by Dale Brown
“Salt Lake Center, United Twelve-Seventeen.”
“United Twelve-Seventeen, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”
“We’re picking up an ELT beacon on two-four-three-point-zero,” the airline pilot radioed.
The controller felt his lower lip start to tremble. That UHF frequency was the international emergency channel on which an airplane’s ELT, or emergency locator transmitter, broadcast — and ELTs automatically activated after a crash. A hand touched his shoulder — it was his replacement, come to relieve him so he could get away from the console, pull himself together, and start his grim report. “Copy, Twelve-Seventeen, thank you,” he said.
“I’ll get on the horn to the Air Force,” the supervisor said.
“No, I’ll do it,” the controller said. He threw off his headset, kicked himself out of the chair, picked up the phone between his seat and the assistant controller, and hit a red button marked AFRCC . He took a deep breath and waited for the direct line to activate.
“Rescue Coordination Center, Sergeant Goris,” came the reply from the duty controller at the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center at Tyndall Air Force Base in Florida, which directed all air and sea rescue missions in the United States. “Ready to copy, Salt Lake Center.”
“This is Adams, Salt Lake Center. Lost radar contact with a Cessna 182, five-five miles north-northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada, in an area of heavy thunderstorms. Airliner at flight level three-five-zero reports picking up a VHF ELT overhead that vicinity.”
“We’re on it, Salt Lake,” the voice on the other end of the line said. The controller could hear an alarm sounding in the background. “Colors, fuel on board, pilot’s name, and souls on board?”
The controller picked up the flight-plan strip from its holder. “White with blue stripes, five hours, three… three souls on board,” he read, his voice catching when he read the grim number off the flight’s data strip.
“Roger, Salt Lake,” the voice said. “When do you estimate the weather will move out of the area?”
“It’s moving pretty fast and it’s not very big, just long,” the controller said. “About an hour.”
“Thanks, Mr. Adams,” the voice said. “I’m sorry. Tyndall is clear.”
Warehouse Complex Outside Lincoln Municipal Airport, California
That same time
“Okay, guys, this is it,” the Federal Bureau of Investigation special agent in charge, Gary Hardison, said. He was surrounded by two plainclothes agents, a team of four FBI Special Weapons and Tactics officers, and a squad of eight federal Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents, all in full body armor and tactical helmets and carrying submachine guns. “It’s the culmination of eighteen months of undercover work to get close to this gang. It all happens in about an hour.”
Hardison stepped over to a large presentation board with overhead satellite photographs of the objective and a hand-drawn diagram of their ingress plan. “Here’s the hangar where they want to make the exchange, in the middle of the first row nearest to the taxiway. Be on the lookout for planes and pilots on the airport, but the weather has been stormy, so the airport manager believes there won’t be any pilots on the airport. To be sure, he’s deactivated everyone’s gate access cards except ours so they won’t be able to get onto the airport until we’re done. We’ve verified that the other hangars are occupied, the identities of the owners have been checked, and the airport manager has deactivated their gate cards so they won’t be able to get in.
“The objective hangar has a single plane, a King Air 350 twin-engine plane that the suspects want to use to transport the materials. We’ve had a Predator unmanned aircraft overhead all evening, watching for any signs that the gang tries to put anyone up on the roof — if they do, we’ll be alerted, and we’ll call it off if we can’t take the shooter down. I’ll be watching the UAV’s video feed from here.
“Riley will go through the electric gate, which will be under observation by the gang,” Hardison continued. “Stricker will follow in the sedan. They’ll drive through, let the guards check them, the sedan, and the truck, then drive up to the hangar — I expect they’ll have at least one perp with you in the truck and sedan and at least one perp staying back at the gate. Once they’re cleared in and drive to the hangar, they’ll go in first with the cash, and then they’ll lead the smugglers out to the truck to let them test the materials. Once they approve the materials and we don’t get any warning beeps, you’ll take down the guys outside the hangar, and then we’ll signal the SWAT and ATF teams to fly in to clear the hangar.”
Hardison motioned to a lone uniformed officer. “Captain Derek Coulter from the Yuba County Sheriff’s Department is in charge of the SWAT team,” the FBI special agent went on. “After we take down the guys outside the hangar and the choppers are en route, he and his men will move in to close the airport and block the runway, taxiways, and exits. They’ll be out of sight here in the warehouse complex until the takedown. Captain?”
“We have six vehicles involved in blocking the runways and taxiways, with two deputies in each vehicle,” Coulter said. “Two will be near the hangar where the operation will take place, blocking the north end of the runway and the main taxiway. We’ll be monitoring the tactical freq, so if you need any help or if the situation changes, we’ll be standing by. We also have a chopper standing by at the fire department helipad, just a couple minutes away. My guys have worked with the FBI on numerous occasions. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Derek,” Hardison said. “To continue: The SWAT helicopters will touch down on the taxiway outside the hangar, which hopefully will be the first indication to those inside the hangar that something’s up. The hangar door should be closed; there’s a single walk-through door on the left side of the hangar door. The hangar has a twenty-foot-high roof with a lot of beams overhead, so, everyone, be sure to clear upward as well as around. It’s fairly cluttered in there with rolling tool chests, lights, jacks, and the like, so Hess, Scott, Edwards, and Caffery, be extra careful.
