by Tom Clancy
SEEKING SIGNAL… SIGNAL ENGAGED… ENCRYPTION ENGAGED… SYSTEM CHECK… READY…
Lambert appeared on the screen. He was standing in what Fisher immediately recognized as the White House Situation Room. In the background he could see a few people milling around the gleaming oak conference table, including the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the head of Homeland Security, the director of the FBI, and the NID or National Intelligence Director.
“Morning, Sam,” Lambert said.
“I’ve had better, Colonel. Tell me why I’m still in Dubai.”
“Apologies. A lot has happened since you left.”
“So it seems.”
“You’re the tip of the spear, Sam. I asked that you be allowed to listen in; you need to know what’s happening, and what’s coming. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see you. Listen, but don’t speak.”
“I’m a ghost.”
“Tell me about the Burj al Arab.”
“Things got dicey. We’re not compromised, but Greenhorn’s dead — by his own bodyguards.”
“Accident?”
“No chance. They were too good for that. They knew what they were doing.”
“The question is, what did he know that was so important and who gave the order?”
“There’s got to more here than what we’re seeing. Maybe this’ll give us a clue.” Fisher held up the USB drive Greenhorn had given him. “His insurance policy.”
“Good. Get that to Grim.”
On the monitor, Fisher saw the President’s Chief of Staff walk into the room and take a seat at the head of the conference table. Lambert said, “Stick around afterward. Grim has a new mission briefing for you.” Lambert disappeared from view, then came back into frame as he took his seat.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Chief of Staff, “let’s take our seats. I’ll be updating the President following this, so let’s get started. “First, General, I understand you have updated figures from Slipstone.”
The Chairman of the JCS nodded. “Yes, sir. As of three hours ago, the total confirmed dead roughly three thousand, six hundred.”
There were murmurs of shock around the table.
“Of the reported two thousand survivors, approximately forty percent of them won’t survive another three days. We’re looking at a death toll that may exceed five thousand.”
The Chief of Staff was silent for a few moments, then asked, “Why Slipstone? Why did they choose Slipstone?”
The JCS chairman replied, “Just guessing, I’d say for impact. Slipstone’s a small town, in the middle of the country — in the middle of nowhere. The message is, ‘we can get you anywhere, at any time.’ Small town, big city, it doesn’t matter.”
The Chief of Staff considered this, then said, “Moving on. Jim, if you would… ”
The director of the FBI opened a folder, shuffled his notes, then started:
“Seventeen hours ago, our Special Agent in Charge on the ground in Slipstone acquired surveillance tapes of the local water treatment plant. Subsequent study of these tapes led our team to put out a nationwide BOLO for a late-model white Chevy Malibu, which was seen parked near the plant. Two unidentified men were recorded exiting the car, after which they disappeared from view. Twenty minutes later, they reappeared and drove away.
“An anonymous tip led to the traffic stop of the white Malibu by the Texas Highway Patrol units outside El Paso, Texas. The two occupants of the car were of Middle Eastern origin. They were in possesion of false drivers’ licenses, two semiautomatic pistols, and cash in the amount of three thousand dollars. The men were transported to the El Paso County Jail for questioning.
“After initially refusing to cooperate, one of the men let slip details that confirmed their presence at Slipstone’s water treatment plant, as well as their plans to exit the country. Using flight and credit card information, we’ve determined their destination was a house in Guatemala City, Guatemala.
“A raid of the house by the Guatemalan National Police turned up a cache of documents, which was immediately turned over to our local Legat, or Legal Attaché. We’re still in the process of sorting through the documents, but so far we’ve determined the two men were ultimately bound for Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Ashgabat is fifteen miles from the Iranian border.”
Even from seven thousand miles away, Fisher felt the tension in the room skyrocket at the mention of Iran. This was the first true evidence pointing to the perpetrator of the Slipstone poisoning — and possibly the Trego incident. Fisher saw the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was taking copious notes. He knows, Fisher thought. Unless something changed, he’d soon be asked for military options for Iran.
