Six Seconds (27 page)

70

Montana

Thirty thousand feet above the snow-tipped Bitterroot Mountains, jet fighters from Montana’s Air National Guard met the pope’s plane.

Special Agent Walker broke from working on his computer to watch from his starboard window as four F-16s assumed protection from the four aircraft of the ANG’s Washington Wing.

The lead Montana fighter tipped his wing as welcome and soon after, the formation began its descent to Great Falls International Airport.

They were less than twenty-five minutes out when Walker and the other agents on board were simulta neously e-mailed with classified updated situation re ports.

Walker scrolled through the bulletins. The investiga tion of the border penetration at the Juan de Fuca Strait indicated involvement of a vessel from Yemen:
Pre liminary analysis of suspicious items washed ashore showed them to include a “potentially volatile” but as yet unidentified substance. Nothing conclusive to con stitute a national threat or link to other cases. Urgent investigative analysis was ongoing and led by a special ized new unit working with the Chemical Biological Incident Response Force.

Update on the complaint of a mysterious explosion claiming three white-tailed deer—according to the number of hooves found—near Malmstrom AFB:
The specialized unit had responded. Priority given to the ongoing investigation. Accidental detonation was ruled out. “Substance involved yet to be identified.” Investi gators with the unit note concern as the area is indica tive of a “planned test.”

FTO update:
U.S. and foreign intelligence agencies report that chatter of foreign terrorist organizations continues at an “unusually high level.”

As the pope’s plane neared Great Falls, Hank Colby, the Special Agent in charge of the detail, called Walker and the other agents to the back for a private huddle.

“A heads-up. The White House is talking about pulling the plug on the Montana visit, possibly Chicago, too.”

“Now? At this stage? Do they know something we don’t?”
“They’re extremely uncomfortable with the situation and the fact none of the ongoing incidents has been recon ciled with the intel obtained from Issa al-Issa. The data concerning hidden cells in the U.S. developing a major strike during the papal visit is making senior staff anxious.”
“Has something been corroborated?” Walker asked.
“Not that we know. Could be that the NSA or State picked up something hot,” Colby said. “The Secret

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Service brass have been summoned to the Oval Office. The White House is leaning on the CIA, Homeland and the Intelligence Division to nail down some answers now so they can press the Vatican to agree. If this is po litical, it’s beyond us.”

The pilot came over the public address and re quested everyone to return to their seats and buckle up for the landing.

“Until we’re told otherwise,” Colby said, “the visit continues as planned.”
In keeping with presidential or VIP landings, a Tem porary Flight Restriction had been issued for the Great Falls International Airport, closing it to all traffic but the papal aircraft.
A Montana Highway Patrol helicopter patrolled the space immediately above the landing field. On the ground, a range of VIP and emergency vehicles waited. All roads to the airport had been sealed and all activity at the facility had been halted.
Two fighters roared over the runway at rooftop level several minutes before the pope’s jet landed.
A line of Secret Service, military, state and local emergency vehicles followed it as it taxied to a far ramp.
Walker saw the line of local dignitaries waiting to welcome the Holy Father. Some fifty yards beyond them and behind a cordoned area with a heavy police presence, were several thousand people.
They cheered as history unfolded before them. The pope emerged from his jet, the first pope ever to walk on Montana soil.
The Holy Father smiled and waved as he was greeted by the archbishop, the governor, the mayor and a long line of local officials. After making a short address be fore the group, the pope was escorted to a large military helicopter.
Within minutes it lifted off, along with four others carrying security, Vatican, international press and sup port personnel to Lone Tree County. The entourage would meet the advance teams and crews already onsite.
Walker ensured his seat belt was secure.
This was shaping up to be the longest day in his life.

71

Indian Head, Maryland

Some twenty miles south of Washington, D.C., in southern Maryland, Tony Takayasu’s team worked against time.

In a redbrick lab, tucked in a wooded corner of the military base that overlooked the Potomac River, they applied Takayasu’s suppositions.

What if the mysterious liquid smuggled off the west coast was linked to the explosion in Montana? And what if the substance found in the bottles was a com ponent of the unknown explosive used to kill the deer? The liquid was labelled as Nigerian. The flag’s fabric was a weave common to East Africa.