“The hangar has a bathroom in the southeast corner and a second-story studio apartment in the northeast corner — those are the important areas to cover,” Hardison went on. “The bathroom has no windows — Harris and Vasquez, you’ll have to make your way around the plane to cover the can. Be careful for air hoses and other trip machines on the floor, and the roof of the bathroom has a flat surface that they use to store shit, so cover that too. The apartment has a single window overlooking the hangar but no window on the door, so Carter and Meredith, you should be able to get up the stairs while McGinty and Cromwell cover the window from below.
“Hartman and Benz, you guys got the King Air 350. Entry door on the plane’s left side, and small opening window on the right and left sides of the cockpit that’s big enough to poke the muzzle of a gun out, so be on the lookout. There’s an emergency exit on the plane’s right side, but you should have lots of time to notice it if they try to pop it out to fire on you. Stay sharp. Once the hangar is clear, we’ll bring in forensics and hazmat and start scrubbing the place down.”
Hardison fielded questions, got an update on the weather and the status of the sheriff’s department personnel, did a time hack with everyone, then dismissed the teams to do their own briefings and check their weapons and equipment. At the prearranged time, the teams headed to their cars, and the operation was under way. Four Bell Jet Ranger helicopters were parked in the large loading area between two long rows of vacant warehouses, and the SWAT guys started to board.
Riley drove the windowless panel van to the proper airport entrance gate, followed by Stricker in a small sedan. Inside the gate, a lone car sat under a tree at an airport car-rental parking lot. When the FBI agent flashed his lights, a man with sunglasses, a plaid shirt with a white T-shirt underneath, and what looked like cowboy boots got out of the car inside the gate. He did not appear to be carrying a weapon, but the FBI agent knew a clever gunman could conceal a half-dozen weapons with that simple attire.
As soon as it did, the man in the plaid shirt got into the van on the passenger side and quickly checked the cargo area. At the same moment a second unseen man got into the passenger side of the sedan and ordered Stricker to open the trunk. When he did, yet another unseen man appeared, checked the trunk, flashed a thumbs-up, and disappeared.
“You guys are good — they came out of nowhere,” Riley remarked.
“Let’s go,” the first man said, ignoring the comment. “Speed limit is ten miles an hour.”
They drove past the self-serve aviation fueling station, across the transient parking ramp, and northward down an automobile access road along a row of hangars. No other cars or airplanes were in sight. They drove almost all the way down the row to the second-to-last hangar and stopped. The driver of the lead car pulled out a walkie-talkie and spoke, and a few minutes later a man came out of the hangar, carrying a suitcase.
“Right on time, Riley,” the man from inside the hangar said. “I like that.”
“Being late is a sign of disrespect, and it’s bad business, Sullivan,” Riley said. He nodded at the suitcase. “Is that all of it?”
“Half,” the man named Sullivan said.
Riley narrowed his eyes. “What is this shit, Sullivan? We didn’t agree to a split.”
“I want to check the packages outside first,” Sullivan said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small device that resembled a large garage-door opener. “If they pass, your friend there gets the cash. We’ll bring the van inside the hangar to check the packages with the larger device, and if they check out, you can leave with the rest.”
Riley hesitated, then shook his head. “Bring your larger device out here.”
“It’ll attract too much attention,” the man said. He nodded to the second undercover agent and tossed the suitcase to him. “Check it.” Stricker took the suitcase to his car and opened it. Inside were dozens of stacks of bills, mostly hundreds. He flipped through several stacks to be sure they weren’t padded with counterfeit currency, then quickly counted the stacks. Each stack was $10,000, for a total of about $150,000.
Stricker closed the suitcase and emerged from his car. “Half the total. One fifty K.”
“Now, that’s worth a peek, isn’t it?” Sullivan asked with a smile.
“That’s all you get for one fifty is a peek,” Riley said. “If you want to bring the van inside the hangar, it’ll cost you another one fifty. Larry will take the cash while you test the packages.”
Sullivan nodded at the second undercover agent. “You trust him with your three hundred thousand dollars?”
“Stricker knows his life won’t be worth spit if he screws me,” Riley said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Now it was Sullivan’s turn to hesitate, but he nodded. “Let’s do it.” He walked toward the van and opened the sliding side door. Inside were four large steel cylinders, about three feet high and twelve inches in diameter. He nodded. “The real deals, not homemade containers.”
“I’m not crazy enough to drive around with amateur-built containers,” Riley said. “Do you know how to operate it?”
“No, but my guy Carl does,” Sullivan said. He spoke into a walkie-talkie, and a few minutes later a man emerged from the hangar. He had trouble walking, his hair was thin and missing in several spots, and one eye looked clouded over. He took the detector from Sullivan’s hand and examined the casks. “Carl was a pilot for the Department of Energy for fifteen years,” Sullivan went on. “He flew that shit all over the United States in every kind of plane. One accident, and they fire him without benefits. Three years later, he finds out he’s got leukemia.”
