Nom de Guerre

by Gulvin, Jeff

  Fitzpatrick felt sweat form in the palm of his hand.

  ‘We’re stopping the river traffic,’ the Coastguard told him, ‘and I’m trying to get some of the big tugs on standby.’

  OK. We’re on our way.’ Fitzpatrick put the phone down, then picked it up again and spoke to Gerry Mackon, the SWAT team leader. ‘Gerry,’ he said. ‘I think our bird just landed.’

  Penny and Harrison were woken by their pagers at exactly the same time. Harrison sat up straight, sleep in his eyes, hair falling over his face. He grabbed the pager and checked the reader message. SWAT Roll. Muster—1250, parking lot.

  ‘You get that?’

  ‘Yep.’ Penny was already pulling on his pants and strapping his ankle holster round his leg. His car was parked downstairs, Harrison’s at the office. Within three minutes, they had the light flashing on the dashboard and the siren howling as they tore the wrong way along Burgundy Street. Three minutes after that, they were parked underground at the office, and Harrison was untying the chain on the trunk of his car.

  Mackon, the SWAT team leader, was already suited in black coveralls and rubber-soled boots, his body armour in place. FBI SWAT was pasted over his breast pocket, and the New Orleans badge, the laughing Mardi Gras masks, on his arm. Kirk Fitzpatrick was down in the lot, talking to him. The SWAT team was split into two sections—gold and blue. Harrison and Penny formed one of four sniper observer teams, two in each section.

  Fitzpatrick disappeared back upstairs, and Mackon gave them their instructions.

  ‘The tanker’s up at the spillway,’ he said. ‘The Rotterdam. The Coastguard’s making a fly-by now, but get up there as fast as you can. I want “eyes-on” threat assessment at the double.’

  The snipers piled into the first panel van, eight black-suited men sitting in the back, screaming up Loyola and then on to the freeway. The carriageway was bathed in early morning sunshine, the concrete road, lifting over the swamp, in brilliant white. The glare bounced off the windshield, and Harrison fished in his pockets for sunglasses and hooked them over his ears. He stared out of the window, feeling the adrenalin beginning to grip him. The swamplands flashed by underneath them, cypress trees dotted every few yards, like a mass of thin and speckled hair. He glanced at Penny, squatting on the bench beside him, MP5 across his knees. Penny shook his head slowly. ‘Oh, boys,’ he muttered. ‘I can feel my spider’s senses tingling.’

  They left 310 at the Destrehan Plantation sign and headed up the river road. Already, press vans were moving. They passed the 4-WWL van, a mile up the river road.

  Harrison shook his head. ‘How the fuck do they get here so fast?’

  Swann was summoned from his bed by the phone ringing. Logan, in the next room, told him what had happened.

  ‘A tanker?’ Swann frowned. ‘What does he want with a tanker?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not the tanker. Maybe it’s where it’s moored.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Bonnet Carre Spillway, about a mile from Waterford 3 nuclear facility.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘You’re not kidding, Jack. The Wackenhutt boys’ll be creaming their pants.’

  ‘Who’re the Wackenhutt boys?’

  ‘Private security firm. They guard the nuclear facilities. They’re ex-special forces, SWAT-trained, big time.’

  They met downstairs and were in a cab to the Mobil Oil building within a few minutes. They jumped out at the front entrance and took the elevator to the twenty-second floor, then walked down one flight of stairs. The squad room was already heaving with agents. Logan told Swann that they would be coming in from all over the southern United States for an emergency like this.

  ‘OK, people, listen up.’ Mayer was at the mini-lectern with the ‘Fidelity Bravery Integrity’ shield underneath it. He tapped the microphone. ‘We believe that Ismael Boese, a.k.a. Storm Crow, has taken possession of an oil tanker on the river. It’s up at the spillway, which gives us a potential horror story with Waterford 3. Right now, we don’t know what the tanker’s carrying. We’re trying to talk to the owners. SWAT sniper teams should be at the scene about now, so we’ll get an initial threat assessment in the next few minutes.’ He paused for a moment and bit his lip. ‘We’re forming a critical incident response group, with the unified command center upstairs in the command post. The tactical operations centers are on their way now, and the mobile command post will roll immediately after this briefing. The ASAC will be “on-scene commander”, reporting back to me here. I want a hostage negotiation team on the scene and one more back here. We’ve got regional SWAT response flying in from Memphis, Jackson, Mobile, Little Rock and Houston. The DOD have given us access to Blackhawk choppers, so they should be on-site within the hour.

