by Jack Winnick
The team leaders crouched over the card table as Soroush sketched out the geography at the dam. They accepted the new plans, albeit somewhat tentatively. But these superior officers were well known to all, at least by photos and reputation. They would have to trust them.
The officers then returned to their residences to meet up with their men to sketch out the individual plans of attack. The next item on the agenda was to make trial runs on their objectives. Each leader had to rent a vehicle for the attacks.
Two teams were to sabotage the pumping stations along the easternmost plants, those that lay nearest the freeway that runs along the west side of San Francisco Bay. One of these teams of four was led by thirty-five-year-old Turan, a veteran of skirmishes at the border with Iraq and Afghanistan. Then they simply had to wait until the proper time on the Fourth to cross the bridge over the peninsula and proceed to their locations. They would have to wait until near dusk to take action.
Chapter 32
Lara and Uri finally arrived at the Oakland, California, field office of Homeland Security after several days of traveling. The Fourth of July was less than a week away, and there was much to do if they were to successfully quash the Iranian plot. Tom Buckley was there to supervise the effort. Five agents from the local office, who hadn’t met Lara and Uri previously, sat around the long marble table in the stark conference room. Two FBI agents from the Los Angeles office, Mary Robley and Bret Williams, were also there. Like Bret, Mary had worked with Lara and Uri on earlier campaigns.
Tom began by introducing everyone, then got right to business. “Let’s first review the situation.” The others sat in rapt attention, even though all were quite up-to-date. “First, I think everyone here knows the basics: we’ve got an unknown team of terrorists dedicated to poisoning the main water supply for the San Francisco Peninsula. They’re armed with a deadly poison called polonium; you may remember that name from the episode down in Los Angeles. We’re assured of all the help we need to suppress these individuals, from the feds as well as the state. But, for reasons of crowd and rumor management, we’re keeping all news of the episode away from the general population. Also, the media have been warned, with extreme penalty at stake, not to make any speculations about the matter. Only the top brass at the local and state law enforcement agencies are even aware there is a ‘matter’ at all. We’ve got to avoid a panic, at all costs.”
He looked sternly at each person in the room; no one said a word or even moved. They all knew what they were up against; the penalty of failure was catastrophic.
After leaving enough time for the serious nature of their business to settle in, Tom went on with the details. “As you all know, the threat is limited to two rather large geographical areas: the main water-pumping stations on the west side of the bay and the Hetch Hetchy reservoir. I can’t go into the details of how we know this; let me just say that it is based on the best fieldwork available to us, and it has been gathered over substantial time and effort.”
At this, several of those at the table glanced discreetly at Lara and Uri. The word was out, obviously.
“You are all aware that our force here is divided into two main squads: the federal agents will be assigned to Yosemite National Park and the reservoir, which is legally part of the park. The local and state effort will focus on the west side of the bay. As you all know, there are several pumping and treatment stations there. We’re not certain as yet which are part of our enemy’s plans.”
That news provoked a murmur of uncertainty from the troops. What were they getting into?
One senior FBI agent raised his hand before Tom could continue. “Sorry, sir, but what about those treatment plants you mentioned? Won’t they remove this polonium?”
“That’s a good question, Steve,” Tom responded instantly. “This is the same poison that they used to hit the Los Angeles plant last year. The Russians have also used it to kill a couple of political enemies. Anyway, the stuff is almost impossible to detect. And at the low concentrations needed to be deadly, you can forget the ‘almost.’ Worse, the treatment plants we have won’t remove it from the water at those low levels, less than one part per billion.”
Intense quiet blanketed the room. “Then, how do you get rid of it?” Steve asked reasonably.
“The simple answer is, you don’t. You isolate the contaminated water and wait for the stuff to decay. I mean, the polonium decays on its own in a few months—”
“And all these treatment plants!” Steve was relentless. He simply couldn’t believe scientists had no solution for the problem.
