by Jack Winnick
“As I’m sure you already know,” he stated, addressing each of the three agents, “the water system is rather old and complicated; it was put together over a long stretch of years with varying components and quality. Kind of grew like weeds. As long as things don’t get dicey, it runs all right. But when you get a bunch of dedicated bad guys, like we’re up against here, well, we could have real problems. And as I guess you’ve already found out, we’re not going to get much help from the Water District.” He threw his hands in the air in mild frustration. His three guests smiled in recognition; they had just witnessed what he was talking about.
“Anyway, as I understand it, you already have the Hetch Hetchy in hand, that is, a plan to counter their potential attack.”
Tom just dipped his head in silent assent.
“But this old reservoir pumping-station assembly they’ve got here is a real bear to deal with; they could hit it almost anywhere. Now, I understand and appreciate the reasons you’ve chosen to figure they’re going for the Pilarcitos Dam, and you’re going to cover that one.”
This time, Tom showed his agreement by merely raising his eyebrows. He could see what was coming: he was going to get some much-needed help.
“And I presume you have enough troops of your own to cover the pumping stations on the west side of the peninsula, those coming from Crystal Springs and San Andreas. What I can offer is some broad coverage of the east side, that is, the lines coming from Hetch Hetchy and the cross-bay tunnels.”
This was good news. Parker and his deputies were intimately familiar with the local streets, as well as the water stations. Their assistance was welcome.
“So, we’ll stay in touch through our secure police band. I understand you have the handsets.”
“You know,” Tom said, “I’m sure that we have to avoid any obvious presence around any of the water stations. People see that, and after what happened in LA, there will be panic galore.”
“For sure.” Parker was ready for this. “Only unmarked sedans and nonuniformed deputies the whole day and night. No one has been advised as to what might be going down, just to watch for suspicious behavior and report in. We have ten cars assigned solely for this operation.”
“That sounds great!” Tom was pleased. “One more thing though . . .”
He saw Parker stiffen in anticipation.
“I don’t know if you’ve been told. There is this badass poison they’ve got called polonium. It’s probably in the form of a yellow powder, and it’s the deadliest stuff you can imagine. So, be sure your troops wear double gloves, and even then, don’t touch any plastic bags or bottles. It needs extra-special handling; it’s worse than germs, viruses or nuclear waste.”
Parker blanched at this news; he thought some chemical might be involved, but this sounded like science fiction. “I’ll tell my people. They heard about Los Angeles, and . . .” Lara and Uri saw the abrupt change in his demeanor. What law enforcement officer wouldn’t fear for his deputies in a situation like this?
They all shook hands; it was a somber group that said their farewells.
* * *
In an unusual coincidence later that same day, Tom received a call from his friend and colleague in the Washington, DC, forensics office of Homeland Security. Dr. Jerry Hubbard, head of the Chemistry Branch, told him of a remarkable development recently made at the Technion-Israel Institute of Technology in Haifa. A research group there had synthesized ion-exchange membranes; using them, they analyzed for specific trace contaminants in groundwater. Fearing a similar attack in Israel after the near-disaster in Los Angeles, they tested some of their new membranes to see if they might be specific for polonium. Luckily, they found one that was so sensitive, it could spot the deadly substance down to parts per trillion! Not only could they analyze the water, they could use large arrays of these membranes to purge the water of the lethal isotope. It might take months to clean up a domestic-size reservoir, but at least it was a viable option.
Tom was elated by this news and shared it with Lara and Uri. At least now, they weren’t looking at a dead end.
But even more news came late that afternoon. Homeland in Washington had intercepted some chatter on Iranian satellite transmissions that indicated some highly important operation was due to take place in Northern California the evening of Friday, July Fourth. Tom immediately shared this vital information with Lara, Uri, and the rest of the Oakland teams, as well as Parker. The sheriff agreed with Tom that their forces must not spook the terrorists by showing up earlier than 5:00 p.m. at the presumed attack sites.
