by Jack Winnick
“What’s wrong now, Chief?” Chip was worried. Andy never got this excited and angry.
“They say, ‘Don’t worry, they’ll catch them. They’ll never get out of the park.’ Besides, they got other guys doin’ something in one of the other lots, other side of the lake.”
“Did you tell them about how they seemed to drop something in the water?”
“Yeah, of course I did! But they said they got other reports very similar; got to get to those first.” The two men looked at each other impotently. Something was indeed going on; all they could do was sit and watch. After what seemed like an hour, a California Highway Patrol car pulled up to the gate, flashers on but no siren. No need to cause a panic; not yet.
Two uniformed CHP officers entered the booth and immediately started asking questions. “What was the license number on the vehicle? Which direction did they head out of the park? Where exactly were they on the lake when they dropped the object into the water?”
Andy could at least answer the last question with some accuracy; he had lined the boat up with two markers on the other shore and could estimate its distance from both. That would give the CHP a good starting point for a search. They quickly jumped on their walkies and relayed the information. Speedboats would be out there soon to see what they could find; the clear water might, in fact, yield something.
It was less than twenty minutes when a twenty-foot inboard cruiser showed up in the lake, slowing down as it reached the vicinity of Andy’s guess as to the location. One of the officers in the booth guided them, conferring with Andy at the same time. When the patrol boat appeared to Andy to be in the approximate spot of the “drop,” the CHP officer radioed the pilot of the boat. It stopped, and the pilot waved to the booth, indicating they were about to start the search. Three scuba divers slid into the water. The men in the guard booth watched intently, all with binoculars. Caution flags appeared as each diver disappeared from view.
Fifteen agonizing minutes passed before one of the divers broke the surface, displaying a net with a plastic container in it. With the binoculars, the onlookers could see it contained a bright yellow substance. While Andy and Chip looked at each other, puzzled, the CHP officers were on their walkies: “They got it; it’s what we were afraid of. Over and out.” Their faces were more than grim; they were terrified, fully terrified.
“You guys have to keep this quiet. We can’t cause a panic. ” one officer warned the two park employees in no uncertain terms. Poison had been dropped into the lake. Fortunately, conditions were perfect for its discovery; the granite lake made for excellent visibility, especially with the bright overhead sunlight. The yellow material had shown up like a diamond in newly washed mud, even at a depth of one hundred feet.
Once the three divers had been retrieved, the CHP speedboat raced to the ramp exclusive to park headquarters, near the dam. The Park patrolmen told Andy and Chip what was to happen next: The suspicious material would be taken to the FBI lab in Oakland by helicopter, analyzed, and the results given to Homeland Security.
The two men looked as solemn and scared as the CHP officers. They knew now what they had just witnessed: an attack on their drinking water, no doubt by the mullahs in control of the Islamic Republic of Iran. It was just like the recent event in Los Angeles. Andy looked at the glass of water he had just drawn from the tap and poured it down the drain. Only bottled water from now on.
* * *
Zana drove easily, now relieved of the stress of the boat and trailer. He exited the lake area onto the main road leading out of the Park, headed for Highway 120, west toward Oakland. Without the trailer, they were inconspicuous among the other vacationers headed in both directions. They could also take the hills and curves at normal speed. “Home free!” Zana grinned at Ervin, who was now relaxing a bit as well. “Call in and see if they can get us reservations out of Oakland.”
Ervin did as ordered; almost at once, he started speaking with someone in English at the other end. There was a pause, then Ervin looked up at Zana, saying, “They’re going to call back in five minutes or less. We’re to keep off the phone until then.”
Zana just nodded; things were going well. Paradise would have to wait awhile. He smiled as he thought of the hero’s welcome they were about to . . .
