“It’s all there,” Jeff insisted, pointing at the documents he’d assembled. “Most of it, at least. Enough.” Though he was struggling to contain himself his voice rose a bit as he said, “We need to do something.”
Carlton looked at him sharply. “Have you any idea how many threats a day are processed by the Company? Each one is given a score. If I pass this one higher up, it will receive, I’m telling you categorically, the lowest-priority score that exists.”
Jeff’s heart sank. “You can’t just sit on it,” he said in near desperation.
Carlton paused. “I’m not going to sit on it, as you put it. But we need more information or no one will act. I’m going to hold on to this for a few days. Don’t be concerned. There’s plenty of time yet. In the meanwhile, see if you can get me something with meat on the bones. But be assured that either way I’ll pass it along in time.”
Driven by a mix of frustration and fear, Jeff skipped his trip to New York City that weekend, and the one after, each time telling Cynthia that as much as he wanted to see her, he was buried by a pile of work and wouldn’t be able to relax even if he did come. With a passion born of desperation he worked eighteen hours a day, every day, pulling his two assistants from their IT assignments and instilling in them his own sense of urgency as he put them to work on the project. Accessing real-time chat rooms and other sources previously identified as Al Qaeda communication channels, what emerged was a terrorist plan on the fast track. Collecting intelligence wasn’t his job and shouldn’t be necessary: what he’d already done should have unleashed the enormous resources of the Company.
By Tuesday, September 4, after preparing a far more comprehensive presentation of what he considered to be a highly credible threat to America, Jeff went directly to Carlton’s secretary. “This is urgent. Will you see to it George gets this at once? He’s expecting it.” She’d smiled stiffly and taken the file.
He didn’t like leaving it that way, but given the nature of his relationship with his boss and the bureaucracy of the Company, his hands were tied. It wasn’t how he wanted to handle it; it was how he had to handle it if he wanted anything positive to happen.
Back in his office Jeff continued with his relentless schedule, sleeping on his couch, washing up and shaving in the restroom. Carlton e-mailed him that he’d forwarded the file to the appropriate teams, but despite his effort and long hours, nothing more of consequence emerged. Beside himself with anger and frustration, he called Cynthia in Manhattan on Friday, September 7. ARM’s offices were at the World Financial Center, just across the street from the World Trade Center.
“I need you to do something for me without my going into detail,” he said, knowing Cynthia would instantly grasp the time for questions was later. “I want you not to go into work next week. Stay home, or better yet, leave the city.” The target date might get moved a day or two, so he didn’t specify Tuesday. “Can you work from home or, better yet, visit your folks?”
“Wow. Pretty short notice.” Her voice was steady and he felt reassured she’d do as he asked.
“It’s not just important. It’s vital.”
“Vital, huh?” From the beginning Cynthia had been impressed with Jeff’s serious and sober nature. Only when she finally grasped the full extent of it had she seriously begun to consider him for a husband. Her confidence in him and his judgment had continued to grow as they’d dated. “As in ‘life and death’?”
“You could say that.” Jeff fought off the sudden urge to tell her everything. He’d kept it inside for so long he was about to burst. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t so much that he was worried that he was wrong, but scared of the panic he could set off. She had to act on his warning and he was considering what he’d do next if she didn’t, but his serious answer seemed to sober her. “Okay. I’ll visit my folks. Won’t they be surprised?”
Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you. Make it all week, please. I want your promise that you’re leaving the city tomorrow morning. And no matter what, you won’t go to work next week.”
“Okay, I promise. Cross my heart, hope to die.” Cynthia was perplexed by the entire exchange. Was there a threat he couldn’t mention? Clearly that was his message. It couldn’t have been at her personally or he’d have said so. Given what he did for a living, that meant the threat was of a broader nature. The only thing that came to mind was a terrorist attack. Jeff was in a position to know about such things. And she also knew, from what little he’d told her over their time together, that most threats came to nothing. She had confidence in her country. Jeff was just being cautious and she loved him all the more for it. The worst part was, she could say nothing to her coworkers, not without getting Jeff fired or even indicted.
Jeff was a sober man, not given to extremes. If he told her that she needed to leave town, she was prepared to take his word for it. She considered her alternatives. None were appealing. She wasn’t about to drive to Albany and check into a motel for the week. Still, she’d promised, and a promise made was one to be kept. She decided to work from her home all week and arranged to have what she needed brought to her, claiming she was deathly ill and highly contagious.
Shortly after speaking with her, Jeff made a mental note to call Cynthia on Sunday, then attempted to meet with Carlton again, but was told he had no opening until the following week. Frantically, Jeff took to prowling the hallways near Carlton’s office and intercepted him on his way to a meeting. “Do you have any word yet on my report?” Jeff asked, keeping pace with his superior.
“Yes,” Carlton said, giving him a pointed look. “They’re giving it due consideration.”
“There’s more information that seems to nail next Tuesday down as a date and confirms a number of the targets including the Capitol, the White House, and the Pentagon.”
“I told you, I passed it along.” Carlton all but rolled his eyes. “Now I’ve got a meeting, Jeff. It’s been taken care of. Move on. You know these Arabs. They couldn’t organize a conga line.” With that, Carlton ducked into a conference room.
