The Heisenberg Legacy

by Christopher Cartwright

  “The site can be seen by tourists?” Sam asked.

  “Sure, there’s a dedicated Gold Mine Loop trail through the historic Maryland Mine Ruins, why?”

  “Then, why hasn’t anyone ever noticed the bomb casing before?”

  “Bad luck on our part I guess. People just didn’t know what they were looking at. It’s not surprising given the fenced area included the dilapidated remains of an old water tank, blacksmith shop, and overgrown sealed shaft entrances.”

  “All right,” Sam said, shaking his head. “When was the bomb removed from the plane?”

  The secretary repeated, “The empty casing was already outside the aircraft as of five years ago.”

  “Did you find anything earlier?”

  “Not yet. We’re still searching.”

  “Then the bomb could have been taken even before then. Say as far back as during William Goodson’s lifetime. He might’ve removed it in the forties. This could all be some kind of post-death plot of Goodson’s to destroy D.C., for all we know.”

  “Exactly.” That seemed to trigger the Secretary of Defense’s memory. “What about you, Sam? Did you find anything from Alex Goodson?”

  Sam said, “I don’t know. You’re right, Alex probably isn’t involved in this –”

  “But?”

  “But he’s not who he’s pretending to be, either,” Sam said. “Which makes me wonder, why?”

  “All right, we’ll keep our surveillance on him,” The Secretary said. “He tries to leave his apartment we’ll know.”

  Sam asked, “Where are you with the situation in D.C., ma’am?”

  “We have more than a dozen teams from the FBI, CIA, and the Military who have worked there way around the perimeter. Right now, a Major Kyle Ortega and his team from the 832nd Ordnance Battalion out of Fort Lee is heading up the mission to retrieve and disarm the nuclear bomb – as soon as its located.”

  “Are they going to enter the capital?” Sam asked.

  “Not yet. Our reconnaissance shows that the terrorist has at least three hundred ground troops, guarding the perimeter. They’re covered in dark military attire and balaclavas, but are equipped with state of the art military weapons, including multiple shoulder mounted Stingers that they used to take out the helicopter previously.”

  “Three hundred sounds like a fairly small number to maintain control of the perimeter of Washington, D.C.,” Sam said. “Surely our tactical teams can force their penetration into the city without too much trouble?”

  “Of course they can, but that doesn’t change the primary fact that our madman may still be willing to detonate a nuclear bomb.”

  Sam swallowed hard and his back made an involuntary shudder. “What do you need me to do, ma’am?”

  “Play the terrorist’s stupid game,” the Secretary commanded. “Keep him distracted until we can locate the bomb and end this thing.”

  “Understood.”

  “And, Mr. Reilly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t antagonize our terrorist any more than you already have.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sam climbed into the Ford Taurus AWD Interceptor and the NY Highway Patrol Officer who’d been assigned to expedite his trip back, drove him to JFK airport.

  He flicked through his cell phone and called a number. The receiver answered on the first ring. Ordinarily, there’s risk involved in using an open, insecure wireless network, but his people had taken every step to safeguard his phone. Even better, the woman he was about to call was even more stringently careful with security.

  “Elise,” Sam said, as the big Ford Taurus accelerated through NY city traffic. “I need your help.”

  “Of course, you do,” she said. “What do you need?”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Does it matter? Within arm’s reach of more processing power than the U.S. Government will admit exists outside its own server banks.”

  Sam shook his head. Elise was a brilliant young computer geek who had been raised as some kind of secret hacker weapon for the CIA, only to thumb her nose at the position. She was sharp enough to make it stick, too.

  “Good, you’re going to need it.”

  He explained the situation briefly, touching on the bomb, the crash site, Alex Goodson’s father’s death and his unexpected inheritance from his grandfather. He detailed posting the map, the treasure hunters, the mini-sub, the message within, and his recent visit to Alex Goodson's gamer’s paradise.

  “And?” she said finally. “You want me to hack into Alex Goodson’s computer servers and see what games he’s playing?”

  “Yes, but I also need you to find out if there is a connection between William Goodson and my family.”

  “You think your dad might be involved in something he shouldn’t be?”

  Sam made a slight grimace. His father, Senator James Reilly, was smart yet single-minded in the games he played. He considered that the most important thing in life was to rack up more points than anyone else – the points in this case meaning accumulated wealth. “This does kind of sound like the thing he might somehow be involved in, doesn’t it?”

  “No comment. I’ll check on the Goodson family.”

  “And I’ll call my father.”

  He ended the call and searched his cell phone directory for his dad’s number. Finding it a moment later, he pressed the call button.

  “Son,” James Reilly said in a warm, appreciative tone. “What’s going on? D.C.’s on lockdown and Tom Bower says that you left for Reagan National Airport like a bat out of hell a few hours ago.”

  “Dad,” Sam said, “I don’t have time to explain.”

  “And?”

  “And I need to know if you’re involved in something before I tear it wide open.”

  Sam heard a soft hmm over the phone. “You’re starting to think like a politician, Sam. I’m proud of you.”

  Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to take that as a compliment. “Never mind that. What do you know about William Goodson?”

