by Vince Flynn
CHARLESTON
The pilots of the Gulfstream III ran the engines all out to get to Charleston as quickly as the executive jet could fly. When the plane finally touched down just before 6:30 a.m. local time two extremely anxious FBI special agents were waiting. The first person off the plane was Debbie Hanousek, the team leader. The forty-two-year-old health physicist and mother of three hurried down the steps and approached the two agents.
Hanousek was barely five feet tall, with kinky short brown hair. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white T-shirt. A lifelong physical-fitness nut and marathon runner, she extended her hand and sized up the two six-foot-tall bookends. They were dressed in matching FBI windbreakers, and looked fresh out of the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia.
The introductions were quick. Hanousek looked them in the eye and gripped their hands firmly. As the six people on her team poured out of the executive jet, laden with equipment, she looked up at the two agents and said, “You guys mind doing me a favor?”
“Yeah…sure,” one of them answered.
“Lose the windbreakers, and while you’re at it lose the ties too.”
The two exchanged unsure looks, and then one of them asked, “Are you serious?”
“You guys ever been to the docks before?” They both nodded. “You see a lot of people walking around in ties and FBI windbreakers?”
This time neither man answered.
“The idea here is to keep a low profile,” she said. “Get in and locate this thing without anyone knowing we’re here. You got it?”
The two bookends nodded.
“Good. Let’s load up, and get to the docks.”
The members of the Search Response Team stuffed all their gear into the back of the big black Chevy Suburban and the trunk of the Ford Crown Vic and then everyone found a seat and they left for the waterfront.
DICK SCHOYER LOOKED down at the yard through a pair of binoculars and watched as two U.S. Customs officials approached the Madagascar. He was standing on the observation deck of a three-story building not far from where the ship was docked. With him were the port captain, the chief of the Port Authority Police, the area port director for Customs and Border Protection, and the commanding officer of the local U.S. Coast Guard station. Schoyer had made it clear to all that no person or thing was to leave that ship until he got the nod from Washington.
As a somewhat standard precaution a Port Authority police officer was put on “gangway watch” to make sure no one left or boarded the ship without their knowledge. The Customs officials made their way past the police officer and up the gangway into the belly of the giant ship. They were under orders to find out the exact location of the container in question and then stall, drag their feet, and in general, do whatever it took for them to buy some time until the Search Response Team arrived.
After twenty tense minutes they radioed the port captain that the container they were interested in was buried in the stacks. Upon consultation with the stevedore it was decided that it would take approximately one hour using two cranes to get to the container, and about forty minutes if they used three cranes. Schoyer made a quick call to McMahon up in Washington, who in turn asked Reimer over at the DOE what they should do. Reimer told him it would be easier for his people to assess the situation if they had access to all four sides of the container. When pressed by McMahon on what to do, Reimer told him to take the container off the ship so that it was waiting for his team.
Two of the giant six-million-dollar cranes went to work almost immediately. Upon confirmation that the Search Response Team had landed at the air force base a third crane joined in. Under the close supervision of Customs officials each container that came off the ship was placed in a specific part of the yard.
Special Agent Schoyer watched all of this with a mix of excitement and dread. He liked his job in every sense of the word. Columbia, South Carolina, was not a glamour posting like New York, Miami, or L.A., but that was just fine with Schoyer. Glamour was something that had really never interested him. He was just competitive enough to rise through the ranks at the FBI, and just smart enough to realize a good thing when he’d found it.
That good thing was Columbia, South Carolina. His government salary went quite a bit further down here than it did in New York or Washington, and his wife and five kids loved the place. The people were nice, the climate was wonderful, and the terrain lush. They’d turned into a golfing family, with the kids caddying on the weekends and during the summer, and he and his wife had joined leagues at a public course that was nicer than most of D.C.’s private clubs. After one year his wife told him if he accepted another promotion he could plan on seeing her and the kids when he came home on the holidays.
Over the past two years he’d grown used to the slower pace of the southeast. He was no longer the action junky that he’d been in his early twenties and thirties. He’d started out as a Detroit cop working nights in one of the worst parts of town. That was when he got hooked on the adrenaline. No job since then had compared. Every night it was something. Usually they were domestic calls, which were wildly unpredictable, often violent, occasionally hilarious, and sometimes deadly. After two years it was on to the Bureau and a different type of action. The job entailed more legwork, paperwork, and patience, but when an investigation hit, the feeling of accomplishment was huge. Locking up bad people for a living was immensely satisfying to the forty-six-year-old agent.
Dick Schoyer liked making a difference. That was why he’d gotten into law enforcement, and as he looked out at the massive container ship that had just traveled from the other side of the world he sincerely hoped they were all going to make a difference today. Whether he liked it or not, he was under a microscope. McMahon had told him the president and his National Security Council were monitoring the situation very closely, and if that wasn’t pressure enough, somewhere amidst the maze of metal containers was a possible nuclear weapon that could level the entire historic city of Charleston. Schoyer had no fear of taking on the most hardened criminal, but a nuclear bomb…he was out of his depth.