The NID added, “The CIA sent its chief of station from Uzbekistan over to Ashgabat to beat the bushes. Problem is, we haven’t had a solid presence in Turkmenistan for decades. We’re just now redeveloping a network.”
The FBI director continued. “The Ashgabat lead has been partially confirmed by the lone crew member captured from the cargo ship Trego, who was transferred to our custody from another agency three days ago. This subject claims his name is in fact Behfar Nassiri and that he spent time in Ashgabat before leaving to board the Trego at sea, off the coast of Mauritania.”
That didn’t take long, Fisher thought. While in Third Echelon’s custody, the man named Nassiri had met Redding’s interrogations with stone-faced silence. However they’d done it, the FBI had apparently found Nassiri’s “Talk” button.
The director of the CIA interjected: “According to our database, the family name of Nassiri originates in the Mazandaran region of Iran.”
There were a few moments of silence, then the Chief of Staff said, “Son of a bitch.”
“Nassiri further claims he had been instructed to guide the Trego into the Virginia coastline and then, if still alive, kill himself in ‘a glorious blow against the Great Satan.’”
“Straight from the Pasdaran hymnal,” said the Secretary of Defense.
Fisher had had his own dealings with the Pasdaran. Officially called the Pasdaran-e Enghelab-e Islami, or the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Pasdaran were elite troops chosen for their dedication to Islam and to the religious leaders of Iran. The average Pasdaran soldier’s zealotry made a Palestinian suicide bomber look meek.
“Good Christ, what are they thinking?” said the head of Homeland Security. “Didn’t they realize what this would bring down on them?”
Of course they know, Fisher thought. The extremist leadership in Tehran would like nothing more to finally join battle with its prime enemy. For them, this was a divine mission.
“Anything else on the FBI side?” the Chief of Staff asked.
“I’ll have more for the morning briefing, but we’re still working on the remains from the Freeport City coffee warehouse—”
“How are certain are we that these are the bodies of the Trego’s crew?” asked the SecDef.
“Ninety-nine percent. Autopsies are under way right now, so we should have some answers soon. As for the Duroc—the yacht — we believe it picked up the Trego’s crew and transported them to Freeport City. She exploded at sea before we could intercept her. There were no survivors, no remains. We’re working on nailing down the registry.”
An aide entered the room, walked the the FBI director, handed him a note, then left.
“What is it, Jim?” asked the Chief of Staff.
“Another piece of the puzzle. The financial information we recovered from the house in Guatemala City was tracked back to a bank in Masqat, Oman. It’s a coporate account under the name Saracen Enterprises.”
The NID was taking notes. He said, “We’re on it.”
The FBI director closed his folder. “That’s all I have for now.”
The Chief of Staff turned to the NID. “Doug?”
The NID stood up and walked to a nearby monitor, which came to life showing a satellite view of Slipstone. The image was in shades of gray, sav
e for a few spots of orange-red.
“These are radioactive hot spots around Slipstone. We’ve coordinated satellite coverage with the EPA to find the limits of the contamination and quarantine the water supply. So far, it looks like there is no leakage into the surrounding ground water or geological structures.”
“What are we talking about here?” asked the Chief of Staff. “What’s the contaminate?”
“Cesium 137. It’s a common waste element produced when uranium and/or plutonium are bombarded by neutrons. In essense, it’s radioactive waste from either a reactor or the remnants of bomb production. Unfortunately, in the world of nuclear physics, cesium is a dime a dozen. Finding precisely where it came from is doable, but it’s going to take some time.”
“How persistent is this stuff?” asked Homeland Security. “How long before the town is habitable again?”
“The half-life of cesium 137 particles is thirty years. In other words, Slipstone will be off-limits to all human life long after most of us are dead.”
* * *
The meeting was adjourned and Fisher sat in silence, watching the attendees file out.
He was stunned. He’d heard the initial death toll predictions, but hearing them recited in such clinical fashion chilled him. Five thousand dead… Slipstone a ghost town, uninhabitable for a generation or more…
Lambert appeared before the screen. Over his shoulder, the situation room was empty.
