Scribbling the words “New Jersey Turnpike” in the center of the blackboard, he went over to the laminated write-on, wipe-off map he ordered to keep track of the various postmarked locations from which the threat letters were mailed. It now served to lay out the Tri-State area for Dennis and his extracurricular exercise of “Where’s Tommy.” He drew a red circle encompassing the maximum round-trip range at the barely legal speed of sixty-five miles per hour. Between the time he was spotted at Penn last night and his return to torch the garage this morning, had his car been in working order, Thomas could have reached any destination within that circle. He centered the timings around the 2:33 AM time stamp on the rest stop receipt. He made a mental note to get the FBI to pull all traffic summonses written last month in New Jersey for a Camaro or, God forbid it should happen the easy way, one Thomas Regan.
Dennis remembered all too well that the big break in the most heinous mass murder spree of all time in New York came not from some spectacular, police-show-styled shoot-out or car chase, but from some grunt cop—a blue uniform doing bench-warming work, sorting through thousands of parking tickets written around the times and places that the “Son of Sam” killed and killed again. It was a parking ticket, written to the mass murderer’s VW Beetle on the night he shot two lovers necking in their car that led to his arrest in Yonkers. More often than not, police breakthroughs turned on the details.
Dennis drew a second circle on the map in green that limited the distance by fitting Regan’s available time into the probable return schedule of the Long Island Railroad. It was a smaller circle subsuming 130 miles that embraced the Meadowlands Sports Complex, some radio transmission towers, the port of Newark, and the like. All of these potential targets were heavily protected and would not be severely damaged by a backpack full of explosives, especially since these places would be on high alert for Regan or any shoulder-bagged citizen. There were no apparent high-value targets that made sense. But when did a terrorist or madman ever make sense? There were thousands of lower-value or grudge-fuck targets that might be sacrificed to settle some imagined slight by a corporation or government.
Too many possibilities were like no possibilities at all. Dennis felt helpless. His eyes rested again on the center of the board. This rest area on the NJT kept coming back in focus. His hunter’s sense told him this animal was hungry, risking exposure, coming out from his sheltered cover to feed. This is when “patient” hunters got their chance. His phone rang.
“I figured I should make it up to you,” a familiar female voice said.
“I’m flattered.”
“How about I treat you to a late-night snack, say somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike tonight?”
“Brooke, you know I’m a married man,” Dennis said with a smile.
Brooke affected her best Southern-belle accent. “My word, Dennis, can’t a girl ask a father figure out for a bite to eat without being accused of being a harlot? Besides, the EI boys came up with a match. I’ll tell you all about it on the drive out.”
“What’s a father figure to say, except, ‘Your car or mine?’”
“Mine. I got all the radios and shotguns and stuff.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“I’ll pick you up tonight at eleven?”
“Thanks for including me.”
“You’ve earned it.”
∞§∞
It was a beautiful, cloudless night as they exited the tunnel with all of Jersey laid out before them. Little Miss “by-the-book” Brooke took a deep breath and a career-busting chance. Against the orders of her director, she blurted out, “Sabot!”
“The frankfurter?”
“No, that’s Sabrett. I’m talking about the Sabot Society. They’re against the industrial age.”
“A little late, aren’t they?”
“We’ve been monitoring their e-mails. There’s a person on the list whose address matches the one registered to Thomas Regan’s Camaro.”
“You mean the upstate New York woman, Williams?”
“You’re good!”
“Hey, I was running plates while you were having tea parties with your dollies.”
“Williams was her second husband’s name …”
Dennis snapped his fingers, “Regan was her first! So that’s why we couldn’t find him. He was hiding behind Mommy’s apron.”
∞§∞
The constant, unrelenting swoosh of New Jersey Turnpike traffic and the whine of big truck tires greeted them as they opened the car doors at the rest area at about 1 AM. Brooke checked all the tables.
Dennis went straight to the girl at the register.
“Hi. Were you working here last night?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did you see this man?”
“Yes, he’s here a lot lately. Must have a route that takes him through here.”
“Route?”
“Yeah, isn’t he a truck driver?”
“Ever see him in a truck?”
“No.”
Dennis smiled to keep her talking. “About what time usually?”
“Around now. In fact, I saw him already tonight. About two minutes before you came in.”
Dennis quickly scanned the restaurant as Brooke came over to him. “He was here in the last two minutes. I’ll check the lot. You check here and the rest rooms.”
Dennis rushed outside and surveyed the cars in the lot. There, near the road, was the old, beat-up Camaro. The retired detective approached it cautiously. In the darkness, he could not tell if anyone was inside so he did what any guy would do. Walking about ten feet beyond the asphalt into the grass, he made a motion that made it appear he was unzipping his fly and assumed the universal stance of a man relieving himself. He counted to fifteen, faked a shake, then zipped up. As he turned, he looked casually into the car. The lights from the turnpike lit the interior from that angle. No one was inside. Peering through the windows, he checked the front and backseats but saw nothing except a mess. He walked back to the restaurant.
