by Vince Flynn
“Robert,” proclaimed Baxter, “we’re up for reelection. If this thing goes off, and the press finds out we knew about it and did nothing to secure the safety of the citizens of Charleston, your administration is over.”
Stokes knew Vice President Sherman Baxter well enough to know he wasn’t a stupid man, so he supposed it was his pride that had finally gotten the best of him. It was no secret that President Hayes had all but shunned his vice president. The Electoral College had forced them into bed together, and, at first, things went well enough, but not for long. Baxter was from California and, as promised, he filled the campaign coffer and helped deliver the most prized state in the Union. After that, though, things went quickly downhill. Baxter had slowly but surely been isolated. It seemed he’d spent the majority of the last two years either abroad or raising money. On any issue of importance, he was noticeably absent.
Rumors circulated everywhere that he would be replaced on the ticket, and Stokes supposed he had chosen this as his moment to be heard. Stokes had his own plans, however, and so like a loyal knight, he jumped to the defense of his president.
In an unusually loud and forceful voice Stokes said, “I think everyone needs to calm the hell down and leave politics out of this.”
The expression on Vice President Baxter’s face said it all. He looked like the captain of a ship that had just been broadsided by a torpedo.
Stokes didn’t wait long to fill the silent void that followed his admonishment. “If we lock down the damn city we’ll create a panic, and as Reimer just told us…possibly alert the terrorists that we’re onto them, which could incite them into detonating this damn thing and vaporize the place. So…” Stokes paused and in a more composed voice added, “let’s just take a deep breath, relax, and let Reimer and his people, and General Flood and his people, do what they’re trained to do, and stay out of their way.”
Stokes’s reward came only seconds later, when President Hayes smiled approvingly at his attorney general and said, “Well put, Martin.”
CHARLESTON
As someone who usually ran two to three marathons a year, Debbie Hanousek wasn’t afraid to break a sweat, but this was ridiculous. It wasn’t even midmorning, and the temperature in the warehouse was already pushing an extremely humid ninety degrees. That meant inside her anticontaminant suit it was closer to 100 degrees, but there was no taking the helmet off to wipe the sweat from her face. She and her team had been through enough training exercises and real-life scares to have mastered the fear of suffocating in the suits. She’d never panicked herself, but she’d seen plenty of others do it.
She’d been watching each member of her team for signs of stress. They were well trained and efficient at what they did, but they’d never faced anything like this before. In fact no one in the NEST program had ever faced anything like this. There had been plenty of false alarms; mostly small radiological devices, usually made from medical sources, simply misplaced or forgotten, but nothing of this magnitude—actual bomb-grade nuclear material with enough mass to create a twenty-kiloton yield.
The scientific brain trust located at the various labs were still poring over the data Hanousek had provided, and they were all in agreement that this was in fact the real deal. The signature of weapon-grade nuclear material was not something that was mimicked by anything else in nature. They had already begun trying to deduce where it could possibly have come from. For Hanousek the question was truly academic. Right now she just wanted to render the thing safe.
When the man-portable X-ray machine was finally in place, Hanousek gave them the nod to start out at low power, not wanting to affect any electronic circuitry that could be part of the device’s fire set. The first shot showed them almost nothing. This was no surprise to any of them. They were moving cautiously. The two techs looked at Hanousek for permission to increase power. She nodded, and they took a second look. Hanousek peered through the Plexiglas shield of her helmet and looked at the digital picture on the laptop before her.
This one was a little better. She could just barely distinguish the outline of a volleyball-sized object. Hanousek put her thumb out and gestured for the techs to increase power. The third shot was decent. She could clearly make out the configuration of the device, but that was it. The design was simple classic implosion, a spherical core of nuclear material surrounded by explosives, only there was one problem.
“Increase power again,” Hanousek called out.
The next shot came over the screen and she frowned. Hanousek pressed a button on her hip and said, “Paul, are you getting all this?”
“Yeah…a second or two after you do.”
She paused just long enough to make sure Reimer was looking at the fourth shot. “Well…any idea where the detonators and fire set are?”
“None.”
Hanousek gestured for the techs to increase power one more time. When the image appeared on the laptop, she was still mystified. “Paul, I’m going to shoot a cross section from underneath.”
“I concur.”
Based on the shots they’d already taken, the technicians quickly calculated the exact location of the device and crawled under the trailer. They placed the portable X-ray machine within inches of the bottom side of the container and took the first shot. They were right on the mark and Hanousek had them increase power immediately. After three shots they had what they were looking for.
Again, Hanousek asked Reimer, “What do you think?”
“I think I need to call the president.”
“I would agree.”
“Okay. Stand down, and wait for Green to get there.”
“Roger.”
“And, Debbie…”
“Yes, Paul?”
“Nice work.”
“Thank you.”