When the Search Response Team showed up at the harbor, he was more than relieved to turn things over to people who actually knew what they were doing. Debbie Hanousek was escorted to the observation deck by one of Schoyer’s agents. The introductions were quick and then, thankfully, Hanousek got right to the point.
“I assume,” she pointed beyond the observation deck, “this is the high interest vessel that has everyone so excited?”
The port captain handed her his binoculars. “We’ve been picking around the container for the last ten minutes or so. It’s that red one six rows back from the bow sitting all by itself.”
“We didn’t want to move it until you got here,” added Schoyer.
Hanousek nodded. “Well…if she didn’t blow on a transatlantic ocean crossing she isn’t going to blow getting unloaded. Why don’t you have the crane grab it and set her down where my people and I will have some room to maneuver.”
The Customs official moved in and pointed to a tentlike structure set up in the yard. “We have the VACIS ready to go.”
VACIS stood for Vehicle And Container Inspection System. It was a portable system that measured the density of objects. Hanousek shook her head. “I’d rather check it for a radiation signature first.”
She turned back to the harbormaster and Schoyer. “Do you have any place where we can look at it away from prying eyes?” She noted the FBI man’s wind-breaker, but decided it was probably not a good idea to say anything in front of the others.
“Yep.” The port captain put a two-way radio up to his mouth and called the stevedore. “Hank, pluck it and have one of the longshoremen drive it over to 105 for inspection.” The man in charge of coordinating the unloading confirmed the order and a few seconds later the big crane swung in over the red container.
While the others nervously watched from the observation deck, Hanousek grabbed the agent who had picked her up at the airport and s
aid, “Let’s go.”
On their way downstairs the agent said, “Aren’t you going to give my boss a hard time for wearing his colors?”
Hanousek laughed. “Nope, I know better than that. You guys get a little sensitive about that stuff.” They hustled down the first flight. “I was thinking it would go much smoother if you called him, and told him what I said.”
Hanousek had found out on the way from the air force base that the young agent was in fact only three months out of the FBI Academy. She could tell he was more than a little nervous about telling his boss to do much of anything but the urge to tease him was irresistible. “I sure hope this damn thing doesn’t blow up when they move it.”
The guy looked at her with wide eyes as he raced to keep up. “Are you serious?”
Hanousek just laughed and kept going. She could never understand why people got so nervous around nuclear weapons. In comparison to other bombs they were amazingly stable. Well, sort of.
The South Carolina Aquarium parking garage afforded the best view of the Columbus Street Terminal. Al-Yamani sat in the front seat of the car and watched what was going on below with great interest. The morning rush hour was in full swing, and the downtown area was teeming with traffic and action, which only served to conceal his presence. Ships and tugs were coming in and out of the port, trucks and trains were bustling through the yard, and the gigantic cranes were moving the omnipresent steel containers around like toy blocks. The sheer volume of commerce was both impressive and comforting to the Saudi-born warrior. In the face of all this frenetic movement, he could not see how the Americans could possibly detect one particular shipment. There was so much happening, so many things coming and going, that the odds were surely in his favor.
Al-Yamani knew that somewhere in the line of trucks waiting to pick up containers were two of his fellow warriors. They had no idea that he was watching them, and he had no intention of alerting them to the fact. So much was riding on this bold plan that he had decided to come to America himself to make sure it worked. None of the cells in America had been alerted to his impending arrival. The others had argued with him, they did not want him to go, but in the end they had relented. He knew it was in part pity for his terminal condition that had caused them to give in, and he felt no shame for that because he believed he was doing the right thing.
Several of them argued that it was too big a risk. If he was captured, the Americans could make him talk. The entire operation would be compromised, and for what? Al-Yamani had greeted this concern with laughter. He’d told the others that he was not afraid to die. The Americans could do their worst and he would not talk. Yes, if they had weeks or perhaps months to work on him they might break him, but al-Yamani would not live long enough for them to get their chance. He had forfeited his life months ago.
No, he had invested too much in this grand plan to simply turn it over to men who he had never met, to men who had proclaimed their devotion to the cause, but who were nonetheless untested. They were Muslims who had been living a much different life in America than their brothers in the cradle of Islam. Yes, they said all the right things and vociferously proclaimed their hatred for America and its lack of modesty and diluted moral behavior, but were they men who would be devoted enough to see the attack through to its glorious and fiery conclusion? It was on this point that the others eventually agreed with al-Yamani. The seriousness of the task at hand, combined with the personal sacrifices that he had made, left the others no choice but to grant his final wish.
Al-Yamani looked down at the yard through the binoculars. Now that the blue cranes were snatching containers from the Madagascar he should relax a bit, but he still couldn’t quite shake a slight sense of unease. It had started over an hour ago when the ship had docked and then simply sat there. Something didn’t seem right. Al-Yamani had asked his Kuwaiti accomplice if this was normal and the young man just shrugged his shoulders. Apparently no one had given him orders to watch how quickly arriving ships were attended to.
