“Get someone to open the door and check.”
“Sir, I—”
“Now. Now!”
Fitzpatrick ran out back, looked around the pool area, ran along both sides of the hotel. He didn’t see them. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have gotten away in the surrounding trees or ducked onto one of the side streets. If the Chinese plan had been to stretch the FBI’s resources to the point where there were too few agents and too many consular people in motion, they’d succeeded brilliantly. If not—
He came back to the lobby via the small workout room. They weren’t there, or in the bathroom.
“Housekeeping reports that the room is empty,” the clerk told Fitzpatrick.
“Where else could they have gone?”
“I called the dining room,” the clerk said. “They aren’t there. I have the bellmen doing a top-to-bottom search.”
Fitzpatrick thanked her as he stepped outside. He called Forsyth.
“Sir, I think we may have a situation in Fairfield,” he said.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why?”
“A fire in a Chinese dry cleaning van clogged the entrance to the Bay Bridge right after the consulate car got on. They delayed our tracker by about ten minutes. We weren’t too concerned because we figured we could make up most of that time.”
“They didn’t need very long,” Fitzpatrick said bitterly.
The agent explained what had transpired since his last report at two A.M. The objective was obviously to isolate him from assistance and get his eyes off the target. He didn’t know the reason for that, either, and requested immediate local assistance. The Chinese might be doing nothing more than gauging the FBI’s response to this situation, gathering tactical information they could use as currency in dealings with Middle Eastern or Far Eastern nations. However, the Field Office couldn’t take that risk, not after Jack Hatfield had planted the reality of Squarebeam in Forsyth’s brain.
“You’ll have every resource we can bring to bear,” the field director told him. “I’m looking at primary and secondary targets in the area. We’ve got Travis on the A-list. The only other high-priority assets are the Monticello Dam and hydroelectric plant at Lake Berryessa. Unless the Chinese are doubling back to San Francisco or heading to Sacramento, we need to get eyes on those.”
“I’ve got a cab watching the sedan, driver Eric Enslin, Fairfield Livery and Limos,” Fitzpatrick said. “He’s got my number. Can we get a police chopper up?”
“Already requested, and I’ve sent a red alert to the air force base. We’ll get the bastards, Al.”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to try and find the two who were on foot. One question, sir. Why didn’t they shut down the tracker car electronically?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Forsyth said.
There wasn’t time to consider that now. Fitzpatrick hung up and jogged out to Central Place, headed toward Lookout Hill Road and Travis Air Force Base.
Suddenly Fitzpatrick heard someone calling “Sir! Sir!”
He stopped, turned. A bellman was running toward the street. Fitzpatrick started running back toward him. When they met, the young hotel worker was out of breath.
“The ... two ... Chinese men ... are ... back,” he gasped.
“Where were they?” Fitzpatrick started walking briskly back to the hotel.
“In ... the meeting ... room,” he said. “It was open ... for a local ... union breakfast.”
So their move was a feint. This was all about getting the sedan away.
“But, sir?” the bellman panted. “I was ... here when ... the guest first arrived.”
“Let me guess,” Fitzpatrick said. “The man in the red windbreaker isn’t the same man.”
The young man was openly impressed. “How ... did you know?”
In response, Fitzpatrick only gave him an appreciative slap on the shoulder. But as they hurried back he thought angrily, Because everything they’ve done since the son of a bitch arrived has been about getting him away from us.
~ * ~
San Francisco, California
Politically, Carl Forsyth was not a brave man. He had risen through the hierarchy of the FBI due to a combination of hard work and caution. To him, “Cover your rear” was not a shameful act. It was a necessity, one that everyone practiced.
But there was a duty to country that ranked higher than a duty to self and to career. That was why, after considering the broad rules of deployment involved in a high-level security alert, he made the call to Colonel Arnold Pretto, Commander at Travis Air Force Base. He was put through after a brief routing process that ate nearly two valuable minutes.
“Director Forsyth, we received your alert and have gone to modified lockdown. No one in, only essential personnel out.”
“I think you need to do more,” Forsyth said. “We have reason to believe the base may be subjected to a powerful electromagnetic burst.”
“Air launched?”
“From the ground, strong and directed, possibly line of sight. You should minimize available, active targets. I advise you to ground aircraft or land them elsewhere. I also suggest that you block all public roads surrounding the base with armed, not motorized, personnel.”
“Barricade public roads? I don’t have the authority to put armed men out there without a declaration of martial law—”
“Commander, we may only have minutes.” Forsyth began typing an e-mail. “My recommendation is coming, in writing. I’ll assume responsibility.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll make this call. Thank you, Director.”