“So: You heard.”
“I heard,” Fisher replied.
“Here’s how it’s going to happen: By the close of business today, Congress will officially name the government of Iran as the perpetrator of the Trego and Slipstone attacks. In a unanimous vote they’ll reaffirm the President’s authority to use all available military force in response. By this time tomorrow, the Joint Chiefs will have an operational plan on the Secretary of Defense’s desk. Forty-eight hours from now, a U.S. Navy battle group will begin moving toward the Gulf of Oman.”
It would happen, of that Fisher was certain. Whether it would precisely match Lambert’s scenario he didn’t know, but what his boss had just described was a fair prediction of what was coming. The only evidence that contradicted the seemingly irrefutable Iranian angle was his report of a Chinese crew aboard the Duroc, now scattered along with its crew on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
The question was, how and when would the President choose to respond to the attacks? Full-scale war with boots on the ground in Iran; precision air strikes; tactical nuclear weapons?
“Where does this leave us?” Fisher asked.
“Same place, just a tighter deadline. If there’s something more to all this, we’re running out ot time to find it. But wherever the evidence leads, we have to have all of it. Grim, are you on?”
“I’m here. Sam, two items of interest: One, the data you pulled from the Duroc’s helm console was heavily encrypted — another Marcus Greenhorn masterpiece, but so far it looks like other than the trip from its home port in Port St. Lucie to the Bahamas, it had been up and down the Atlantic Coast, following the deep-sea fishing lanes with a couple stops in Savannah, Hilton Head, Charleston — places like that.
“The stomping grounds of the yacht-owning rich and famous,” Fisher said.
“You got it. I’m still working on an owner, but whoever the Duroc belongs to, they’re wealthy. Item number two: We’ve traced the serial numbers you took from the Trego’s engines. According to Lloyd’s of London, the engines were installed two years ago aboard a freighter named Sogon at Kolobane Shipyard in Dakar, Senegal.”
“Nassiri claims he boarded the Trego off the coast of Mauritania,” Fisher said. “Dakar’s only a hundred miles from the border.”
“And I’ll give you ten to one the Sogon and Trego are one in the same,” Lambert said.
“Either that, or it was a swap. Do we know where the Sogon is now?”
Grimsdottir said, “I’m looking. As for the shipyard: I’ve tried to hack into their computer system, but it’s rudimentary at best — e-mail and little more. All records are likely kept as hard copies in the shipyard itself.”
Fisher thought for a moment, then said, “Last time I was in Dakar was two years ago.”
“Then I’d say you’re long overdue for another visit,” Lambert said. “Pack your bags.”
24
DAKAR, SENEGAL
Fisher pulled his Range Rover off the road onto a dirt tract bordered on each side by jungle, and then doused his headlights and coasted to a stop. He shut off the engine and sat in silence — or what passed for silence here. He was surrounded by a symphony of the jungle’s night sounds: chirping frogs, cawing birds, and, high in the canopy, the shrieking and rustling of monkeys disturbed by his arrival.
Though he was officially within the city limits of Dakar, the jungle refused to be tamed as it tried to encircle and retake the urban areas. Since his arrival that morning, Fisher had seen hundreds of laborers along Senegal’s roads, hacking at the foliage with machetes.
So much the better, he thought. Like water, for him the jungle meant cover, a place for stealthy approach; escape; evasion; ambush. He slapped at a bug buzzing around his ear, and was instantly reminded of the one thing he didn’t like about the jungle.
He’d been to Dakar twice, the first time during his SEAL days when he and a team had been dispatched to track and eliminate a French black market arms dealer who’d been arming both sides of a brush war between Mali and Mauritania. Thousands had died on both sides, many of them child-soldiers, and thousands more would die in the months to come if the Frenchman had his way. He didn’t get his way; he’d never gotten out of jungles along the Senegal-Mali border.