His reverie came to a sudden stop as he saw the flashing red lights in his rearview mirror. Then the sirens shrieked; the game was over. He looked over at his young protégé with a somber expression and motioned to the glove box. Ervin knew what that meant; he reached in and grabbed the little bottle containing the white capsules. Giving one to Zana, he swallowed the other and tapped his superior on the shoulder.
“Allahu Akbar!” they yelled in unison as Zana swallowed the death pill, pulling the van across the two-lane road, onto the shoulder, then . . .
The two assassins never felt a thing as the van left the road, plummeting eighty feet into the granite boulders at the bottom of the hill, bursting into flames. Their deed was done.
* * *
The crackle of the radio on the CHP officer’s shirt brought the rest of the men in the guard booth upright. The officer left the speaker on so the others could hear. “Unit 55, we have an 11-80 here on Highway 120, twenty miles east of the park entrance. Closure on the escapees. They have terminated chase. Ambulance called. No apparent survivors. Over and out.”
The radio went silent. Then the park employees’ walkies came to life: “Suspects in the lake case have been apprehended; no survivors. Two males DOA. Further details soon. Over and out.”
The CHP officers tipped their caps at the two gate attendants and headed to their vehicle. Their job here was done; they just had to wait for the lab results on the yellow substance and further instructions.
Chapter 35
Lara and Uri pulled up at the CHP headquarters in San Mateo at 3:00 p.m. to meet one last time with their team. They dispersed the men, except for one energetic youngster named Ivan, to aid the sheriff at the Crystal Springs and San Andreas reservoirs a few miles away. With Lara at the wheel, they took a circuitous route up to the Pilarcitos Dam, not encountering any other vehicles or personnel. They were glad to have the security of their off-road SUVs on these treacherous dirt paths. With them they carried a minimum of rations, clothing, and equipment, including their new personal weapons.
News came at 6:00 p.m. from the Oakland office of Homeland Security: the occupants of two motorboats and two sailboats at Hetch Hetchy had been apprehended after each exhibited suspicious behavior that day. One motorboat had stalled in a deep part of the narrow lake. The occupants failed to surrender, the boat was hauled ashore, and the men were arrested. The FBI and Homeland Security officers were continuing their interrogation. The other motorboat had drawn suspicion from officers on shore after noticing that the “boaters” seemed totally inept at rigging and handling their fishing gear. The two occupants had been able to reach shore and escape; both of these men died during the ensuing police chase.
The sailboats had both capsized, the occupants unable to maneuver their craft in the light air. The sailors had apparently taken their own lives by ingesting unknown substances. Autopsies were ongoing.
Scuba divers recovered three clear plastic containers from the lake near to where the boats had been operating. The containers each held a bright-yellow substance. Fortunately, all had caught on relatively shallow underwater cliffs; the lake itself was over one thousand feet deep at some spots. The captured material was taken to the FBI lab in Oakland for analysis. Divers were still out in the lake, searching for the one apparently missing container.
With this news, the chances for an attack on the Pilarcitos Dam seemed to increase dramatically. The Iranians were bound to have put in place a multipronged effort. The teams of defenders were updated and put on high alert.
Later that evening, a report came in announcing that the divers had indeed found the remaining container of yellow substance not far from one of the boat ramps.
Chapter 36
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The three men in gray coveralls glanced at each other in the darkness of the Fourth of July evening. The penetrating misty-wet fog blew in from the west with increasing bite as the last rays of daylight disappeared in the west. Visibility was less than thirty yards; the walking trail above the dam was devoid of the usual casual hikers along the Pilarcitos Reservoir during daylight hours, no doubt because of the inclement weather.
The logo on their gray rental jeep parked alongside the path matched that on each of their coveralls. It showed a picture of a tall dam with the acronym MPWD stitched below it in bright white letters. The county personnel were familiar with the Mid-Peninsula Water District, whose province it was to maintain and protect this integral part of the crucial San Francisco area’s water supply.