  ‘We’ve notified FEMA, the public health departments, Department of Energy, Transport, and, of course, the Department of Emergency Preparedness in St Charles Parish. The sheriff there will have the perimeters in, but the press seem to be rolling already. We need to know what’s in that tanker before we can fully assess the threat to the local population, and hence, who and where to evacuate. I’ve been in touch with D.C. and the Director’s ordered out the Hostage Rescue Team. They should be here within four hours. The National Security Council are on standby, at least until we’ve determined the threat.

  ‘The media rep’s had every damn assignment editor in the country on the phone already, demanding to know what’s happening. It seems that some of the TV networks were called up right after the Coastguard. Nice of them to call us ahead of time, huh. On the positive side, they don’t seem to know anything about Ismael Boese or the feathers or anything. That’s how I wanna keep it for now.’

  He paused and turned to Byrne. ‘That make sense, Louis, just stick to “unknown subject” for press releases?’ Byrne sat with his arms folded, his face grim, and nodded. Mayer continued: ‘Louis, I want you, Agent Logan and Jack Swann to go with the mobile command post.’ He looked directly at Swann. ‘Is that OK with you? You have specialist knowledge, sir.’

  ‘It’s fine with me,’ Swann told him.

  He followed Logan back to the elevator, and a couple of minutes later, the three of them were clambering into the black Chevrolet Suburban, with the blacked-out windows and a mass of electronic equipment set up in the back. An intelligence analyst was already working as they rolled out of the parking lot and on to Loyola, lights and sirens going.

  ‘This mobile unit connects via computer with the SIOC in Washington,’ Logan explained to Swann. ‘That’s our strategic command post. The command post upstairs will do the same. We’ve got a programme called Rainbow that kicks in when this sort of thing happens. Everything from now on will be recorded on Rainbow and can be analysed by the guys back at the puzzle palace.’

  Boese watched the first FBI van arrive and the SWAT sniper teams begin to deploy amid the rubble and brush grass on the levee. A second group took up a position halfway down the spillway itself. Already the sheriff’s cordons were in place, but there were TV vans backed up on the vacant lot parallel to the spillway. Boese smiled to himself and checked the array of mobile telephones he had on the floor in front of him. He would use each one at random. He knew they might be using their Triggerfish system, trying to get an exact fix on the electronic serial numbers that were flashed up into the airwaves. But he had done his homework, and there would be so many signals going up at once, with all the world’s media gathered, it would be almost impossible. As an added precaution, however, the cellphones were digital and had been procured in Mexico.

  Harrison was out of the van at a crouch, fully suited now, respirator in place, ballistic helmet on, and the weight of twenty-four layers of Kevlar plus a ceramic breastplate pulling his crouched run even closer to the ground. He moved in front; the Kevlar body bunker before him, MP5 carbine gripped in his free hand. His Sig-Sauer handgun was attached to his gear belt, along with extra clips, handcuffs and a series of flashbangs. Behind him, protected by him, Penny had his rifle in
the drag-bag, like a heavy black tail between his legs, attached to a karabiner on his gear loop. He also carried his MP5. The second sniper observer team was being deployed on the spillway, and a third were heading for the west bank of the river.

  Harrison moved forward along the gravel road, out of sight of the three tankers that were lying at anchor in a line up the river, a hundred yards between them. The levee sloped to their left, where water seeped from the river this side of the spillway. The press were gathering in force on the raised section of ground, just before the army engineers’ building. Already TV cameras were up and helicopters could be heard, buzzing like so many flies. Harrison hoped to God that the Department of Transport had implemented their no-fly zone. He moved again, into the grass and boulder rubble that topped the height of the levee. Once he had established the cover, he moved off with the body bunker, allowing Penny to move in front. Penny pulled Excalibur from the drag-bag, set the tripod and lay flat in the grass. Harrison, still using the body bunker, took up the six o’clock position behind him.

