Authors: Andrew Britton
The Operative (31 page)
“Everything seems surreal,” Bishop told him. “Short answer, I can function as long as I don’t think about it.”
He didn’t have to tell Bishop that what they were doing here was for all the Lauras of the nation. He could see in the man’s resolute expression that he grasped that.
Kealey gave the agent a supportive clap on the shoulder as he turned and went back in the direction of Centre Street.
Police were moving everywhere to try and clear the massive tangle that reached from the Brooklyn Bridge to Broadway and city hall. More people were standing still than moving; they didn’t know where to go. Many were shouting into cell phones, trying to hear above the sirens and choppers and the endless honking of horns. Other people were texting. Some were just sitting on benches or steps, alone or in pairs, talking, sobbing, or just resting with their head on their knees. A few were praying. People were asking the police if the subways were running, the PATH trains, the buses on Church Street. Some were trying to find out if the shootings at Penn Station had shut down the commuter lines. The officers, showing remarkable patience, did not know the answers as they tried to direct all foot traffic north. They just wanted to clear the area so vehicles could be moved. The FDR Drive and South Street were also at a standstill heading downtown. Bishop realized the best way to get back to Battery Park was to walk the mile or so. He knew he had to pick his way southwest and decided that once he left the on-ramp of the bridge, he’d turn down Park Row.
Brooklyn-bound pedestrians were still making for the bridge, dodging police who were trying to preserve the multiple crime scenes and rubbernecking as they passed. They were the most orderly group, like metal filings being drawn by a magnet. They obviously felt it was safe enough to cross now that the shooting was over and the sniper had apparently fled. Bishop had to weave his way through the mob. In spite of everything that had happened, he found himself smiling when he remembered being with his wife and daughter at Disney World on a holiday about eight years ago. It was packed solid, as these streets were, and he was holding both of their hands as he spearheaded an exit from the park. His hands closed beside him, and he could almost feel their soft, loving, trusting grip.
I miss you both,
he thought.
he thought.
He shouldered his way through people, twisted his way through cars, even climbed over fenders that were nearly touching. And then he froze. Among the stopped cars was a cab. Getting out less than 20 feet from him was someone he knew. It seemed surreal seeing her here, but when their eyes met, there was no question who it was, because she recognized him, too.
It was Jessica Muloni.
CHAPTER 23
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
T
rask Industries AMRAD Division—advanced munitions research and development—was located beneath a boxy white warehouse in the Atlanta Industrial Park. Sitting at the dead end of Atlanta Industrial Drive NW, the four-thousand-square-foot, two-story structure was completely rebuilt in 2011. It generally resembled the others in the park. What set it apart was that the grounds were entirely surrounded by a fence. The thin iron bars were ten feet high, were painted white, and resembled spears on top. One would have to touch them to discover that there were ten thousand volts of electricity running through every bar. That was the maximum allowed by international law, as likely to kill as to render unconscious. There were signs warning of the danger, though it was unlikely anyone would get close enough to read them. The surveillance cameras that lined the barricade every 10 feet—backed by a guard station on the roof, staffed 24/7—alerted a corps of security personnel to any individual who made the turn off Atlanta Industrial Way NW, which was the only way in. The day’s scheduled arrivals had already been logged by their license numbers. If the cameras and computers didn’t match a vehicle with its license number, security converged at the gate and a spike plate rotated points up from the road. The plate did not just deflate the tires; it pierced the rims and stopped even a speeding car bomb.
