by Joseph Badal
Michael and Morrell bookended the man. He cursed in Farsi.
“What did he say?” Morrell asked.
Michael said, “I’ll tell you later. I don’t want you to get angry and do to his head what you did to that door handle.”
“That bad?”
“Yep.”
“When is Wyncourt supposed to launch missiles at us?”
“2300 hours.”
“Well, isn’t that a coincidence?”
CHAPTER 81
Boukali rifled through the SUV’s center console and found a cell phone. “Please don’t be password protected,” he muttered. He pushed the power button and the phone sprang to life. “Thank you, Allah,” he intoned. He dialed General Qasem Kashkari’s cell phone number from memory and drummed his fingers on the edge of the steering wheel while he waited.
“Ye-e-s?”
“It’s Ahmed.”
“I don’t recognize your phone,” Kashkari said.
“I appropriated it because I had to destroy my phone.”
“What’s your status? Make it quick.”
“We didn’t know the target had been moved outside the bay until it was too late to change course. We offloaded the oil and turned the ship around. It’s now on its way toward the target.”
“When can I expect an event to occur?”
“11 p.m. local time.”
“Is that assured?”
“Absolutely.”
“I hope your assurances are better than they were at Sigonella.”
Boukali heard the connection click off. “Hamal,” he cursed. “These IS people are nothing but ignorant savages.” He wondered why he had allowed himself to get involved with these cretins. Sure, he supported the creation of a new caliphate, but what would life be like with savages in control. Then he laughed and thought: It makes no difference to me, I have more than enough assets to allow me to live in Switzerland or the Caribbean.
Conrad Demetruk at the NSA hung up his office phone and felt a wave of warmth wash over him. He dialed a number. His legs shook with excitement as he waited for Raymond Gallegos to answer.
“Whatdya got, Conrad?” Raymond said. “I’m about to go into a meeting with my boss.”
“I think Tanya will forgive you if you’re a couple minutes late. We just recorded a telephone conversation between the Islamic State’s chief military guy, General Qasem Kashkari, and someone named Ahmed.”
“Our Ahmed?”
“No doubt in my mind,” Demetruk said.
“Ahmed used his cell phone again?”
“Nope. He called Kashkari on another phone.”
“How’d—? Oh-h-h. How long have you been listening to Kashkari’s conversations?”
“Quite a while, my boy. But that needs to be between you and me. Highly sensitive information.”
“I understand.”
“Their conversation made several things very clear. One, the Islamic State is neck-deep in the attempted attacks at Sigonella and what’s going on in Piraeus Bay. Two, this guy Ahmed must be IS’s man on the ground, at least as far as the tanker Kerkira is concerned. And, three, something is supposed to happen at 11 p.m., Greek time.”
“Are you able to track the phone Ahmed used?”
“As long as he keeps it on. He’s currently on Highway 6, moving like a bat out of hell southwest toward the Corinth Canal.”
“Can you send a link to the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson so they can track him? They have the closest tactical team to that location.”
“Will do.”
“Silas,” Ray said, “the NSA just shared some very important information with us. They’ll send you a link to a cell phone we need you to track. We want the man with that phone.”
“Already got the link, Ray.”
“Good. Is General Danforth still on the tanker?”
“Yes. He, a Sergeant Morrell, and Ensign Emil Salazar, one of my SEALs. We brought the rest of the men who were with Mike and the captain of the tanker back here to the carrier. Lieutenant Campbell with DELTA told us Mike and Morrell are trying to break into a room in the tanker’s bow.”
“You know what’s in that room?”
“No. And we can’t reach Mike. Either something’s wrong with his sat phone or he can’t get reception down in the bowels of the tanker.”
Ray said, “Based on the call from Ahmed, we’ve got until 11 p.m. before we have to really worry about them. But if they’re still on that tanker at eleven, and there is a bomb onboard that is set to go off, then . . . .”
