Joshuas Hammer km-8

by David Hagberg

  “Damn,” he said softly. A very large hollow spot ate at his gut watching his only child taking the steps lightly, two at a time, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. If there is a God who isn’t indifferent, he prayed softly, please watch over her and help me stop the monsters.

  FEMA Operations Canter

  “There were no concrete pours that big in the past eight weeks. In fact there was no work like that for the past six months,” Andrew Stroud said. He was the chief engineer in charge of the Golden Gate Bridge. He and Jay Villiard were flipping through a thick sheaf of bridge blueprints.

  “What about new steelwork? Someplace he could have hidden the package.” Villiard asked. He was starting to get frantic, he could hear it in his voice.

  “Nothing like that. We just finished our MMRs in July, I’m telling you, and this time our biggest problem was the turnbuckle pins on the Marin Pier main cable saddles.”

  Villiard was tired and a little cranky, but he held his impatience in check. “What exactly is a MMR, Mr. Stroud?”

  “Major maintenance routine,” the engineer explained. “We check all the major systems annually, of course. But every ten years we go through what we call a “MMR cycle. We check every single rivet, every cable, every connector, every square inch of plate steel and concrete. The roadways, the piers and fenders, anchorages, cable housings, the lighting and electrical systems, elevators, the suspenders, even the approach roads, sidewalks and railings. Everything.”

  “And there were no major repairs?” Villiard asked again.

  “Like I said, just the turnbuckle pins.”

  “What about the piers themselves?”

  “The underwater parts?”

  “Yeah. Do you check those as well?”

  “All the time. Same as every other part of the bridge.” The pinch-faced engineer shook his head. “I’d really like to help you guys, but nothing’s gone on out there in the past couple of months that fits what you’re talking about. I mean there’s a million places to hide something like that, but you’ve already checked it out. All I’m saying is that the bomb is not buried in the structure.”

  “Could someone have snuck out there in the middle of the night?”

  “And opened a hole in the bridge, dumped the package and resealed it without us knowing about it?” Stroud asked. “Not likely.”

  “You mean that it’s possible?”

  “No, I mean that there’s not a chance in hell. We would have spotted the fix,” Stroud assured him. “Look, I’ve been working on this bridge for twenty-five years. I know it better than I know my wife’s body, and I’ve got five kids. There’s nothing out there.”

  It was the same message he’d gotten from the divers that Dave Rogan had sent down at first light He glanced up at the clock. It was coming up on 8:00 a.m. In three and a half hours the President of the United States and his wife would drive into the stadium at Candlestick Park for the opening ceremonies. Thirty minutes later their motorcade would head for Sausalito followed by 1,837 handicapped runners including Raindrop, the President’s daughter. And at this moment the Secret Service was no further ahead in its efforts to assure their safety than they had been eight weeks ago when this first became an issue.

  Villiard closed his eyes and ears for a moment, blocking out the sights and sounds of the busy operations center. Tried and true. Maybe that was a crock of shit after all.

  M/V Margo Golden Gate Holding Basin A thin sheen of perspiration covered Bahmad’s forehead as he picked up the radiotelephone and depressed the switch. “San Francisco Harbor Control, this is the Motor Vessel Margo with Charlie at the holding basin, requesting a pilot.” Charlie was the latest Notice to Mariners about the holding basin and bridge approach closure.

  “Good morning, Capt’n, Russ Meeks is your man and he’s on his way. But you’ll have to stay put until the Coasties give us the all clear. Should be around two.”

  “That’s fine. Gives me a few hours to catch up on some paperwork I was going to do when we docked. I might as well get it done now.”

  “I hear you, Capt’n. Have a good one.”

  “Thanks. Margo, out.”

