The Last Line

by Anthony Shaffer

  It was also possible that the Americans knew something of the plan. If they did, they might be closing in now.

  Almost, Reyshahri wished that he had a cell phone.

  He did not carry one while on a mission—ever. American intelligence had ways of tapping into cell phone conversations, and they were rumored to be able to use them for electronic eavesdropping as well.

  “The two of you,” he said as they climbed into the car. “Do you have phones?”

  “Of course,” Hamadi said.

  “Get rid of them. Now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Hamadi said. “How are we supposed to coordinate—”

  “Now! Throw them away!”

  Both men pulled cell phones from their pockets and hurled them away into the darkness.

  “Good,” Reyshahri said. “Now we can proceed.”

  “I think, Saeed,” Moslehi told him in Farsi, “that sometimes you are too paranoid.”

  “Quite possible,” Reyshahri replied. “But the Americans have not found us yet, and I intend to keep it that way.”

  “I wondered why you didn’t want me to carry a phone, when we joined up in Arizona.”

  “We know they can listen in on conversations,” Reyshahri replied. “Any signal sent through the air cannot be considered secure.”

  “Yes, but a phone that’s not even on?”

  “I would put nothing past the Americans,” Reyshahri said, “and it is imperative now that we remain invisible.”

  With the car loaded, the packages in the trunk, Reyshahri gunned the engine, moved up the beach to the dirt road that led to the highway.

  Turning right onto the main road then, they sped north into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  TELLER

  INDIAN RIVER INLET, DELAWARE

  2315 HOURS, EDT

  21 APRIL

  Traffic was light on Route 1 this late at night, but the highway was not entirely deserted. As they drove north from Fenwick Isle, they’d encountered several other vehicles—particularly as they passed through the resort towns of South Bethany and Bethany Beach.

  Now they were driving through a wilder, more desolate stretch. Teller continued to stare at the laptop screen with intense concentration, watching as they drew closer and still closer to the two blue dots that had just come up out of the sea.

  “Whoa,” Teller said suddenly. “Slow-slow-slow-slow … here! Right! Turn right here!”

  Dominique swung the car off of the highway and into the mouth of a hard-packed sand road leading up over a dune and then down toward the beach. The headlights showed empty sand and the roll and splash of the waves.

  “Shit,” Teller said. He’d been expecting to see two men coming ashore in a boat. Pulling a flashlight from the glove box and his pistol from its holster, he slid out of the car.

  “The two contacts?” Dominique asked.

  “Yeah, the ones that came ashore from the ocean. They’re here.”

  She was out of the car now as well. She’d left the engine running, and the headlights glared across sand, surf, and black water. “There’s a fire on the beach over there.”

  “No. According to the Cellmap, we’re within a few yards of them. Maybe over here…” He probed ahead, probing through the dune grass with his light.

  “What’s that down there?” Dominique asked, pointing up the beach toward the left.

  “Let’s see.” They jogged down the beach together. Teller’s flashlight fell on a wet gray shape.

  “A Zodiac!” Dominique exclaimed.

  “Yeah.” Teller laid his hand on the outboard engine, then snatched it away. “Still hot. This is definitely how they came ashore.”

  “But where are they?”

  “Look.” He shone the light on the wet sand. Footprints, a number of them, led from the Zodiac up the beach.

  “The tide’s coming in,” Dominique said, “but it hasn’t had time to reach those prints.”

  “No.” Teller swept the flashlight up across the empty beach. “I think they’re gone. But we can’t have missed them by more than a few minutes.” Holstering his pistol, he reached for his cell phone instead.

  He punched in Procario’s number. “Frank? We’re here. The beach is deserted.”

  “I’m still reading two contacts. Looks like they’re in the dunes at the top of the beach.”

  “I think they ditched their phones.”

  “Shit.”

  “We have a Zodiac—empty. Footprints going up the shelf, and then they’re lost above the high-water line. Just loose sand. It does look like vehicles have been here. I see ruts from tires, lots of ’em. I’m thinking the boat came ashore and was met by somebody in a car.”

