Death Wave (38 page)

They were coming down approximately in the middle of the hold; as he spun clockwise at the end of his rope, dropping fast, Dean caught a glimpse of a lone figure lying beside a stack of crates against the hold’s forward bulkhead. He hit the deck, released the rope, and brought his H&K up, snapping off the safety. From the deck, he could no longer see the figure by the crates.

“Wakkif!”
Dean yelled, racing forward. “Stop!”

He rounded a stack of wooden crates just as two SEALs above and behind him, still suspended on their ropes halfway down from the open hatch, triggered their H&Ks. A bearded man in a headcloth and fatigues twisted in front of him, trying to bring his AK to bear. The SEALs fired multiple three-round bursts, triggering them so fast they sounded like a full-auto fusillade, slamming the Tango in head and chest, knocking him backward against the bulkhead, blood splattering across steel as he collapsed.

Dean reached him an instant later. “Tango down!” he yelled.

The man was clearly dead, eyes open and glassy. Something like a remote control unit lay on the deck just beyond his reach.

Dean’s gaze flicked from the trigger to the recently assembled weapon to the dead terrorist and back to the trigger. A timer display on the weapon read “000.” The thing might be booby-trapped, set to go off if he pulled the wrong wire … but one thing he could do was scoop up the remote control trigger. The back panel had popped off. He flipped out the two batteries.

The world did
not
vanish in white light, and Dean let out a sigh of pent-up stress.

Then he glanced inside the crate.

“Art Room,” he said, as two Navy SEALs came up behind him. “One Tango down, weapons secure.”

“Thank God,” Rubens said.

“Don’t thank Him yet,” Dean replied. “We still have a small problem.”

“What problem?”

“I only see two trunks here. Unless they’re hidden someplace else on board, we’re still missing ten suitcase nukes.”

19

ART ROOM
NSA HEADQUARTERS
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
SUNDAY, 1008 HOURS EDT

Hold tight,” Rubens told Dean. “The NEST guys will be there in a few minutes.”

“Copy that,” Dean replied. “McCauley is posting SEALs in each hold. I’ve just been told that the ship is secure.”

“Pass a message to Commander McCauley for me, please,” Rubens said. “Under no circumstances are the pirate boats alongside the
Yakutsk
to be sunk. I’m also passing orders to the helicopter gunships that the pirate mother ship not be fired on. Just in case the pirates were able to get the nukes off the freighter.”

“Roger that—but it doesn’t look like they had time to move anything. Unless there are more crates hidden down here somewhere, the nukes are not on board the
Yakutsk
.”

“NEST should be able to confirm that. Meanwhile, I suggest you get out of that hold. Unshielded plutonium is not conducive to a healthy lifestyle.”

“Copy.”

The Nuclear Emergency Support Team operated under the DOE’s National Nuclear Security Administration, providing squads of specialists who could find, evaluate, and disarm nuclear or radiological weapons, whether planted by terrorists or in the aftermath of an accident involving such weapons. Rubens had requested that a number of NEST personnel be flown out to the
Constellation
over the past two days, where they’d been awaiting the word that the
Yakutsk
was secure before going aboard. With them were several tens of millions of dollars of high-tech hardware, from handheld radiation scanners to neutron detectors to X-ray devices used to find hidden weapons.

Their HUMINT from Alfred Koch in Karachi had suggested that all twelve stolen suitcase nukes had been put on board a ship—but it was possible they had been divided up among several ships or, more alarming, that some had been put on an aircraft for a flight to their final destination.

Which the information Lia had developed strongly suggested was the tiny island of La Palma in the Canaries, part of the mysterious project involving an unlikely alliance between the Army of Mohammad and Chinese intelligence.

Rubens picked up a phone from a nearby console and punched in his secretary’s number. “Ann? I need you to schedule a meeting for me with ANSA.”

“Yes, sir. Tomorrow? Or sooner?”

It was Sunday, though Rubens rarely distinguished weekends from workdays.

“ASAP,” he replied. “Today if he’s available. Tell him it’s Priority Yankee White.”

“Yes, sir.”

He paused, then added, “Tell him we
will
need a face-to-face with POTUS on this one.”

The President of the United States would be back in the Oval Office tomorrow, and Rubens would need to talk with him directly if there was any way to swing that.

It was a meeting he did not expect to enjoy.

CUMBRE VIEJA
LA PALMA, CANARY ISLANDS
SUNDAY, 1515 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Lia called a halt, and the three of them pulled their bicycles off the narrow path. It was midafternoon, with a searing tropical sun beating down on the western face of the Cumbre Vieja ridge. Eight miles or so to the north, the vast caldera of the Cumbre Nueva appeared to be nestled within a spectacular layer of clouds, its rugged peaks protruding above a flowing sea of white.

They’d been on and off the trail for over three and a half hours now, at times walking their bikes across ruggedly inhospitable volcanic terrain in order to avoid stretches of bike trail that had been blocked off by the mysterious Scientific Institute of Geological Research. The tangle of bike trails below the crest of the ridge, however, had for the most part allowed them to find alternate routes, and Lia’s implant gave them the equivalent of GPS tracking. The Art Room knew exactly where they were at all times within about half a meter, and could even transmit detailed topological maps based on satellite imagery to Lia’s BlackBerry.

So from the cluster of three craters on Montaña Rejada, they’d traveled a mile and a half south to the crater of Hoyo Negro just below the loom of Pico Berigoyo, then along the Ruta de los Volcanes for another half mile to the towering, rounded caldera of Duraznero. Four-tenths of a mile beyond that was Deseada, and beyond that San Martin 1 and 2. The volcanic craters were strung along the top of the ridge like pearls, or snuggled up close high along the western flank, a different crater pocking the black and red soil every half mile or so.