  Four other ships, all of them container carriers, were anchored in the holding area just off Seal Rocks Beach. The wind was unusually light, but the Margo still rolled a little with the incoming Pacific swells. Five miles out Bahmad had raced down to the engine room where he’d powered down the big diesels, and then had rushed back up to the bridge to steer the boat to the holding area. Except for all the running around it was ridiculously easy. The huge cargo ship was steered with a wheel that was smaller in diameter than the saucer for a tea cup. When the ship’s speed was down to practically nothing, he hit a switch that released the starboard bow anchor. When it hit bottom it dug in almost immediately and the vessel swung ponderously around so that its bow faced a few points off the wind and seas and came to a complete halt, portside to seaward.

  From here he could see the Marin side of the bridge a little more than three miles away. He studied it through binoculars. Traffic was heavy, and he could make out a lot of police cars and official vehicles, lights flashing, crossing and recrossing the bridge. Hundreds of people had gathered at the rails, and hundreds more on foot were streaming onto the bridge to wait for the race.

  There were at least four helicopters in the air passing back and forth directly over the bridge, and a pair of Coast Guard cutters patrolling the waters on either side of the center span. Their bow guns were uncovered, the barrel caps off, and the three crewmen who he could make out on the nearest cutter wore their Kevlar helmets. They meant business. No ship would be allowed anywhere near the bridge until the runners were safely over.

  He continued to study the waters on either side of the bridge until he spotted a small white powerboat, some sort of a pennant flying from a whippy mast, passing the Coast Guard cutter on the seaward side of the bridge.

  The cutter did not challenge the little boat, which continued straight out toward the holding basin.

  Bahmad lowered the binoculars and allowed a faint smile to crease his lips. It was the pilot boat and it had a free rein in the harbor.

  He pocketed a walkie-talkie, set to the standard VHP channel 16 and went to open the port quarter gate and lower the ladder. It was too bad about the helicopter. But there was more air traffic than he had counted on. Someone was bound to see the chopper lift off from the Margo. What wouldn’t be so easy to spot however, would be the Zodiac and powerful outboard motor that he’d found in a deck locker last night. At the time he’d merely noted that it was there, along with the lifting tackle to put it in the water. But now he was glad he had gone looking out of curiosity and had found it.

  Soon, he thought. Very soon now and the United States would be a very different place in which to live. He would also have to get back to the chart room to do a final bit of navigation, but that part was easy compared to what he’d already gone through.

  Candlestick Park

  The presidential motorcade, lights flashing, sirens screaming, swept down the Candlestick Park exit off U.S. 101 a couple of minutes before 11:30 a.m.

  “Thunder is clear, seven,” the Secret Service officer riding shotgun in the President’s limousine radioed softly.

  Crowds had gathered along the half-marathon route over the bridge. Thousands of them waved small American flags, but there were many along the route who waved the flags of the several dozen participating countries.

  “It’d be nice to think that they turned out for us in such numbers,” Governor S. Howard Thomas commented. His complexion was florid. He’d drunk enough Chivas to float a battleship at last night’s AP managing editor’s dinner. But he had given a creditable speech this morning to the San Francisco Downtown Rotary Club that surprised even Haynes.

  “Your being here won’t hurt, Howard,” the President said. “The talk will get around.”

  The governor shot him a sly look, not sure if the President wasn’t being sarcastic. It
was no secret that Haynes disliked him. But Thomas was the party favorite; he had done a reasonably good job in his first term, and the ass running against him was a total flake.

  “I can see him hitting the Pentagon, or Wall Street, even the Congress, but not here.” The governor gave the President’s wife and his wife the famous Thomas reassuring smile. “Not here, not today. Too many of his own people would get hurt. They’d tear him apart back home. Limb from limb.”

  “I’m still nervous,” Mildred Thomas admitted.

  The President’s wife patted her hand. We would have canceled the games if there was a possibility that something was going to happen. Our own daughter is here.”

  “I know. And I think you’re so brave,” Mrs. Thomas said sincerely. “But I’m not.”