Tom just shook his head. “I know it seems incredible, but the stuff emits this deadly radiation, like a nuclear power plant. Like . . . Chernobyl.” That remark sobered everyone instantly, allowing him to continue.
“The individuals in charge of each squad will be reporting into this field office only. Of course, someone here will be in touch with everyone at all times until the matter is resolved. We are reasonably certain the day of the planned attack is set for Friday, the Fourth of July. That, as you, know, is the official opening of the Hetch Hetchy to fishing and boating on the lake.”
More sounds of frustration from the group at the table.
“Park officials have been told only that they need to be stay alert for any unusual behavior, and report it to us at once. We will have the highway patrol standing by to control any situation that arises on the roads in and out of the park. They have watercraft, aircraft, and underwater rescue staff at their service, ready to cooperate, especially on that date. We’ll meet again as the situation proceeds. That’s all for now.”
Before Lara and Uri left the room, Tom called them over to the side, where a large suitcase lay unopened. “I almost forgot my little presents for you.” He opened the suitcase, revealing two handguns. He handed Lara one of the latest rapid-fire semiautomatic pistols manufactured by the Israeli arms manufacturer IWI. It was a lightweight 9mm Masada, made almost entirely of high-impact polymer. Uri’s weapon was the latest in the Desert Eagle series known as the Baby Eagle III. It was a .44 Magnum pistol known for its high-pitched shriek, similar to that of an eagle pouncing on its prey. “We’ll set aside a day for you two to catch up on some target practice.”
Tom knew that despite his loss of an eye, Uri was still remarkably skilled with the Baby Eagle, able to hit the bull’s-eye at twenty-five feet, 90 percent of the time. Lara was especially adept with automatic weapons, her dexterity making up for what she lacked in physical size. Tom enjoyed seeing the eager response of the pair; being outfitted with personal armed protection comforted them.
The rest of the team filed out to waiting vehicles. No written or printed matter left the room—this was all “learn and burn,” and they knew it.
* * *
Lara and Uri spent the next few days in target practice and getting acquainted with both the reservoirs and the main pumping stations. These were situated along both sides of the peninsula. They went as tourists, not as federal agents. There was no point in arousing concern among the locals.
Then they made the long drive out to Hetch Hetchy, starting early in the morning. It took them more than four hours in light traffic to get to the west entrance to Yosemite, then another thirty minutes to the lake itself. As the lake came into view, about a thousand feet or more under the rim of mountains, they were astonished by its beauty. Buried downstream of the Tuolumne River was the famous O’Shaughnessy Dam, towering over its captive lake. The lake conformed to the long, deep, and narrow crevice in the mountain; its placid water shimmered like a giant blue sickle in the brilliant sunlight. A portion of the population loathed the dam, eager to see the geography restored to its natural beauty. But the demand for its pure drinking water was far too essential for that to happen anytime soon.
The long drive back to Oakland was consumed by the agents trying to decide on a strategy that would contain the possible attack on the Hetch Hetchy and also that on the peninsula reservoirs. The attack on the Hetch Hetch
y was already assigned to the California Highway Patrol and the guards at the reservoir. Their task was to apprehend any visitors to that lake who appeared to be tampering with the water.
The peninsular reservoirs were a more complicated issue. Because the false report about the Harry Tracy Water Treatment Plant had been made available to the Iranians, the hope was that they, knowing the water from the western reservoirs would not be subject to adequate treatment, would target those reservoirs for their main offensive. Furthermore, the bulk of the water in those lines originated from the lake behind the old Pilarcitos Dam, halfway up the peninsula. This is where Lara and Uri would establish their operation.
They brought Tom up to date on their thinking and he agreed, based on this information, to place the team that was most experienced with Iranian terrorists, the one led by Lara and Uri, in charge of defending the Pilarcitos Dam and Reservoir.
Time now became a crucial issue: there were just three days before July Fourth was upon them.
