“Kamal!” Susan shouted. “Look out!” But suddenly she was grabbed from behind. It was al-Khan. He held her tightly by the arms, pressed her toward him, leered hungrily at her, then shoved her forcefully back toward Zuwayy. The Libyan pretender-king grasped her, then said something in a low, soft voice. “What are you doing, Majesty? What is going on?”

“I said, do not worry, my child,” Zuwayy said. “Allah the almighty shall protect all true believers and servants of God.”

Susan spun around until she was facing Kamal, still in Zuwayy’s grasp but being pulled backward, away from her husband. Up ahead of her, one of the strangers who had crashed unchecked through the security line grabbed President Salaam from behind, while another grasped him from in front. Once the man in front had a firm grip on Salaam, the man behind turned, raised his hands, and shouted, “Death to all kuffarl Death to all enemies of God! The Muslim Brotherhood is Allah’s sword of justice this day!”

The man in front of Kamal opened his cloak—and revealed several sticks of explosives and a detonator strapped to his abdomen.

“La!” Susan screamed in Arabic. “Imshi! Get away! Kamal!” She twisted easily away from Zuwayy. One of the paramilitary soldiers beside Zuwayy tried to grab her. She clawed her way free and took a running step toward her shocked husband . .. just as a brilliant flash of light, an impossibly loud explosion of sound, and an incredible blast of heat erupted right in front of her. She had a momentary image of Kamal Ismail Salaam’s body and that of his attacker being blown apart like firecrackers, before a giant invisible force threw her backward and darkness closed over her. . ..

CHAPTER 1

BLYTHEVILLE, ARKANSAS

The dark-clad figure turned, slowly, smoothly, menacingly. The blank, staring eyes were expressionless, robotic. The figure lifted a weapon from the floor, an immense Ml68 six-barreled Vulcan cannon, and pointed it right at Patrick McLanahan. From less than thirty meters away, he could not miss. The cannon, normally mounted on a large vehicle like an armored personnel carrier, could fire hot-dog-sized shells at up to three thousand rounds a minute—there would be nothing left of his body, even after only a one- second burst, to clean up with a sponge.

Patrick heard a clink of metal—the Gatling gun ammunition feed mechanism as the figure adjusted his grip. He couldn’t see a trigger—the Vulcan cannon was normally electrically operated—so he could not even guess when the gun would start firing. It wouldn’t matter anyway—at this range, he’d probably be dead before he heard the sound.