These were the theories Takayasu had put to his col leagues on the flight from Malmstrom and, upon landing at Indian Head, they began working on them.

Employing test after test. It took hours but they learned that the flag was more than just cotton fabric from a weave common to the Ethiopian highlands. It had been engineered with molecular nanotechnology. It was permeated with a new explosive liquid substance that could be detonated through the millions of nano radio receptors.

The process was invisible and undetectable by sniffer dogs, swabs, scopes and scanners. It rendered the fabric a powerful explosive that could be detonated at will through a complex, coded, superlow frequency signal. Theoretically, that signal could be sent from a few feet away, or through wireless transmission from anywhere in the world.

It was a perfect weapon.
To test their work, the team tried to replicate the ex plosion with the recovered components. They set up in the Naval Ordnance Station in an isolated location. They’d affixed a piece of the fabric over a watermelon suspended in netting from a tree. A happy face had been drawn on the melon.
With laptops displaying mathematical calculations and chemical formulas, the team had programmed a digital camera. Through a small open observation window behind a blast shield, Takayasu used the auto focus and snapped a photo from forty yards away.
Seconds passed without a reaction—twenty, thirty, forty, then a full minute.
Nothing happened.
“Tony, I don’t think the fabric’s aligned with the focus beam,” Karen Dyer said, “I’ll move it.”
As she left the shield and walked to the watermelon, Ron Addison, one of the team’s scientists, held his open hand to Takayasu. “Maybe it’s the camera, Tony, let me check.”
While Addison inspected the camera, Takayasu verified readings on one of the laptops. As Karen was about to touch the melon, Addison raised the camera to his eye to photograph her just as Takayasu was alarmed by a reading on the computer.
“Ron, no!” Takayasu seized the camera. “Karen! Get away! Don’t touch it!”
Karen returned to the shield.
“Look at these readings.”
The team huddled around his laptop. “Now, let’s try it.” With his team safe behind the shield, Takayasu snapped a second picture—
crack!—
the air rippled, the shield shuddered as meaty chunks of the melon splat tered against it.
For several long seconds the group stood in stunned silence.
“My Lord.” Karen’s face went white.
“We need to make a lot of calls. Now!” Taka yasu said.

72

Lone Tree County Fairgrounds, Montana

Samara drove some two miles outside of town to the fairgrounds.

Situated on an unbroken stretch of short grass, the grounds consisted of a cluster of pavilions—metal and wooden buildings that were used for horse, cattle, needlework and baking shows. Nearby, the soupy dirt infield of the rodeo park served as the site of bucking horse and demolition derby competitions, crowd pleasers that filled the grandstands.

Today, the grounds were making history as the mar shaling point for the pope’s visit.
Scores of police and emergency vehicles were gath ered here as radio cross talk filled the air. In minutes, the Holy Father’s helicopter would land in the rodeo park.
“Look!”
Logan glimpsed the waiting popemobile amid a perimeter of dark security vans.
“Wow.”
After their passes were scrutinized, Samara and Logan were permitted to park. Then they followed the posted signs and trekked across the grounds to Cowboy Exhibition Hall, where those taking part in the school portion of the visit would be briefed.
A burst of abrupt barking greeted them when they entered the hall.
Three police dogs were at the far end among a dozen armed officers, waiting at walk-through metal detectors and other security equipment set up on tables. The dogs and radios echoed against the building’s metal walls.
Samara eyed them carefully and swallowed hard.
“Those dogs are going to sniff our butts,” Billy Canton said to Logan.
A few of the other boys in the choir giggled.
Samara nodded to the other parents and teachers who were holding cameras and nervous smiles. She es timated three hundred people were gathered here. On the stage, talking and consulting notes were Father Andrew Stone, the choir director, the principal, a few other priests and men in suits who had to be Secret Service.
“Everyone, if I could have your attention!” Father Stone called above the din. “Pretty exciting, right, guys?”
A cheer went up.
“Right, a blessed day.” Father Stone smiled. “With me is Father Rosselli, from the Vatican, who assists the Holy Father. Before I turn it over to him, there are a few things we have to cover quickly. Now, a zone is reserved for all of you for the pope’s Mass and blessing in the Buffalo Breaks. We’ll walk down after the school event. When we are done here, everyone must pass through

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security, then on to the school buses that will take us to the school and more security.”
He smiled at the groans.

