by Tim Washburn
“What the fuck do you mean, you immobilized them?”
“We disconnected them from the ship’s computer, sir.”
“How are we going to diagnose the problem if we can’t communicate with the weapons computers?”
“We can’t, sir.”
“Fix it, Ms. Connelly. And tell one of those choppers to park their ass on the deck until I tell them otherwise.”
“We can’t, sir. The radios are inoperable.”
“Then go stand on the deck and wave him in.”
“Yes, sir,” Connnelly says as she snaps off a salute and hurries out to the rear deck.
CHAPTER 37
Los Angeles
When people think about Los Angeles they often think of the weather, the movie stars, Hollywood, or the interminable traffic. For those with longer memories, thoughts of Los Angeles might trigger images of the Watts riots, the white Bronco chase through the city, or chaos in South Central. Very few people, other than those who work there, ever think about the sprawl of industrial properties that are situated fourteen miles east of downtown Los Angeles. Hemmed in by densely populated neighborhoods that have filled in over the years, the area known as Santa Fe Springs is home to an amalgam of chemical manufacturers that put nearly five million LA residents at risk if something were to ever go wrong.
One of those companies is CleanCal Industries. The list of items manufactured at CleanCal sounds innocuous—household cleaners, personal hygiene products, pool and spa supplies, automotive fluids, and general cleaning supplies. Nothing on the list triggers alarm bells and two of the most common chemicals used at CleanCal are chlorine and ammonia—two ubiquitous products found in homes all across the world. Their presence at the plant doesn’t move the danger needle for many nearby residents because most don’t stop to contemplate the quantity of chemicals the company must store on site to keep the production lines humming along.
Separately, the two chemicals are relatively safe as long as they are used according to the labeled directions. But many people have discovered during everyday cleaning duties that if the two chemicals are accidently mixed—say, in a toilet bowl—it creates a toxic vapor that’ll burn the sinuses and trigger a coughing fit.
The combination of the chlorine and ammonia creates chloramine vapor, a toxic substance that irritates the eyes, nose, throat, and airway. If inhaled, the vapor enters the bloodstream directly through the lungs and combines with a person’s red blood cells, making them incapable of carrying oxygen. Prolonged exposure to the vapors could be fatal.
The people working inside the plant are properly trained and each and every employee is aware of the toxic hazards. To alleviate potential mistakes, the ammonia and chlorine are kept in separate areas of the plant and are isolated from each other by a series of pipes and valves that feed each chemical to the production line when needed.
In addition to the careful handling of chemicals, CleanCal prides itself on innovation. The plant is highly automated, using the company’s computer networks to control almost every aspect of production. There are humans to act as oversight and the company also employs seven information technology people to keep the software up to date and to ward off the nearly continuous intrusion attempts on the facility’s computer network.
But someone missed something somewhere and unbeknownst to those seven IT employees, the plant’s network is now compromised.
* * *
Four blocks east of the plant is a dense neighborhood of smaller homes that contains nearly a thousand residents. Three of those residents are Loretta Ortiz and her two sons, nine-year-old Mateo and seven-year-old Gabriel. Celebrating their last few days of freedom before school starts, Loretta is preparing a late picnic lunch for them to share at the neighborhood park. The mostly Hispanic community is a fairly tight-knit group of families that have bonded over the years through interactions at the neighborhood elementary school adjacent to the park. Loretta steps over and switches on the small television in the kitchen, hoping to catch a quick weather update.
The area is experiencing an intense heat wave, thanks to a stationary high-pressure ridge stalled over the deserts to the east. Instead of the usual cooling easterly winds that blow in off the coast, Los Angeles is being blistered by westerly winds from the hot desert regions of the state. It’s almost enough for Loretta to cancel the picnic, but the park offers plenty of shade and the boys have been cooped up in the house all morning. Loretta, an English teacher at the school, is hoping to run into other children from the neighborhood so the boys can burn off some of their rambunctious energy. And if it gets too uncomfortable they can always walk down the street to the library.