Lara contacted the six-person squad assigned to the western peninsula reservoirs, informing them that their Friday afternoon assembly point was to be the CHP headquarters just outside San Mateo. They would meet at the visitor parking lot at 5:00 p.m. Dusk fell on these summer nights at about 8:00 p.m.
Chapter 34
Four Iranian assault teams gathered at their residence for one last cup of strong Persian coffee just before dawn the morning of July 4. The day had begun with the ritual shaving of the jihadis’ bodies, followed by the prayers for a successful entry into Paradise. They bid each other farewell with a hearty “Allahu Akbar” as Team One headed for the Hetch Hetchy dam.
One of the 2-man teams, towing a boat and trailer behind their rental van, paused as they entered a long waiting line at the entrance to the Hetch Hetchy parking lot. It had been a lengthy five-hour drive from Oakland, even with the sometimes-beautiful scenery. They had been told that delays were to be expected today, the first day that the reservoir had been open to the public. Boating and fishing were allowed this Fourth of July weekend, which led to locals and out-of-towners scrambling to hit these pristine waters.
Two lines of cars, trucks, and boat trailers snaked down from the highway to the shore of the deep-blue lake. Most towed motorboats, but a handful carried centerboard-type sailboats, handy for day sailing.
“Like entering a virgin, is it not, Ervin?” Zana, forty, the smiling Iranian driver, said to his passenger, giving the younger man a poke in the ribs. They both marveled at the crystal-clear waters ahead.
“I, uh, wouldn’t, uh . . . know . . .” stammered the younger man, to Zana’s obvious amusement.
“You will soon, my friend,” Zana replied, slapping his cohort on the knee, and laughing. “Paradise will soon be ours, and you will feast yourself on beautiful young houris.”
The two men were a strange pair; the tall, scarred, and muscular Zana contrasted with the boyish Ervin. They hoped no one made the obvious assumption that they were a couple; they were nothing of the sort. They had been teamed up in the accelerated short course in terrorism at the hidden base near Esfahan, in central Iran. The elite plan to poison the drinking water of the wicked American city of San Francisco needed to be accelerated “due to unforeseen events,” they had been told at the start of the seven-day course. They were part of ten two-man groupings who had been taught how to enter this huge manmade lake, poison it with a polonium-filled plastic bag, and then either escape to freedom or enter Paradise via an American-made white cyanide capsule. No one was to be captured, at any cost.
Their instructions were distinct: upon entering the reservoir, they were to proceed to any large, open area of water, pretend to be fishing, then surreptitiously dump the bag overboard. The plastic coating was designed to dissolve within twenty-four hours, releasing 100 grams of polonium chloride.
The teams had been split into two groups: those in rented motorboats were to find a spot near the undeveloped shoreline and pretend to fish; the others, in small sailboats, were to make their way across the lake and back. Both groups were to finish their work in about two hours, then return to Oakland, if possible, where air transport would be waiting. The boats and trailers were to be left along one of several two-lane country roads. They should all be finished well before dark on this long summer day. Either that, or martyrdom.
Finally, after another hour in the line, Zana and Ervin entered the gate and dr
ove up to the guards, who looked at them suspiciously, no doubt about it. They were clothed appropriately, just as they had been taught. They had bleached-denim jeans and well-worn, long-sleeved shirts with football team logos stenciled on the front. Zana and Ervin had found some for sale locally with the name of a team that had departed recently for greener pastures. The terrorists were taken by the team’s name: “Raiders.” How appropriate, they thought. Perhaps the guards were just amused by the team name on their shirts; more likely, they realized, they were scrutinized for their dark complexions and Middle Eastern appearance. It had been nearly twenty years since the glorious 9/11 massacre on the east coast of this alien nation, but some of the older Americans still resented the presence of anyone who resembled those great heroes.