  The President gave his wife an appreciative look. What they didn’t need right now was a nervous or even hysterical woman on the stage at the opening ceremonies. It was difficult enough keeping the truth from the public though the media had started to put it together. A few calls to the presidents of the networks had put the lid on the story for a little while, at least through this weekend. But the dam would break soon. Then they would be faced with conducting an investigation in the face of a frightened nation. At that point even if the bomb were never to be used, bin Laden would have already won. The idea of a terrorist act was to terrorize. Well, just the threat of this attack was going to be enough to set the average American off. Nobody would ever feel safe in their homes so long as bin Laden was alive. It was the argument he had used on the TV execs.

  “Nothing to be brave about, Mildred; unless Deb wins the race in which case they’ll say that the fix was in and scream for our blood,” the President assured her.

  They slowed down as they passed through the stadium entrance directly onto the field. The stadium was filled to capacity. All the athletes were lined up in ranks and files behind then: national flags. Most of them wore white blazers and dark blue slacks or skirts, but the marathon runners were decked out in their shorts with their numbers pinned on the backs of their shirts.

  The stage was decorated with red, white and blue bunting and the pennants of all the participating nations.

  A huge cheer went up through the stadium as the President’s limousine crossed the field and stopped in front of the stage. ISO director Octavio Aguilar and the other dignitaries all rose, and as the President and first lady got out of the car the band played “Hail to the Chief.”

  The President searched for his daughter’s face in the middle of the American delegation. He thought he spotted her, but then he wasn’t sure as he and his wife started slowly up the stairs with Governor and Mrs. Thomas, shaking hands as they went. Two of his Secret Service agents were already on stage, four flanked the President and First Lady, and a dozen others ringed the platform. There were even more in the skybox and at other strategic positions in the stadium. Everyone was alert, no one was asleep on the job this morning.

  It was a poor defense against a nuclear weapon, the fleeting thought crossed the President’s mind, but then he was shaking hands with the tiny, birdlike Octavio Aguilar and his even more diminutive wife Marianna.

  “International Special Olympians,” the announcer’s voice blasted through the stadium. “Coaches, trainers, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America.”

  The crowd cheered as the President stepped to the microphone to make his remarks and declare that the games were open. He prayed to God that this would be the beginning of a completely uneventful week.

  M/V Margo

  Bahmad reached the bottom of the boarding ladder as the pilot boat rounded the Marge’s stern. One man was in the cabin at the wheel, and another was at the rail on the aft deck. He would be Russell Meeks, the pilot, who was supposed to come aboard to guide the Margo to her berth after the race. Bahmad raised his hand and waved. Meeks waved back as the man driving the pilot boat expertly brought her alongside, throwing the transmission into neutral at exactly the right moment.

  Bahmad passed a line across to Meeks, who seemed to be surprised, but took it. The usual procedure was for the boat to come alongside and for the pilot to simply jump across.

  “I’d like to talk to you for a minute before you come aboard, Mr. Meeks. If you don’t mind,” Bahmad said.

  “What’s going on?” Meeks wore a San Francisco Harbor Pilot cap and jacket. He carried a walkie-talkie in a holster in his belt like a gun. If he reached for it Bahmad would kill him on the spot.

  “It’ll just take a minute, sir. I need to talk to you and your driver. I have to show you something.”

  Meeks was an older man, white hair, deeply lined face, but he was built like a linebacker. He’d probably worked on or around boats all of his life. He was suspicious now. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Joseph Green, first officer. I’ve really gotta talk to you, man. There’s nothing wrong, I mean, but this is important. Believe me.”

  Meeks turned, leaned into the cabin and said something to the delivery skipper that Bahmad didn’t quite catch. He turned back, nodded, cleared off the line and stepped aside.

  Bahmad jumped aboard and stumbled as if he had lost his balance. He reached out to Meeks with his left hand to steady himself, while he reached in his jacket for his pistol with his other. He turned toward the delivery driver who watched from his high seat at the helm, a calm but curious look on his narrow, dark face. Bahmad got the impression that he might be Hispanic.

