by Peter Telep
“I understand. Just a precaution.”
The prince made a face, looked at the troops, who nodded okay, then he turned and waved everyone back toward the Humvees.
Shouldering their duffel bags, they followed Shammari and boarded the lead truck. They drove off toward a large tower where a ball of flame lit the night.
“Burn-off,” Shammari said, flicking a finger in that direction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Do you have the radiation equipment we requested, along with the schedule of deliveries?”
“You can meet with our security team at the main gate. They’ll have all the information you want to see. But do trust me, I’ve looked over that schedule myself, and as I told you earlier, there’s nothing out of the ordinary for us.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Fisher.
“There are over thirty thousand employees here who’ve entrusted their lives to me and my security forces. I would never let them down.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” said Fisher.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because the men I’m dealing with are very determined, and I think they’re smart enough to fool us if we’re not careful. So let’s be careful—and check it out.”
“All right, then, there’s the main gate ahead. Go ahead and check it out.”
There was no mistaking the prince’s sarcasm, and Fisher guessed he might act the same way were the tables turned. The Saudis had transformed the place into a fortress, and Fourth Echelon’s presence implied that the prince’s “impenetrable” security force had been summarily scrutinized and found wanting, which in turn had bruised his ego.
The Humvee pulled to a halt even as a pair of broad, wrought-iron gates bordered by black-and-yellow stripes yawned inward. A guardhouse stood on either side of the gates, with riflemen posted at each. More bearded guards wearing traditional security uniforms came out to greet Fisher and Briggs, who were introduced to the officer in charge and taken over to a computer terminal, where the logs were stored.
Although Fisher had requested that those logs be sent electronically to the team, the prince had declined, saying they were confidential but that Fisher was welcome to take a look at them in person. Fisher began surreptitiously snapping photos of the log with his OPSAT and transmitting them back to Charlie and Grim.
“Got them, Sam,” said Charlie.
“We receive fifty, sometimes one hundred shipments per day,” said the officer in charge. “Packages and equipment of all kinds.”
Fisher squinted and scanned through the long list in 10-point type, the items identified in a mishmash of English and Arabic.
He scrolled down, tapped his finger on the screen, and moved back so that Briggs could have a look.
An invoice indicated the arrival three hours earlier of seven thousand feet of pipe and four new drill heads.
“What do you think?” asked Briggs.
“I think we should check it out.”
They returned to the Humvee, and Fisher said, “Prince Shammari, there is a delivery you received earlier that we’d like to examine.”
“You think my personnel missed something?”
“No, sir.”
“Then we can take you back to your helicopter.”
“We’d rather inspect the shipment ourselves—only because the timing is right.”
Shammari made a face and called out to the driver. The convoy moved forward, through the gates, and onto a road leading out toward four silver spheres looming in the distance.
“And can you tell the driver to get us there as fast as he can?” Fisher added.
“Of course I’ll tell him. But first, look over there.”
Shammari pointed to the lines of Al Fahd Armoured Personnel Carriers on either side of the road, some armed with .40mm cannons, others with .50-caliber machine guns mounted above their cabs. Some troops manned the fifties while others stood on lookout in the turret-top cupolas to the rear.
The prince went on: “If anything were to bypass the gates, these men would cut them down in a second. Do you have any idea how many eyes and ears we have on this processing plant? How at this very moment we’re being monitored by cameras, by motion detectors, by drones flying over our heads? Do you know how many rounds of ammunition we can put on a target in a single minute? It’s truly incredible.”
Fisher closed his eyes and steeled himself. “Yes, it is.”
“But still you question our security.”
“Didn’t the king, your uncle, say it was better to have a thousand enemies outside your tent than one inside?”
“He did. But you’ve just crossed into one of the most secure places in the world.”
Fisher considered a retort, then thought better of it.
The pair of warehouses Grim had mentioned earlier began rising from the twilit gloom ahead. At least the driver had taken his cue and raced ahead with a heavy foot and clear sense of urgency.
They pulled up outside the first warehouse, a rectangular two-story building about the length of an entire football field. Several guards were posted outside the doors, and a few more along the rear dock and loading ramps.
While Shammari strode from the Humvees, Fisher and Briggs jogged away with the security team hustling up behind them. Seeing what was happening, the warehouse guards moved aside, and the lead troop, a sergeant, slid a key card across a scanner, opening the side door. They charged inside.
Massive halogen lights suspended from the iron rafters cast broad puddles of light across the concrete floor. To their left, oversized racks rising some eight meters held bundles of pipes of various lengths and diameters. To their right towered literally hundreds more racks with thousands more pipes, fittings, clamps, and dozens of other parts, some recognizable, some completely foreign to Fisher. Placards in Arabic and English identified sections as DESALTER, VACUUM DISTILLATION, NAPHTHA HYDROTREATER, CATALYTIC REFORMER, and FLUID CATALYTIC CRACKER, among many others.