Jeff knew it was pointless going over Carlton’s head but he tried anyway. He knew he was making enemies, understood that he was effectively ending his government career, but he didn’t care. This was too important.
When everyone of consequence had gone home on Friday, he was left with nothing else to do but continue working throughout the weekend and into Monday with his team. Following a thirty-six-hour stretch, vainly searching for another bit of concrete proof, totally consumed by his work, Jeff lost track of time and never called Cynthia.
* * *
And so it went uneventfully all day Monday when, out of the blue, one of Cynthia’s college roommates called and suggested breakfast at Windows on the World at the World Trade Center the next morning. She knew Cynthia was about to become engaged and wanted to hear all the details. Cynthia left her apartment that morning to meet her, excited at the prospect of sharing her private hopes and dreams with the woman who had once been her best friend.
In Langley, Jeff was distracted by his cell phone, which rang, rang, rang. Digging around in his clothing, he pressed a button.
“Something terrible’s happened.” Cynthia’s voice was strained, as if she was about to cry. “I stayed home, like I promised. I did. Then Karen came to town and we went to breakfast then … then…”
In the background Jeff could hear pandemonium. “Where are you?”
“Windows on the World, the restaurant at the top of one of the Towers.”
For a moment Jeff heard and felt nothing. His body turned numb. When her voice returned, it was from far away.
“… felt something a little bit ago. The whole building just shuddered, and I thought we were going to fall over.” Her voice was quivering. He could tell she was struggling for control.
“Get out, Cynthia. Get out now!”
“I already tried!” Now she sounded panicked. “Everyone says a plane hit us! I can’t get out, Jeff. Th
ere’s fire all below us. There’s no way out. No way. I’m really scared.” She paused. When she resumed, her voice was strangely calm. “I called to tell you that I love you, just in case.”
“Go to the roof!” Jeff insisted. “They’ll bring helicopters to evacuate you.” He gripped the telephone fiercely in his sweaty hand, trying with his voice to will her into action.
“It’s jammed up there. You can’t get on top. We tried earlier.” Her voice was desperate. “Oh, Jeff. This is what you mea—”
They were cut off. Jeff tried to call back, but her cell phone had no service. He snapped on the television set in his office and saw the burning Towers. His team crept in a few minutes later. “We didn’t want to disturb you. You’d know soon enough,” one said.
The other stared at the screen, transfixed. “Nobody listened to us.”
Jeff kept calling Cynthia without connecting. The three were watching as each Tower in turn fell in a great white, billowing cloud of pulverized concrete. There had been no helicopter evacuation.
Jeff sat motionless. The cell phone snapped in his hand, the battery flying out and clattering onto the floor. His rage was almost more than he could stand. He wanted to kill Carlton and, in a flash, saw himself killing the director and all of senior CIA management too.
He shot to his feet and glared at his team, wanting with all his power to strike at them, as if they were the cause. Managing to control himself, he slumped back into his seat, the rage turning on himself, for not calling Cynthia, for not saving her, for not doing enough to save anyone. He should have made someone pay attention.
His assistant was right. No one had listened.
14
EAST CHINA SEA
TEN MILES OUT FROM NAGASAKI, JAPAN
TUESDAY, AUGUST 15
1:03 P.M.
Captain Vandana Shiva lifted the binoculars to see if he could spot the offshore facility at Nagasaki as yet. He knew it was early, but he never entirely trusted computers and the Global Positioning System on which they relied. He’d begun his forty-one-year career as a seaman aboard a traditional Indian dhoni. In his mind that had been real seamanship, just the crew and the small boat against the ocean and wind. It had required skill and courage, and it was nothing like what he did now.
An uncle had liked the young Shiva and, lacking a son, financed his education. He’d done well and subsequently risen steadily in the merchant service until reaching the culmination of his career three years earlier when he’d been given command of The Illustrious Goddess, the largest supertanker ever built.
With a crude-oil cargo capacity of six hundred thousand DWT, or deadweight tongue, there had never been a ship of this size in history. More than a quarter of a mile long and nearly the width of a football field, it plied the oceans at a respectable eighteen knots. Because it drew more than twenty-six feet, few harbors in the world could accommodate the vessel, so it nearly always docked at an offshore oil facility where its enormous load of 4.5 million barrels was pumped by undersea pipe to an onshore storage facility and refining plant. This single ship contained enough energy to support a small city for one year.
Managed with a spare crew of just forty Filipino seamen, The Illustrious Goddess was only possible because of computers and modern technology. Both were needed to design and build her, both were essential to allow her to operate at sea. The ship had been controversial from the start, but her Hong Kong owner had insisted that she be the largest supertanker ever built. So huge was the vessel that it could not steam in the English Channel nor could it pass through either the Suez or Panama canals. But she was entirely suited to load her cargo off the coast of Saudi Arabia at Ras Tanura, the largest such offshore oil facility in the world, then make the passage to Japan and back, at great profit to her owner.
