***
“Bennie, is that a friggin’ bruise on your face?” asked Maggie.
“I had an interesting morning, Maggie, quite an interesting morning.”
I hate when people play coy with me and only hint at stories, so I told Maggie all about our morning shootout. I'm not sure she had a “need to know,” but she has Top Secret clearance and I thought she should be aware of what was going on. As one of the country's top experts on the Middle East, maybe she can help me figure out these nut job al Qaeda types.
“So, besides acting like a middle aged cowboy, how is the bomb hunt going Bennie?”
“You know, Mag, I realize you've got Top Secret clearance and all that, but that part of the operation is at a sensitive stage so I don't think I should go there. Let's just say we're working on it. Your boss Buster is in charge of the mission, and that fact alone gives me confidence. Let's just leave it at that.”
Maggie's a pro. She got it immediately and took no offense. Thank God for that. The last person I'd want to offend was this pretty redhead.
“Maggie, help me to understand something. I'm as well-read as the next guy, but I'm having the damnedest time understanding what these radical Islamists are up to. This morning I was involved in a gun battle with 12 guys who wanted nothing more than to kill us. Sure we killed them, but that wasn't our objective. We were there to free a kidnapped man, which we did, Thank God. But all they want to do is kill us, as well as a few million other people in a few weeks. Help me understand this Maggie. You're the expert.”
“Bennie, I've been studying the Middle East for most of my adult life. Yeah, they call me an expert, and I get to play the maven on occasional Sunday morning talk shows. But just like this crazy time travel stuff you people seem so fond of, I remain stumped by most of what's been going on for the past few centuries. I can tell you that the Shiites and Sunni Muslims have been at each other's throats since the Seventh Century. They're still fighting over who is the rightful heir to the Prophet Mohammed. That's right, to this day, 1,400 years later, they're still killing one another over that issue. And when they're not slaughtering each other, they train their sights on us, the Infidels, especially us Jews. I understand it, I teach it, I've written books about it, but I still don't get it. The change, if it ever happens, will come from within, from some leader who steps forward and blows the whistle and announces that it's time to move on. But that guy is not on the horizon. Meanwhile, we all try to keep it together and stop our civilization from being destroyed.”
Maggie gave me a wan smile and squeezed my hand.
“Does that clear it all up, Ben?”
“Why don't we find a more pleasant subject to talk about,” I said. “How about you and me?”
Unlike me, Professor Maggie does not suffer from introversion. She stood up, walked quickly around the table, and planted a deep kiss on my lips.
I think Mom will love this lady
Chapter 69
Jack Thurber here.
30 minutes ago I was at work. Now I'm walking into the office of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Everybody calls me a time traveler. Whenever I deal with Buster I find that time just takes on another dimension. Buster, I think, is a human wormhole.
I sat down next to Buster in front of Carlini's desk. I'm looking for a good way to describe the look on both of their faces. I think “bedraggled” fits the bill.
“Jack,” said Carlini, “I'm renewing your charter membership in The Thanksgiving Gang. To understate the obvious, things are heating up.”
“I realize that,” I said. “I spoke to Ashley this morning. She told me she sank three ships yesterday, not something she does on a typical weekday.” I was trying to introduce a bit of levity to ease the tension.
They didn't think I was funny.
“Here's the bottom line, Jack. I received a call from the White House, from the President himself. Our country is going through a series of events that we've never seen before, a series of crises that we only know about because of a guy we all call the Time Magnet. That of course would be you, my friend. The President wants all of this chronicled for the history books. He said he can't think of a better man for the job than you, and I agree with him. You not only have this proclivity for tripping through wormholes, you're also a Pulitzer Prize winner and one of the best journalists in the business.”
“Will I still keep my status as a provisional deputy CIA agent?”