  “Who?”

  “World War II, German bomber pilot, originally named Wilhelm Gutwein.”

  “Nothing.”

  “And you’re not involved in anything having to do with a nuclear bomb found in an old gold mine site along the Great Falls of the Potomac?”

  “You found a nuclear bomb within the Maryland National Park?” James gasped incredulously. The shocked tone in his father’s voice told him everything he needed to know.

  “Thanks, Dad. Call you back soon with more information. Bye.”

  He put his phone in his pocket and chuckled. It wasn’t every day he was able to surprise his old man.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elise called back a few minutes later. “There’s nothing. At least nothing that was ever documented anywhere.”

  Sam cursed under his breath. “You’re sure?”

  “Lots of information but nothing that connects the Goodson’s to the Reilly clan.”

  “For example?”

  “The Gutwein family was from Kassel, in west-central Germany. Loads of industrial sites there. They made tanks and planes and train engines. Consequently, the place was bombed for three years straight.”

  “Go on.”

  “Except for Wilhelm Gutwein, the entire family was killed during a British bombing raid in October of 1943. All burned to death in a firestorm of exploding fuel.”

  “Losing your family is a hell of a motive. It certainly explains why Goodson agreed to bomb D.C.”

  “True, but the original attack wasn’t simply revenge. This was Germany’s last chance at winning the war – or at least not losing it.”

  “Sure. Even so, it doesn’t tell me why he’s targeting me.”

  “Nope. Unless it has nothing to do with the Goodson/Gutwein family, and it’s one of the many, many other people that you’ve pissed off over the years.”

  “I don’t know, Elise. This sounded kind of personal.”

>   She sighed. “Um… what I said. All right, I’ll keep on it.”

  The Highway Patrol car pulled into the private terminal at JFK. The place was used by wealthy business people, whose private jets were waiting for them to arrive. In this case, a military jet was waiting to transfer Sam back to Ronald Reagan airport.

  Sam thanked the Officer and closed the door.

  Immediately afterward, his cell phone started to ring. He glanced at the screen – it was an unlisted number.

  He answered it.

  “Sam Reilly,” he answered, scanning the high-rise buildings of Manhattan in the distance. “Who is this?”

  “Someone who’d like to play a little game with you.”

  From the first word, Sam knew who it was – in theory, anyway. The voice had been garbled by a voice-scrambler.

  The bad guy – if it was indeed a guy – was about to make another move.

  Elise had set up his phone with a menu of high-tech tricks years ago. Sam now punched in the code that activated a voice recorder and flagged Elise’s systems to start tracing the call.

  “All right,” Sam said. “I’m ready to play.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Good,” replied the garbled voice. “But I’m going to need you to prove it.”

  Sam looked around. His aircraft was waiting on the tarmac. “All right. How?”

  “Your cell phone, Mr. Reilly. It has to go.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop it in a trash can.”

  “No. I’m watching. Hold it out directly in front of you.”

  Sam looked around, then stiff-armed, he did as he was told.

  With a whizzing sound, a bicycle courier raced by – snatching the phone out of Sam’s right hand.

  Sam stood up and started running after the guy. The back of the messenger’s shirt read VELO COURIERS. Within less than a minute, the guy had disappeared around a corner. Sam dodged pedestrians on the sidewalk, ducking into traffic when he could.

  But by the time he reached the corner, the courier was long gone.

  Clever.

  Sam turned around, only to bump into a guy in a red polo shirt wearing a matching red hat.

  “Sam Reilly?” the stranger asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your order.” A plastic bag was shoved into Sam’s hands. The guy turned around and dodged his way across the sidewalk to the front of a sandwich shop.

  Carl’s Hoagies.

  Checking inside the bag, Sam found it contained a well-wrapped long roll filled with chicken, cheese, and salad – and a phone in a freezer baggie. The sandwich was still warm.

  He pulled out the cell as he pushed his way through the crowds toward the sub shop.

  As soon as he entered the shop, he froze.

  The staff here didn’t wear red shirts and hats. They wore green with Carl’s Hoagies embroidered on the caps.

  “Did a guy in a red shirt and hat just buy a sandwich here?”

  “Sure,” said the middle age woman at the counter.

  “Did you happen to get his name?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a record of his card transaction?” Sam asked, feeling hopeful.

  “Paid cash.” The cashier frowned. “What’s this about?”

  “Oh, he dropped his sandwich and left his cell phone in the bag,” Sam said.

  The woman squinted at him. Sam held up the clear bag containing the phone.

  “That’s weird.”

  “Here’s my number, in case he shows up.” Sam gave her Elise’s number. He didn’t expect to get a call, but it was better to have all bases covered.

  On the way out of the shop, Sam’s newly acquired phone rang. He answered. “Hello?”

  The distorted voice spoke again. “Don’t bother – they don’t know anything. And even if you did find the guy, he wouldn’t talk. He doesn’t know what’s going on, anyway. All he knows is that he won’t get paid if he tells anyone about the job.”

  Sam said, “You mentioned something about playing a game?”