“You can’t get to heaven without going through security. Okay. We know the agenda. A few greetings to the pope, we sing two songs. The Holy Father speaks and blesses the school. We sing a closing song. Father Nicco Rosselli will give you some important points re quested from the Vatican.”

“Thank you, Father Stone.” The parents loved his Italian-accented English. “When the choir is assem bled, the Holy Father may come to you and say a few words to help you relax before you sing.”

A few parents laughed.
“When you are done, he will thank each of you per sonally and invite you to make a procession to his chair where he will personally give each of you, one by one, a small gift. For the sake of time, please do not open it there. Thank His Holiness and exit. The gift is a very nice blessed rosary. Our staff will help coordinate the procession so it moves quickly. Remember, we have about one hundred and twenty thousand people waiting for him in the Buffalo Breaks to honor Sister Beatrice. From the time you reach the Holy Father’s presence until the time you leave with your gift, you will have six seconds. Parents, everyone, for pictures, we stress, six seconds for an opportunity that usually comes once in a lifetime. I trust you will have your cameras ready.”
He held up his hands and smiled.
“Thank you very much and God bless you.”
The briefing ended, then the security people took over.
They quickly organized everyone into orderly lines

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that flowed through the security process, akin to going through an airport. Belts, jackets, shoes, cameras, ev erything was placed in plastic tubs and passed along the conveyor through the X-ray machine. People stepped through the walk-through metal detector; then they were hand-scanned and their items in the tub were swabbed.

The bomb-sniffing dogs patrolled along either side of the queue.
“Watch your butt,” Billy Canton whispered to his friends.
Samara tried not to stare at the dogs as they neared her and Logan. She smiled when one arrived, sniffed her jacket then started sniffing her hand. Samara looked at the handler, the words
Secret Service
emblazoned on his vest, radio squawking. His eyes were cool to her as the dog moved on.
Then came their turn at the detectors.
Samara and Logan removed their jackets, shoes. Her camera went into the tub.
“You first, ma’am.” A Secret Service agent waved Samara through.
Nothing beeped. A hand scanner was passed over her. Nothing beeped.
Samara noticed the intense eyes of the X-ray scanner operator as he read the screen with her camera. When it passed through, it was wiped with a swab. As Samara collected her jacket and shoes, she watched as the swab was removed and attached to an instrument on a computer for a chemical reading.
A spectrum of colors flashed on the monitor.
“You’re fine,” the female officer said.
A series of beeping alarms sounded behind her. “Hold it right there, son!”
Two men with the letters
FBI
on their vests took Logan aside.
“Raise your arms, please.”
Worried, Logan looked at Samara.
“Get on the bus, ma’am.”
“But he’s with me.”
Agents passed a hand scanner over Logan. It sounded around his pants.
“Did you empty your pockets, son?”
Logan nodded.
The scanner sounded at the right pocket of his pants.
“Check again.”
Logan reached in and withdrew the rosary his mother had given him.
“That’s the culprit,” the agent said. “Should’ve put it in the tub.”
Logan exhaled.
“Get your things and get on the bus.”

73

Cold Butte, Montana

Maggie forced her way through the crowd toward the school.

She scanned faces and body types, locking on to those resembling Logan or Jake, until they all blurred. For each passing second heightened her fear that some thing bad was going to happen as images swirled in her mind.

Jake after Iraq; Fatima’s terrifying visions; the reporter and his family; Samara; the strangers; the crash; Logan’s call.

Something horrible was taking shape.
Something terrible was coming.
Maggie kept moving but it was getting harder. The air above her shook as another low-flying heli

copter thundered by.
Her progress became mired.
The road to the school was cleared of traffic,

bordered on both sides with police barriers to hold back crowds in lines four or five people deep and growing. Those farthest back strained for a view of the route. The pope would pass by only a few feet away. Electric anticipation was written on the faces of chil

dren, teenagers, men and women. Some older people prayed with closed eyes and rosaries entwined in fingers, their faces serene.