Loretta makes fairly good money as a teacher and her husband, Miguel, has a good job as a supervisor at a grocery distribution center just down the street. It’s close enough that he can walk to work, allowing Loretta to keep the family car for emergencies and it also helps them avoid making payments on a second car. The plan had been for him to join them at the picnic, but he called earlier to say he’s tied up.
Their small two-bedroom, one-bathroom home has an open living and kitchen area, thanks to the renovations that she and Miguel have made. They bought it in foreclosure, and Miguel and Loretta spent every weekend for months making the home theirs. They eliminated walls, remodeled the kitchen and bathroom, and repainted everything, both inside and out. Now it’s a bright and airy home and Loretta loves it. The only downside is the boys have to share a bedroom. The backyard is large enough to add a third bedroom, but Loretta and Miguel don’t want to overbuild and possibly end up taking a big loss if they ever decide to sell.
Loretta groans when a weather tease for the six p.m. newscast promises more of the same. She pulls her long, dark hair up off her neck, twirls it a time or two, and clips it up out of the way. A short, curvy woman with large, dark eyes and a dark complexion, Loretta prefers the natural look and rarely applies much makeup other than a dab of lipstick on occasion. Today she doesn’t even bother with that. It’s too hot. After turning off the television, she grabs her cell phone, her sunglasses, and the picnic basket. “Boys,” she shouts, “time to go.”
Mateo and Gabriel come running down the hall, laughing. Loretta smiles and her heart flutters a little when she thinks how lucky she and Miguel are. She herds the boys out of the house and locks the door, having no idea she won’t cross the door’s threshold ever again.
CHAPTER 38
Pashat, Pakistan
March 6, 2006
TARGET: Al-Qaeda
CONFIRMED KILLED: 83
CIVILIANS KILLED: 37 (16 children)
Nestled in a fertile valley in the mountainous region of Pakistan and close to the Afghanistan border, Pashat is a beautiful small community surrounded by verdant fields planted with a variety of crops. Today the weather is pristine, making it a perfect day for a celebration. Dressed in all their colorful finery, the Ansari family is making final preparations for the day’s main event—a wedding. Among them, and creating his fair share of mischief, is thirteen-year-old Hassan. A handsome dark-haired and dark-eyed young man, Hassan Ansari is taking great pleasure in playfully pestering his cousin, Ayesha, the future bride. Dressed in a long, beautifully embroidered, bright red dress and matching head scarf, Ayesha’s dark eyes are alight with pleasure as she revels in her special day.
Hassan soon grows bored with the pestering and of all the women fawning over the bride. He stands and gives Ayesha a peck on the cheek before hurrying off to play with his other cousins. A large family, the Ansaris have been productive when it comes to offspring. The event has drawn family from all over the area, many of them children ranging in age from toddler to teen. Hassan finds his cousin Nadeem, and together they set off to do a little exploring.
The wedding is taking place in the backyard garden of Ayesha’s home on the outskirts of the city in the foothills of Hindu Kush mountains. Hassan and Nadeem escape the backyard to explore the neighborhood—what turns out to be a lifesaving choice.
As they venture down the block, chasing after a lizard, both are stunned when a ground-rattling explosion rips through the afternoon silence. Hassan turns to see what had blown up and his heart plunges into despair when he sees his uncle’s house on fire. His chest tightening with fear, Hassan races up the street with Nadeem as dazed neighbors pour out of the surrounding homes. As the two boys near the house, the fire is so intense they can do little but watch.
In the aftermath, after the injured were treated or rushed to the hospital in town Hassan discovered that his immediate family survived, but sixteen of his cousins did not, including the beautiful bride-to-be, Ayesha.
Present day, somewhere near Boston
An ignited ember of anger still resides inside Hassan Ansari’s gut and probably will until the day he dies. Sometimes it flares brighter and other times he does his best to ignore it, but today it’s roaring as he remembers the horror of that day. Hassan runs a hand through his thick, dark hair and leans back in his chair. Right now, he’s running a program on his computer to discover if he can access any of the other MOAB bombs deployed around the world.
