Blacklist Aftermath

by Tom Clancy

The SMI had generated a flashing blip with concentric circles to illustrate the explosion of the lead truck on the I-70 off-ramp at Exit 361B near the bridge.

  The shipping containers enclosing the barrels of thorium could withstand external temperatures as high as 1,400 degrees, but they were never designed to contain the overpressure and the chemically generated heat produced by an internal detonation of an estimated two hundred pounds of C-4 needed to fully destroy the shipment.

  Windows of data opened up alongside the neighborhood map of ground zero. These boxes detailed the devastation in the immediacy of present tense:

  Twenty-seven vehicles are demolished, their occupants killed outright. I-70’s overpass collapses onto N. Kansas Avenue directly below, producing an additional thirty-eight traffic fatalities.

  While there is no actual nuclear yield, there is widespread window, roof, and negligible structural blast damage in residential West Meade, north across the Kansas River to Veteran’s Park. There are shattered high-rise windows as far south as SE Sixth Avenue in downtown Topeka, and all the way out to Ripley Park in the east. Flash fires erupt seemingly everywhere, initiated by falling white-hot debris.

  “In powder form thorium nitrate acts as an accelerant in the presence of heat or explosive devices when detonated,” Grim said. “The same way secondary explosions of accumulated dust in air vents spread fire through ships and buildings. Check it out. It’s those secondary explosions that extend the blast area to nearly three miles in diameter.”

  Fisher’s mouth began to fall open as he continued reading the data.

  Topeka’s first responders are initially overwhelmed, and it will be hours before significant outside assistance can reach the city.

  “What about the contamination?” he asked.

  “I mentioned this earlier, but here are the technical facts: Thorium nitrate emits radioactive particles that can be breathed in or swallowed or can penetrate the skin. Most of the initial responders won’t be aware that they’re being exposed to ash and dust from a highly toxic chemical.” Grim checked another data window. “If the stuff’s ingested it can reduce the ability of the bone marrow to make blood cells and, in bone, it has a biological half-life of twenty-two years. In all other organs and tissue the biological half-life is about two years. While it’s not as bad as plutonium, it’ll kill you just the same.”

  Fisher continued scanning the medical report near the edge of the screen: Acute potential health effects included irritated skin causing a rash or a burning feeling on contact. Ingestion caused nausea, vomiting, dizziness, abdominal cramps, ulceration, and bleeding from the small intestine, as well as bloody diarrhea, weakness, general depression, headache, and mental impairment. Prolonged exposure could affect the liver, kidneys, lungs, and bone marrow, as Grim had mentioned. The stuff was a recognized cancer hazard and could damage the male reproductive glands.

  And yet another window illustrated through a powdery white overlay how the blast would spread a fine layer of radioactive particles and debris onto exposed individuals, homes, vehicles, plants, animals, sidewalks, and highways, while a significant amount would fall into the nearby Kansas River, whose waters flowed eastward.

  Fisher realized that such a blast near any river system could cause a catastrophe for future cleanup crews. In this case it’d be a civil nightmare for Lawrence and Kansas City, both downstream of the blast. The terrorists would be contaminating the air and the water.

  But there was more . . .

  According to the SMI, at the time of the blast the prevailing winds would be out of the south, meaning the contamination would not just be confined to a rough circle with a three-mile diameter. That was the initial zone.

  In the minutes following the detonation, an ever-expanding radioactive dust cloud more than two thousand feet high would be depositing psychological terror and physical illness along a twenty-mile swath, five miles wide.

  In all, 97,000 of Topeka’s 250,000 citizens would be contaminated in varying degrees.

  Many would die in a city that President Caldwell called her hometown.

  “Madame President, all eight of those trucks need to be stopped immediately,” said Grim.

  “I concur,” said Fisher. “If they’re rigged to blow, EMP’s the only way to take them out.”

  “You need to be sure of this,” Caldwell said.

  Fisher turned to Kasperov, his voice never more steely. “Are we sure?”