  “We’ll have a forensics team there in half an hour.”

  “Good. Maybe they can check the Zodiac for radiation, and confirm that a weapon was on the thing.”

  “Right.”

  “You have anything on the two phones from the database?”

  “No names. Both are registered with a corporate account.”

  “What account?”

  “Manzanillo Internacional.”

  “Manzanillo … wait. Isn’t that the import-export company that owns the Zapoteca?”

  “The very same.”

  “Okay. Maybe if they find the phones, they can get evidence pointing to individuals. There’s got to be a log somewhere linking specific phones to specific people.”

  He signaled Dominique, and the two of them headed back to the car. There was nothing more they could do here.

  “So, which way do you think they went?” Procario asked him as he slid into the driver’s seat. Dominique took the laptop and began looking for nearby blue icons.

  “I’m not sure,” Teller said as he started the vehicle. “The main highway back to the Bay Bridge is south of here. North, Route 1 goes up to Dover, then on to Wilmington.”

  “I’m looking at a map now,” Procario told him. “At Wilmington, they could pick up Interstate 95. That becomes the Jersey Turnpike and takes them straight to New York.”

  “Yeah, but if they want to hit D.C., their best bet is south to Ocean City, then west to the Bay Bridge. Straight line and no tolls.” Teller thought for a moment as he backed the car around and headed back up the dirt track toward Route One. “Look, we need to cover every possibility. We need some really major high-tech help here.”

  “We’re on it. NEST has already been alerted.”

  “Excellent,” Teller said. They reached the highway, he glanced left, then right … and then turned left, toward the south. “We’re hot on their trail now.”

  INSCOM HQ

  FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

  2320 HOURS, EDT

  Procario switched off his phone. “They missed them,” he told Colonel MacDonald. “But it can’t be by very much.”

  They were standing in the INSCOM Ops Center two levels beneath the street, along with several senior army officers—Colonel Steven Devendorf and Colonel Andrew Howard, as well as the director of the DIA, Lieutenant General Patrick Granger. A civilian was present as well, the deputy director of human intelligence, George Haupt. Together with several aides, they were standing around a large light table, studying the computer-generated map spread out there and on the wall behind them.

  Devendorf brought up a window showing the target beach and the two blue icons. He pointed at a time stamp running in the lower left corner. “Right. This is at 2258 hours 30 seconds … the targets are moving. Here … 2258:40, both of them move quickly about ten yards north, then come to rest.”

  “So … they’re on the road then at 2300 hours,” Procario said. “Chris’s call came through at 2316:12, so they must have pulled in there, say, 2315.”

  “And left again at 2320,” Howard said.

  “So they’re twenty minutes behind the bad guys,” MacDonald said. “Maybe twenty-two. What’s the speed limit on that part of the highway?”

  “Fifty-five,” Howard replied. “We alread
y checked that.”

  “So if the Tango is cautious,” Procario said, “he’s twenty-one miles ahead of them. If he’s pushing a bit, doing sixty in a fifty-five, it’s more like twenty-two.”

  “God,” Haupt said, studying the map. “The terrorists could already be in Ocean City! That’s just eighteen miles south of that beach!”

  “They’re off the barrier islands, certainly,” Granger observed.

  “Can’t we get the local police in on this?” Haupt asked. “Maybe set up roadblocks?”

  “We’re working on it,” Granger said, “but it takes time to get authorization and clearances. Just like getting a warrant.”

  Haupt slammed a fist on the display table. “We’re the federal fucking government, fer chrissakes! If we have to shut down the whole state of Delaware to catch these people, then we do it!”

  “Yes,” Granger said. “We’ll do it, if we have to. But NEST has been alerted and is on the way in. They should be able to pick them up easily enough.”