In sum, the warehouse was an overwhelming maze of drilling and oil refining equipment, each aisle a labyrinth of rubber, copper, steel, and aluminum. Without knowing exactly where the recent pipe and drill shipment had been stored, it could take them an eternity just to get near it. Moreover, it was after hours, and the warehouse foremen had gone home for the evening.
“The most recent large shipment,” Fisher told one of the sergeants in Arabic, reciting the invoice number he’d memorized. “Delivered today.”
The troop had a schematic of the warehouse and delivery schedule displayed on an iPad mini. He called up the route, pointed toward a long row between racks on their right, and once more, the group took off jogging, with the prince bringing up the rear.
They rounded a corner, and the sergeant called for a halt to once more consult his tablet. He glanced up at the storage racks, numbered 329, 330, 331 . . . then his gaze panned downward to more labels. He began walking up the row several more meters, then spun and stopped. “It’ll all be here,” he said, pointing to the bundles of pipes and cone-shaped drill heads sitting atop pallets covered in shrink-wrap.
“Grim, are you seeing this?” Fisher muttered.
“Got everything. I don’t see anything that looks like a generator there.”
Fisher turned back to the troops. “Who’s got the radiation equipment? We need this scanned.”
Two soldiers dropped their packs and fished out their portable radiation survey detection meters and wands.
Prince Shammari lumbered up behind the group and said, “What do you think of our warehouse?”
Fisher wasn’t sure how to answer. “Nice.”
“And this is the delivery you’re so worried about?”
“Yes, it is.” Fisher called for some more light, and the troops directed their flashlights onto the pipes and within them.
“I can assure you,” said the prince, parading up to Fisher and getting in his face. “This delivery has been thoroughly inspected by three of my engineers, by my radiological te
ams, and by anyone else we deemed necessary to ensure it is not, and I repeat, not some kind of explosive device that you and your people suggest may be en route here. These items were ordered months ago, and the company verifies the shipment and invoices through their own security personnel, and then those items come through our very rigorous process. And I remind you, even after Ms. Grimsdóttir called, we searched this entire facility, just as a precaution. I was very explicit about that. You’re wasting your time with these radiation detectors and with this whole nonsense. No one got past my security. No one can get past it. I hope you and your people understand that now.”
Fisher stood there.
Part of him felt deeply embarrassed, the other part ready to commit murder.
Shammari bared his teeth, but his lips curled into a grin.
Fisher averted his gaze. “We’ll be leaving now.”
33
BEFORE climbing into the Humvee, Fisher stole a moment to have a word with Grim, who’d been monitoring the conversation he’d had with Prince Shammari.
The wind was beginning to howl in his ears as he listened to her through his subdermal: “I don’t know, Sam, I was positive all the dots were connecting.”
“They still are.”
“Maybe Abqaiq’s not the target.”
“Then why are those Russians in Dammam?”
“Maybe it’s been the port all along. Or maybe the capital. Maybe it’s Riyadh. That’s only two hundred miles southwest.”
Fisher mouthed a curse and said, “We’re heading over to Dammam. We’ll see what we can pick up there. You keep working with Kasperov and his right-hand guy. I’ll be in touch.”
As they drove away from the warehouse, Prince Shammari glanced up from his surfboard-sized smartphone and announced that out to the west, a thunderstorm traveling at up to 45 knots was beginning to collapse and dump torrents. Wind directions were reversing and gusting outward from the storm. Reports from Riyadh said a haboob was beginning to form and that everyone should seek cover.
“Haboob” was an amusing word for a very deadly and intense sandstorm common on the Arabian peninsula.
“Where are you headed now?” Shammari asked Fisher.
“Dammam.”
“Then you’d best hurry.”
“We will. I’m sorry we wasted your time. Your security is impressive.”
“As I’ve demonstrated.”
“Your deliveries here, they all come in by truck?”
“And by rail. With a few small ones by helicopter.”
“The oil is shipped by pipeline up to Dammam.”
“That’s correct.”
Fisher sat there, considering that.
“I hope for our sakes that you’re wrong,” said Shammari. “There is no plot. There is no bomb. I know we’ve been talking about terrorists with nuclear weapons for years, but the world cannot afford it. Not ever.”
“I agree. But I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Fisher glanced out the window. “There’s a bomb out there. And we’re going to find it.”
* * *
BY the time they hit the helipad, the chopper was already warm since Fisher had called ahead to the pilot. They bid their tense and somewhat awkward good-byes to the prince and his troops, then started for the helicopter.
While stars shimmered directly overhead, the western sky was no more than a churning brown wave that consumed the entire horizon. Briggs pointed, and they both gasped.
This could be the largest and most formidable haboob Fisher had ever seen, and that was saying something because he’d spent enough time in Arab countries to ride out his share of storms. This bad weather could buy them some time. If the storm extended all the way up to the port it could shut down operations, perhaps delaying the oligarchs’ plan.
They climbed into the chopper, Briggs taking one of the backseats, Fisher up front with the pilot. They rolled shut the door, and just as they were lifting off, Grim called.