They got extremely lucky with the one bomb in McAlester, Oklahoma, after the internal guidance computer connected to the local Wi-Fi network. While the computer hunts, Ansari stands and stretches before walking over to the small break room to pour a cup of coffee. He’s been mulling over the confrontation between Jermar and Nazeri, and, for the first time, a small larva of doubt tries to worm its way into his brain. Hassan takes a sip of coffee then prowls through the cabinets looking for a snack.
Nazeri has been attentive to their needs up to now, bringing in food, snacks, and drinks during the long days of work. But it’s now well past the lunch hour and there’s no food in sight. Hassan finds a bag of Chex Mix, rips it open, and pours some in a bowl and pops a handful into his mouth. He pours the coffee down the drain and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge instead.
Nazeri also promised that Hassan and the others would be provided for after termination of the operation, yet gave few details. Hassan unscrews the lid on the bottle and takes a sip, his mind swirling with a mixture of thoughts. Everyone is working under the assumption that their chances of being caught are somewhere between slim and none, but Hassan wonders. He’s worked an odd computer job here and there over the years and funneled that money into a savings account he opened on a trip down to Manhattan. And, if absolutely necessary, he could hack a bank or two for funds, but he doesn’t like stealing. Then another thought hits him: How bad is stealing after everything I’ve done today? And for the first time he sees himself in a new light. One he’s not particularly pleased with. From this day forward Hassan Ansari, if his actions are ever discovered, will be known as a cold-blooded murderer and will, most likely, be branded a terrorist.
That thought makes him somewhat nauseous. No longer hungry, he puts the bag of Chex Mix back in the cabinet and dumps the contents of the bowl in the trash. Then his thoughts drift to the friends he’d made over the years while in college. Could any of them have died in today’s attacks? Mulling that over, he returns to his computer and discovers the software has found another active bunker buster bomb at a military base in Japan. He stares at the screen for a long time, his brain roiling with indecision. Looking up, he spots Nazeri walking his way and he quickly exits the program.
“Have you found other active bombs, Hassan?” Nazeri asks.
“No,” Hassan lies, still staring at his screen.
Nazeri cocks his head to the side. “That’s odd. You would think with all of the American military hardware scattered around the globe we would find additional targets. Did you allow the software time to complete its task?”
“Yes,” Hassan says in his sternest voice as he glances up at Nazeri. “There are no more active bombs. Run the program yourself if you do not believe me.”
“I just might do that,” Nazeri says.
“Have a go. Do you need assistance pulling the program up on your computer?” Hassan asks, staring Nazeri in the eyes.
“Watch yourself, Hassan.”
Hassan breaks the stare first and Nazeri turns and walks away.
Hassan leans forward and removes the tape covering the computer’s camera then scrolls to the program that controls the camera and switches it on. He turns the monitor slightly until Nazeri’s face is in the frame and surreptitiously snaps several photos and saves them inside an encrypted folder in the cloud. He replaces the tape and sits back in his chair, thinking.
Nazeri is the one who decides which portion of the power grids to take down. It wouldn’t do to kill the power to a potential target—how are you going to blow something up if it’s not up and running? Hassan has no doubt that by the time this is all over with most of the United States will be without electricity. Then he wonders what that means for his apartment here in Boston. He has enough food for a day or two, but the power’s going to be out much longer than that due to the damage they’re doing to the transformers. Will I ever see my apartment again? My friends? It’s an unanswerable question and he tries to clear his mind. He turns to look at Nazeri, who is seated at the head of the table, grinning eagerly as his fingers fly across the keyboard.
“What are you doing, Nazeri?” Hassan asks.
Nazeri never looks up when he says, “I’m sending a gift to the people of Los Angeles.”
