First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  “So you can’t be more specific as to the type of threat? Or where it might occur? Or the scale of the disaster, should it happen?”

  Melanie was pushing at the bounds of what was prudent, exploiting her own knowledge of the situation.

  “No, Miss Drake; I’m afraid I can’t.”

  For the first time the President began to look uncomfortable.

  Melanie took a deep yogic breath.

  “So the fact the Vice President and the Secretary of Defence are both housed in nuclear shelters has no significance?”

  This was an unscripted question. The word “nuclear” was taboo. But it seemed like the natural thing to ask in light of what had gone before.

  The President glanced at his Press Secretary who was sitting out of camera shot. There might have been the faintest hint of a smile but there was a distinct hesitation before the President answered.

  “No significance. None at all. As I said, they’re both working to my explicit instructions. They have no discretion in the matter whatsoever.”

  Melanie was emboldened by his response.

  “Mr President, one final question. Can you specifically state that the assault you are expecting is not a nuclear attack?”

  Melanie sensed the Press Secretary’s sharp intake of breath. She had gone too far. This would end up on the cutting room floor. They would have to shoot a re-take.

  But the President kept his poise.

  “I can confirm I have no intelligence whatsoever to suggest a nuclear attack. If any such intelligence did exist, you can rest assured Secretary Herzfeld would have brought it to my attention. As I’ve said before, Secretary Herzfeld has my complete confidence. The American people can rely on his good judgement.”

  The camera stopped rolling. The Press Secretary was on her feet.

  “That’s it. Cut.”

  She glared across at Melanie.

  “You’re out of line. The word “nuclear” was forbidden. You knew that. We’ll have to do a complete re-take.”

  “It’s OK. It’s OK,” The President interjected. “Let’s just run the tape and assess the damage. It’ll only take a few minutes. We can always re-shoot if we have to.”

  He turned to the cameraman, looking at his watch.

  “Do you mind waiting outside while we discuss this?”

  The President resumed his seat and watched the tape in silence.

  Then he turned to his Press Secretary and said,

  “It’s fine. Let it go the way it is. Except there’s one brief moment when I lose eye contact with Miss Drake and smile inappropriately. Cut that footage out. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it doesn’t look right. Otherwise I’m happy.”

  The President had achieved the only thing he wanted - to position Herzfeld to take the fall if things went disastrously wrong. He stood up, shook hands with Melanie and left the room, surrounded by his Secret Service guards.

  ***

  47

  In Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore Bowman, Ambrose, Hoolahan and Jennings watched the interview on television. Agent Moreno slept late after the night shift at Social Security.

  “Hey,” Ambrose punched Bowman playfully on the shoulder. “That your girlfriend?”

  “She’s a girl and she’s a friend.” Bowman looked over his shoulder towards the room where Cal was sleeping. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “She done good,” Ambrose beamed.

  “She sure did,” Jennings confirmed. “Made the President look great and painted that bastard Herzfeld right into a corner, hunkered down in his nice safe nuclear bunker underneath the Pentagon while the President and the rest of us stay above ground with our families.”

  “I don’t give much for our chances,” said Bowman. “Not with Herzfeld controlling all the assets. He’ll be in contact with O’Brien by now. They’ll have worked out a plan.”

  “The President still has the Secret Service,” said Jennings. “They’ll always stay loyal to him. They won’t take any orders from the military.”

  Cal Moreno breezed into the room, dressed in her usual tee shirt and chinos but no shoes. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She sat on the couch between Hoolahan and Jennings, directly opposite Bowman.

  “So how’d the President do?”

  “He did great.” Jennings turned to Moreno. “Anything happen on the night shift?”

  “I have my sniffer system all set up. I’ve hacked into the Pentagon mainframe. Herzfeld’s home and private office are covered. But so far nothing. They must have imposed radio silence. Can’t say I blame them. They’ll expect us to monitor the airwaves.” Cal stretched and yawned. “The most exciting thing I’ve picked up so far is a load of garbage about some black-tie function at the British Embassy that Herzfeld is supposed to attend.” She smiled at Bowman. “How come you’re not invited?”