A smiling woman with a silver cross around her neck, and a large security tag identifying her as a nun, was moving along the police side of the barricades dis tributing programs to the crowd.

One was placed in Maggie’s hand. She studied the events, times, names, pictures, and was drawn to the group photo of the children’s choir that would sing for the pope inside the school.

The boy second from the right in the second row. Logan.
Listed as Logan Russell.
Maggie stared in disbelief. Tears brimming, she

called out.
“Excuse me!” She waved her program frantically,
asking others to help her get the nun’s attention. “Sister!
Excuse me! Please, I have an emergency!”
Word was passed along and in seconds the nun
returned, leaned toward Maggie as people shifted in
place, allowing the two women to talk.
“Yes, how may I help?”
Finding Logan was Maggie’s only thought, eclips
ing Graham’s instruction to locate Blake Walker, com
pelling her to lie her way closer to her son.
“My nephew’s in the choir.” Maggie tapped her
finger to the program. “I’ve just arrived. I can’t reach
his parents on their phone. Do you know where the
children are right now?”

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The nun looked down the road to the school, about half a block away.
“See the school parking lot?”
Maggie followed her attention and saw the lot, along with more barricades, scores of police vehicles, officers, police dogs, metal detectors, news trucks and cameras.
“They’re bringing them to the lot on a school bus with their parents.” She glanced at her watch. “Any minute now. They’ll go through the checkpoint, see? Then into the school. But I don’t think you’ll make it through the crowd in time. Ma’am?”
Maggie was not there.
She’d disappeared into the crowd.

As Maggie headed off, Graham spotted a county sheriff’s SUV parked nearby and asked the deputy behind the wheel for directions.

“The fastest way to Crystal Road?” The deputy looked harried. “Hang tough a sec.” He finished a call, racked his mike, turned away from the traffic and crowds to a vast empty sea of short grass in the opposite direction of the event.

“That’s Pioneer Field. Your vehicle should clear it. Go across it, south, that way—” he pointed “—and you’ll come up at a road and an old falling down home stead. Go left there for about a mile, then left again at the T-stop. That’s Crystal. The place you want is six or eight miles out. Should be no traffic there.”

A low-hanging dust trail followed Graham’s car along the soft, wind-dried grass, the gently rolling terrain. He came to the homestead, went left to the

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T-stop, then left again at a wooden signpost, blistered by sun and rain that said, Crystal Creek Road.

Graham accelerated, raising a billowing cloud as he roared down the empty stretch, punctuated every quarter mile by lonely postboxes, with names like Smith, Clark or Peterson painted on them, or displayed in crafted arches over gateposts that led to small houses, or faraway ranches.

Gravel popcorned against his undercarriage as he drove two miles, then three, then four. Five. No postbox with Russell, or Conlin. He studied each home he passed for a rig or trailer.

No luck.

On the horizon far behind him he saw the helicop ters orbiting the papal site.
The odometer told him he’d gone seven miles, then eight.
Was he wasting time?
What if Maggie needed him at the school? Chances were slim his phone would work out here. Hands sweating on the wheel, he rounded a bend and a valley spread below him. Graham descended into it, sped by a stand of cottonwoods at a stream, then crossed a railtie bridge.
He climbed out of the valley to a bluff that over looked it and the town and thought, one more mile and he’d turn around.
That’s when he saw it in the distance.
A bright red rig, parked under the broad branches of a cottonwood tree, next to a small bungalow, the site rising like an island amid the windswept land.
The mailbox crowning the post leaning at the en

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trance bore a name printed on paper in marker, sunfaded and covered with clear plastic, fastened by duct tape that was surrendering its hold.

B. Russell.
The long grass lane reached some one hundred yards to the house, assuring anyone inside a clear view of anyone approaching. Graham expected that with a world event taking place a few miles away, no one would be home.
But he couldn’t be certain unless he checked.
He continued down the lane with every measure of cop wisdom screaming that he was going about this all wrong.