rask Industries AMRAD Division—advanced munitions research and development—was located beneath a boxy white warehouse in the Atlanta Industrial Park. Sitting at the dead end of Atlanta Industrial Drive NW, the four-thousand-square-foot, two-story structure was completely rebuilt in 2011. It generally resembled the others in the park. What set it apart was that the grounds were entirely surrounded by a fence. The thin iron bars were ten feet high, were painted white, and resembled spears on top. One would have to touch them to discover that there were ten thousand volts of electricity running through every bar. That was the maximum allowed by international law, as likely to kill as to render unconscious. There were signs warning of the danger, though it was unlikely anyone would get close enough to read them. The surveillance cameras that lined the barricade every 10 feet—backed by a guard station on the roof, staffed 24/7—alerted a corps of security personnel to any individual who made the turn off Atlanta Industrial Way NW, which was the only way in. The day’s scheduled arrivals had already been logged by their license numbers. If the cameras and computers didn’t match a vehicle with its license number, security converged at the gate and a spike plate rotated points up from the road. The plate did not just deflate the tires; it pierced the rims and stopped even a speeding car bomb.
After the attacks in Baltimore and New York, the chief of security at the facility received preliminary reports from the FBI on the type of weapons used. He and his team reviewed the estimated yield from the explosives at the convention center, studied photographs of the damage, and saw no reason to expand the existing protection of the facility. They were an unlikely target. Few people outside the industrial park knew Trask had a facility here, and no one beyond the staff knew it was the AMRAD Division. Still, the unlikely targets were the ones that were usually caught with their shorts around their ankles. So the team met, did its review, and was satisfied that nothing needed to be done.
Even if all the systems failed, even if a hijacker crashed an Airbus into the facility, the cost would be in human life and property, but not ordnance. The aboveground structure was comprised entirely of executive offices. The real research facilities—the labs, the molding shops, the low-yield ordnance ranges, the storage facilities—were all located on four belowground levels, each of them protected on the top, bottom, and sides by steel-lined concrete 10 inches thick. The steel was ribbed with wires that created an electronic web: in the milliseconds after an explosion, a strong electromagnetic force would be generated to disburse the concussive wave, minimizing the impact in any one spot. If something exploded upstairs, it was unlikely to penetrate the ceiling of the first sublevel. If something exploded down here, it was unlikely anyone upstairs would hear it.
Within this system was another series of protections designed to circumvent industrial espionage. Every vial of nitroglycerin, every packet of gunpowder, every bar of steel or silver used by the molding shops, every tin filled with .3mm screws had to be logged out from the OCQ—the Office of the Central Quartermaster. When he had established his company, Trask had realized that to sell to the military, he had to appeal to the military mentality. Using an army term to describe what was simply a disbursement center gave him an advantage over a rival with a purely functional “stockpile” or “repository” or “distribution center,” which made them sound like Wal-Mart or Best Buy, and not an arms developer.
Within the OCQ were the MCs—the munitions caches. These small, guarded warehouses were located side by side on sublevel four and were numbered from one to eleven, from small-caliber armaments to long-range missiles. There were also two lettered divisions: A and Z, as they were unofficially known. These were in a separate, isolated section of the basement. Officially, they were Division Alpha and Division Omega. Division Alpha experimented with high-yield bunker-busting devices, like the air-to-ground, laser-guided Enhanced Paveway III bombs, which were used by NATO to pummel Gadhafi in the Libyan uprising.
Division Omega was different. It created weapons that had never been used in combat. To date, only a handful had even been tested at the military’s White Sands range in south-central New Mexico. Division Omega designed EPWs—earth-penetrating weapons. These were all nuclear in nature. Unlike atom or hydrogen bombs, which had to be dropped from airplanes, or the much-feared but unwieldy and impractical “suitcase nukes,” these weapons were designed to be portable and precise.
And two of them were missing.
They had been checked out legitimately two days before. Tom Brehm remembered that clearly. Trask Earth Penetrator 1 and 2 were the only crates that had left the room in nearly a month. According to the manifest, they were bound to Site Green at White Sands via road, Absalom Bell, driver. They were due to arrive today. Except there was a problem—an alert Brehm had received that morning from the Department of Defense. It was directed to everyone involved with weapons testing:
EYES ONLY
DoD Command Center Dispatch A894D
SENT: 5:20:13—8:22 a.m.