Brooke met him halfway. “You could’ve killed two birds with one stone if you had checked the men’s room,” she said, nodding to the grass area.
“That’s his car. Hood’s still warm.”
“I’ll call this in. Get some Jersey troopers to canvas.”
Dennis went back inside to the girl at the register. “Did you ever see him with anyone?”
“No, not that I remember.”
“Thank you.”
He rejoined Brooke outside. “How about we hang around for a while and see what happens?”
“Fine with me. I’ll bring the car over and we’ll go on our first stakeout together.”
“And you thought this wouldn’t be fun!”
In the car, Dennis squinted to keep a lookout for any suspicious car or person who came and went. Brooke reached around behind her and handed him a set of binoculars. “Here, use these.”
He brought them to his eyes, focused, and panned the area. “I just got a feeling about this guy and it tells me sooner rather than later.”
Through the binoculars, he was able to watch the Camaro, the approach to it, and any slow-moving vehicles passing by it. In the binocular’s field of view, trucks zipped back and forth at a dizzying rate. Big stainless steel tankers reflected the light from the rest area right back at him, like a mirror. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness after each one.
Then he caught sight of a figure near the pedestrian walkway that spanned the turnpike. The man was wearing a backpack and was starting up the stairs on the near side. He stopped at a landing midway. Dennis tried to look closely, but another truck’s reflection obliterated the view.
The figure on the stairs took off the backpack. As he turned to do so, Dennis saw the outline of … “A beard! I got a man on the stairs over there with a beard!”
∞§∞
In the middle of the staircase landing, Tommy reached into the backpack and turned on the gyroscope. The package suddenly h
ad a mind of its own, as the minute jostling of it was resisted by the gyroscopic action. He held it like a basketball at the foul line.
∞§∞
Dennis caught a glimpse of the man holding the pack out in front of him, pumping it as if he was going to throw it, as yet another stainless steel truck washed his vision white. Then it hit him.
“Magnets!”
He followed the truck as it entered a large storage tank facility not far down the road. He whipped the binoculars back to the stairs, just in time to see Tommy throw the backpack out over a passing steel tanker. The truck was slowing down in the lane closest to the stairs to take the exit. Dennis watched curiously as the backpack flew perfectly flat—not tumbling or tilting as he would’ve expected. It landed solidly on the top of the tank trailer. The bag clamped down magnetically onto the steel tank, as if it were covered with Velcro.
“It’s a bomb! On that truck.” Dennis pointed to the truck turning into the plant. “You get the beard. I’ll take the car and warn the plant.”
Brooke reached into the backseat, grabbing her shotgun. She ran toward the walkway. Dennis slid over and hit the gas, swerving out of the rest area and right onto the turnoff to the storage tank facility.
He screeched to a halt in front of the barrier by the security gate, yelling to the guard in his shack, “That truck has a bomb! Let me in. Call the cops!”
The guard, making an instant decision that Dennis was one of the good guys, raised the barrier and picked up the phone. Dennis drove over to the portico just as the truck pulled out and headed for the large storage tanks. Dennis raced ahead and cut the truck off.
The driver came down from the cab cursing. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”
“There’s a bomb on top.”
After a second, the word bomb registered in the driver’s mind. He ran. Dennis looked up at the truck and the huge tanks it was now nestled between. What he said next was between him and God. He jumped onto the ladder and climbed to the top of the truck. He slipped, but caught himself as he cautiously stepped across, past the filler hatches in the recessed gully at the top of the truck’s tank. When he reached the backpack, he got on his knees and inspected it. It was humming. He hummed along with it in an attempt to steady his nerves. Reaching for the zipper, he stopped his hand, thinking, “booby trap.”
His humming turned into “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree,” Cynthia’s favorite song.
“I love you, girl,” escaped his lips as he meticulously inched the zipper back, revealing the contents of the blue nylon-parachute-material bag.
∞§∞
Agent Burrell walked with the shotgun behind her back as she came upon Tom Regan stepping lively from the overpass, not paying any attention to her, hurrying toward his car. As he passed her, she raised the gun and pumped it … loud. The sound made Tom stop dead in his tracks.
“Freeze, FBI! Put your hands up above your head and drop to your knees,” Brooke said in her calmest command voice. “Drop to your knees, NOW!”
She saw that Regan was hesitating. She understood the confusion in his mind. Could he beat a woman? Surely she couldn’t be as tough as a man. He might have a chance. If that’s what he was thinking, it didn’t last long, as Brooke slammed the butt of the shotgun into his back with so much force that it drove him into the ground. She flipped the shotgun over like a baton and pushed it into his cheekbone as he lay sprawled, her foot on his neck. “Move and I will blow your face off! Was that a bomb you put on the truck?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Regan managed with the shotgun in his bearded cheek.
She pulled out her service weapon and placed it on his leg. “Last chance. Is that a bomb on the truck?”
“Fuck you!”
She fired her piece, the bullet entering his leg right above the knee. He screamed out in pain.
“The next one shoots your balls off, tough guy.”