  “NEST” stood for Nuclear Emergency Support Team. When it was created by President Gerald Ford in 1974, it had been designated as the Nuclear Emergency Search Team, presumably because the word “support” sounded less uncertain, a bit less desperate than did “search.” Tasked with investigating any radiological incident, including accidental spills or reactor leaks, it was also equipped to help locate nuclear weapons or radioactive material in terror incidents. Since 1975, NEST had responded to thirty nuclear terror threats.

  All had been false alarms. It looked like they’d hit the real deal this time.

  MacDonald looked at Procario. “Just how certain are you that this is for real?” she asked him. “Captain Teller is not known for his … steadiness.”

  “Chris Teller is one of the steadiest men I know, ma’am,” Procario replied. “And look at the sequence. We have solid intel that two nuclear weapons are being put on a Russian Kilo. Three days later, two Cellmap icons come ashore in Delaware, out of empty ocean. What the hell else would be going on out there?”

  “Drugs,” Howard suggested. The others looked at him, and he shrugged. “Hey, it’s a narco-sub, right?”

  “If there’s even a chance that it’s smuggling nukes,” Devendorf said, “we need to find them.”

  MacDonald’s Bluetooth flashed, and she held her hand to her ear for a moment. “MacDonald. Yes … okay. Thank you.” She looked at the others. “That was Admiral Dolan,” she said. “One of our attack submarines has made contact with an unidentified submarine object off that part of the coast.”

  “When?” Granger demanded.

  “About two hours ago. Our sub is attempting to close with the target now.”

  “What else do we have in the area?” Granger wanted to know.

  “Two other Los Angeles subs, and a large number of surface ships and helicopters are moving now from Norfolk and Philadelphia. Sounds to me like half of the U.S. Navy.”

  “But we still have a nuclear weapon ashore,” Devendorf said. “We need to put together the best plan for nailing these bastards.”

  “What NEST assets do we have?” Granger asked.

  “Right now … two muon imagers, a dozen ZBVs, and three ZBAs,” Devendorf said.

  “Not much to cover this much territory,” MacDonald said. “D.C. and Baltimore and Philly and New York City. All high-value targets.”

  “Our intel said D.C. and NYC,” Procario said. “If the bad guys haven’t been alerted yet, they’ll still be targeting those cities, not the others.”

  “Agreed.” Granger nodded. “Where are the muon scanners?”

  “One’s outside D.C., sir,” Devendorf said, “the other’s in Newark. Where do you think we should put them?”

  “The one targeting New York City,” Procario said, “that depends on whether the bomb is being sent in from Long Island or from New Jersey, doesn’t it?”

  “We don’t need to worry about the New York bomb now,” Granger said. “Our best information now is that that weapon is still aboard the sub. The navy will catch it.”

  “Okay,” Procario said, but he was worried. What if the navy didn’t get that sub? “Look, just in case … we need a detector as far down the Jersey Turnpike as they can manage. South of all of the bridges and tunnels leading from 95 across to Manhattan.”

  “Edison,” Howard said, enlarging one section of the map, zooming down on a tangle of highway overpasses.

  “Where’s that?” Granger demanded.

  “Near Perth Amboy, sir. South of 95’s interchange with Interstate 287—that’s Staten Island, and would give them access either to the Holland Tunnel or Brooklyn.”

  “Okay,” Granger said. “Sounds like you already have this worked out.”

  “The NEST people have been running scenarios,” Howard told him. “If we don’t catch that sub in the next ten hours or so, though, we’re going to need to fall back on another plan.”

  “Good enough.” Granger pointed at an area farther south. “I think the D.C. scanner needs to go up at the Bay Bridge. Major choke point there.”

  “Sounds good, sir.”

  “And the ZBVs should probably concentrate on all the main highways between D.C. and Baltimore. Route 1, 95, 295 … all of them. Just in case.”

  “How about the ZBAs?” Procario asked.

  “Where are they?”

  “Two at Edwards,” Howard said, “the other one at JB MDL.”

  “Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst,” Granger said, nodding. “Central New Jersey. That one can patrol the New Jersey Turnpike. Have the others patrol around D.C.”