Dakar had been founded as a French colonial outpost by residents of the nearby island of Goree, and had over the last century and a half grown into a major commercial hub on the West African coast, an exotic mixture of French culture and Islamic architeture.
Fisher got out, grabbed his duffel from the backseat, then walked a dozen meters into the jungle. He quickly traded his Bermuda shorts and T-shirt for his tac-suit, web harness, and guns, then tucked the duffel into some foliage and set off at a trot.
* * *
One mile and eight minutes later, he saw a clearing appear through the branches. He stopped and crept to the edge of the tree line and crouched down. Ahead of him lay a fifty-foot-wide tract of ground that had been burned clear of jungle; beyond that was Kolobane Shipyard’s eastern fence: twelve feet tall and topped with razor-tipped concertina wire. On the other side of the fence was more open ground, an acre of weeds and grass that gave way to the shipyard’s outer buildings, a double line of low storage huts separated by a dirt road. Over their roofs he could see several cranes. Here and there klieg lights mounted atop telephone poles cast circles of light on the roads below.
While Kolobane was the busiest shipyard on the African coast between Morrocco to the north and Angola to the south, the shipyard had only enough work to keep it busy during the day. At night it was staffed only by security and maintainence crews.
Fisher pulled out his binoculars and scanned the area, first in NV mode, then in IR. According to Grimsdottir’s brief, the shipyard maintained a skeleton staff of roving patrols. Before he moved into the yard he wanted a feeling for their routes and schedules.
Ten minutes later, he had what he needed. The nearest guard was a teenager dressed in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Fisher knew better than to discount the boy. In Africa, some of the best soldiers and worst killers wouldn’t be old enough for a driver’s permit in the U.S. Nevertheless, they would shoot you dead without a moment’s hesitation, strip your body of clothes, shoes, jewelry — along with fingers, if necessary — then leave you to rot on the side of the road.
Fisher waited until the boy had disappeared around the storage sheds; then he sprinted to the fence and dropped to his belly. From one of his pouches he pulled a miniature spray bottle filled with a special cock
tail of enzymatic acids. In this case it was overkill: The shipyard’s fence was ungalvanized, so years of humidity had turned it more rust than not. Fisher gave the fence a liberal misting.
Five minutes was all it took. He reached out and pressed his palm against the fence. With a dull twang, a two-foot-by-two-foot oval sprang free and dropped to the grass on the other side. He did a quick scan with the binoculars to locate the guard, then crawled through the hole.
* * *
He covered the open ground in two minutes, alternately sprinting and pausing as the teenage guard made his circuitous route around the storage huts, down the dirt road, then back around again. His pace and route didn’t vary, so Fisher had little trouble timing his movments. He slipped between a pair of huts, then across the dirt road and behind the second line of huts.
Before him was a narrow grove of stout-trunked baobab trees. Through them Fisher could see the scaffolding of a crane and the shipyard’s pier. Moored to it was a rusting cargo freighter.
Set among the baobabs were a dozen or so picnic tables — a break area for workers. He heard faint laughter. He flipped his trident goggles into place and switched to NV. At the far edge of the grove, perhaps fifty feet away, a pair of men sat at a table smoking. Scattered on the ground around them were what looked like hairy soccer balls; these were the baobab’s fruit pods, also known as monkey bread. Fisher was only too familiar with them. Tracking down the French arms dealer had taken weeks. After their MREs had run out, he and his team had subsisted on monkey bread and roasted snake.
He settled down to wait, but it took only minutes before the men stubbed out their cigarettes, got up, and started ambling toward the shipyard. Fisher waited until they turned the corner around the crane, then got up and sprinted forward.
He paused at the edge of the baobabs to check for guards, but saw nothing. He was about to continue when something caught his eye, a glimmer of light on glass. Warning bells went off in his head. So faint was the glimmer that it took him thirty seconds to find it again. To his left, high atop the control cab of a crane, was a man. Dressed in black, his face covered by a black balaclava, he lay on his belly with an NV-scoped sniper rifle pressed to his shoulder.