“Ray, we don’t have until eleven. If there’s a nuclear device on that ship and it detonates, radiation will spread for miles in whichever direction the wind blows. We’ve stopped all shipping traffic from entering the bay, so an explosion won’t do any physical damage beyond turning the tanker into dust, but radiation is another thing. If a detonation occurs on the tanker while it’s still on the water, the fallout will be tremendous. The only safety measures that could be taken would have been to clear the area downwind of the ship for hundreds of miles. That would have been physically impossible. And even if it had been possible, it’s too late now. The damage to humans, animals, crops, buildings, ecosystems, and everything else within a radius of hundreds of miles could be devastating. We’ll see radiation burns, high cancer rates, and next-generation birth defects.”
“You want to avoid all that by sinking the tanker before a detonation occurs?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t avoid all that if we sink the ship. All we can do is mitigate the fallout effects. An underwater blast has a lot of the same risks as a surface blast because the explosion rises well out of the water. But the amount of radioactive fallout in the atmosphere is decreased because a good portion of it is contained in the water. But there are problems with that, as well. We may see destruction of coral reefs and death and contamination of other marine life. Can you imagine what that would do to the Greek economy? Turkey, Italy, and a host of other nations in the area will be affected, too. But an underwater blast is still preferable to a nuke going off while the tanker is afloat.”
“We have to get our men off that tanker,” Ray said.
“I’ll send a chopper back to the tanker so they can be lifted off the Kerkira by no later than 2230 hours. That’s really cutting it close. We estimate the tanker will be thirty miles from land by then and well out of the bay. We’ll sink her at 2245 hours and pray we can destroy the weapon without it detonating.”
Ray sighed loudly into the phone. “One other thing, Silas. You have a team you can fly out to intercept this Ahmed character?”
“Already in the works. The DELTA team and one of my SEALs will take off momentarily.”
“Where’s Bob Danforth?”
“He’s now here in the command center.”
“Please put him on the line. And hold that chopper for a second.”
“Yeah, Ray,” Bob said.
“I need you to do something.”
“Right now I’m waiting to hear from my son. That’s all I want to do.”
“I understand, Bob. I’m sorry . . . about all of this. But we’ve got another problem.” When Bob didn’t respond, Ray said, “The guy called Ahmed just made a call to General Qasem Kashkari, the senior military advisor to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the chief of the Islamic State. Ahmed is obviously highly-placed in IS.”
“Did you hear what I just said, Ray. The only thing I have on my mind right now is my son.”
“Bob, I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but whatever happens to Michael will happen whether you worry about it or not. Right now, we’ve got the opportunity to take down an operative who is close to the very top of IS. That guy is at this very moment in a car within spitting distance of you. I want an experienced Company agent to be the first to talk with him. You’re the closest thing to that in the vicinity.”
“You’re a cold sonofabitch, Ray. You know that?”
It was Ray’s turn to not respond. After several seconds, Bob asked, “What do you w
ant me to do?”
“Silas is about to order a chopper with DELTAs to try to locate Ahmed. I want you to go along with them. I want this guy captured alive.”
“Okay, Ray. But you sure as hell better pull out all the stops to protect my son.”
“I was already doing that, Bob. I don’t need any encouragement from you or anyone else to do that.”
After a beat, Bob said, “I know that, Ray. I apologize.”
“Not necessary, Bob.”
CHAPTER 82
The acrid odor of sweat mixed with the stench of piss and shit in the small room made breathing almost painful. Michael dumped his pack, stared at Feramarz Alizadeh, and did not feel much confidence in the little man’s ability to deactivate the nuclear weapon. The engineer was a jangling bundle of nerves.
Michael grabbed Alizadeh by his shirt and shook him like a dog shakes a toy. He stifled a grimace as he felt the stitches under his arm rip open. His side immediately felt warm and wet. “Listen to me,” he shouted, “You’ve got just one chance to survive. If you don’t deactivate this weapon, we’ll lock you up, leave, and let you die in the blast.”