  Penny lay in the grass, adjusted his scope and tried to see the names on the tankers. So far, they had not been able to identify which one was the Rotterdam. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Harrison squinted over his shoulder. Penny did not reply for a moment, then he spoke into his radio.

  ‘Sniper TOC from Penny.’ The frequency was encrypted, the signal only picked up by the SWAT and sniper tactical operations centers that were rolling across the bridges of Highway 310. The sniper frequency could be further encrypted for when they were about to order the attack.

  ‘Go ahead, Penny.’ Mackon’s voice in his ear.

  ‘Eyes on target. Repeat. Eyes on target. There’s three tankers lined up bow to stern, heading upriver towards Waterford 3. The middle one’s the Rotterdam. I can’t see the name, the hull is too dirty. But there’s a body hanging by his neck from the side of the ship.’

  Harrison eased breath through his teeth and, using his binoculars, took a brief look at the hull. He could make the man out plainly against the raised and blackened ironwork. ‘Hull’s high, Matt,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’ Penny spoke again to the TOC commander. ‘The hull is high in the water. Whatever they were carrying, it looks like they already dumped it.’ He lay on his belly, with his respirator mask down, so he could see through the scope more easily.

  Harrison sat behind him and watched the comings and goings on the river road. The TOCs had arrived now and were setting up forward of the inner perimeter which would be guarded by FBI agents as soon as the back-up arrived. The outer perimeter was the sheriff’s responsibility. The TOCs would sit in the hollow between the levee and the spillway, below the line of vision of anyone on board the tanker. The press were banked above them, and already agents he recognized were arriving in cars and panel vans and the black Chevy Suburbans. On the spillway, photographers were taking pictures with zoom lenses and flashguns.

  Penny was scanning the superstructure of the tanker through his rifle scope. ‘Penny to CP. I got windows out on the superstructure. Four/one, three/two, six/two, three/four and seven/five, all on the green. Repeat. All on the green. Drapes on the windows.’ Suddenly, he tensed. ‘Oh shit. I got movement.’

  Gunshots rattled from the tanker. Penny pressed his face into the ground. ‘Engaged. Gunfire from the ship. Cannot identify crisis site. Repeat. Cannot identify crisis site.’ He looked up. ‘I got movement on the bridge, light on, light off. That’s window six/three, on the green. Double-tap firing. Cannot locate target to return fire.’

  The mobile command post took up position in the hollowed section of land where there was some water underfoot between the levee and the spillway. Fitzpatrick, the on-scene commander, Byrne, Logan and Swann, together with the hostage negotiator and the intelligence analyst, were crammed in the back of the Suburban. The other two TOCs were parked alongside, doors opening on to doors to allow constant access between the three vehicles. Swann could not see the tanker, but he could see what looked like half the world’s media gathered on the raised section of open ground only a hundred yards behind him. FBI agents now patrolled that perimeter and twin Blackhawk helicopters squatted on the river road where it was blocked. One was from the Department of Defense, the other was painted in the white of the US Coastguard.

  Byrne was talking to the hostage negotiator. ‘I can do this if you want me to,’ he said.

  The young agent looked back at him out of flat green eyes. ‘I’ll try first, sir. It’s my job, after all.’

  Swann glanced at Byrne and then at the calm face of the negotiator. Fitzpatrick sat alongside him and dialled the ship-to-shore line that the tanker’s owners had provided them with. They knew now that the holds were empty, but there was a crew of seventeen on board. Boese, if indeed it was Boese, had indicated twenty-three, so where six more had come from they did not know. Apart from the gunshots, there had been nothing from the ship by way of communication. So far, the snipers had not returned fire, for fear of who they might hit.

  The Suburban was cramped and Swann stepped outside with Logan. He was thoughtful, watching the hubbub of activity around him—agents running here and there, sheriff’s deputies trying to stop the press from breaking the line of the cordon. Swann was thinking hard. Why would Ismael Boese hijack an empty tanker?