  The man nodded nervously. “Stop those trucks.”

  27

  FISHER caught himself holding his breath as Charlie brought up the I-70 traffic cams from Topeka. They watched as the lead thorium truck was directed off the highway and toward a dirt lot behind a row of warehouses. From there, Charlie switched to the ghost truck’s dash cam, where the driver tapped a command into his keyboard, hit the panic button, then hopped out of the cab.

  The SMI next lit up with similar traffic cam footage from the other trucks scattered across the United States, all seven being directed to areas away from the highway to disable their vehicles. Fisher watched one driver in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and the SMI noted that a detonation there would have effectively closed the I-24, I-75, and I-59 interchange, where three hazmat trucking routes converged. Chattanooga’s 180,000 citizens would’ve been thrust into a radioactive hell, even as the Tennessee River carried contamination southwest into Alabama and Mississippi. He could barely imagine what would happen if all eight had gone up simultaneously.

  “Madame President, we need a thorough investigation into the Yucca Mountain site security,” said Grim. “Hazmat and EOD teams need to search every one of the trucks. The thorium needs to be removed and transferred to secondary trailers.”

  “We’ll be on that immediately,” said Caldwell. “And, Mr. Kasperov, if we do find explosives aboard any of those trucks, then you realize that what you did today saved thousand of lives.”

  “Thank you, Madame President. But you must understand that oligarchs have little tolerance for failure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kasperov frowned, glanced at the team, then spoke evenly, “I mean it’s not over. I believe they sent one man to oversee operation, triggerman if you will. He would locate one or more of trucks using spotters along route. He would wait until best moment to destroy them.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying I know this man, and right now, he’s calling his bosses in Moscow for instructions.”

  “What instructions?”

  Kasperov’s expression turned grave. “Mr. Fisher, there is always plan B.”

  Fisher lost his breath. “We need to find this guy—right now!”

  “The NSA’s got tabs on all the big players in Russia,” said Grim. She faced Kasperov. “I need to pursue those names you gave us.”

  Kasperov closed his eyes. “Some of these men were once my friends.”

  “Not anymore,” said Fisher.

  “Can I borrow a computer?” he asked resignedly. “I will help you.”

  Briggs rose from his station and escorted Kasperov to his chair, where the man sat and began typing in the names he’d given them: Perov, the arms manufacturer; Yanayev, the aerospace mogul; and Kargin, the investment banker. Charlie and Grim were already patched into his screen, and Grim directed the SMI to access the NSA’s databases and began searching the phone records of those three men, keying in on calls placed within the hour between Moscow and anywhere in the United States. Charlie was monitoring the same feed.

  “Got something,” he said. “Gotta be it. It’s the only one. Call coming in to a dacha outside Moscow, one of Kargin’s lines. Well, this is strange. Call was placed from the Omni Houston Hotel at Westside. But it’s not a smartphone. Long distance using the room phone.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?” asked Grim.

&n
bsp; “Maybe he thinks he’s been compromised already,” said Fisher. “Didn’t want to use his own phone. Maybe that phone was the trigger.”

  “Either way we would’ve traced him, so it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. “I’m already in the hotel, bringing up the security cameras.”

  “Flight deck, change course. Get us to Houston,” said Fisher.

  “Roger that,” said the pilot. “Any plans to land or just recon?”

  “I’ll let you know. What’s our ETA?”

  “We’re already in the gulf with a significant tailwind. You want me to crank it up, I’ll get you there in less than twenty minutes.”

  “Roger that. Top speed.” Fisher swung around to regard Grim. “Any of the trucks near Houston?”

  “No. Not sure why he picked that location. Just random, maybe. Wouldn’t matter where he was if he planned to remote detonate via cell or satellite phone.”

  “Check this out, guys,” said Charlie, transferring the hotel’s security camera footage to the overhead screens.

  A group of three men were hurrying down a hallway. They were dressed in designer suits and were led by a fourth, an older man, at least sixty, with a gray widow’s peak and carrying a briefcase.