“Yes, you will,” said Buster. “I know you think that's a conflict of interest, but strange times call for strange procedures. Everything you write, because of your imbedded status and a Top Secret clearance, will be vetted by the CIA. I know you hate that idea, but national security demands it. We want you to be completely candid in your writing, and only sensitive active intelligence information will be redacted. In your opening paragraphs you'll disclose your status with the CIA. Let future historians sort that stuff out. We don't doubt that the chronicles you prepare will eventually turn into a book. That's fine, and actually that's what the President wants. The book will bear your copyright and all advances and royalties will be yours. You're a wealthy man who will soon become a lot wealthier. Any questions, Jack?”
“I can't turn this down,” I said. “I don't like the idea of agreeing up front to giving the CIA the first right of review, but I understand. These are strange and different times. I have to say I'm flattered.”
“Jack,” said Carlini, “I flatter Buster over here all the time, for one reason. He deserves it. And so do you. So let's give history something to sink its teeth into. Maybe some future historian, working with your book as a starting place, can figure all this shit out. I sure as hell can't.”
“That makes two of us, Mr. Director.”
“Make it three,” said Buster.
Chapter 70
I'm sitting next to Frank's bed in the hospital. Buster allowed me to leave Agency Headquarters on the condition that I wear a disguise. I took off my burqa after I entered the room. Frank is fast asleep, which is okay with me. I'm content just to sit here and hold his hand, my brain drenched in the happy thought that he's alive.
It's been just over 48 hours since the gunfight and Frank's rescue from the al Qaeda safe house. Although he’s still extremely bruised, his facial swelling, or edema as Bennie put it, has gone down.
He began to wake up. He looked at me and squeezed my hand. With my knack for focusing on irrelevant things, I commented that the coffee burn on the back of his hand looked a lot better.
Frank laughed, then held out his hand and winced, as if to say, “Please, do not make me laugh.”
Frank's jaw was still wired shut, but, because his lip swelling had gone down, he was able to form words, even though he had to speak through clenched teeth.
“I've never loved anyone as much as I love you, Honey,” Frank said, sounding like Al Pacino in The Godfather in the scene after his jaw was broken.
I kissed him on his forehead.
“I love you too, more than you'll ever know,” I said.
“Well, I think I have a pretty good idea,” Frank said slowly. “I knew you loved me, but when you risked your life to save mine, I believe that qualifies as true love.”
I wanted to hug him, but he'd need anesthesia for me to do that, so I just kept stroking his hand, the one without the coffee burn.
“I followed your orders, Admiral Frankie. I showed up at the safe house without anger, hatred, or fear. I was heavily armed, but I kept my emotions to myself and focused on the mission.”
“And you put a bullet through a small target from a distance of 30 yards,” said Frank. “When I feel better I want you to take me out skeet shooting. You can teach me a thing or two.”
Dolores, the nurse put her head in the door.
“Dr. Carleton says the Admiral need as much rest as possible, Janice.”
“No problem, Dolores, I'm leaving shortly.”
“So, Frank, you're not going to sea anytime soon, I gues
s.”
“No, they've already appointed my old friend Bill Schweitzer to head the Strike Group. I can't very well give commands through clenched teeth.”
“The important thing is that you get better. I can't wait to be with you. I think I'll slip into a sexy little thing like my quadruple size United States Naval Academy bathrobe.”
Frank started laughing, again putting his hand out to ask me to stop. I can't believe I'm inflicting pain on the man I love with my dumb jokes.
Chapter 71
Among the dangerous tasks a Navy SEAL learns, securing a building is one of them. At 9 PM on November 4, a team of 12 SEALs were dropped off behind a building on Bleecker Street in the Greenwich Village neighborhood of Manhattan. They were accompanied by two FBI agents. Unlike Chicago, New York City does not have utility alleyways running behind buildings. New York City real estate is too expensive to allow for such conveniences. But the two buildings on either side of the Ajax Plumbing van were once factories and had small yards in back for loading and unloading deliveries. This stroke of luck would enable the SEALs to break in from the rear if they needed to. The tenant status of both buildings had already been checked out by the NYPD. There were commercial renters on the first two floors and residential tenants on the next two. Each building was only four stories in height. The only windows were on the upper two floors, the residential units. Of the eight residential tenants, only one had been occupied recently, three days before. The tenants had Middle Eastern names, which normally would not raise eyebrows. But SEALs knew, as any trained military or law enforcement professional learned, the best plan is to go for the most obvious – concentrate on the new residential tenants. The SEALs had a search warrant from the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court, enabling them to break the door down if needed.