Hassan shudders at his enthusiasm. Hassan, who became enchanted with the movie The Wizard of Oz shortly after arriving in the States, thinks of Nazeri as the Tin Man. But unlike the movie character, it appears Nazeri has no need for, nor does he want, a heart.
CHAPTER 39
Los Angeles
Loretta Ortiz leads her two sons into the park, pleasantly surprised to see several other families already there. It appears Loretta wasn’t the only one who thought a picnic lunch would be a good idea today. Blankets dot the grass and food is laid out on platters as children flit in and out, grabbing a bite of food before hurrying off to play again. Loretta says hello to the other mothers and spreads her blanket out in the deep shade, next to her friend and fellow teacher Renata Rodriguez. After opening the basket, she lays some sandwiches out for the boys and both grab one and head out to join their friends.
Loretta smiles at Renata. “Ready for school?”
“I don’t know about school, but I’m ready for a routine.” Renata, mother to eight-year-old Sofia and six-year-old Sara, is a short, chubby woman who always has a smile on her face.
Loretta pulls her legs up beneath her as she scans the park, pinpointing the location of her two sons. “Me, too. Have you met the new principal?”
“No, but I hear good things about her. I was talking to one of my other friends who taught under her last year. She really likes her.” Renata looks around to make sure the kids are out of earshot. “Hey, I brought a pitcher of frozen sangria swirl. Want some?”
“I would love some.” Loretta fans herself with her hand. “Is this heat ever going away?”
“Someday, but this will help, today.” Renata pulls out a plastic cup and pours some sangria swirl and passes it to Loretta. “I’m just glad the school is air-conditioned.”
“Thank you,” Loretta says, taking the cup. “Me, too.” She takes a sip and smacks her lips. “This is perfect.”
It’s not long before other mothers drift over and they huddle together on the blankets, gossiping as the children play. Renata pours more sangria swirl for the new arrivals. They sip and talk and laugh as the children dart in for food before taking off again. As it turns out, two other mothers had thought ahead and packed containers of frozen adult beverages and, when the sangria swirl runs out, they break out a pitcher of frozen margaritas. Other than the heat, Loretta thinks, it’s turning out to be an ideal afternoon.
* * *
Down the street at CleanCal, the day crew is trying to troubleshoot some balky pumps. Sitting in the plant’s control room, Mark Perry, one of the plant engineers, is keeping a close eye on pum
p speeds and tank pressures. Watching a graphic display of real-time activity at the plant on a large video screen, Perry does not like what he’s seeing. He turns to the shift supervisor for the regular employees, Dennis Nelson, and says, “Dennis, you’re going to have to dial those pumps back.”
Nelson is busy working a keyboard. “We’re trying, Mark. The network is awfully sluggish.”
“How long has that been going on?” Perry asks, concern in his voice. The last thing they need now is a sluggish computer network.
“The last hour or so. It’s weird,” Nelson says.
“You talk to the IT guys?”
“Yes. They’re looking into it.”
An alarm sounds and Perry looks up at the screen. “Pressure’s too high, Dennis. Kill the power to the pumps at the ammonia tank.”
“The computer isn’t responding to any of my commands, Mark.”
Perry snatches up a phone and dials a three-digit number, one of the plant’s phone extensions. He wedges the phone between his shoulder and neck as he works the keyboard. “We need to bleed off some of the pressure, Dennis.” The phone isn’t answered until the sixth damn ring and Perry, hot under the collar, barks out an order to manually shut down the pumps to the ammonia tank. Perry knows he needs to bleed off some pressure, but now he’s in a pickle. He risks serious injury to the plant workers if he bleeds off the ammonia vapors while they’re in the area. Perry punches up a camera inside the plant to check on the workers’ progress, as the pressure nudges into the red.
“They’re working way too slow, Dennis. Get on the horn and light a fire under their asses,” Perry says, his eyes glued to the video screen.
Nelson grabs a handheld radio and urges the employees to hurry it up.
Perry, watching the pressure continuing to build, stands from his chair. “Dennis, we’re going to be in a hell of a mess in about fifteen seconds.”