  Procario pointed. “One can patrol over the Delmarva Peninsula, from the Bay Bridge to Ocean City,” he suggested. “The other can concentrate on the Baltimore–Washington Corridor.”

  “Very good,” Granger said.

  “But what if they get through?” Haupt said. “Should we call for an evacuation?”

  “Jesus,” Granger said. “What a nightmare that would be! Over half a million people trying to get out of D.C. at once?”

  “And we thought the Beltway rush hour was a problem,” Procario said. “But you know … there’s an idea…”

  “We’re not going to order an evacuation,” Granger said. “Not yet. Not until we’re sure we know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “An evacuation wouldn’t kill as many people as a five-kiloton nuke,” Devendorf observed.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Granger told him. “It would also have half a million people stuck in their automobiles out in the open, going nowhere. Emergency vehicles blocked. If the warhead went off, we could actually lose more people than we would if everyone was at home. If the blast happened in central D.C. at night, casualties might be fairly low.”

  “We should still alert the city government,” MacDonald suggested. “So fire and police are ready.”

  “Good idea.” Granger looked at Procario. “What was your idea, Colonel?”

  “If we can get authorization, General, then what Mr. Haupt suggested is dead-on.” He pointed at several spots on the map. “Get the police to put up roadblocks here … here … over here … any of these towns in Delaware and Maryland where several roads meet. Use army personnel if we have to, to get enough men—”

  “That’s still a needle in a haystack, Colonel,” Granger said. “And … do you have any idea of the size of the traffic jams that would cause?”

  “Exactly, sir. And if people are stuck in their cars, not going anywhere—well, neither are the Tangos, are they?”

  Granger blinked, then smiled. “You know, I have a feeling that the commuter rush hour tomorrow morning is going to be a real bitch.”

  TELLER

  OCEAN CITY, MARYLAND

  2345 HOURS, EDT

  “Which way now?” Teller asked.

  “I’d take 50,” Dominique said. “That way.”

  Heading west, they sped through the night.

  “It would be nice if we had at least a make and model on their
car,” Dominique said. Traffic was still light, but there were other vehicles on the highway. The double red pinpoints of taillights showed on the horizon up ahead.

  “I know. We don’t even know if we’re on the right road.”

  The problem, he’d decided, was impossible. Going north on the Coast Highway, then turning west on Route 9 or 16 actually offered a more direct route toward the Bay Bridge, but the roads were smaller, two lanes, with more small towns and lower speed limits along the way. Turning south had put them on an expressway, which was faster, but longer in miles. Teller was also realizing how many choices of route there were—at least a dozen different back roads winding across the flat expanse of Delaware and Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

  “So what’s our plan?” Dominique asked him.

  “Okay … there’s a major bottleneck at the Bay Bridge. We can join the NEST unit there and use the laptop to tap into INSCOM or Agency files and help ID Reyshahri.”

  “The NEST people will have file photos and Agency downloads, too, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah. I guess I just want to be in on the capture.”

  “What if Reyshahri went north?”

  “Then he’s heading for Route 95 and the Baltimore–Washington Corridor. Or he’ll take back roads and small towns straight across to the Bay Bridge. I’m betting on the bridge.”

  “You don’t think he might decide the Bay Bridge looks too much like a trap?”

  Teller chewed on this for a moment. “I see your point. Damn, I was just looking at time.”

  “We don’t know that they have a time deadline,” Dominique pointed out.

  “No, but the longer they’re moving on the highway, the more chance there is for us to find them.”

  “Balanced against the possibility that we would shut down the Bay Bridge and check all traffic funneling across.” She tapped out some commands on the laptop. “Going north to 95, then southwest to Washington … that’s only about 165 miles or so … compared with 155 taking the high-speed southern route … or about 110 miles if they stick to small towns and head straight for the bridge.”

  “Damn. That’s not much difference at all. I guess the question to look at is how much of a hurry they’re in.”