The commander hung up and Forsyth dropped the secure landline back in its cradle. He went to a Mr. Coffee in the corner of his office. He wasn’t sure caffeine was a great idea—he noticed his hand trembling slightly as he poured—but he needed to do something. He paced with his mug, sipping slowly, wishing he were onsite but content—no, proud—for having made the proper command decision.
As he walked, Forsyth asked God for two things.
First, that he was wrong about all this.
And second, that if he were right, he was also in time.
~ * ~
Fairfield, California
Sitting in the backseat of the sedan, Sammo Yang listened to the nearby sound of aircraft rumbling to a landing or screaming into the skies at the air base. Before long, those sounds would be swallowed in a conflagration of unimaginable power.
He reflected on how this game with the FBI had become a fascinating challenge—one that was about to intensify, one that he had no doubt he would win.
The American resources were spread over a field that was too wide and too unpredictable. He had spoken with Jing Jintao very early this morning on the hotel telephone, confident that the man in the lobby would not intercept it. Even if the staff listened in on his instructions, none of them spoke Chinese.
“We have fielded enough vehicles now to spot those that are routinely following us,” Jintao had told him. “We have engaged an outside resource to make sure the car en route to you is delayed several minutes.”
“I need no more than three minutes to make the switch,” Sammo had told him.
“You will have that,” Jintao had promised.
Sammo almost felt bad for the FBI agent who had remained in the lobby. He was a dedicated man who was clearly surprised by a maneuver that was old when the Chinese nation was young: Sammo switching places with a secretary he had met at acclimation classes in Beijing. Sammo liked winning, but he enjoyed it more when it was a challenge and not a simple exercise. In this case, he had left himself several options.
He had made reservations at various tourist attractions in case the FBI tracker car made it across the bridge and it was necessary for the consular car to tie them up. Sammo had watched YouTube videos of the stunt plane ride and the hot air balloon trip. Both operated just north of the base and would have afforded Sammo proximity
and an elevated vantage point from which to hit his target. The plane would even have given him a route of escape. He carried a small knife hidden inside a key, which had never been detected in any security checkpoint he had passed through. A blade to the pilot’s neck would have given him a ride to any local airport of his choosing.
“There is confusion ahead.”
The voice of the driver drew Sammo to full alert. He looked down the wide road. Vehicles were slowing. It appeared that foot soldiers were leaving the base. He lowered the window and looked out.
They were armed soldiers, not vehicles. And they were apparently blocking the road. With the window down, Sammo heard the distinctive rap-rap-rap of a helicopter coming along the thoroughfare from behind.
Perhaps he had congratulated himself too soon.
The car stopped along with the rest of the traffic. Sammo opened the door and stood on the seat so he could see ahead. Traffic was being stopped in both directions. No one was being permitted past the air base. He shielded his eyes and looked up. Air traffic seemed to be holding above the base.
So, he thought. They had figured something out. Something close to the truth.
This was the challenge he had wanted. He knew it would not be long before his clumsy but obviously dogged adversary was upon him.
Other motorists were getting out of their cars, trying to find out what was going on. Sammo got back inside. He raised the window.
“Leave the vehicle,” he told the driver.
“Sir?”
“Get out and go anywhere, it doesn’t matter— just away from here. Leave the engine running.”
The driver acknowledged and got out. He walked toward a shoe store at the side of the road. Sammo took out his key knife and began ripping up the seat. He pulled the padding out, strewed it along the floor. Then he gutted the back of the seat, tearing out as much of the padding there as he could. He took his cigarette lighter from his pants pocket and broke it, spilling the contents inside the gutted backrest. He squeezed into the front seat, cut the cushions there, and pushed in the cigarette lighter. He turned the fan on full and directed the vents toward the back. When the cigarette lighter popped out, he ignited the padding front and back then flipped it into the hollowed-out seatback in the rear of the car. The lighter fluid ignited with a breathy sound.
Flames rose quickly and the fans blew them toward the back. Sammo exited the car and headed in the same direction as the driver. Other motorists began to notice the charcoal-gray smoke curling from the sedan. They shouted, left their cars, and ran in every direction. Sammo turned as he reached the shoe store parking lot, saw the helicopter coming closer to investigate. It crept ahead cautiously, not wanting to get too near the burning car. Sammo figured it would be another minute or so before the fan-blown flames reached the fuel tank.
Sammo walked on, toward the helicopter, as a thickening crowd of people raced around him. There were words he couldn’t understand, cries that were universal. He looked behind him, saw soldiers on the edge of the line straining to see what was causing the smoke.
Sammo looked back at the helicopter. It was inching forward.
With a sense that his personal journey had come full circle, he raised his right arm toward the single-rotor aircraft.
