by Ward Larsen
“They are completely unharmed.”
“Very well. Now here is what I want you to do…”
When the call ended three minutes later, Park stood pensively in front of the window. He noted an antenna on the top of a distant hill. Other than that, there was not a marker of civilization anywhere in sight. The remoteness of his retreat was quite purposeful. It had nothing to do with the native birds whose droppings decorated the pitched roof, nor the odd bear who occasionally came to turn over the garbage bins. In the coming days, seclusion would be essential.
He found himself thinking about Khang. Park had recruited him five years ago, plucking him from an elite Special Forces team. In all that time, through scores of difficult assignments, he’d never seen anyone get the better of the man. Khang tried to brush off his failed encounter with Slaton, as any good soldier would. And since the debacle in Vienna, he’d mostly recovered. He’d abducted the woman and her son quickly and efficiently. Going forward, Park reckoned Khang would work hard to restore faith in his competence. It was good to have that kind of loyalty. Good to have such leverage over a man.
His thoughts advanced to the most important communication he would deliver—not today, but soon. He had already written the script, practiced it time and again. Eighteen precisely crafted words, and the most important of his life. At least, to that point.
He tried to rehearse it once more, but his thoughts foundered.
Not for the first time, he felt niggling doubts about the wisdom of abducting the family of an assassin—a man, he’d been told, who had a matchless reputation in the shadowed circles of Western intelligence agencies. Park, of course, had heavy security. And he almost never ventured abroad, preferring to keep to the confines of the most hermetic police state on earth.
Even so—
Recalibrating his thoughts, Park inhaled once, then recited his message clearly and precisely in a near whisper.
Soon, he thought afterward. Very soon.
FIFTY-EIGHT
While imagery analysts at Langley set to their labors, Sorensen and Slaton diverted to a nearby café. She ordered tea and a croissant, he a caffé americano. They discussed El-Masri’s file, lost caches of highly enriched uranium, and what it all could mean for his family.
From the quiet corner table, Sorensen called for an update after precisely one hour. She tilted the phone away from her ear, allowing Slaton to lean in and listen—speaker mode was a bridge too far in such a public setting. They were briefed by a young woman with an upper Midwest accent—somewhere, Slaton guessed, very near the Canadian border.
“Our first goal was to identify the type of jet,” she said. “It’s not as easy as you might think. Business jet interiors are anything but standardized. They come out of the factory in dozens of different configurations. You’ve got your seating plan, entertainment amenities, galleys, and wet bars. It’s a great pricing gimmick for manufacturers. Your standard Learjet—it’s got more variations than a Starbucks latte. Gulfstream goes so far as to—”
“Okay,” Sorensen cut in, “I get the picture. What did you find?”
If the woman was put off, it didn’t enter her tone. “We’re ninety percent sure it’s a Challenger 300, built by Bombardier.”
“Okay, good. What else?”
“Well, nothing with that degree of confidence—but we’re still chasing some leads. We got distracted by one possibility right off the bat, but it turned out to be a dead end.”
“What was that?”
“Do you still have access to the picture?”
Sorensen curled three fingers at Slaton in a beckoning gesture. He turned on his mobile and found the photo. “Got it,” Sorensen said.
“Okay, in the background you can see the cockpit door. We blew it up as best we could given the resolution, and ran some filters and DEAs—detail enhancement algorithms. You see, every aircraft that carries passengers has to display its registration certificate—it’s usually mounted in a clear plastic sleeve, either on the cockpit door or somewhere nearby. It’s a regulatory thing ICAO insists on, like a restaurant having to show its liquor license.”
Sorensen watched Slaton pinch the screen to make the photo bigger. “I can see the door,” she said. “And on the wall next to it is a plastic sleeve. But … I can’t tell what’s inside.”
“That’s what we were trying to determine,” the analyst said. “Turns out, the plastic holder is empty.”
“They removed it before they took the picture,” Sorensen surmised.
“That’d be my guess,” said the voice from Langley. “We’re still working a few other angles. Another hour and we’ll have the aircraft type nailed down. If we’re right about it being a Challenger, that’s not good. It’s one of the most common airframes out there. Over seven hundred flying around the world.”
Slaton was still looking at the picture. His eyes, however, had moved away from the area around the cockpit door. He was looking at his wife. On first glance he’d been distracted by the worry etched into her face, her defeated posture. That in itself seemed wrong, despite the situation. Christine was a doctor accustomed to making life-and-death decisions, a sailor who’d tackled oceans. If she had one overriding trait, it was steadiness under pressure. She could never be the basket case she appeared to be in the picture.
Which meant she was telling him something.
Slaton scanned every part of the photo, and finally he saw it—her hands. They were just in view at the bottom of the shot, resting on a tiny hardwood table. Only they weren’t in a natural position. Both sets of fingers were oddly set. He combined that with her puzzlingly vanquished expression.
All at once he understood.
On her left hand, the middle and index fingers were extended, the rest curled. Her right hand was set roughly in what looked like a Hawaiian shaka, or “hang loose” sign, the thumb and pinkie extended. Both arrangements were inexact, the fingers not rigidly straight. Subtle by design. Yet Slaton knew precisely what she was telling him.