Altogether, it was a straight-line distance of about five miles along the ridge, from the northernmost of the three Berigoyo craters to the Volcán de San Martin in the south. Ten volcanic calderas in all; Lia, CJ, and Carlylse had visited five of them. The others would have required traversing barren, open slopes where they were certain to have been seen. Several times they saw more guards on the ridge above them, and once they were stopped at another checkpoint.

Fortunately, the sentries up along the ridge crest weren’t talking to one another, because they were simply warned off a second time. Now they were at the southernmost of the craters, overlooking Volcán de San Martin, less than six miles from the extreme southern tip of the island.

At the bottom of each crater they’d gotten close enough to investigate, they’d seen a drilling derrick, tents, piles of supplies, and teams of men working in the hot sun.

And guards.
Always
guards, grim-looking men with mix-and-match army surplus clothing and AK assault rifles. Lia estimated that there were anywhere from five to ten armed sentries at each drill site; there might be as many as a hundred men guarding the chain of drilling rigs—and multiply that by three to include off-duty troops serving a four-on, eight-off rotation. Helicopters made frequent flights in to the craters from the east—probably the La Palma Airport. They watched as workers off-loaded drilling equipment, water, and reel upon reel upon reel of what looked like electrical wiring.

There was plenty of daylight left, but the bottled water they’d brought along was nearly gone. They would have to turn back soon. Lia wanted to see how far they could push the envelope to get more information, however, and here, at the southernmost drill site, she thought she saw how she could do just that.

They lay among volcanic boulders at the rim of another crater—a black cinder cone on the outside, but a startling red-ocher within the crater bowl. Through her binoculars, she could see Herve Chatel. He was standing near the tents, off to one side of the drilling rig, apparently deep in conversation with someone dressed identically to the guards, including a checkered kaffiyeh. One of the unmarked civilian helicopters rested on a makeshift landing pad nearby.

“Art Room,” she said quietly, still holding the binoculars on the pair. “Can you give me an ID on the character in the head scarf talking with Chatel?”

“Working on it, Lia,” Marie Telach told her. A minute dragged past. “Okay! Got an ID … seventy-percent-plus probable match. That’s Ibrahim Hussain Azhar. Pakistani, probably with links to Pakistan’s ISI. One of the founders of the Army of Mohammad, probably with ties to al-Qaeda. He’s the one they’re calling al-Wawi, the Jackal.”

“Show me,” she said, pulling out her BlackBerry.

A moment later, her handheld device pulled in a signal from an NSA communications satellite, downloading a photograph of a bearded man in a Jinnah cap, the round fur hat, or
qaraqul
, worn by men in south Asia. She took another long look through the binoculars. It
might
be the same man.

“Art Room,” she said. “I’m going to go down there. I’d like to see what my friend Chatel has to say about all of this.”

“Lia?” Rubens’ voice said in her ear. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“I have backup,” she said. “CJ and Roger will be up here watching every move I make.”

“If they decide to kill you, CJ and Mr. Carlylse won’t be able to help you. I’m sorry, Lia. I’m denying your request.”

“Wouldn’t you like some up-close photos of what they’re doing? Maybe be able to listen in on Chatel and al-Wawi, to see who’s really in charge? There’s a helicopter down there. Maybe I can look and see if they’ve delivered those suitcase nukes.”

“The risk—”

“Is a part of the job,” she said, interrupting. “This is an absolutely one-in-a-million opportunity that we cannot afford to pass up.
Sir
.”

Rubens paused, perhaps thinking it over. “Okay,” he said at last. “Reluctantly, okay. But you keep all channels open and do not antagonize them, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll play the fluff-head and tell him I’m lost. Herve will get all protective. Won’t be a problem.”

She stood up, dusted off her jeans, and started down the steep slope into the gaping crater.

“Watch yourself down there,” CJ told her.

“Actually, I’ll be watching
them
.”

CARGO SHIP
YAKUTSK
GULF OF ADEN
SUNDAY, 1725 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Twenty NEST personnel had fast-roped to the Russian freighter’s deck and spread out through the ship, searching with handheld scanners. Forty minutes later, they’d confirmed Dean’s earlier assessment: there were two, and only two, nuclear weapons on board the
Yakutsk
. Those were carefully dismantled to prevent accidents, packed into leadlined cases, and hoisted away by helicopters dropping lines onto the ship’s forward deck.

The four pirate speedboats were also searched, and a SEAL unit had been dropped onto the pirate mother ship a mile to the south after the vessel had displayed a prominent white flag.

Dean and McCauley were on the ship’s bridge with the vessel’s recently freed captain. He was a small and fussy-looking man named Nuranin who spoke passable English—and he was furious.

“Captain Nuranin?” Dean said. “We are turning your ship back over to you.”

“After killing two of my crew? That is so very decent of you, American.”

Dean winced and exchanged a glance with McCauley. The butcher’s bill had included two dead Russian crewmen and four wounded, out of twenty. The wounded, at least, had not been seriously hurt. Superficial splinter wounds; those miniguns on the HH-60s could send shards and splinters flying for a hundred feet.

There’d also been eight passengers on board—all Pakistanis, so far as Dean had been able to determine, and they’d fought hard when the SEALs had come aboard. Only three were still alive. As for the Somali pirates who’d provided the excuse for assaulting the
Yakutsk
, they’d nearly been an afterthought. Four had been killed by the helicopter gunships, and two wounded; all the rest, twelve of them, had surrendered as soon as the SEALs had arrived.

None of the SEALs had been killed, none wounded. With the exception of the collateral damage to Nuranin’s crew, it had been a near-perfect op.