  “Forgot to bring my tux.” Bowman looked apologetic. “Otherwise we could go together, Cal. You could wear your Pashtu.”

  “You mean my Pashmina, Alex,” Cal laughed. “Pashtu’s a language. I know that.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else?” said Jennings.

  “The Ambassador reported his limo’s been stolen,” Cal yawned.

  “Jesus!” said Bowman. “With everything that’s going on we have to worry about a stolen limo?”

  Hoolahan cleared his throat.

  “What’s the date?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Cal looked at him as if he were demented.

  “What date is the function?”

  Hoolahan coughed blood into a soiled handkerchief.

  “March 17. Why?”

  Cal remembered the date exactly, it coincided with her grandma’s birthday.

  “That gives you a couple of days, Alex; you’ve got time to rent a tux.”

  Hoolahan looked across at Bowman.

  “And since when did the Brits start to celebrate Saint Paddy’s Day?”

  “Saint Patrick’s Day?” said Jennings. “Jesus. I can see that. But why the British Embassy? Not much symbolism in that.”

  “There is for Declan O’Brien,” said Bowman.

  It took just one phone call to establish all social functions at the British Embassy had been cancelled until further notice. Bowman was confident his job was almost done. With the date and precise location of the attack now pinned down beyond doubt there was no way they could fail to prevent it.

  Within the hour Secret Service Agents under direct instructions from the White House had taken up positions surrounding the British Embassy and its approaches. No one considered the question of jurisdiction or thought to brief the Ambassador. There simply wasn’t time. Brightman was completely out of the loop. All exits and entrances were covered. Snipers were positioned on nearby rooftops. NEST teams searched every corner of the grounds and buildings. Nothing and nobody moved in or out of the Embassy without being intercepted and examined.

  Shortly after 5p.m. Bowman, Hoolahan and Moreno were admitted to the Embassy past the Secret Service security check. Jennings and Ambrose remained at FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue as backup, in case things went disastrously wrong. Hoolahan carried a battered metal case with the insignia of the 202nd Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company emblazoned on its lid. He was sweating and when he breathed he wheezed. They made straight for the communications room in the basement reserved for Bowman’s use. There was nothing to do now but wait. Bowman did a tour of the grounds and buildings, searching for some loophole in the Secret Service’s defences. He found none. They had every angle covered. Bowman just didn’t see how the bomb could be delivered without him spotting it. On his way back through the lobby he bumped into Ambassador Brightman.

  “Would you kindly tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Brightman snapped. There was still no news yet of his stolen limo.

  Bowman brushed past him and headed for the basement stairs. He found Hoolahan checking the contents of his toolbox.

  “H
ow confident are you, Pat?”

  Bowman placed an encouraging hand on Agent Hoolahan’s shoulder.

  “I haven’t done anything like this since ‘Nam,”

  Hoolahan coughed nervously.

  “And I’ve never even seen a nuclear device. Thing’s bound to be booby-trapped and I’m way behind with the technology. Everything’s gone digital now.”

  He wiped the sweat from his face and hands with his handkerchief and began coughing violently.

  “Maybe we should use a robot. Trouble is, I don’t know how to drive one. Sure wish I had some drawings.”

  “Drawings?” Moreno was on her feet. “Bet I can get you drawings. Bound to be a fax machine around here some place.”

  She ran along the corridor and disappeared back up to the ground floor. It was almost an hour before she returned, triumphantly brandishing a sheaf of fax paper.

  “You wanted drawings? I got you drawings!”

  “Where the…?” Bowman looked at her in amazement.

  “You’re a smart man, Mr Bond,” Moreno grinned. “It’s just that I’m quicker than you are. I called the Sheriff’s office in Warm Springs Ridge. Had them do a search of Murphy’s place. They came up with his working drawings.”

  Cal slumped into a chair and closed her eyes so Bowman wouldn’t recognise she was already on a high.