  Charlie froze the image and zoomed in on their faces.

  “That’s him,” said Kasperov, pointing out the gray-haired man. “I know him only by his nickname, ‘Chern.’”

  “Facial recognition in progress,” said Charlie as the image was immediately cut and lifted out of the footage to run against hundreds of thousands of others captured within the Russian Federation.

  “Wow, this guy’s really underground,” said Charlie. “Usually get a hit within seconds.”

  “He’s supposed to be member of SBP, Presidential Security Service, but he serves unofficially as President Treskayev’s courier. I suppose even this is not true anymore. He’s left to work for oligarchs.”

  “And to be honest, sir, I don’t think he ever worked for the SBP,” said Charlie. “We’ve got good records of that organization, and if he’s been there a long time, trust me, we’d have his face.”

  Charlie switched to the exterior views from the hotel, and they watched Chern and his men climb into a slate blue Infiniti G37 luxury sedan. Charlie ordered the camera to zoom in and got the tag number. “Rental car out of the airport. Got the record here. Bogus ID and credit card.”

  “Charlie, we can’t lose him,” said Fisher.

  “We could have local authorities pick him up,” said Briggs.

  “He’s already spooked, and he’s too important to trust with some local yokels. Plus we’ve got operational security to consider. Let’s see if we can get to him first.”

  “I agree,” said Grim. “We’ll keep Houston police and the local feds on standby.”

  “They’re on I-10,” said Charlie. “Just got him on the traffic camera. But they’re heading west, away from the airport.”

  Grim zoomed in on the SMI’s map. “The executive airport’s about eighteen miles west of the hotel.”

  “Flight plans of everything coming in and out of there,” said Grim.

  “I’ll pull those,” said Briggs.

  Kasperov rose from his chair and, still staring at the monitors, drifted over to Fisher and muttered in Russian, “This is quite a team you have.”

  Fisher nodded. “If you would’ve told me last year I’d be working with them, I would’ve laughed at you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Being a team player’s not exactly my MO.”

  “I understand. I spent most of my life alone, behind a computer—and now I’m beginning to regret it. But I guess it’s not too late . . . for either of us.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Hey, Grim, there’s a private charter on the ground that’s fueling up right now,” said Briggs. “Flight plan shows it’s heading to Denver.”

  “And from there they fly up to Anchorage and on to Russia,” said Grim.

  “Flight deck, get us to the Houston Executive Airport,” said Fisher. “Briggs, get ahold of that charter pilot. Tell him I want to speak to him.”

  “You got it.”

  “Sounds like you have a plan,” said Grim with a gleam in her eyes.

  28

  TEN minutes later, as twilight washed a pale crimson across the western sky, Fisher and Briggs leapt from Paladin and plunged into the cold air over Houston. After a brief free fall, they popped chutes and floated soundlessly toward the pair of hangars on the airport’s northeast side.

  Houston Executive Airport covered an area of about 1,980 acres split by a single asphalt runway designated 18/36 and measuring more than 6,000 feet by 100 feet. The runway ran north–south, and on its west side lay a pair of taxiways joining in a Y shape to form a single road leading to the main hangar/service center and its fuel farm. This, according to the broad placard hanging over the hangar, was Henriksen Jet Center, named after the airport’s founder and owner, local pilot Ron Henriksen.

  Fisher took note of the targets below as the pilot’s voice buzzed through his subdermal: “Standing by. Final approach on your mark.”

  “Roger that,” answered Fisher.

  “Sam, Charlie here. Just spoke with the charter company’s owner. He says the Russians are really pissed off. Pilot says he’s not sure he can stall them any longer. Turns out one of the Russians is an airplane mechanic himself and they’re having a hard time bullshitting him about the engine malfunction.”

  “Just need another five minutes. Grim, we need to time this perfectly.”

  “Understood.”

  “Briggs, how’re you feeling today?”

  “Feeling pretty dangerous.”