The man’s head bounced up and down as though it moved independent of his control. “Okay,” he said breathlessly. He looked left, then right, and then left again. “I need my tools.”
“Oh shit,” Morrell said. “Where might they be?”
Before the man answered, Michael pulled a shiny silver-colored case from behind the weapon rack. “Is this them?”
“Yes, yes.”
Michael quickly placed the case flat on the floor, popped the two latches on its front, and raised the lid. A variety of tools were arrayed in a foam insert in the case. “Is everything you need in here?”
“No, no. I need wire.”
The guy sounded as though he might hyperventilate. Michael stepped to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this happen, Feramarz. Now tell me, what sort of wire do you need?”
“Something not too thick, but it can’t be so thin that it bends too easily.”
Michael looked back at Morrell who had already moved toward the doorway.
“I’ll check the mechanical room.” He stopped in the doorway and pointed at Alizadeh. “Is there anything else you’ll need?”
“No, that’s all.”
Morrell quickly turned and took a step outside when Alizadeh shouted, “Wait.”
Morrell retreated back into the room.
“We could use protective gear. You know, like masks and gloves.”
“Why?” Morrell asked.
“We’ll be exposed to radiation from the open weapon.”
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Morrell said and ran out.
Alizadeh’s eyes suddenly popped wide. “You’re bleeding,” he said.
Michael raised his arm and looked at the side of his cami blouse, which was now soaked with blood. He pulled open his blouse, shucked it, and tossed it into a corner. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it away as well. Then he went to his pack, removed a pair of clean socks, placed them against the wound under his arm, and pressed his arm down to his side.
Michael asked, “What can you and I do while we wait for Morrell to return?”
The man’s eyes were still wide as he continued to stare at the blood on Michael’s side. He raised a finger in the air and nodded again in the same rapid-fire way he had before. “Ah, yes, very good thinking.” He picked up a wrench from the tool kit and said, “We need to very carefully open the nose cone. We must apply very firm pressure without jerking the wrench when we remove the tip.”
Michael watched Alizadeh approach the cylinder. It sat almost five feet off the floor. He attempted to place the wrench on a square piece of metal at the end of the cylinder, but his hands shook.
“Give me the wrench,” Michael said. “You can talk me through it.”
The guy seemed incapable of forming words. Michael grabbed the bottle of water Morrell had placed on the floor and shoved it at the engineer. “Drink,” he ordered.
Alizadeh spilled more water than he drank, but what he ingested seemed to do the trick.
“Now give me the wrench.”
After Alizadeh handed the tool to Michael, he said, “Adjust the wrench opening until it’s snug against the cylinder tip.”
“Okay,” Michael said as he used his thumb to widen the wrench opening.
“Now, turn the wrench. Very delicately.”
Michael took in a small breath and then let it out in a long, near-silent exhale. He raised his left elbow and put pressure on the wrench handle. The tip of the cylinder moved silently. After a full turn of the tool, he removed the wrench from the tip, handed it to Alizadeh, and removed the tip manually from the cylinder. He took in a huge quick breath and let it out slowly, loudly, as Morrell returned to the room.
“What happened?” he growled as he looked at Michael’s discarded and bloodied clothing.
“It’s okay,” Michael said.
Morrell had a plastic garbage bag in hand. It turned it upside down and dumped three gas masks, a box of rubber gloves, and three spools of wire on the deck.”
After Alizadeh inspected the three wire rolls, he selected one and said, “This will do.”
“What do we do?” Michael asked.
“We’ll ‘pit-stuff’ the warheads. This was developed by the scientists at your Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico to ensure that warheads that had been determined to be unsafe would not go off accidentally. But first we must remove the cap screwed in to protect the weapon.”
Alizadeh took a gas mask from the floor, put it on, and then slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. Morrell did the same, and then helped Michael don a mask.