RECIPIENTS: SECURITY LEVEL 4, W-PROJECTS
STATUS:
URGENT
NOTIFICATION: UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE ALL NUCLEAR
AND EPW WEAPONS TESTS ARE
ON HOLD
. RDUs ON
HIGH ALERT FOR POTENTIAL MOVEMENT OF ENEMY
ORDNANCE.
SENT: 5:20:13—8:22 a.m.
RECIPIENTS: SECURITY LEVEL 4, W-PROJECTS
STATUS:
URGENT
NOTIFICATION: UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE ALL NUCLEAR
AND EPW WEAPONS TESTS ARE
ON HOLD
. RDUs ON
HIGH ALERT FOR POTENTIAL MOVEMENT OF ENEMY
ORDNANCE.
RDUs were radiological detection units. In test runs using low-level contraband, these radiation sensors, hidden throughout the nation in likely targets—ports, airports, financial and transportation centers, sports arenas—had been successful in identifying low-level radiation, as low as one hundred counts per minute. That technology assumed that in getting such material into the United States on board a boat or plane, the containers had taken a jostling and were leaking, even slightly. But no one in the DoD or at Homeland Security was willing to bet a city on that good fortune.
Thus, a secondary technology, the CIP—the Containment Identification Profile—was secretly deployed in 2009 on highways, on major bridges, at tunnel entrances, and elsewhere. It used fluoroscopic technology to search for lead containers: anything the beams could not penetrate was labeled suspect. Homeland Security had opted to keep the CIP program secret not just to prevent a general alarm—though people were constantly moving through the crosshairs, they received exposure on par with a dental X-ray—but also so potential terrorists would move slowly and confidently to and through cities until they could be quietly apprehended. These early warning systems allowed for a measured police response to prevent terrorists from panicking and triggering their devices prematurely.
The reason the DoD had instituted the A894D alert was to freeze lawful radioactive ordnance so that law enforcement could stay focused on radiation and radiation containers that might actually represent a threat.
The problem, Brehm noted, was that Absalom Bell was just entering Texas and was still on the move. His dispatcher, who would also have received this alert, should have notified him instantly to pull over and stay pulled over.
Protocol required that any anomaly in the system be reported not only to appropriate officials in the local system—Trask executives—but also to Homeland Security. Tom Brehm did so at once.
Brehm did not contact Bell directly. He was not authorized to do so, and a quick check of the system indicated that the problem was on the driver’s end: the stop order had been dispatched and ignored.
Most likely the entire thing was a careless oversight. Inexcusable, but not immediately dangerous.
In the event that that wasn’t the case, however, Brehm notified the Texas State Police. He did not provide them with any information about the contents of the vehicle; he gave them only the GPS data and alerted them that a Trask Industries van should be eyeballed with possible prejudice. That would put the NMSP in a position to act in the event, however unlikely, that at some point in its cross-country passage a van armed with a pair of tactical nuclear weapons had been hijacked.
Brehm kept an eye on the computer, watching for updates, as he went about the day’s business. But it was difficult to stay focused. Perhaps it was a reaction to what had happened in Baltimore and New York, perhaps it was his own bent toward devil’s advocacy and Murphy’s Law—
What can possibly go wrong, and did it?
—or perhaps it was a combination of those. But he couldn’t shake a nagging sense that something had gone bad here.
What can possibly go wrong, and did it?
—or perhaps it was a combination of those. But he couldn’t shake a nagging sense that something had gone bad here.
Bad with the potential to be
very
bad.
very
bad.
Jacob Trask was at his desk in his study, reading CNN online and having a breakfast of homegrown fruit and coffee. He had had an uncharacteristically restless night, not only because the goal was finally in sight but also because he feared possible blowback from Hunt’s actions in New York and the discovery—now being reported as breaking news—that the FBI might have been infiltrated prior to the attack. They didn’t need a lot of time to finish what they had started, but they did need today. They needed to distract an entire city, keep the eyes in the sky away from the target and on likely targets. When Yasmin Rassin was ID’d, she must be dead, not poised to perform her final act of marksmanship.