Al-Yamani’s suspicions grew when a police officer took up position at the bottom of the gangway and then two men boarded the ship. Again the Kuwaiti failed to shed any light on this practice other than the fact that the two men were more than likely customs officials. After almost thirty excruciating minutes the cranes finally swung into action. Al-Yamani told himself all was well, but something was still bothering him.
Yacoub excused himself from the vehicle so he could go to the bathroom. Al-Yamani used the opportunity to get out and stretch. They were parked on the second to the top floor of the aquarium parking ramp. It afforded a good view of the Columbia Street Terminal and the surrounding yard. Al-Yamani leaned up against one of the outer structural supports of the garage and took a sip of water. From this new position he could see a bit more of the yard. He looked out at the endless sea of containers stacked in long rows waiting to be loaded onto either trains or trucks, and some he supposed, back onto ships.
A few hundred meters beyond where the Madagascar was berthed, al-Yamani noticed a squat three-story building. He raised his right hand to block out the rising sun and squinted to try and make out the details. It looked like the building had some type of observation deck on the top floor and there appeared to be several people up there. With a frown, al-Yamani grabbed the binoculars from the car. He held them up and began scanning the yard. A second later he found the building, and a split second after that he was looking at the group of people standing on the observation deck.
Al-Yamani swallowed dryly and counted five of them. Three of the men were in uniforms of some sort and two were in regular clothes. Several of them were talking on phones and all of them, it seemed, had their attention focused on the Madagascar. Al-Yamani chastised himself for not noticing them earlier. Lowering the binoculars he looked up and down Concord Street. There were no police cars or any other obvious signs that the Americans knew the lethal cargo had arrived at their doorstep. Using the binoculars he began to search beyond the immediate area of the dock.
He was at a slight disadvantage because he had very little idea what the normal operation of the port consisted of. Other than the policeman standing at the bottom of the Madagascar’s gangway and the men on the observation deck nothing appeared unusual, and those two things could be explained easily enough. Al-Yamani checked the men out again. They were still focused on the Madagascar. All of them turned around as a man and woman came outside and joined them.
Al-Yamani watched as the woman was introduced to the group. One of the men turned to talk to her and there on his back were three bright yellow letters that caused al-Yamani to grip the binoculars tightly. His breathing ceased as he watched the man wearing the FBI jacket point at the Madagascar. The woman listened to him for a moment and then shook her head. After checking out the ship with the binoculars she pointed at the stacks of containers that the cranes were off-loading. One of the other men said something to her, and then he pointed to another spot in the yard. The woman nodded this time and then went back into the building quickly.
Al-Yamani took the binoculars away from his face for a second and took in a deep, tight breath of humid air. He fought off a wave of nausea and brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. This time he zeroed in on the ground level of the building he’d been watching. Almost immediately he didn’t like what he saw. A large black SUV was parked in front. One of al-Yamani’s chief responsibilities for al-Qaeda had been to conduct research on potential targets. He had looked into assassinating the president and the director of the FBI along with several other key American figures. While checking news footage he found that the Secret Service and the FBI loved to drive these big black SUVs. Never having been to America before, al-Yamani had no idea how common these vehicles were, but there was something about this one and the sedan parked next to it that looked different from the other cars parked near the building.
The woman he had seen on the observation deck exited the building with another man, and they got into the black
truck. Al-Yamani followed them as they drove across the yard to one of the warehouses. The car he had noticed followed closely behind. Both vehicles stopped in front of the warehouse and people started getting out. Al-Yamani counted nine total and noted that four of the individuals were carrying guns. Things got worse as he watched them unload a bundle of black cases.
Al-Yamani could scarcely believe what he was watching, but still he held out hope as he watched the people shuttle back and forth, bringing their equipment into the building. Hope was all he had. He had come too far, and sacrificed far too much, to watch things fall apart this late in the attack, but then in a single moment he saw his entire plan crumble.
A truck with a naked chassis pulled to a stop in the area where the cranes were off-loading the Madagascar’s cargo. It was the first time al-Yamani had seen this done all morning. A rusty red container was plucked from the ship’s depleted cargo area and delicately placed on the frame of the trailer. A group of men in hard hats locked the container down, and then the truck swung around and eased itself into the warehouse.
The woman with the curly brown hair stood in front of the open warehouse doors talking on a cell phone, watching the truck as it slowly made its way toward her. Once the truck was inside, she stepped out of the morning sunlight and gestured for the doors to be closed.
As al-Yamani watched the large doors inch toward each other, he knew with absolute certainty that the container they had just brought in was his. The very device that had stolen years from his life, the device that dozens of his men had died in the search for, was sitting in that building. Just like that, it was out of his control, and his plan was crumbling before him. For the first time in his adult life al-Yamani felt as if he might cry. How could this happen at his finest moment?
The footsteps of someone approaching from behind pulled him from his morose thoughts. He turned quickly, still holding on to the binoculars with one hand and reaching for the hilt of his knife with the other, but it was only Yacoub returning from his trip to relieve his bladder.