The man named Carl turned the device on, waited for it to initialize, then looked at the display. “No leaks.”
“Every agency has got radiation detectors nowadays,” the undercover agent said. “I’m not driving around waiting to get popped by some local yokel.”
Carl examined the first cask, then punched commands into a small keypad on the side of the large steel container. A motor opened a thick steel shutter, revealing a tiny window on the side of the cask, and Carl held the detector up to the open window.
“Shouldn’t he stand away from that window?” Riley said.
“Carl knows a few more doses won’t kill him any quicker,” Sullivan said. “Carl?”
“Beta particles and gamma radiation… fairly high levels,” Carl said. He closed the window.
“That’s the iridium-192,” Riley said. “The stuff’s half-life is pretty short, but you said that was okay.” Sullivan nodded but kept on looking at Carl as he worked.
Carl checked another cask. “Gamma radiation only. Very high levels.”
“Cobalt-60,” Riley said.
Carl checked the third cask. “Neutrons, protons, beta particles, and gamma rays. Plutonium-239.” Lastly, he checked the fourth. “Alpha particles, beta particles, and uranium. Neptunium.” He closed the window, stumbled back to Sullivan, and gave him his detector back. “The tester inside will give us the exact amounts and levels, sir.”
“Thank you, Carl,” Sullivan said, clasping him on the shoulder as he walked by. “Get ready, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Neptunium-237, as ordered,” Riley said. “The rest of the cash, and you can take ’em inside your hangar. My man Stricker will count all the cash, drive out to our rendezvous point, and I’ll stay until you accept the packages.”
“Done,” Sullivan said. He radioed again, and another man brought out a second suitcase. Stricker counted all the bills, carefully this time, nodded in agreement, and drove off. Sullivan radioed for the hangar door to be opened.
* * *
When the inspection shutter on the first radioactive waste container had opened, the radiation dosimeter on board the Predator unmanned aircraft orbiting overhead detected the released radiation and transmitted an alarm to the command center in the warehouse complex near the airport. “The first cask was unsealed,” Hardison said to his assistant. “Spin ’em up.” The assistant went outside and signaled to the strike-team leader to prepare for takeoff, and the helicopter pilots began starting engines.
At that moment a Yuba County Sheriff’s Department cruiser turned into the entrance to the warehouse complex that concealed the four helicopters. The assistant looked at his watch, wondering what the deputy wanted. The cruiser parked about thirty yards away from the front row of helicopters, and a man in a suit, tie, and sunglasses emerged, taking his identification badge out and slipping it into his top jacket pocket with the seven-pointed sheriff’s star visible. The assistant hadn’t met the sheriff, but he thought he recognized him.
The newcomer gave the pilots a thumbs-up as he approached the assistant special agent in charge. “Sheriff Adamson?” the assistant asked.
“No,” the man said, and he withdrew an automatic pistol from under his jacket and shot the assistant in the chest three times. Immediately he withdrew a small device from his jacket, pressed a button, then walked inside the warehouse. Two seconds later, a three-hundred-pound homemade explosive device in the backseat of the police cruiser detonated. The first row of helicopters disappeared in a ball of fire and engulfed the second row, and in a fraction of a second all four choppers were destroyed and twelve SWAT officers perished.
The man trotted to the door to the office that was being used as the command post and dropped to one knee just as Hardison dashed out, weapon drawn, rushing to see what caused the horrific explosion outside. His bulletproof vest saved him, but the force of the three bullet
s hitting his chest dropped him. The man calmly looked down at the agent and shot him in the head twice, then turned and headed out.
* * *
The hangar door was almost open enough to drive the van inside when Riley noticed a Yuba County Sheriff’s Department SWAT armored Suburban roar down the taxiway toward them. Shit, he thought, they’re early ! Where in hell are the helicopters? The vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the hangar, and two officers in black battle-dress uniforms and Kevlar helmets dashed out and a third emerged from the back of the vehicle, carrying the two suitcases of money !
“Hey!” Riley shouted, holding up his hands in surrender. “What the hell is…?” At that moment he heard the explosion and the sounds of screeching and ripping metal from the direction of the warehouse complex, and he realized that the operation was blown — even before the driver of the Suburban pulled a pistol from his holster, aimed, and fired three rounds into the FBI agent’s face.
“Report,” the man named Sullivan said.
“The SWAT teams were eliminated, sir,” the driver said. “The sheriff’s department vehicles were placed to block ingress to the airport as much as possible, and the Bravo and Charlie strike teams are reporting to their postmission rally points. No casualties.”
“Very well,” Sullivan said. “Excellent work. Help the Alpha team get the casks on board the plane and secured, then report to your rally points.”
“Yes, sir .” The three men trotted inside the hangar, where the radioactive waste casks were already being unloaded by a forklift. Sullivan followed them inside, where he met up with Carl, who was looking over a sectional aviation chart. Sullivan noticed Carl’s pale, sweaty skin and trembling hand as he took a sip of water. “Are you okay, Carl?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine, sir,” Carl replied. “I took the last of the meds a few minutes ago — that’ll last me for several hours. Long enough.”