Most of the water for the peninsula, the men knew, came from the Hetch Hetchy dam far to the east, across the bay in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. The team of attackers had received word just hours ago that the Iranian attack on the Hetch Hetchy had failed miserably. Thus, the burden was placed firmly on them to poison the water.
The City of San Francisco and its environs also depended, they knew, on the local rain and groundwater, much of it originating in San Mateo County to the south. Years of low rainfall and the resultant droughts had caused bitter “water wars” that pitted farmers, environmentalists, and residents against each other in the city and suburbs of more than five million people.
This particular reservoir had been created well over one hundred years ago on this hill 1,400 feet above sea level, mainly so that gravity could provide most of the energy to carry water to the city.
The terrorist team above the old earth-fill dam felt the full responsibility of the effort to poison the water. They put their faith entirely on the skill and experience of the military men in command of their mission. General Gharoub and Colonel Soroush absorbed the news of the failure at Hetch Hetchy with the feeling of heavy weights placed around their necks. The mission’s whole success now depended on two officers only lightly experienced in battle and a small group of young men away from home for the first time.
The three men in gray appeared from cover above the large, semicircular dam. Saman, their team leader, was stocky and muscular. They had made a practice run to the reservoir the night before to assure their jeep could handle the dirt trails. Each man carried a backpack that held, in addition to their digging and water-testing gear, a 100-gram water-soluble container of polonium chloride powder. On their persons, they carried automatic pistols in the unlikely event they should be apprehended. Each also carried additional fifty gram “contingency” containers of polonium chloride. Should they be in jeopardy of capture, they were to throw these into whatever body of water was close at hand.
The terrorists began checking the valves and meters on the downhill side of the trail, pretending to be measuring the water temperature, salinity, and pH, as well as trace contaminant levels. From this point north, the water flowed directly into the municipal water supply. In case they were seen, the men appeared to be busily taking water samples from ports, labeling the bottles, then placing them in their packs. Only when they were certain of safety would they climb to the top of the dam and drop their deadly flasks into the reservoirs.
Saman’s name tag read James on his breast pocket. He turned up his collar against the cold, damp wind. Though impossible to see in the dim light and heavy clothing, he had a dark complexion and a frightening appearance. He was a convicted killer, pardoned by the government of Iran in order to participate in this highly dangerous mission. His underlings, Kamran and Seyed, were also convicted felons, but in order to participate in this assignment, each had been allowed to keep his right hand rather than have it publicly amputated. This was the standard penalty for stealing food. Both were substantially younger than Saman and less experienced, but they were prepared to become martyrs for this strike against the West.
Kamran’s uniform bore the name Bill on his pocket; Seyed’s was labeled Pete. All three men had been released from Evin Prison, one of the most infamous and notorious prisons in the world. Beatings, torture, mock executions, rape, and brutal interrogations were everyday routine in that nightmarish place. For four decades, the anguished cries of prisoners had been swallowed up by the drab walls of the low-slung lockup in Tehran. To each, death would be a better fate. But all were hoping for pardons upon completion of their task.
The teams had flown into San Francisco International Airport through Los Angeles on false passports after an accelerated course on terrorism in Iran. They carried with them an immensely fatal dose of polonium chloride powder, enough to slaughter the entire population of the “City by the Bay.” While they were aware of the near-miss their predecessors had experienced in Los Angeles just a few months prior to this attempt, all were convinced of the advances that had been made for this attack. In any case, the worst possible scenario was martyrdom in the service to the glory of Islam and everlasting pleasure in Paradise.
The dark-colored van being used by Gharoub and Soroush was well hidden under some large ficus trees out of view from the three men in overalls. Because Pilarcitos was deemed the most critical of the peninsular sites, the two officers had been ordered by the president to personally supervise the effort. They were situated now well across the trail and out of sight from the footpath over the dam. The officers sat crouched uncomfortably in the back, watching for intruders while listening for news on their communication device. So far, the convicts appeared to be performing their duties just as practiced.