  ***

  48

  Five floors below the Pentagon, in the air-conditioned situation room at the hub of the nuclear bunker, Herzfeld and Preston met to re-assess the damage of the President’s two broadcasts, his address to the nation and the televised interview with the British bitch.

  The extensive suite of rooms could accommodate a hundred men in luxury. The food supply could last a year, more if they were careful. Limitless fresh water was available through boreholes that pierced the bedrock beneath the water table of the Potomac that would be contaminated by a nuclear attack. There was a gym, a poolroom and a cinema. The greatest threat to the inmates was boredom and the scarcity of sexual partners. The situation room was linked by satellite to capitals across the world and by landline to the underground facility in Nebraska where the President should be but wasn’t. A bank of plasma screens covering one entire wall scanned the eerie streets of the deserted capital. Nothing out there moved. It looked like nuclear contamination had already taken hold.

  “That bastard Santos made me look like a fucking coward.”

  Herzfeld thumped the table with his fist.

  “Why not call his bluff, sir? Move about above ground. Be seen on TV talking to the troops.”

  Preston wasn’t hopeful. The Secretary of Defence had not seen active service. Never even donned a uniform.

  “Let me think about that,” was the best Herzfeld could manage. “Where are we with the Dirty Bomb?”

  “It’s still at the warehouse in Fells Point. It’s probably armed by now. O’Brien’s already delivered the detonator and the explosive.”

  “Does this guy O’Brien know of our interest?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So how the fuck do we facilitate delivery?”

  “We have units posted all around the warehouse, sir. Hand-picked men. O’Brien doesn’t know it but the bomb will be escorted into Washington, so it gets past the security cordon. We’ll have armed personnel carriers front and back of their vehicle. Once we get them inside the barricade the rest is up to them. But that part should be easy.”

  ***

  On Tuesday March 17 Saint Patrick’s Day parades across the States were cancelled or abandoned. In Ireland celebrations were muted. Declan O’Brien stood on the mezzanine at the warehouse peering through a small window in the reinforced steel door, sheltered from any risk of radiation leakage He watched the martyrs load the device into the trunk of the vehicle. Stripped of its lead cladding the device was not much bigger than a suitcase and, from the way they handled it, weighed no more than fifty pounds.

  With so much chaos on the roads no one would be looking for a stolen car, not even an Embassy limo, a humorous touch Declan was rather proud of. Jamal gave his final instructions in Arabic and embraced the four young heroes. There were tears in their eyes. The tears of pride. They were about to lay down their lives for the Faith. Their place in heaven was assured. As the limo edged out through the gates Jamal gave a military salute and returned to his office to pray. O’Brien waved. Four hours from now he would be far away in New York City, watching the action on TV.

  On the third floor of the building opposite the warehouse entrance an army sergeant spoke into his two-way radio,

  “They’re on the move.”

  The long black limo climbed away from the docks, travelling at a sedate hearse-like speed. The Ambassador’s Union Jack pennant fluttered from a chrome mast fixed above the left front mudguard. Traffic was light. Nobody was out of doors unless they had to be. It took twelve minutes to reach the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The limo proceeded south at a steady legal 50mph. North bound traffic on the opposite carriageway was heavy but disciplined as Washingtonians with any sense fled the doomed city. A succession of military vehicles travelling south at breakneck speed overtook the slow-moving vehicle with its diplomatic plates and fluttering pennant. Then an armed personnel carrier pulled into the slow lane and took up a position in front of the limo. One of the martyrs looked out of the rear window and saw another like it, following at a discreet distance.

  “We’ve got company,” he said to his companions as they readied their SMGs behind the darkened glass. Then a third personnel carrier appeared alongside the limo, trapping it in the slow lane.

  “Is that thing primed?” the driver spoke over his shoulder and gestured towards the trunk.

  “Sure is,” said one of the martyrs. “All I have to do is throw this little switch.”

  His sweaty hand hovered over the simple firing mechanism.

  “If we get stopped, just do it.” said the driver. “Allahu Akbar.”