  “Good. Just remember. We keep the old man alive.”

  “No lead poisoning for grandpa. Gotcha.”

  Fisher steered himself behind the hangar and came to a gentle landing fifteen seconds ahead of Briggs.

  Leaving nothing to chance, they’d donned their tac-suits and goggles and had brought along both their primary and secondary pistols as well as SIG516 rifles slung over their backs. The rifles had 10.5 inch barrels and were fitted with thirty round magazines of 5.56mm ammo. Better yet, those rounds were factory fresh, not reloaded by Russians whose fingers were covered in peanut butter. The rifles were also fitted with grenade launchers, but said grenades had been replaced by the less-than-lethal sticky shockers like the ones Fisher had used with his crossbow.

  They stored their chutes and vanished into the lengthening shadows behind the facility. The pungent scent of jet fuel hung heavy in the air, reminding Fisher of the Kasperov jet’s crash.

  Pistols drawn and with Fisher on point, they darted along the hangar walls, moving across the building to the corner, where Fisher hunkered down, signaling Briggs to halt.

  Goggles over his eyes now, Fisher zoomed in on the charter jet, a Citation CJ2 that had been fueled and moved to just outside the hangar. A maintenance panel had been opened on one of the engines, and a mechanic in coveralls stood on a rolling ladder, speaking with one of the suited men Fisher had seen in the hotel camera video. Charlie confirmed that he was one of Chern’s accomplices.

  Fisher raised his hand and made a circular motion in the air.

  Briggs understood and set free one of the micro UAVs, the tri-rotor humming away above the hangar, then slowly passing it as Fisher activated the drone’s camera, patching the image into his OPSAT.

  The building’s rolling metal door was wide open, and inside were Chern; a man dressed business casual who Fisher assumed was the pilot; two other of Chern’s associates; and another man, a heavyset guy wearing Levi’s, gator-skin boots, and a Stetson cowboy hat—probably the charter company’s owner.

  “Okay, Sam, I see them,” said Grim.

 
“Call the owner, tell him we’re good to go,” said Fisher.

  “Calling.”

  “Pilot, you’re clear,” said Fisher.

  “Roger that,” answered the pilot. “Coming in.”

  The grumbling of Paladin’s engines grew more distinct, drawing the attention of the mechanic on the ladder and Chern’s associate.

  Removing his cowboy hat, the fat man took a phone call, then glanced up and waddled out of the hangar, across the tarmac and toward the ladder. He began waving his hand at the mechanic.

  Fisher gave Briggs another hand signal: get ready.

  Just as the mechanic and Chern’s man began descending the ladder, Fisher glanced to Briggs and nodded.

  They took off running along the side wall, reached the next corner, then crouched down again, the hangar door just around the corner to their right. They could hear the men now, lifting their voices over the Paladin’s rumble. A glance at his OPSAT showed the group leaving the hangar, peering up, one pointing at the bewinged behemoth on its final approach toward the runway.

  “That’s a military craft,” cried one of the men in Russian.

  “Do you get military landings here?” Chern asked the cowboy.

  “Sure, yeah, all the time. Routine.”

  “Bullshit! This is private executive airport,” cried Chern.

  At that, all three of Chern’s men drew pistols from concealed holsters. They held the mechanic, the pilot, and the cowboy at gunpoint.

  “Okay, we got their attention,” said Charlie.

  “Sam, you ready?” asked Grim.

  “Yeah,” Fisher answered. “Three hostages, four bad guys, one plane . . . no problem.”

  “Come on!” shouted Chern. “We’re taking off!”

  Briggs came up beside Fisher, shoved up his trifocals, and said, “Got my targets marked.”

  Fisher nodded. “Let’s roll.”

  29

  AS Paladin’s tires hit the tarmac with puffs of burning rubber and the plane’s hydraulic landing gear boomed as it worked to suppress the massive forces of impact, Fisher and Briggs slipped around the hangar and ducked inside, behind the doorway, keeping to the shadows.