Chương 133: Chapter 132: The Lion of Panjshir (09/09/2001 | 11:45 PM PST)

DATE: Sunday, September 9, 2001 LOCATION: Takhar Province, Afghanistan (Via San Diego Arcology) LOCAL TIME: 11: 45 AM AFT (Saturday 11: 45 PM PST) The party in the Canopy was winding down. The executives were finishing their champagne, entirely unaware of the invisible clock ticking down to Tuesday morning. I wasn't in the penthouse. I was back in the hyper-cooled isolation of the Archive, staring at a satellite feed of a dusty compound in Khwaja Bahauddin.

"The board is set for Tuesday, Boss," Richard Marcinko's voice rasped over the comms. He was in Bahrain, coordinating the Red Cell operators for the airport intercepts.

"But you've got me staring at a mud-brick safehouse in the Panjshir Valley. Why are we babysitting the Northern Alliance?"

"Because history hinges on a camera battery, Dick," I said, my fingers flying across the terminal. In my original timeline, today was the day the Lion of Panjshir died. Ahmad Shah Massoud was the only man holding the Taliban back from total control of Afghanistan. Osama bin Laden knew that after the planes hit the towers on Tuesday, the Americans would come looking for blood. He needed the Taliban to shelter him, so he offered them a gift: Massoud's head.

"Two Tunisians using stolen Belgian passports," I explained, pulling up their heavily monitored travel logs.

"They are sitting in that compound right now, waiting to interview Massoud. They have military-grade explosives packed into the chassis of their Sony Betacam." Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

"I can have a Predator drone put a Hellfire missile through the roof in four minutes," Marcinko offered.

"No," I said instantly.

"A strike in Northern Alliance territory alerts Bin Laden that he has a leak in his network. He spooks, he changes his timeline, and we lose track of the nineteen men boarding planes in the US. We have to stop the assassination without Al-Qaeda realizing it was sabotage." I pulled up the logistics ledger. It was the same principle I'd used to stop the LA Riots by cracking a spark plug: leverage through physics.

"Status of the localized EMP asset?"

"Positioned," Marcinko replied.

"A Fractal-funded Northern Alliance supply truck is parked adjacent to the journalists' quarters. Our operative has armed the directional electromagnetic pulse emitter hidden in the spare tire."

"Trigger it." Three thousand miles away, a silent, invisible wave of electromagnetic energy washed through the mud walls of the Afghan safehouse.

"EMP deployed," Marcinko confirmed.

"Blast radius contained to a six-meter cone. It fried every unshielded microchip in the room." I leaned back, watching the thermal feed. The explosives inside the camera were physically intact—the C4 hadn't magically disappeared—but the electronic detonator, that delicate digital trigger wired to the record button, was now a useless brick. Half an hour later, the thermal feed showed the two assassins being led into a room with Massoud. They set up the tripod. They aimed the lens.

They pressed the button to blow the Lion of Panjshir to pieces. Nothing happened. I watched the thermal blooms of the assassins spike with sudden, frantic panic as they mashed the button again and again.

"They're realizing it's dead," Marcinko chuckled.

"Massoud's guards are going to wonder why these 'journalists' are sweating through their shirts."

"Let Massoud's intelligence officers figure out the rest," I said, terminating the feed.

"The assassination failed. Bin Laden doesn't get to buy the Taliban's loyalty today. When the dust settles next week, the Northern Alliance will be strong, angry, and ready to help us hunt." I closed the terminal, a cold sense of satisfaction settling in my chest. I had just saved the most important man in the region with a glorified radio jammer. I was effectively editing the 21st century in real-time, and I hadn't missed a single beat. I was untouchable.