The only news they had received from Tehran was that of an apparent failure of the raid on Hetch Hetchy.
The most significant change in their strategy was to insert the poison into the water supply downstream of the last sampling point. With the Tracy Water Treatment Plant disabled, as they had been told, there would be no delay between the time they dumped the polonium into the flowing stream and its delivery to the unsuspecting Jews and other Satan worshipers.
Suddenly, a slender figure emerged from the bushes alongside the trail from the dam. The two Iranian officers crouched even lower behind their seats as the person approached. The intruder was clad in military camouflage, carrying a radio and an automatic weapon. On a hand signal from his general, Colonel Soroush emerged from the far side of the van, flipped on a high-intensity Maglite, and quietly ordered the person in English to stop, disarm, and drop to the ground.
* * *
Lara, caught unaware in the beam of the Maglite, did as ordered, silently cursing herself for checking out this hidden area without cover. How could she have been so careless? Her clumsy attempt at reaching for her radio did not go unnoticed. But she was stunned to recognize the voice, even in his highly accented English. Colonel Soroush! How in the world? As she dropped her Masada pistol, the light hit her full in the face. Her only consolation was the fact that she had sent a last-second text message to Uri, telling him where she was headed.
“It’s the American spy!” Soroush declared in Farsi, just loud enough for Gharoub to hear through his open window. “But with blue eyes; come see!” They examined the prisoner with some amusement. She still wore the disfiguring facial inserts and dyed hair, so she was instantly recognizable to the Iranians, even though the brown contact lenses were missing. But her clear blue eyes flashed in the beam of the Maglite.
“Come here, you Jew bitch,” Gharoub ordered in English, grabbing her by the hair, dragging her to the van. To him, this was almost as important a development as poisoning the water. How they would make her pay!
* * *
Uri saw the message light blink on his short-range radio and saw that it was from Lara; he read it instantly. When she didn’t send another message moments later, he assumed something, or someone, had stopped her. He grabbed Ivan and carefully headed for the top of the dam. From there, they could see a powerful beam of light dancing around on the ground near the ficus trees on the other side of the footpath. They heard the sounds of a struggle, then
recognized the outline of a vehicle at the edge of the wooded area.
With a hand signal, Uri ordered Ivan to take the footpath around the trees while Uri came up from below. Uri’s heart was fully in his mouth as he recognized Lara’s camouflaged figure in the pale moonlight. She was in the grasp of a large man who held her arms and upper body. Another smaller man was reaching for her feet. But Uri could see that Lara was not about to let herself be taken so easily.
In a well-practiced maneuver, Uri whistled shrilly. It was the call of a small bird common to the tree-lined suburbs of Tel Aviv; Lara knew at once who it was and what it meant. She seemed to relax for just a moment, apparently yielding to the man reaching for her feet, Colonel Soroush. As General Gharoub, holding her upper torso, tried to get a better grip around her shoulders, she kicked out with her left foot, aiming at the smaller man’s unguarded groin. With her right foot supporting her weight, she simultaneously twisted in Gharoub’s grip, swinging her right elbow directly into his nose. There was a satisfying sound of cartilage and bone breaking as both men yelped in pain.
Soroush grasped for his pistol just as Ivan burst into the open. Gharoub reached into the van, bleeding heavily from his face. But he was clearly battle-trained; he started the engine, then took a blind shot at the spot where he had last seen Lara fighting with Soroush. Uri, watching from twenty yards away, could not fire safely, for fear of hitting Lara or Ivan. He had to wait to see what actions his companions could take.
As Ivan grappled with Soroush, the rear wheels of the van spun wildly in the mix of dirt and fertilizer at the base of the tree. Soroush struck Ivan a grazing blow across the back of his head with his pistol, apparently not wanting to give away his location by a gunshot. Ivan, stunned, was unable to stop his assailant from flinging himself into the back of the van, which sped away through the trees.