“Sam, I’ve got new intel from Kasperov. He called one of the oligarchs directly. Kargin, the guy who was talking to Chern. Kasperov threatened to unleash the Calamity Jane virus on the man’s company and holdings if he didn’t call off the attack.”
“Then it’s over?”
“Kasperov thinks Kargin killed himself while he was on the line. The guy said it’s too late. There’s nothing that can stop them now.”
“Aw, shit. Did he get anything else?”
“He didn’t, but his partner Kannonball did. More intercepted comms between the GRU and an agent in Dammam. Best we can tell there are four Iranian MOIS agents at the port. They’ve linked up with the rogue GRU agent and were ordered to meet up with a railcar broker.”
Fisher’s OPSAT flashed as Grim sent him a satellite map of the desert between Dammam and Abqaiq, with a flashing red line between the two. Fisher zoomed in on that line to expose a set of railroad tracks, noting how the railway left Dammam, ran right through Abqaiq between the Saudi Aramco compound and the processing plant, then arrowed farther south to Riyadh.
“Grim, what if they—”
“I’m ahead of you. The Saudis have GID agents at the port, and I confirmed with them that one of the Iranian ships offloaded an HEP car.”
“A what?”
“An HEP car. These are high-end power cars that sit directly behind the locomotives. They look like engines sitting backward and they generate extra power needed for refrigerator cars and tractor trailer cooling units. The Saudis have some older diesel locomotives and still use some of these power cars on their lines. There was nothing unusual about this shipment, and all the paperwork checked out with the railway.”
“So why are we interested?”
“Because that HEP car was attached to a locomotive carrying oil containers, twenty-one in all, and it’s the only shipment scheduled to run through Abqaiq this evening. It’s number 116.”
“So you’re saying they don’t use HEP cars with oil container trains.”
“No—but they attached one anyway because they wanted that car to move out tonight.”
“Tell me why oil is being shipped down by train when there’s pipeline from Abqaiq to Dammam.”
“That oil is headed for Riyadh. They still need to ship the processed oil back down to the city by rail, and as you’ve seen, that railroad passes right through Abqaiq.”
“So they got past security at the port and the bomb’s inside the HEP car.”
“It has to be.”
“So the bomb is part of a larger shipment.”
“Yeah,” said Grim. “We weren’t thinking big enough.”
“So now all they have to do is wait until the train passes through the processing facility and detonate it for maximum impact. Just like the thorium operation, they either have a spotter in Abqaiq or like Kasperov said, they’ll have someone to trigger it manually, someone on a suicide mission.”
“Plus they have the storm to cover them. No way they could’ve planned that, but they’ll take advantage of it.”
“Call Shammari. Tell him to stop the train.”
“I already did,” she said. “The train’s still coming. It’s been hijacked. Just a single rail between Abqaiq and Dammam. No way to divert it.”
“What’s our ETA to the train?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Backup?”
“Shammari’s troops are leaving the compound now, but his F-15s have been grounded. He says he’s got some light helicopter gunships en route.”
“Tell him to hold back those gunships until I give the order—otherwise they could spook the triggerman.”
“Roger that. And, Sam, once the storm hits we’ll lose the satellite feed and maybe the rest of our comms.”
“That’s all right. We know what to do now.”
“Sam, I, uh . . . I think this time we’re right.”
“Is your gut telling you that?”
“It is.”
“Good. Mine, too.” He closed his eyes and could almos
t see her face. She wore the barest hint of a smile.
He wanted to say something else, something more meaningful because she was right, this was it—possibly the last conversation they’d ever have after years of working together.
“Grim?”
“Yeah?”
He stammered. “We’ll be okay.”
After a long pause, she answered, “Talk to you soon, Sam.”
Briggs, who’d been listening in on the conversation via the chopper’s intercom system, reached over and proffered his hand.
“What’s this?” Fisher asked.
“Just in case,” said Briggs. They shook firmly. “Someday, when I grow up, I’m gonna be just like you.”
Fisher shoved Briggs and smiled. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
34
THE chopper pilot from Dubai, who’d introduced himself as Hammad, knew some English—enough to deal with tourists—but that wasn’t an issue since Fisher and Briggs spoke Arabic.
However, convincing the thirty-year-old man with closely cropped beard to engage in the unthinkable with his rotary wing aircraft was the real challenge.
“We just need a ride to the train,” Fisher said over the intercom.
“To the train? The storm’s coming. We can’t do that. Besides, why there? How were you planning on boarding?”
Fisher sighed. “Very carefully. You’ll take us to the train. Now.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t.”
“Then you can hop out right now, and my buddy will take over.”
Briggs reached in beside the man and began to open the side door.
“What’re you doing?” The pilot swatted away Briggs’s hand and cried, “You’re crazy! Crazy! We have the storm. We have to get back to the port and get under cover!”
“Hammad, we need you,” said Briggs, who looked to Fisher for approval and got it. “We’re talking about terrorists on board that train.”
“I’ll put it to you this way,” Fisher interjected. “If you don’t help us, we won’t kill you—but what they have on that train will.”
The pilot hesitated. “What do you mean?”