He pressed the button on the device he wore.
~ * ~
“Mr. Fitzpatrick? We’re all stuck in traffic.”
The voice of driver Eric Enslin of Fairfield Livery and Limos reached Al Fitzpatrick as the agent was running along Suisun Valley Road headed toward Interstate 80. Fitzpatrick was not surprised by the message.
He had phoned the police department to request transportation to Travis, which was about seven miles away. He was told there were no cars available, that they were all headed toward Air Base Parkway. With traffic going northeast already starting to back up near the entrance, there was no point commandeering a vehicle. He reached the on-ramp and started running around the slowed traffic.
“I see smoke,” the FBI agent said into the phone.
“Sorry? Can’t hear you—”
“Smoke!” Fitzpatrick shouted, wishing he had brought his Bluetooth. He slowed to a brisk walk so he could be understood. “Do you see smoke?”
“Yeah,” Enslin said. “Hold on, there’s a chopper overhead. I can’t hear a damn—”
The sound reached Fitzpatrick over the phone before it came rolling across the city. It was a crackling pop that accompanied a flash above the freeway. The flare came from the ground up, under the smoke. The sound he heard thundering down the road was an explosion.
Fitzpatrick was running again. He got onto the freeway, saw the helicopter in the distance and fire on the ground ahead of it.
“Mr. Enslin?” He looked at the phone. The call had not been disconnected. “Mr. Enslin?”
“Jesus! I’m gettin’ out—that car just—”
The call ended suddenly. Fitzpatrick watched as hills of fire rose, one after another, from the site of the first explosion. The booms followed immediately thereafter, blending into a mass of sound as smoke, flame, and shards of metal tumbled skyward. He barely heard the screams of motorists around him who had stopped their cars, got out, and were watching the holocaust unfold.
Fitzpatrick was still moving forward, shouldering through cars and pockets of onlookers, when the helicopter went down. It was well above the smoke and flame, and did not appear to have been struck by debris because there was no struggle to control it, no lopsided moves of a rotor that had been struck and bent.
It just fell straight down.
There were more cries of horror from the crowd as the aircraft threw off a spray of yellow-orange flame that was quickly consumed by churning black clouds. It reminded Fitzpatrick of an upside-down atomic bomb, with the mushroom cloud on the roadway. It was difficult to gauge, but it looked to him as though a half mile or more of Air Base Parkway had been swallowed in the series of explosions.
Conflicting feelings of urgency and outrage, despair and guilt fought for control of Fitzpatrick’s mind. He had to push them aside and focus on purpose. There was no question in his mind about what had happened to the chopper and who was behind this. The tracker car on the Bay Bridge hadn’t been “killed” because the killer was here, waiting to strike.
Finding that man was his purpose.
There was no point continuing ahead. He turned back to get to a hotel landline. As he ran he thought of the cab driver he had inadvertently sent to his death—and of all the others who had died because of him. It was his caution, his passive surveillance, his falling for that simple bait and switch that had allowed the terrorist to get away.
This is on you, he told himself. You could have prevented it.
He ran harder, hoping the effort would somehow shut down his thinking. If there was any consolation, it was that they had apparently prevented a larger disaster at the air force base itself. He could not even imagine what would have happened if a huge C-130 transport—taking off, loaded with fuel—or a squadron of fighter jets or all of them had gone down over the city.
You did that much, he told himself through a sudden rush of emotion. You and Forsyth made the right call.
As he ran, Fitzpatrick tried to call Forsyth to report what had happened. His call did not go through. He wondered if the airwaves were jammed or if power to local towers had been cut to keep the perpetrator from communicating with his superiors.
It didn’t matter. Forsyth would know soon enough.
As he raced back along Suisun Valley Road he flashed back to his college days, when he first learned of the 9/11 attacks and the immediate, temporary shutdown of American airspace. That enactment of SCATANA, the Plan for the Security Control of Air Traffic and Air Navigation Aids, lasted only until September 13.
Having a terrorist on the loose with the ability to bring down aircraft from the skies? God only knew the impact that would have.
Fitzpatrick’s small, sole hope
was that God would find time, among these larger concerns, to forgive him for the job he hadn’t done well enough.
~ * ~
PART THREE
Counterattack
~ * ~
1
San Francisco, California
Doc Matson woke early after a restful night. He always slept well after biking, flying, and doing damage to bad guys.
He had planned to spend the day researching the U.S.-Mexican border outside of Victoria, Texas, where he’d be headed in a few days. But after checking his cell phone and computer and finding no messages from Abe Cohen, he decided to go out for an early morning ride to Abe’s shop in North Beach.
A Time for War Page 25