SOUTHWEST ASIA
The CIA’s G-V had already reached a cruising altitude of 41,000 feet and left Afghanistan air space. There was no need for Rapp to bring all the files and maps with him. Everything had already been scanned and placed on a disk. He did, however, bring two of the three prisoners and enough morphine to keep an entire crack house happy for a couple days. He’d taken Waheed Abdullah and Ahmed Khalili, the young man from Karachi. Both were currently bound, sedated, and sleeping. It appeared the third prisoner was nothing more than a bodyguard, but Urda would nonetheless hold on to the man and see what he could get out of him.
Rapp had accomplished what he’d set out to do, and he saw no need to waste a second more than he had to in Southwest Asia. Especially with everything that was going on back in the States. The mere thought of someone like Mustafa al-Yamani loose on American soil was enough to drive him into a fit of rage, which he would gladly take out on Abdullah if he found out the Saudi had lied to him again.
For now he was stuck on hold, waiting for his boss to come on the line. He used the time to pull up the scanned documents on his laptop. Rapp planned on spending most of the long flight back to the States in search of any clue that would help him track down al-Yamani. He would also have to find the time to get a little shut-eye or he would be worthless when they landed.
Kennedy finally came on the line. “Mitch, anything new?”
“No. What’s going on with the ships?”
Kennedy told him everything they’d learned since the last time they’d talked, and then she went on to quietly explain the dissention in the National Security Council over how things should be handled in Charleston.
Rapp groaned in frustration. “Irene, listen to me. We don’t have a lot of time. I need you to cut through all the bullshit and call Skip directly.” Rapp was referring to Skip McMahon, the director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division. “Don’t go through Director Roach…don’t even tell the president you’re calling him. This thing is about to blow, and I don’t mean the bomb…I mean the story, and once that happens these terrorists are going to be gone. Skip needs to get some agents to the ports and find out if anybody is waiting to pick up these containers. They might have pe
ople working at the docks.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“We’re only going to get one chance at this, Irene, and then they’re going to be scared off. We need to track the shipments all the way to their final destination and uncover these cells.”
“I’ll call him right now.”
Rapp heard a voice in the background and Kennedy said, “Let me call you back in a minute.”
REIMER’S VOICE ONCE again filled the room from the overhead speakers, but this time there was something noticeably different about it. Homeland Security Secretary McClellan was the only one in the conference room at the Mount Weather site. Treasury Secretary Keane had gone off to speak to the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, and Vice President Baxter was off licking his wounds somewhere. General Flood and Secretary of Defense Culbertson were busy handling the situation with the other three ships. So that left the president, Chief of Staff Jones, CIA Director Kennedy, Secretary of State Berg, and National Security Advisor Haik.
Upon hearing Reimer’s voice, everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him on the screen.
Reimer’s no-nonsense scowl had been replaced with a bit of a grin. “Mr. President, I have some good news to report.”
“By all means, let’s hear it.”
“We’ve X-rayed the container and believe the device in question to be a naked physics package.”
The term was lost on President Hayes, but he assumed by the broad grin on Reimer’s usually dour face that there was something positive in this discovery. “Mr. Reimer, I have no idea what a naked physics package is, but since this is the first time I’ve seen you smile all morning, I’m going to assume that in this case, naked is better than fully clothed.”
“You sure could say that, Mr. President,” Reimer laughed.
“So what exactly is a naked physics package?”
“Sir, it’s essentially,” Reimer held his hands up to form a circle, “a sphere of weapons-grade nuclear material minus the fire set and explosive material that are used to trigger the implosion.”
Hayes thought he followed it. “So this thing is basically the core to a nuclear bomb…and nothing else.”
“For the most part that is correct, sir.”
“So it can’t go off.”
Reimer thought of explaining the one exception, but the odds of it happening were so small it wasn’t worth getting into. “Without the explosives and fire set, sir, there is no way for it to reach any measurable yield.”
“So we’re in the clear?” asked Valerie Jones.
“That’s correct. The nuclear material, as it sits, is no real threat to the city of Charleston.”
The room burst into celebration over the good news. There were sighs of relief, nervous laughter, and even a few hugs. The president and the others on the council congratulated Reimer and his people on a job well done. After just a minute things settled down, and Hayes was about to ask Reimer a question when the door to the conference room opened. One of Valerie Jones’s people entered the room and walked briskly to the chief of staff’s side.
Jones listened for only a second and then grabbed the phone in front of her. She stabbed her forefinger at the blinking red light and said, “Tim.” She listened intensely for a full ten seconds. Several times she tried and failed to cut the other person off. Finally she said, “Tim, I get the picture. Have him in your office in fifteen minutes. Tell him I’ll talk to him directly.”
She listened for another five seconds, shaking her head the entire time. “That’s a bunch of crap, Tim, and you can tell him I said that. If he can’t wait fifteen minutes, I’ll make sure he never gets another interview with anyone involved in this administration again, and then I’ll call his boss and have the story stuffed right back down his throat. Now have him in your office in fifteen minutes and call me back.”
Jones slammed the phone down and looked up at the president. “The Times is about to break the story that you and your entire cabinet were evacuated from the capital last night.”