With four SEALs at his side, FBI agent Marcus Crowley knocked on the door and yelled, “FBI, open the door immediately.”
He repeated his demand in Arabic.
No response.
Two SEALs swung a battering ram against the door which knocked it off its hinges. The five entered the apartment with guns drawn. As one SEAL entered a bedroom a shot rang out, hitting him harmlessly in his Kevlar vest, but not without inflicting a stabbing pain. The SEAL behind him opened fire, killing the shooter. They saw another occupant opening a window. Next to him was a rope ladder, apparently in place for an occasion such as this. Two SEALs wrestled the man to the floor, handcuffing him. The man screamed in Arabic.
As the SEALs secured the apartment, making sure there was no one else present, FBI agent Crowley searched the rooms. In one room alone he found six AK-47 rifles, twelve 45-caliber handguns, and 10 hand grenades.
Crowley then looked out the window. The Ajax Plumbing van was three stories beneath him, still parked in the alley.
“Great work, guys,” said Crowley. “Ours was the easy part. It's now up to the bomb disposal folks.”
Chapter 72
Detective Lieutenant James Mulrooney, the man in command of the NYPD Bomb Disposal Unit, had just been briefed by the CIA on the task before him and his team. They were to investigate a vehicle near Bleecker Street in Lower Manhattan, a burgundy van marked Ajax Plumbing Supply. Mulrooney had been through this procedure so many times it was almost second nature to him. But he always avoided complacency, a lapse in attention that could get him killed. There is never anything second nature about a booby trap.
But this briefing was different. The briefing officer told him that he was about to engage in the most dangerous assignment he ever faced in his 18 years on the force. He and his people were about to check out a vehicle for explosives, a vehicle that may contain a nuclear bomb.
The first job was to determine if the van actually contained nuclear materials. A radiological detection device was slowly wheeled around the van. In less than a minute, Mulrooney had the confirmation he was looking for. Yes, the van contained nuclear materials.
Now comes the scary part, thought Mulrooney. Using a newly patented explosives detection instrument, Mulrooney and one of his men went over every inch of the van, slowly, painstakingly slowly, trying to detect evidence of a booby trap. After 30 minutes, Mulrooney determined that the van was free of an explosive device. He knew that a booby trap can consist of mechanisms that don't use explosives, devices that spring open and hurl projectiles at an intruder. But the bomb armor or bomb suits that the team wore, he figured, were ample protection against a mechanically triggered projectile.
He had been trained where to look for the timing mechanism. He found it and exhaled. The timer had not yet been set.
The van, which contained a 10-kiloton nuclear bomb, was secure. The vehicle was then rolled up a ramp onto the top of a flat bed truck, which slowly drove out onto Bleecker Street. An escort of 12 police cars awaited. Next stop was Rodman's Neck in the borough of the Bronx, a 54-acre NYPD facility used for weapons training. The facility could do nothing to contain a 10-kiloton nuclear blast, but it would serve as a temporary location until further instructions.
Lower Manhattan, at least, was safe.
Chapter 73
Ben and I were in Director Carlini's office for what Buster promised would be a short meeting. I brought everyone up to date on Frank's health, having visited him at the hospital that morning.