  “That’s right. Think of it as a treasure hunt with a nice fat payoff at the end. Only you’ll have to hurry. Because if you don’t find that nuclear bomb in the next twenty-four hours, it’s going to detonate. Then that will be the end of Washington, D.C.”

  The voice paused, giving Sam far too much time for his mind to conjure up Hiroshima-like images of American’s capital.

  “No one crosses the Beltway from here on out but you, Sam Reilly,” the scrambled voice commanded. “No one in, and no one out. Once you’re across the Beltway, I’ll text you with your next set of instructions. You are not allowed to contact anyone. You are not free to accept anyone’s help. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get started. Because you can’t win if you don’t play – and the lives of roughly a million people are at stake. You’d better hurry.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was all over the news. Terrorist attack on Washington, D.C. The lockdown that the Secretary of Defense had implemented was expanded to cover additional territory, and was tightened even further. Now, even the military, police, and emergency transportation were shut down.

  Sam was going to need some kind of assistance to get from Manhattan to D.C., no matter what the bad guy said. Walking the entire way was not an option. He needed transport.

  Sam took the return military flight from JFK Airport to the Ronald Reagan airport just outside the Beltway, then he attempted to hire a Cessna 152 to fly himself into D.C.

  The pilot stared at him wide-eyed. “You can’t fly into D.C. It’s on lockdown. Don’t you know about the terrorist attack? Anyone who goes in or out of the area will trigger a nuclear bomb.”

  Sam started to explain, but didn’t get very far before he was interrupted by the man’s phone ringing.

  “Hold on, I have to get this. It’s my wife – ”

  When he answered the phone, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He turned toward Sam and his jaw dropped.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, all the color leaving his face. “Yes, sir.”

  He ended the call, automatically shoving the phone back into the pocket of his overalls. “That was the terrorist, Mr. Reilly,” he said breathlessly, “calling on my wife’s phone! I have to fly you anywhere you want to go or he’ll hurt my wife!”

  “Calm down. Your wife will be okay,” Sam said, gripping the agitated man by the shoulder. “What else did he say?”

  “You have his permission to fly directly into D.C.,” he said, his voice calming. “I’m supposed to take you. And Mr. Reilly? He says I’m to land on the National Mall!”

  Chapter Twenty

  The small aircraft was barely off the ground, before the pilot dipped its nose, leveling its climb angle to straight and level. It was going to be one hell of a short flight. The single engine changed its pitch, and the pilot commenced their descent.

  The long, grassy National Mall is home to the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. At the eastern end is the domed U.S. Capitol. The White House is to the north. It's also flanked by Smithsonian museums.

  Usually, the National Mall’s lawns and pathways are crowded with school groups, softball teams, and joggers. Sam doubted anyone would be out enjoying their soon-to-be landing strip today.

  The Cessna 152 flew over the Potomac, where it combined with the Anacostia.

  Sam ran his eyes across the landscape below. Armed men – soldier, mercenaries, and terrorists – lined the river, and urban perimeter of the city. Rubble and the smoldering remains to the north outlined where a series of bombs went off along K street NW, 11th Street NW, and Rhode Island Avenue NW, effectively cutting the capital in two. On the outer side of the perimeter, a large convoy of battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, and ground troops took their respective positions along bridges and street blocks in preparation for storming the capital.

  America’s capital.

  The sight took his breath away. His eyes turned to the domed Capi
tol building, across to the camouflaged mercenaries who now occupied it. His response was visceral. A beacon of democracy being ravaged by war and terrorism.

  The engine went nearly silent, as the pilot reduced its RPM right back in preparation for landing. “I’m starting our descent.”

  Sam withdrew from his emotional response, instead focusing on the task at hand. “Understood.”

  Air traffic control must have been contacted by the terrorist as worried voices directed the Cessna’s pilot to the Capitol. Directly over the Capitol Building they began their final descent, passing low and slowly flying mere feet over the cars jamming the streets.

  They came down directly on the grass strip in the center of the mall. The back of the plane fishtailed as they came down and started sliding over the wet grass. Behind them they had left a long streak in the grass, with dark patches where the sod had been torn free.

  Once the plane came to a stop, the pilot turned off the engine. “I’m not ashamed to say that I’m shaking like a leaf,” he said.

  Sam’s phone buzzed, the signal that he’d just received a text message. The message led to the “Space Race” exhibit in the National Air and Space Museum.

  Which was just past the cherry trees to his left.

  It was clear to Sam that the mastermind behind this “game” had planned everything down to the inch. With a sigh, he climbed out of the plane.

  “Hey, wait,” the pilot called.

  “Yes?”

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  Sam gave him Tom Bower’s number. “Call this number and tell Tom that you need a place to ride out the storm in D.C.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sam’s phone buzzed again. This time the text said, Don’t try to get clever. I’m watching you.

  “Watch away,” Sam muttered under his breath.

  Once inside the Air and Space Museum, Sam took a look around. The museum was more or less abandoned, for now at least. If people were trapped in D.C. for long enough, they'd probably flood the place looking for something to do – or a place to spend the night. The hotels inside the Beltway were expensive and jam-packed at the best of times. No doubt they were already jacking up their prices for the night.