivery entrance and left it there. Next to a pair of loading bays was a simple entry door. The guard had passed through earlier--he circled the grounds once or twice each night, always ending back at the front entrance where his podium, comfortable chair, and television were situated. Americans and their television , Moustafa thought.
    The rear door was unlocked and Moustafa eased inside. As had been the case each night, certain lights inside the building were left on -- not the full array, but enough to allow the guard to see clearly. Confirming that the man was not in sight, Moustafa pulled the heavy bag in behind him and closed the door. Leaving the bag, he began to move cautiously toward the front of the building. He saw machinery everywhere, a terrific assortment of metal pipes, hardware, and sheet metal. The smell of machine oil was thick. Moustafa did not know exactly how this place related to the strength of America. He could only trust in Caliph's vision. And in the blessed will of Allah.
    The first thing that drew Moustafa's attention was not a sight, but a sound -- the television. He heard thumping music and a woman's voice shouting strident commands. Moustafa raised his gun. As he rounded a huge wooden crate he saw the guard slumped in his chair. Moustafa's finger trembled on the trigger, but then, against the racket of the television, he heard the most amazing thing. Snoring. The guard was sound asleep. Allah is indeed merciful.
    The man's back was to him, and as Moustafa closed in he saw the television. A group of women, wearing almost no clothing, were dancing in a line, gyrating to the beat of techno music. The women were very healthy, their tanned loins and large breasts straining against skintight coverings. A telephone number was posted at the bottom of the screen. For a moment, Moustafa found he was transfixed, staring at the crazy women. But then he tore his eyes free. Such a strange challenge, a strange temptation. He would not fall prey.
    Moustafa stepped softly toward the guard. He slowly arced his arm upward and aimed at the center of the gray-haired mass only a meter away. Phht. The gun kicked back in Moustafa's hand. He saw the gray head shudder from the bullet's impact. Then the guard slumped and Moustafa saw a hole where the bullet had hit its mark. Blood and tissue had sprayed beyond, splattering across the glowing image of dancing whores. How appropriate. Moustafa raised his arm again. Caliphs instructions were clear -- always make sure. Phht.
    Finished with the guard, Moustafa noticed a small security monitor that alternated views of the place from different cameras. There was also a telephone on a pedestal and a few buttons that might have been alarms. This too had been addressed in his orders. Leave it. It was too complex to deal with properly. And if the next part was done well, none of it would be of any use. Caliph had considered everything. Which was why he had so frustrated the Americans. Why he had become a legend.
    Moustafa retrieved his satchel and went to stand in the middle of the place. He took a few moments to study things in the half light of the cavernous building, sorting through by the guidelines he had been given. Then he went to work.
    Moustafa identified two fifty-five gallon drums marked diesel, and another marked waste oil. He found some empty cardboard boxes, a few pieces of upholstered furniture, and stacked these around the drums. He also found an assortment of small cans that contained -- if the labels could be trusted -- paints, solvents,