That was when he saw the high-priority alert come in from Division Z. He read it, then read the original DoD dispatch, then stared at the monitor while he felt his heart begin to race. He didn’t realize he was squeezing the handle of his ceramic mug until he heard it snap at the bottom. He pushed the coffee aside, pushed the bowl of fruit away, looked at the computer clock, and did a quick mental calculation.
Time, as always, was the adversary. Time and speed. He had been forced to move slowly. It had been necessary to test the Gillani Technique in the lab, test it in the field with random acts of violence, test it in Baltimore with a coordinated act, and now maneuver crowds of people
out
of position while he prepared for the final act. He had to keep law enforcement moving in an amoebic mass all around New York, like a herd of elephants dancing around a mouse that had already gone to ground in the high grasses... .
out
of position while he prepared for the final act. He had to keep law enforcement moving in an amoebic mass all around New York, like a herd of elephants dancing around a mouse that had already gone to ground in the high grasses... .
“The driver,” Trask said through his teeth.
The goddamned driver
. It was not the driver’s fault he had ignored the alert; he did not know he had ever been carrying nuclear materials. Dispatch knew he had been carrying them. White Sands thought he had been carrying them, but he was always going to take the fall before he got there... .
The goddamned driver
. It was not the driver’s fault he had ignored the alert; he did not know he had ever been carrying nuclear materials. Dispatch knew he had been carrying them. White Sands thought he had been carrying them, but he was always going to take the fall before he got there... .
It will have to happen sooner rather than later,
Trask thought.
Before he can reveal where he brought the crates
.
Trask thought.
Before he can reveal where he brought the crates
.
Trask phoned Brigadier General Arthur Gilbert, the commanding general at the White Sands Missile Range. This was a direct call to his secure cell phone, one that was not used unless there was an emergency.
General Gilbert answered at once. He did not know about Trask’s personal project; it had not been necessary to involve him, nor was it remotely possible that he would have participated. Still, the brigadier general would be useful.
“Jacob, what have we got?”
“Pony Express.”
“Aw, Christ.” The code name indicated that nuclear materials had been passed from one vehicle to another. “Where was the handoff?”
“We’re trying to find out.”
“The crates’ GPS locators?”
“Presumably disabled by Shotgun while the driver was checking in.” That was the assignation for whatever man was in the passenger’s seat. Trask checked the latest data. “The source is en route to you, on Interstate Thirty just outside of Texarkana. The Texas Highway Patrol has been notified, but we need him to
not
be taken. This is not a due process situation.”
not
be taken. This is not a due process situation.”
“No, sir, it is not,” the general agreed. “I’m drafting an order for the garrison commander to execute a SAD ASAP. We will have birds in the air in a quarter hour.”
A seize and detain order was a benefit of the Patriot Act. It allowed the military to capture a suspected enemy combatant without a warrant or anything in hand other than circumstantial evidence that suggested “cause or motivation.” It was legalese that allowed the government to act with the same powers and impunity as the secret police in any nation on earth.
Knowing that General Gilbert was on the case made Trask feel better. He would take the men into custody, hold them incommunicado until one million dollars was found in each of their bank accounts, money they were paid to turn over the two nuclear weapons.
It was 10:00 a.m.
All they needed was another eight hours. Not only had Trask seen the DoD white paper, but he had helped to write it as a distinguished civilian advisor. When the next act had concluded, there would be no question what the nation—and the world—should do.
As soon as he hung up with White Sands, Trask went to the FBI Web site and typed in Hunt’s data to gain access to the domestic tracking requests. Finding the information he needed, he picked up the phone. There was something else he needed to make happen.
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