“H and Y,” he blurted.
Sorensen interrupted whatever the analyst was saying. “What?”
“The letters H and Y!” He pointed to Christine’s hands. “We played around with sign language last month on the boat—Davy seemed to like it, like we had a secret code or something. The first thing you learn is the alphabet.”
Sorensen looked at the photo. “And that’s H and Y?”
“Or Y and H.”
“What could that mean?”
The analyst, who’d obviously heard and followed along, said, “It could have to do with the country they’re headed to—like an airport code or the name of a city.”
“Maybe it’s the initials of whoever abducted them,” Sorensen ventured.
Slaton couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Aircraft are like boats in certain ways … and Christine knows boats. I think it’s part of the airplane’s registration number.”
Sorensen looked at him, and said, “The tail number?”
“It would make sense.” Slaton edged closer to the phone. “There might be seven hundred Challengers flying around the world, but how many would have H and Y as the first, or maybe last letters of the tail number?”
“Statistically speaking … I’m sure you could count them on one hand,” said the disembodied voice. “It’s worth a try.”
Sorensen looked again at the photo. “If it’s not that, she’s telling us something else. But you’re right, David. Christine is definitely sending a message.”
* * *
Boutros struggled mightily—even though he knew it was hopeless.
Both feet were in the dirt, sinking under the pressure. His hands were over his head, holding up the great wall that was tipping so perilously toward him. He called for help, yet knew there was none to be had.
He was alone now.
And that would never change.
His hands began slipping under the great weight, tons of stone gathering momentum. On the
other side of the wall the storm blew incessantly, wind and rain and flashes of lightning. The sea in all its fury. He felt his arms weakening, felt failure upon him again … until something gripped his shoulder. That was followed by a distant voice.
All at once, the storm seemed to dissipate.
He opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep. When he finally focused, he saw Rafiq.
“What … what is it?” he asked.
“Come quickly,” said Rafiq. “There is a message.”
FIFTY-NINE
The entire crew was gathered in the wheelhouse. Saleem looked better than he had in days. Rafiq too was improved. The arrival of news relating to their mission had brought them together with high expectations. Unfortunately, as was so often the case in war, the news was not good.
The message had arrived via their encrypted satellite device, and was displayed on its backlit screen. They had been instructed to check twice each day for messages, at midnight and noon Zulu time. Until now there had been not a single contact. The message that finally came, at midnight Zulu, eleven hours removed from the time zone in which they were sailing, was a great disappointment.
“We are to switch to our secondary target,” said Saleem. It sounded very near an accusation.
“Yes,” Boutros replied distractedly.
“But why?” asked Sami.
Boutros read the message again. It was painfully brief.
SHIPMENT TO ARRIVE ONE DAY EARLY
INCREASE SPEED IF ABLE
CHANGE TO SECONDARY TARGET
And that was all. No reasoning, no logic. No options given. Boutros felt the others looking at him. Waiting for their commander’s interpretation.
“There has to be a reason,” he said. “It is possible our plan has been uncovered. Or perhaps the American navy is planning an exercise that would keep us from reaching the primary.”
He looked at his men, saw nothing but disappointment. Boutros felt it as well. Their primary target had been Pearl Harbor. The plan had been to detonate the weapon in the harbor entrance at dawn. It would have been an undeniably symbolic attack—the opening of America’s last great war repeated, quite literally, in a flash. Also, proof that the world’s greatest military power was not invulnerable. Allah’s vengeance could be imparted anywhere on earth.
“It won’t be the same,” said Saleem. “Once the weapon is complete, no one can stop us from striking wherever we wish!”
“No,” Rafiq argued, “we are running blind. We have no idea what we might face if we continue to Hawaii. What if the Americans are looking for us already? We’ve been told the timetable has been advanced—there must be a reason.”
“You may trust these North Koreans,” said Saleem, “but I do not!”
Rafiq glared at Saleem, and was about to respond when Sami argued, “Without them we would not have this chance to put glory to God! The Koreans are as committed to success as we are.”
“Are they?” countered Rafiq.
Everyone looked at him, and a hard silence fell. The question that had long perplexed them weighed like a black hole.
Boutros put it into words. “If the North Koreans want so badly to attack America with a nuclear weapon … why do they need us?”
“I have wondered the same thing,” Sami admitted. “They have given us nuclear material, a boat, and the hardware to make it all work. Why?”
His final word seemed to infuse itself in the air. Why?
The wheel turned silently left and right, the ghost that was the autopilot holding course in tireless obedience. The seas had been gentle since sunrise, and the air was warming. Only the sound of light waves slapping the bow broke the stillness.
“I think I might know,” Rafiq said.
They all looked at him.
“This second delivery of highly enriched uranium, the back of our so-called gun weapon—it will be different.”
“Different how?” Boutros asked.
“The technician who told me how to assemble the weapon mentioned something. His English was poor, but he said that ‘material from others’ had been prepared. It would be perfectly machined and ready to load. Yet something about the way he spoke of it seemed strange. I asked him where this second batch had come from. He seemed surprised by the question, and told me it had been acquired from five other countries. He mentioned Pakistan and Ghana … also Belgium, I think.”