Chapter 33
With the holiday nearly at hand, Tom decided it was time to bring San Francisco Public Utilities Commission officials into the picture. The PUC must be informed of the upcoming activity to prevent any unfortunate interaction between the local and federal authorities. Tom was a firm believer in making direct personal contact rather than relying on telephone, email, or any other means. He contacted the Homeland office in Washington to set it up. Photocopies of Tom and his agents’ picture IDs and brief resumes were sent by secure server to the utility commission’s headquarters. Tom, Lara, and Uri made an appointment to meet with utility officials the following day at 9:00 a.m.
The three federal agents arrived in plenty of time, where they found the utility director had reserved a spot for them. They showed their identification to the sleepy-eyed attendant, who parked the car and showed them the way to the front door. The utilities commission offices were housed in an old granite building that appeared to have accommodated some other city or county organization. Temporary-looking signs covered older printed or engraved nameplates. The entire building had the odor of an old library or school. Its air-conditioning system struggled against the midsummer heat, which was sometimes oppressive, even in this ocean-cooled city. A male guard seated behind a card table had them sign in and show him their identification. He then directed them to Room 106, on the same floor.
They knocked on the glass window of the door proclaiming the office of Mr. H. R. Macdonald, chief of the San Francisco Public Utilities Commission. Hearing no reply, the three agents entered to see a large woman fanning herself against the uncommonly warm air. She was apparently the receptionist, Bertha Higgins, according to the nameplate on her desk. “Morning, what can I do you for?” she deliberately misstated.
Tom took the lead: “Hello, Ms. . . . uh, Higgins. We’re from the Department of Homeland Security to see Mr. Macdonald.” He was cordial but not effusive.
“Oh yes, let’s see here.” She looked at a paper desk calendar rather than a computer screen, although there was one on the right side of the desk. “OK, you’re scheduled for nine. Can I see some identification, please?”
The agents pulled out their photo IDs and placed them on her desk. Ms. Higgins took a pair of large glasses from around her neck and perched them on her nose as she looked over the plastic cards, peering up occasionally, as if to compare the cards with the three people standing before her. After just a few moments, she looked the trio over again and said, “Go on in. He’s expectin’ ya.”
Tom opened the door that led into a small office with a desktop computer on an old gray desk, similar to those seen in many federal facilities. Mr. Macdonald looked at them over steel-rimmed glasses and shook hands with Tom as the apparent commander of the little troop.
“Come on in and have a seat, guys; you, too, little lady,” he said casually. He was a man somewhat the other side of sixty with a definite paunch. The bemused agents wondered if he had any idea why they were there.
They sat as ordered, and Tom began. “We’re here, Mr. Macdonald, because of a threat—”
“Oh yeah, they told me about that. Please, call me Scottie.” He smiled at them and sat back in his chair.
“All right, uh, Scottie,” Tom continued uncomfortably. “We’re from Homeland Security, as you know. I’m Tom Buckley—”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Tom.”
“And these are two of my field agents: Wakefield,” he said, nodding at Lara, “and Elsworth.” He gestured at Uri.
“Nice to meet ya.” Macdonald replied without a glance. “So, how can we be of service to the federal government?”
“Well, Scott, it’s about some threats to the—”
“Scottie, please. Everyone here calls me that, even my wife, rest in peace.” He discreetly made the sign of the cross as Tom waited quietly.
During the brief pause, Lara took the time to peruse the room. An unlit cigar sat in an ashtray on an end table under the only window in the room. Directly above it, almost as a joke, a sign declared “No Smoking.” The curtains were tobacco-stained from years of abuse. It was definitely not like any federal offices she had visited; the feds were unyielding in their adherence to any obvious infringements on the law.
“All right, uh, Scottie, it’s about some threats we’ve received about the drinking water to the peninsula. We don’t think there’s anything to them, but . . .” Tom paused as the door opened quietly and a Hispanic-looking man in overalls crept in with a large, wheeled trash container. He sidled over to the wastebasket at the side of the room and emptied it into the larger one.