CHARLESTON
As the clock ticked past nine in the morning, Ahmed al-Adel grew increasingly nervous. He’d made hundreds of trips to the yard since taking over the trucking company, but this was without a doubt the most important, and hence stressful. More often than not the trips went smoothly. Al-Adel would leave early from Atlanta so he could avoid the horrendous traffic, and arrive at the port of Charleston before the gates opened at 7:00 a.m.
Everything was legitimate. It had to be that way. Al-Adel was a thorough man, and he’d discovered that the transportation industry was not as rife with corruption as he had once been led to believe. This was not a problem for him, however. Al-Adel planned on playing by their rules right up to the very end.
The international transportation industry was dominated by large multinational corporations with billions of dollars at stake, but as always there was room for small players to carve out a niche. Al-Adel’s niche was importing items to Atlanta’s burgeoning Muslim population. As long as he paid his bills and followed all the rules laid down by U.S. Customs, the multinationals would continue to ship his goods, and he would continue to pick them up.
He’d done that for a year now. He had a nice little business going for himself. He wasn’t turning a profit, but that was because there was no real incentive to. The business was only a short-term cover, so he made almost no effort to get costs under control or expand his distribution. Three times a week he made the trip from Atlanta to Charleston, twice to pick up inbound containers from India and the third time to meet the weekly ship coming from Pakistan.
His fastidiousness had been his salvation. As a Saudi immigrant, and owner of a trucking company that did international business, al-Adel had attracted the attention of the FBI. At first he had cooperated, mostly because he saw no other way, and he knew he had covered his tracks so well he had nothing to hide, but as the FBI’s probe into his professional and personal life ground on, al-Adel grew irritated, and then worried that they might actually find something. After many months his Arabic pride emboldened him. He’d lived in America just long enough to understand what to do.
The idea came to him while watching TV one night. There was a panel on one of the cable talk shows and they were discussing the Patriot Act. One of the guests was a civil rights attorney from Atlanta. Al-Adel had heard of him before. The man’s name was Tony Jackson, but he was more commonly known by his nickname, the Mouth of the South. A convert to Islam, Jackson loved taking on causes that garnered media attention. After listening to Jackson passionately argue that the Patriot Act was an affront to the Bill of Rights, al-Adel paid him a visit the next day. He explained his situation; that he was an American citizen trying to run a legitimate business, and that the FBI was harassing him at every turn. Jackson took the case and instead of using the courts, he used the media to get the FBI off his client’s back.
Al-Adel was very proud of himself for outsmarting the Americans. During his cultural isolation, he had begun to see himself as a solitary, righteous warrior standing up for his faith in the midst of corruption and evil. This feeling of moral clarity and superiority served to sharpen his already quirky awareness of the great cultural and religious divide between his native Saudi Arabia and the decadent American landscape. He would stay one step ahead of the Americans right up to the very end.
He was truly on a mission from God, and he doubted Allah would let him get this far only to fail in the final days of his journey. This thought was foremost in his mind when he was given permission to enter the yard and pick up his container. Al-Adel turned and looked at his companion. Both men exchanged looks of relief. It was so hot and humid they were beginning to worry that the truck might overheat. They had a long drive ahead of them, and the last thing he needed was for the rig to break down on the highway and invite the scrutiny of the police.
The parking brake was released and the truck put into gear. As he drove, al-Adel sat hunched over the large steer
ing wheel and looked around for signs of anything unusual. So far everything appeared normal. The gigantic blue cranes were swinging cargo off the ship, and the rude longshoremen, who were prone to bark at him if he made any wrong move, seemed intent on their own business.
Al-Adel drove through the yard behind another truck with a naked trailer. Both vehicles eventually came to a stop between some orange cones. Quickly and efficiently one of the big containers was maneuvered into position and al-Adel and his associate watched intently as it was lowered over the chassis of the truck in front of them.
SCHOYER AND HIS men put their plan together on the fly. McMahon had called from D.C. and reiterated Rapp’s concern about someone waiting to pick up the nuke. Upon checking with Port officials they discovered that a truck was in fact waiting to pick up the container that had just arrived from Pakistan. Schoyer saw no reason to complicate the matter. A quick surveillance told him that there were two men in the vehicle.
One of his agents suggested calling in a tactical team for backup, but Schoyer dismissed the idea after only a second of thought. He already had six of his own people on-site and another dozen local cops armed with shotguns and submachine guns. If for some reason the two men in question didn’t surrender easily Schoyer felt they had enough firepower on-site to handle the situation. Time was the bigger factor. They’d created a backlog of rigs waiting to pick up containers. If they didn’t let those trucks in the yard pretty soon, the suspected terrorists might get suspicious and make a break for it.
Schoyer thought his chances of arresting the two men without harming anyone else were best if he let them enter the yard. It would be like letting a bull into the pen. With the cooperation of the harbormaster, a stevedore, and two of the crane operators, a quick plan was devised.