  Harrison looked over Penny’s shoulder at the body of the hanged man on the side of the hull. ‘That poor bastard’s family are gonna see him dangling there like that,’ he muttered. ‘This fucking deal’ll be beamed all over the world. They’re gonna see him on TV and recognize him.’

  Back in the SWAT tactical ops center, a detailed plan of attack would be formulated. They could do nothing yet, however. Fifteen SWAT guys were nowhere near enough to attack a ship of that size. Harrison looked at his watch, the adrenalin still pumping. Not long now before the regional response teams arrived, but hours before the HRT. If this thing blows, it’ll be us up there, anyhow, he thought.

  In the command post back at the office, Mayer was sitting with people from the New Orleans Fire Department hazardous materials handling unit, two men from the Department of Energy, and others from the Departments of Defense and Transport. Mayer had an open line to the FBI Director in Washington, who had agents from both the international and domestic terrorism sections with him, along with the Attorney General. The President was also being kept informed by an open line, direct to his office. The fear was Ismael Boese, what he had done in London and in Rome, and the proximity of that tanker to Waterford 3. Mayer was speaking on a conference line to the Director and Attorney General, as well as other members of the National Security Council.

  ‘The tanker is empty,’ he said. ‘So even if he blows it all to hell, we should be able to handle the situation.’

  ‘What about London, Charlie,’ the Director said. ‘And Rome? There’s no way of knowing what he’s got on the boat.’

  ‘That’s true, sir. But he is on it, too. I don’t think he’ll set off any chemical device if he’s still on board. So far, we’ve had a brief firearms exchange, that’s all. Or rather, someone from the ship fired on one of our sniper observer teams. The team is intact and we’ve not returned fire. I doubt he’s going to blow the tanker, sir.’

  ‘How long’s he been in the United States?’ The Attorney General’s voice now.

  ‘We don’t know, mam. We received his calling card here in New Orleans, two days ago. That’s as much as we know. We got nothing from customs or immigration, so we don’t know. Having said that, it can’t be long. We’re only talking ten days since he escaped from prison in England.’ He paused then for a moment. ‘I guess you’re wondering if that’s enough time for him to have planted some kind of dispersal device anywhere else in the country.’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Well, mam, it’s possible. Right now, we’re trying to contact him ship-to-shore, but he doesn’t answer his phone. I’ve got negotiation teams at the scene and here at the command
post.’

  Swann was back at the TOC and talking to Byrne. ‘What’s he doing, Louis?’ Swann said. ‘We both know this isn’t his style.’ Byrne’s normally calm face was lined and red. His brows knitted together in a frown and he scraped his lip with a thumbnail.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know, Jack. If he’d talk to us, we could ask him.’

  Just then more gunfire rang out, three short bursts, then three more. The sniper team on the spillway reported that they were under fire this time. The SWAT supervisor ordered them not to return fire. They still had no way of knowing where the hostages were. Swann could hear him talking into the radio.

  ‘Have you got visible contact on the crisis site?’

  ‘Lights on the bridge is all. We got drapes blowing, but can’t see what’s in back of them.’

  ‘Do not fire. Repeat. Hold your fire unless you have eyes on target.’

  Swann looked at Byrne. ‘Like London all over again,’ he said.

  Angie Byrne stood in the shower, letting hot water cascade all over her body. Louis was still in New Orleans and she had a busy day ahead of her, starting the embezzlement case proper. She could hear the phone ringing by the bed, thought about ignoring it at this early hour, but her instincts would not allow it. She switched off the shower and reached for a towel. The phone still rang, a single shrill tone, and she picked it up with one hand, while holding the towel to her hair. ‘Angie Byrne.’

  For a moment nobody said anything, but she could hear the echo of a cellphone.

  ‘This is Angie Byrne. Speak up or hang up. I don’t give a damn which.’

  ‘Turn on the television.’ The voice was low and soft in her ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. Switch on the TV. Where are you? Bedroom? You must have a TV in your million-dollar home.’

  A shiver ran the length of her spine. ‘Who the fuck is this?’

  ‘Angela, you’re an attorney. Try and behave like one. You shouldn’t use such expletives with a client you barely know.’