“Go on, Tom. Ruiz is all right,” Macdonald said, laughing. “Aren’t you, Ruiz?”
The janitor looked up, uncomprehending. “Señor?”
“It’s all right, Ruiz, go ahead,” Macdonald waved him on as his guests watched silently. “Been with us for years, good man.” The agents, however, did not continue until the man left.
As the door closed behind the janitor, Tom continued, almost at a whisper: “Thing is, uh, Scottie, this might be serious.” He wrote out the words chemical poisoning on a sheet of paper from his pocket and showed it to the chief.
Macdonald looked at the paper, then back at the agents and laughed. “Yeah, we get those threats all the time. Drunken kids, God bless ’em. Come up with all kinds of stuff. But don’t you worry; we got it covered. You’d be amazed at the crap gets tossed in the water tanks—’scuse me, ma’am. But we got the latest in technology here: screens, settlin’ tanks, aeration, chemical treatment, tricklin’ filters. I mean, nothing gets through all that. Besides, we got chemical analysis downstream. We can spot anything at all, shut the lines down, clean it up.”
He sat up and added, “Heavy metals, you know, lead, chrome, stuff like that . . . even AIDS germs! We got plenty of that here, you know.” He sat back, satisfied. “You see, sunlight, oxygen, lime . . . all that takes care of just about anything you can imagine.”
Tom waited a few seconds, then said somberly, “But we’re talking about some vicious stuff here—polonium. You know, like what happened in Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, read about that. But this ain’t LA, you know what I mean? Our guys are the best!” He oozed confidence.
Tom had about given up. “All we’re asking is that your people be on the lookout for any strangers hanging out around any of the reservoirs or treatment plants. Give us a call if there’s anything at all . . .” He wrote his name and cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Macdonald, who looked at it briefly and placed it on the side of his desk, then stood. The meeting was over.
“Well, thanks for your time, uh, Scottie.” Tom said to officially end the dialogue. The agents rose and quietly left the room. They said their goodbyes to Ms. Higgins and went out into the hall, scarcely looking at each other. It was a quiet walk from there back to their vehicle and a grim drive back to Oakland.
The janitor, Ruiz, carefully noted their departure. He had left Macdonald’s offic
es with his trash can; then, unobserved, trash can and all, he’d used his master keys to open the unoccupied office next door. He listened carefully with his electronic stethoscope at the connecting door as Macdonald’s conversation with the agents proceeded, then pulled out his cell phone and made his call. Vahid had been planted here three years ago for just this kind of situation. It was received with delight by his superiors in Tehran.
* * *
Once they were in the car, Tom looked knowingly at his two agents and said to them: “Don’t worry about that guy, I’ve got this covered.” Uri drove as Tom confirmed their afternoon appointment with Sheriff Sean Parker. The sheriff’s office was in a modernized building near Van Ness Avenue and McAllister Street. Fortunately, Parker had reserved a spot for them in the visitors’ area just outside. Though they hadn’t met, the two men were familiar with each other’s active-duty service in the US Marine Corps.
“Semper Fi,” the two men greeted each other on meeting for the first time. They smiled, shook hands, and slapped each other on the back. All this as Lara and Uri waited patiently for Parker to issue them into his office. The four compatriots pulled up chairs around a bare metal table at the side of Parker’s austere office; there were no adornments or other sorts of unnecessary furnishings. A plain gray government-style desk and chairs were planted at the windowless back wall, facing the door. A telephone and computer were the only objects to be seen. Bare fluorescent lighting flooded the room with a harsh glare while a low hum flared from a noise machine on the floor in the corner.
“We’ve been able to do a little background on the, uh, situation,” Parker began without preamble. “Homeland in Washington gave us some basics.” While Lara and Uri showed a modicum of surprise at this news, Tom just gave a slight shrug. His superiors could be trusted to give Parker what he needed to help him as much as possible.