  “Allahu Akbar.”

  By now they were well inside the Beltway, moving south at a steady legal 50mph. The lead personnel carrier exited the Parkway onto the John Hanson Highway. The boxed-in limo had no choice but to follow. The little convoy hit an army roadblock at the junction with South Dakota Avenue. The three armed personnel carriers surrounding the limo came to a halt, forcing the martyrs to do the same. The sweaty hand hovered.

  Colonel Preston jumped briskly down from the lead vehicle. He was in full dress uniform and made sure the young sergeant got a good look at his badge of rank and the insignia of the Distinguished Service Cross pinned on his chest. The sergeant saluted and clicked his heels, awaiting an instruction. Preston pulled out a bunch of authorisation papers under the seal of the Department of Defence but the sergeant barely even glanced at them.

  “We’re escorting the British Ambassador in the limo, sergeant,” said Preston with authority. “As you know, they’re our closest ally. No country’s been more supportive. I’d be glad if you would extend the Ambassador every possible courtesy.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted again and waved the convoy through the barrier.

  The martyrs looked at one another and shrugged in disbelief as the three armed personnel carriers peeled away and disappeared.

  “Allahu Akbar,” they repeated. “Allahu Akbar.”

  ***

  The limo made its way slowly into the centre of the capital. Inside the security cordon Washington was abandoned. In spite of the President’s example hundreds of thousands of its citizens had fled town. Most foreigners had gone days ago. A majority of countries, led by France, had recalled their diplomatic staff as rumours of a nuclear attack persisted. The limo rounded Capitol Hill, turned left into Massachusetts Avenue, cruised past a deserted Union Station and headed away from the centre, out towards the British Embassy at the top of the distant rise. But at Dupont Circle it made a sudden turn onto New Hampshire Avenue and disappeared down the ramp into the basement of the Embassy of Saudi Arabia.

&nb
sp; “I thought we were headed for the British Embassy?” said one of the martyrs.

  “Jamal changed his mind,” said the driver. “This place is a lot more central, just a few blocks from the White House. And for us it’s more symbolic. Anyway what difference does it make, the whole city is a write-off. Besides, the Brits are still in post while this place is deserted. The Saudis aren’t crazy, they left town days ago. But those gallant Brits are still manning their desks. What’s the point of penetrating their security cordon just to please the Irishman, when this place is abandoned? Let’s face it; O’Brien is never going to know the difference.”

  ***

  49

  By mid-afternoon the British Embassy was practically deserted aside from a few key staff. Bowman had insisted on sending everybody home. Ambassador Brightman refused to leave his post and obstinately remained in his office gallantly manning the phones. Intermittently throughout the day he fielded phone calls from the Pentagon, updating them on progress. Each time he reported the same lack of activity. There was no sign of the Dirty Bomb. He refused to acknowledge his Embassy could be a target when so many other iconic buildings were available and began to think the whole thing was a hoax, or another cock-up by those misinformed idiots at Legoland. Out of courtesy he agreed to call the Colonel immediately anything noteworthy happened. But nothing did.

  Bowman, Hoolahan and Moreno remained on site not knowing what to do. To fill the time Special Agent Hoolahan pored over the drawings, committing every wire and fastening and switch to memory. He was puzzled by the timer. There seemed to be erasures that indicated Murphy might have made last minute alterations to someone else’s original design. Hoolahan had difficulty deciphering exactly what the quarryman had done. As the hours progressed Hoolahan’s cough got steadily worse. Bowman wondered just how confident Special Agent Hoolahan really was. Cal Moreno kept busy monitoring the secure link she’d set up to the Oval Office and Jennings at the Hoover Building. NEST teams re-commenced their search of the Embassy, knowing there was nothing to be found. Yet another detail of Secret Service agents patrolled the grounds and the approaches. Snipers on rooftops overlooking the Embassy struggled to remain alert. By 6 p.m. Bowman began to wonder if they had got the whole thing wrong, made one assumption too many. He called Jennings at the Hoover Building on the secure phone line.