“Got yer fishin’ licenses there, pals?” the curious guard said to them, gazing around the rental van, his peaked cap lifted to the back of his bald head. He walked around the van, checked out the boat and trailer, then returned to the driver’s window where Zana produced his driver’s license as well as his and his partner’s nonresident fishing licenses. Seemingly satisfied, the guard gave Zana directions to the boat ramps and huge parking lot. All had been created in record time to satisfy the expected rush of boaters starting this weekend.
Zana thanked the guard, as he had been instructed at their hastily prepared training camp, and headed down to the waterfront. It was not yet nine o’clock in the morning, but there were already dozens of vehicles in the parking area, all with empty boat trailers. Other boaters waited, somewhat impatiently at the ramps, eager to be among the first to enter the pristine water.
* * *
Inside the guard shack, Andy, the chief, rubbed his chin as he questioned his assistant, a nineteen-year-old high-school dropout named Chip. “Notice anything unusual there?”
“Not from around here, I reckon,” Chip replied easily.
“What was your first clue?” Andy drawled back in his best James Arness imitation. Old television Westerns like Gunsmoke were popular out here in ranch country.
“Well, they do have their licenses and what not . . .”
“But they don’t look like no Raiders fans to me,” Andy fired back to his nodding young assistant.
“Then where you think they got them shirts?”
“My guess is around the San Francisco airport in them tourist shops. No place in Oakland would dare have them around.”
Chip sucked on a hard candy thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right there . . .”
“And who’s going to fly all the way to that devil city just to rent a boat and trailer to fish way out here?”
Chip sucked even harder as he thought that one over. “Got a point there, Chief.” He sat there for a few seconds before he jumped up and yelped, “You don’t suppose they might have anything to do with that alert we got yesterday?” He was referring to the notice they’d received from the local FBI office about the possibility of strangers planning harm to the lake.
“Sure as my grandma don’t have no teeth! We need to keep an eye on them.” They watched as the two strangers headed down the new driveway to the parking lot and lake.
* * *
Zana drove carefully down the newly paved road to a large parking lot already home to two dozen or more empty trailers hooked up to a range of vehicles, all showing California license plates. He went straight to one of several ramps into the lake, all looking like they’d been freshly prepared. “Makes sense,” he muttered.
“What’s that, Boss?” Ervin used English, even out here.
“The boat ramps. They must have put them in just for us.”
“Why would they do that? I don’t underst—”
“You moron! That was a joke. Of course, they didn’t put them in for us. They were just getting ready for this big weekend. First time for boats here.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.” Ervin scratched his head and stared at the gleaming blue water, the sun already well above the horizon and blazing with heat. “Here comes somebody.”
“Hi, there, guys. Need some help gettin’ ’er in the water?” A fortyish man with a well-established beer belly ambled over from one of the trailers parked nearby.
“Well, yeah, that would be . . .” Ervin began before Zana kicked him in the leg.
“No, we’re OK, really.” Zana did his best with the colloquial English. “We just need to—”
The man laughed easily. “Not from around here, are ya? Well, that’s fine. We live off the tourists.” He laughed again. “Here, lemme give you a hand with that.” He walked over to the trailer hitch and expertly unhooked the electrical connector, allowing Ervin to lower the trailer onto the pavement and take it toward the ramp. Not waiting for a reply from the obvious novice, the man hoisted the trailer and moved it easily to the waterline, backing the small motorboat into the water and handing Ervin the line from its bow. The water was amazingly calm and clear.
“Thanks, mister, uh, that will be fine. We can handle it now.” Zana was eager to take over. No telling what this fellow might notice. They had to be careful.
“Sure, sure. You have a good time now, hear?” He smiled at them again and headed back to his vehicle.
“We appreciate the help. Thank you so much!” Zana called after him, walking the trailer back to the rear of their van and reattaching it. He left Ervin standing there with the boat as he parked the tandem in a nearby slot. He then waded into the shallow water, hopped in the open boat, and called out to Ervin—in English, of course—to throw him the rope or “line,” as they had learned to call it, and join him. They had already stored all the supplies they needed for this outing onboard, so they were ready to depart.