  “Easy,” Meeks said.

  Bahmad pulled out his pistol, thumbed the safety catch off and fired one shot into the delivery driver’s face.

  Meeks reacted immediately, batting Bahmad’s hand away. But he wasn’t quick enough. Bahmad swung the pistol around and pumped two shots into the pilot’s chest, the second destroying his heart. He fell backward and nearly pitched over the rail before Bahmad managed to grab a handful of his jacket and haul him back. His body slumped to the deck in a spreading pool of blood.

  The day was suddenly very quiet except for the cries of the seagulls overhead.

  Bahmad holstered his pistol and dragged the pilot’s body out of sight inside the cabin. Back on deck he found a bucket and sponge and quickly cleaned off the blood. Once again inside the cabin he cleaned the blood off the windshield, then propped the pilot boat driver’s body up against the wheel. He cut a couple of pieces of rope from a heaving line and tied the man’s arms to the wheel and his back up against the back of the seat. From the air everything would look normal here. The open deck was clean and the pilot boat driver was at the helm where he belonged.

  Bahmad studied the instrument panel long enough to find what he’d hoped to find. Because of the frequent fogs in the bay the pilot boat was equipped with a pair of GPS navigators tied to an autopilot with a hundred programmable way points With the right settings the boat could practically thread its way through a maze without anyone touching the wheel.

  He took out a piece of paper on which he had jotted down two pairs of latitudes and longitudes that he had worked out at the chart table aboard Mar go, and entered them as way points one and two in the autopilot. The first would take the pilot boat well clear of the Marge’s bow and the second would take it directly under the center span of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Candlestick Park

  The Secret Service agent riding shotgun in the President’s limousine turned around. “The starter is ready, sir.”

  The President looked out the rear window. The motorcade of six cars was poised at the fifty-yard line exit from the stadium. The runners were massed behind where the fifty-yard line would be if this were football season back to the end zone. People in the stands were on their feet, most of them waving flags and cheering. The noise even inside the bulletproof limo was thunderous. Somewhere back there was his daughter, and the President of the United States could not remember a time when he had been more frightened. “Tell him to start,” he said. The Secret Service agent relayed the message. A few seconds late
r the runners surged forward and the President’s motorcade headed out.

  FEMA Operations Center

  The security team watching the television monitors had the best seats of all. ESPN was televising the half-marathon live from the Met Life blimp that would pace the runners from the park across the bridge to Sausalito. One of Villiard’s men was aboard as crew, and he kept up a running commentary over one of the tactical radio channels the Secret Service used. The view from about six hundred feet was spectacular.

  They received more than a dozen other television images from Coast Guard, San Francisco PD and National Guard helicopters aloft, as well as from a halfdozen security cameras on the bridge.

  Six radio operators were busy monitoring on-the-site reporting from more than one hundred Secret Service and FBI agents. In addition they monitored all the frequencies used by the county and local police, the National Guard, Coast Guard, San Francisco Harbor Control and the FAA’s air traffic control units and flight service stations within the entire San Francisco and Oakland Terminal Control areas.

  They had direct radio links to the presidential motorcade, including to the President’s Secret Service detail as well as to the president himself. They could talk to Kirk McGarvey and Todd Van Buren as well as to Elizabeth McGarvey who planned on keeping up with the President’s daughter for at least the first half of the race. If need be she could be picked up by one of the SFPD motorcycle cops and leapfrogged ahead But she’d told Villiard that she would keep up until they were across the suspended part of the bridge. After that they would probably find her dead body fallen alongside the road.

  Villiard had to smile thinking about her. She was a hell of a young woman. A chip off the old block. Tried and true.

  He glanced up at the images from the blimp as the presidential motorcade emerged from the stadium followed by the first of the eighteen hundred runners and his heart began to pound in his chest.

  Candlestick Park