“Move to the tip of the cylinder,” Alizadeh told Michael. His voice sounded muffled from behind the mask.
Michael backed up against a bulkhead and said, “I think Sergeant Morrell will have to do this.”
Morrell looked at Michael, nodded, and stepped forward. He asked, “How does it work?”
“Every modern nuclear weapon has at its core a ‘pit’—a hollow sphere of plutonium or highly-enriched uranium, with a tiny tube through it that allows the tritium to be fed into the hollow inside the sphere. If a steel wire is fed in through this small tube until the inside of the pit is ‘stuffed’ with tangled wire, the pit can no longer be compressed enough by the explosives surrounding it to sustain a nuclear chain reaction—the nuclear weapon is physically incapable of going off.”
“How long will this take?” Morrell said.
“It’s a very slow procedure. We must take our time and carefully remove the protective cap and then snake the wire through the tube. And we must insert enough so that the pit is full of wire.” He appeared to think for a few seconds and then said, “At least thirty more minutes.”
“It’s now 2205 hours,” Morrell said.
Alizadeh used a pair of wire cutters from his tool kit and snipped off a three-foot piece of wire from a spool. He handed the wire to Morrell.
Morrell stood in front of the cylinder end. Following Alizadeh’s instructions, he inserted a gloved hand into the cylinder and made a twisting motion. The entire procedure was silent except for the heavy breathing of all three men. After a minute, he extracted a shiny, eight-inch wide plug that had a metal turning handle affixed to its top. He handed the plug to Alizadeh who placed it on the floor against a bulkhead.
“You need to turn the wire as though it is threaded,” Alizadeh said. “Be careful. Be gentle. Once the wire enters the tube, you can’t see what’s happening.”
Morrell looked at his watch and saw it was now 2218 hours. He threaded one end of the piece of wire into the cylinder while he held his breath. The little room in the bow was hot enough already. The gas mask made the heat miserable. Sweat dripped into his eyes. All he could do was blink away the moisture as best he could. The wire strand slipped easily into the middle of the space behind where the protective cap had been. He slowly pushe
d the wire until he met resistance and stopped. “It’s hit something,” he said. “It won’t go any further.”
“How much have you pushed through?” Alizadeh asked.
“No more than six inches.”
Alizadeh said something in Farsi.
“What?” Morrell said. “What’s wrong?” He sounded beyond anxious.
“I don’t know,” Alizadeh said. “If the tube is blocked . . . .”
“What?” Morrell asked again.
“We’re dead,” Alizadeh said.
“Could it be something else?” Michael asked.
Alizadeh remained silent for about ten seconds, which felt to Michael to be a lifetime. Finally, he said, “Remove the wire. We’ll start again.”
Morrell pulled on the wire. Then he said, “Ah, Jesus.”
“What?” Alizadeh rasped in a voice that sounded dry as dust.
“The end of the wire is frayed.”
Alizadeh looked at the wire and whispered, “Thank you Allah, Jesus, and Moses.”
Michael couldn’t help himself. He blurted a laugh that sounded more like a cough.
Alizadeh checked the other end of the wire and said, “It’s not frayed; insert this end.”
The room went still, except for Morrell’s slow, careful hand movements and the even more pronounced breathing of the three men. Michael was fixated on Morrell threading the wire into the weapon. And then what sounded like someone beating on bass drums echoed off the walls of the metal room.
“What the hell is that?” Morrell shouted.
As if in answer to Morrell’s question, a man in a flight suit burst into the room. His expression was open-mouthed, wide-eyed, incredulous. “What—?”
“Say something, dammit,” Michael shouted.
The man licked his lips and swallowed hard. “General Danforth,” he said, “I’m the helicopter pilot sent by Admiral Wyncourt.”
“What time is it?” Michael asked breathlessly.
“2226 hours.”
“Good, that gives us plenty of time before this nuclear weapon is set to blow at 2300 hours.”