“Other countries?” Boutros repeated. “But why?”
“I am not a physicist, so it is only speculation … but I think it has to do with attribution.”
“Attribution?” Sami repeated.
“The established nuclear powers, in particular France, Russia, and the Americans, keep an extensive library of the world’s nuclear stockpiles. Every batch of weapons-grade uranium and plutonium created leaves traces in the atmosphere, in the soil and water around production facilities. And each has a unique signature. When a nuclear device detonates, identifiable traces are left behind.”
Boutros nodded, seeing the connection. “So when our weapon goes off, and the Americans try to determine who is responsible…”
“There can be no answer,” Rafiq finished. “North Korea will be a suspect, but no more so than Ghana or Pakistan. It gives a measure of deniability.”
“How did they get this other uranium?” asked Sami.
“I have no idea. It seems likely they’ve stolen it, yet that could be hard to prove. And the North Koreans could say they too were a victim of theft.”
“By using us to deliver this device,” Sami added, “their excuse is complete. The caliphate will be eager to claim responsibility.”
Rafiq nodded. “The Koreans get to use their weapon with impunity, exposing America’s weakness.”
Saleem said, “What does it matter? We will have what we want, glory be to the Prophet!” He quickly added, “Don’t you see? If this is true, we owe nothing to the Koreans. They are only exploiting us for their own purposes. I say we attack Pearl Harbor, no matter what orders they give!”
“No!” argued Rafiq. “We don’t know everything—there has to be a reason for the change!”
The two exchanged a hard look.
All eyes ended up on Boutros. He considered everything in the new light, then shook his head decisively. “No. The North Koreans want success as much as we do. They would not divert us without reason. It will take another three days at sea to reach Hawaii. Based on this message, I don’t think we have that much time. And in the end, what does it matter? We can still bring a great victory.”
“The secondary target will be only half a victory,” Saleem argued.
“More than that,” said Boutros. “The symbolism of the secondary target is nearly as great as Pearl Harbor. It will also be virtually undefended.” Saleem began to say something, but Boutros cut him off. “That is my decision! We are going to strike the secondary!” He leveled his gaze squarely on Saleem, who scowled but nodded his assent.
“It’s settled then,” Boutros said. “I will take the helm. We can push the boat hard, gain a few more hours.”
“When will that put us at the rendezvous?” Rafiq asked.
Boutros went to the chart table and ran a rough estimate. “If all goes well … we will take the delivery late tomorrow. At that point, we will have everything we need.”
SIXTY
The “delivery” Boutros was referring to was, at that moment, touching down on the half-mile-long runway at Rongelap Airport in the Marshall Islands. The Colt bounced once before settling, the aircraft still ponderous despite her low fuel state. The captain taxied toward the terminal, which turned out to be a coral-block shack the size of a two-car garage.
No one came to meet the aircraft, which wasn’t unexpected. The captain shut down the engine, got out and stretched, and began searching the tarmac. Near one edge he saw a pair of worn wooden blocks connected by a piece of rope. He retrieved them and chocked the airplane’s left wheel front and back, although it hardly seemed necessary—the island was
as flat as a duck pond. He instructed his copilot to prepare for refueling, then set out toward a tiny cluster of buildings a few hundred yards away—what was probably referred to locally as “town.”
The captain had done his homework.
Situated among the western atolls of the Marshall Islands, the landing strip at Rongelap received only a handful of flights each week. Virtually all brought in supplies for the island’s twenty-two residents. The bulk of this was food staples, since, for the last seventy years, nothing grown on the island itself could be safely consumed. For three generations, life on Rongelap had been governed by a unique series of events—and so it would remain for another thousand years.
The most egregious of these incidents had been code-named Castle Bravo.
Transpiring in March 1954, Castle Bravo was the largest nuclear test ever undertaken by the United States. Problematically, it was never intended to be. In truth, Castle Bravo was perhaps the greatest scientific miscalculation in history. Planned for a yield of 6.5 megatons, the bomb’s experimental lithium deuteride boost proved disconcertingly effective, driving the yield to an unexpected 15 megatons—two and a half times the predicted energy.
In the blast’s immediate aftermath, concerned physicists worked their slide rules feverishly, desperate to estimate the scope of their error. The resulting cloud of radiation, they quickly realized, would fast blanket islands for hundreds of miles to the east. Unplanned evacuations were hastily ordered, and military personnel were instructed to remain inside bunkers. Ships downwind were diverted away from the fallout. It was all quite reactionary, and of limited effectiveness: traces from the mushroom cloud climbed into the stratosphere and would in time circle the earth. The resulting international outrage led to stern limits on subsequent testing.
It was therefore with no small degree of irony that when General Park planned his delivery of a cache of weapons-grade uranium, he viewed the remote atolls of the Marshall Islands as a fitting waypoint. Rongelap maintained an operational airport, had fuel available—albeit at a ruinous price—and was ideally situated as a final stepping-off point to the rendezvous with Albatross.