A ship of this size had had problems from the first. Initially she’d had an unplanned vibration that was finally identified as coming from improperly designed gears. At some expense that had been repaired. Then there’d been problems with the sides of the vessel when the ship wasn’t fully loaded. They’d found it essential to maintain a proper balance of crude oil and sea pressure to prevent dangerous cracks from appearing in the structure. Next came a problem with navigation. So immense was the vessel that it had been necessary to include the earth’s rotation when calculating its route.
The primary problem, though, had been control. She was pushed through the seas with just a single enormous screw, also the largest ever built. On most major ships two screws were considered essential to allow the ship to be properly steered and stopped in an emergency. But for reasons of cost, this ship was fitted with just one. During test trials it had proven extremely difficult to turn the ship from its course once it was at speed. Even worse, at slow speeds it couldn’t be turned at all. Nor could tugboats budge the ship when it was fully loaded.
On top of that, the ship just wouldn’t stop.
That was an exaggeration cited by critics of the owner for pushing the envelope to this extent, but in truth the ship was hard to stop indeed. Even with the propeller in full reverse, with the ship’s inertia it took twenty minutes and many miles to bring it to a halt.
All of this caused Shiva great concern. It meant every move of the ship had to be carefully scripted. It meant always thinking far ahead. It meant that smaller vessels had to get out of its course because he had no way to keep the ship from striking them. He was certain that The Illustrious Goddess had sunk small fishing vessels more than once when steaming near a coastline.
To perform his duty meant depending entirely on the computers to get it right. No expense had been spared in creating the finest software system a British company could design.
It also meant worrying all the time, which was why he was scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the Nagasaki offshore facility. The engines should go to “dead slow” any minute as The Illustrious Goddess began to reduce speed for the docking, but the ship had to be maneuvered into exact position before he lost much headway. Once the vessel slowed to a crawl, he wouldn’t be able to dock her if she wasn’t properly aligned.
But what bothered Shiva most of all was that technically even major storms were supposed to be of little concern as the loaded ship unnaturally rode the heaviest waves with scarcely any effect. To Shiva, that was wrong. The sea was the master, always. A ship of this size was arrogance; it showed a contempt for the ocean, and from that could only come a great harm.
“Sonny,” Shiva said. “Do you have it on radar?”
Sonny Olivera glanced up. “Yes, Captain. I’ve got it.”
“Well, I don’t. There’s a haze blocking it from view. Renato, shouldn’t the engines be at dead slow?”
The helmsman, Renato Arroyo, scanned the dials. “I think so, Captain. Any second now.”
Three minutes passed with no change. “This is cutting it close,” Shiva said. “What does the GPS show?”
“There’s no alert, sir. All’s normal,” Olivera said.
The ship continued plowing through the choppy seas as if in the middle of the Indian Ocean. “This isn’t right,” Shiva said finally, his seaman’s instincts telling him something was wrong. “We should be slowing by now. How far are we out?”
“Fifteen clicks, sir,” Olivera answered, his voice no longer unconcerned.
Shiva considered the situation. The engines should have gone to reduced speed at eighteen kilometers. “Check the computers.”
After a moment: “Normal readings, sir.”
Shiva began to sweat. They were well overdue to reduce speed. Aimed straight at Nagasaki harbor and land, they were going at eighteen knots. But if he went to manual, could he pull this off? He could slow the ship, but he doubted very much he could make the turn and bring it to a halt within the prescribed circle for the offshore facility to do its job. He’d never done it before and was certain he couldn’t do it without a computer. But what choice did he have?
“Take the computer off-line. We’re going manual. Helmsman, d
ead slow.”
“Yes, sir,” Olivera answered, glancing nervously at his captain.
Shiva felt no change in the ship. “Sonny? Are we manual yet? Hurry!”
“Captain, the computer is locked.” Olivera looked up in a panic. “It won’t take a command!”
“Try again.”
“No change, sir.” Olivera’s voice rose. “It won’t accept a command!”
Shiva could see the offshore facility now, shimmering in the distance. Behind it was the mainland and the city itself. He began to sweat profusely. If he turned off the computer, he wasn’t certain he could command the ship. Even on manual the commands were sent electronically. Nothing was connected directly by wire or cable as in the old days. There was an override system, he knew, but he’d never used it before.
“Captain?” Arroyo’s voice was urgent.
Being in command meant Shiva had to command. That was the single truth he’d been taught over the years. Right or wrong, the captain gave orders. “Turn off the computer.”
“Sir?” Olivera said in disbelief.
“Hurry! Turn it off. We have to go manual.”
A moment later Sonny said, “It’s off. It wouldn’t take the shut-down command, so I had to kill the power.”
“Dead stop, Renato,” Shiva ordered.
“Dead stop, sir.” Arroyo took the control in his sweaty palm and rang the command.
The engines continued throbbing unchanged.
“Do it again,” Shiva ordered, fighting to remain calm. The offshore facility was looming far too close on the horizon.
Arroyo sent the order again. Nothing.
“How far are we out?” Shiva asked, willing himself to remain calm. The captain must never panic.
“GPS is down with the computer off, sir,” Olivera answered.
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