The almost-new outboard motor fortunately sprang to life on Ervin’s first pull, and Zana headed gratefully out into the open water. Ervin gazed in amazement. “You can see all the way to the bottom!” he yelled back to Zana. There were no other boats anywhere within earshot.
“That’s right,” Zana replied easily, now that they were well on their way. “It’s an all-granite lake. Nothing to silt it up. The dam’s just upstream. The lake’s down here, out of the wind, so it stays nice and clean.” He gazed around at the high hills reaching directly out of the water; then he slowed the boat to a crawl and looked over the side. He could indeed see the bottom in what he knew was close to 100 feet of transparent water. “I think we can do our fishing right here and get on with our job. No sense pushing our luck.”
With the motor at idle, Zana pulled out their rods and tackle box. Even though there were no other boats within hundreds of yards in this huge lake, the two ersatz anglers made every attempt at appearing to be trout fishing. The virgin nature of this lake had made it an angler’s dream.
* * *
“Hey, Chief, take a lookie here.” Chip was watching the two strangers with the Raiders shirts, now well out in the lake. He had a pair of high-powered binoculars propped up on a stand.
“Whatcha got?”
“They’re fishin’ for trout out there usin’ big old Northern lures!”
“What? Lemme see that.” Andy gently took the binoculars and watched as the two foreign-looking men cast large multihooked plugs splashing into the still water. Chip was right; these men had no idea what they were doing. Some honking from the gate took his attention away from the strange scene out on the lake, forcing him back to their main business of herding the tourists in and out of the property. He’d call into headquarters as soon as the traffic eased up.
* * *
Zana looked at the time on the throwaway phone they had purchased near San Francisco. It was nearly noon, and they had to drive out of the park and back to the Bay Area hopefully before dark but after the late-afternoon traffic. Even on a holiday, that could pose a problem. He looked around for curious boaters, but saw none within hailing distance. “Time for the drop,” he said quietly to Ervin, who nodded appreciatively.
Ervin reached under the transom and brought out a clear plastic container ful
l of a bright yellow material. The plastic, they both knew, would dissolve within the next twenty-four hours, dispersing the hundred grams of deadly polonium in this, the main drinking water supply for the San Francisco Peninsula. This dose alone would cause a major health disaster; combined with the other jihadis out here, they would cause a calamity similar to that of a nuclear bomb. He reached over the gunwale and carefully placed the container into the still, deep water. Both men watched as the innocent-looking but lethal missile slowly made its way to the bottom, some hundred feet below. They looked at each other and grinned. The deed was done; it was time to head for home.
The two assassins had been happy to end their lives in Paradise. Now that their task was accomplished, they were happier to contemplate their safe escape as live heroes rather than dead martyrs. Zana started the motor and headed for the ramp, their sunglasses gleaming in the blazing midday sun.
They reached the ramp in fewer than fifteen minutes, pleased to see it empty of boats either launching or leaving. Zana brought the nose up onto the ramp, threw the bowline out to the waiting Ervin, and shut off the motor. There were a few people eating lunch on their trailers, but that was all. As practiced at the training camp, Ervin brought the trailer down into the water, and the two men easily pulled the boat up onto it. Then they brought the loaded trailer into the space next to their van. Not a single person paid attention to them. They left their gear on the boat, as if they were leaving for just an hour or so to get something to eat or drink.
Zana drove the now-unhooked van slowly up to the exit gate, which opened obligingly. They were free to make their way up to the main road. There were no shouts of triumph; no sense drawing attention. But Zana punched his accomplice in the leg as they sensed freedom at hand.
* * *
“They’re on their way! Better get here quick!” Andy was on the phone with the park’s headquarters. They had been watching the suspicious pair ever since they appeared ready to leave the lake and were now desperate for the US Park Police to come and investigate. “Damn fools!” he yelled at his young deputy.