She placed the gun at the seat of his pants. “Tell me what I want to know or kiss your balls good-bye, Tommy boy.” She pushed the barrel deep into his buttocks to accentuate her point.
Through his moaning, he managed to say, “Yes, yes it’s a bomb.”
“How is it triggered?”
He hesitated. She nudged his ass again. “It’s going to be terrible up there in heaven with seventy-two virgins and you with no balls, buddy, unless you tell me how the bomb is triggered.”
“I am not a terrorist!”
“Last chance. How is it triggered?”
“Okay, okay! It’s a contact timer, once it makes contact it’s set for five minutes.”
“Shit.” She slapped cuffs on him, then looked up and realized a small crowd had surrounded her. She picked the meanest-looking truck driver in the crowd and flashed her FBI ID. “You! I’m an FBI agent. Make sure he doesn’t move ’til the troopers get here. I need a car! Somebody give me a car.” No one stepped forward. She saw a man watching from a Lexus. She grabbed the shotgun and her piece and ran. She held up her ID. “FBI. I am commandeering your car.” The driver saw the ID in the same hand as the shotgun and got out. She jumped in, throwing the shotgun and her piece in the front seat. She took off for the plant, not the least bit phased by the gun oil from the Remington pump action soaking into the leather seat.
∞§∞
Looking into the bag with its gizmos and colorful leads, Dennis realized he didn’t know which wires to pull or short out. He’d hesitated long enough. Disarming the bomb was not an option. It was time to remove the bag. He pulled on the bag, but it didn’t budge. He put more muscle into it. It slid along a little but he couldn’t move it up off the metal of the tanker truck. The magnets were that strong. He scrambled back down the ladder and got into the cab of the truck, a new goal in mind. The guard ran up.
“Do you know how to drive one of these?” Dennis yelled down from the cab.
“No.”
“Ahhhh, shit!” Dennis looked down at the eighteen gears and tried to find first. When he ground the gears into something like first then let up on the clutch, the truck lurched forward. Turning the wheel as the engine over-revved, he headed for open space.
∞§∞
Back at the front gate, Brooke pulled up to the guard, “Take cover. That truck’s going to blow!” She then peeled out to warn Dennis. The truck was already a half-mile away in an area where old oil drums were warehoused.
As she headed toward it, a silent flash burned her eyes as it split the night. An instant later, the earsplitting noise and shock wave slammed into the car. Reflexively, she hit the brakes and fell sideways as the windshield imploded, showering her with tempered safety glass like a cascade of diamonds. The heat of the blast poured through the open window and singed her hair and eyebrows. Suddenly big thuds started pounding all around her as the roof of the car dented in above her. A smoking fifty-five-gallon drum landed on the hood. Two more pelted the car. She covered her head and prayed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Unpayable Debts
A FULL SIXTY HOURS before the Sabot Society meeting, agents started arriving at McConnell Air Force Base. The bureau had left no aspect to chance. Most of the agents assembled at the base twenty-five miles from Bufford’s farm had rotated through at least two tours at Quantico, the FBI’s training academy.
Operation Homegrown had drawn a full FBI turnout. The HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) was here, as were the bureau’s head negotiators, SWAT teams, hi-tech weapons and surveillance technicians, the EI teams, air support and logistics, headquarters personnel, armored personnel carriers, medical and psych attachment, including drivers for the trucks and assault vehicles. To fill those support positions, the FBI would usually tap local law enforcement, but the director had been clear—bureau only. He wanted this operation contained until the moment SWAT “knocked” on the door with the battering ram.
∞§∞
In the morning light, the twisted, mangled wreckage was barely discernible as a tanker truck. News helicopters circled
above, bringing the mutilated image to their national audiences as they awoke. The New Jersey Turnpike was closed for two exits around the plant, making that morning’s rush hour a slowly moving parking lot. The rest area was jammed with emergency support vehicles and news crews using long lenses to pull in the sobering pictures from almost a mile away.
Bill Hiccock had fallen asleep just after midnight, having flown back late to D.C. He was awakened at 3 AM by a call from Joey Palumbo to tell him of the thwarted attack. At 8:30 AM, he, Tate, and Palumbo briefed the president and Reynolds.
“Sir,” Hiccock said, “what we know right now is that the attack was to be carried out by Thomas Regan, against American Cyanamid at their chlorine processing station, up there in New Jersey. There was enough chlorine gas in those tanks to form a cloud twenty miles wide. The EPA estimates that with the prevailing winds last night, the cloud would have made its way to New York City within three hours of the blast. Five to seven million people would have been instantly gassed, most dying in their beds. The CDC adds another three million dead by week’s end from the lesser doses that would be inhaled as the cloud dissipated.” Hiccock closed his briefing book.
“My God! It would have been like a nuclear attack. How was it foiled?”
Tate continued the report. “An agent out of the New York office was following up on a lead when the perpetrator was observed planting the bomb on a tanker truck. She and a retired NYPD detective gave chase. The detective died diverting the truck away from the storage tanks.”
The Eighth Day Page 25