“This is going to be a short meeting,” said Buster, “because we're about to move out, fast. I've given you the great news about the Ajax Plumbing van bomb. It's secured and at a safe location. The subject of this meeting is our next target, the yacht Andiamo. As you know, our intelligence tells us that she's carrying the four remaining nukes. The NYPD secured the vehicle in lower Manhattan, but we have to assume that the occupants of Andiamo know there's a problem because the van people aren't answering their cellphones. The men we killed at the safe house where Admiral Frank was held won’t be answering their phones either. We're going to hit Andiamo fast and hard, as hard as we can, knowing she's packing nuclear bombs. A Navy SEAL team of 18 men is waiting for us at West Point, where Andiamo will soon pass. At West Point, we'll board a 67-foot yacht named, White Cloud, presumably after the product that her former owner traded in until we locked him up and seized the ship. He was a cocaine dealer. We're using a civilian yacht rather than a military vessel because we don't want to announce any intentions to the people on Andiamo. The SEALs will then swarm aboard and drop enough tear gas canisters to disable a herd of elephants. I've given up the idea of using an A-10 to shoot the canisters at the ship. We need boots on the dock. Tear gas is heavier than air, so it should seep into every compartment and do the trick. Then we secure the nukes and be on our way.”
“Ben will be with us to help with interrogations if we take any live prisoners,” Buster continued. “Janice you'll stay here at Langley. I know from personal experience that you're one tough combat veteran, but we won't need your sharpshooting skills on this mission, not with 18 SEALs.”
“But I'll be your most important team member, Buster. You have to take me with you.”
“Janice, you're the best. I'd have you covering my back any time. But there's just no reason to put you in harm's way for this operation.”
“Hold on, Buster,” said Carlini. “I want to hear why Janice thinks she's needed. Janice, please go on.”
“I can deliver the tear gas in a much better way than you've outlined,” I said. “I once designed the air conditioning system for a Feadship yacht. They have scuppers all over the deck.”
“What's a scupper?” asked Bennie.
“A scupper is an air intake device. It looks something like an inverted gramophone. The purpose is to bring in fresh air and distribute it throughout the yacht. They have filters, but they're pretty broad gauge, meant to catch bird shit and feathers. The filters won't stop tear gas. Assuming the ship is well maintained, and yachts like that usually are, the filters should be clean as a whistle, but even if they're partially clogged, tear gas will get through. So rather than have the entire platoon of SEALs running a
round and getting shot at, we assign maybe six of them to run onto the deck and drop gas canisters into the scuppers. One team should be tasked to secure the bridge. Once that's done, just turn off the air conditioning and hit the “outside air” switch, which will suck air throughout the system. The ship will be choking in tear gas in no time.”
“Are you familiar with large boats like this, other than their air conditioning systems?” asked Buster.
“Sure,” I said. “I'm licensed as a captain by the U.S. Coast Guard to operate vessels up to 100 tons. I took the course for fun, just because I love boating, but it really comes in handy, as in an operation like this.”
Buster and Bennie just looked at me and shook their heads.
“Janice,” said Carlini, “when you return I want to have a long conversation with you about your future career plans.”
“Okay, gang,” said Buster. “Let's move out. We have a helicopter waiting for us.”
Chapter 74
West Point, the home of the United States Military Academy, is not a maritime facility but it has docking along the Hudson River, more than adequate for our needs. Buster also chose West Point for obvious security purposes.
The yacht White Cloud, formerly the property of a drug king pin, is a sharp-looking well- appointed 67-foot vessel. We boarded at 11:30 AM in a gentle early November breeze with the temperature about 60 degrees. While the crew made plans to get underway, I took Buster, Bennie, and Lieutenant John Billings, the man in charge of the SEAL detachment, on a tour of the boat's scuppers. We then went to the bridge so I could show them the air intake switch.
Captain Wayne Cropsey, CIA retired, was in charge of the vessel. A big man in every way, maybe 6-feet, 4-inches, he was also extremely overweight. Buster introduced all of us to Cropsey, who eagerly thrust out his hand. He seemed so proud and pleased you would have thought the yacht was his.
Box Set - The Time Magnet Series Page 54