Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  “I give you some of my background before I get into details.”

  Jamal explains to Mehran that he worked on nuclear weapons in the Y-12 facility at Oak Ridge as well as at Los Alamos. “I was a junior member of the team that engineered many of these early weapons in the late ’60s and early ’70s before I returned to my country to work on the Saudi nuclear program. These bombs are like old friends to me. I know their strengths, deficiencies and peculiarities intimately. Setting aside modesty for a moment, I would say there are maybe ten others who understand them as well.”

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

  Jamal nods. He has heard much talk about the devoted and talented young Iranian. They were facing the prospect of doing deals with drugged-up Russian gangsters peddling black market uranium out of their backseats until the young engineering student turned up the prospect of an H-bomb lying in America’s backyard and came up with the strategy, a plan of stunning simplicity. Having infiltrated an American university, he is like the bomb he will detonate, secreted under the mud of American culture ready to be turned against the enemy.

  “Why did you leave the Saudi program to join us?”

  Jamal pauses. “It is a long story. I grew up in Jeddah. My family is closely related to his family. He is like a nephew to me. I will do anything for him.”

  “I am most impressed that you know our leader.”

  “We have come a long way. It has been a difficult road. We were both children of privileged families, had the best educations and went to the top universities. But though we are from different generations, we were both troubled by our country’s direction. Back in 1945, the royal family made a deal with the devil. In return for our oil the US agreed to provide us military protection and turn a blind eye to our internal politics. The family funneled billions to buy off religious leaders. With their support, the royals were able to stifle political opposition while they led lives of unbelievable depravity. You would see them frolicking on the Riviera, their pockets stuffed with billions of American oil dollars, their faces gorged with steak and truffles, necks and fingers dripping with gold and diamonds. They lost all direction, all sense of honor and duty and devotion to Allah. I grew to hate them, their duplicity, their scheming and licentiousness. And when they permitted American troops to be stationed in our country, the cradle of Islam, that was the final insult.

  “When our leader started his Afghanistan operation, he made overtures to his favorite uncle. His vision was like a spark striking dry tinder. I was so disgusted with the leadership of my country and their corrupt and sickening relationship with the United States that jihad became the true alternative.”

  “And now we bring the jihad to America again.”

  “Yes, now come, Mehran. I will show you what we have designed for you.”

  Jamal leads Mehran around the shop proudly displaying his machines and explaining their functions.

  “I have the equipment to construct anything in here. But what I have made for you is what I am most proud of.” He stops at a row of three long, dull-green metal tubes lying in steel and wood gantries. Mehran recognizes them immediately. Each one he has so carefully committed to memory he knows their sizes and shapes as well as the fingers of his own hands.

  “Of course you recognize these weapons. Obviously mockups but their dimensions are precise down to the millimeter.”

  “Yes,” Mehran says, putting his hand on the cone of the first bomb in the row, eager to display his knowledge. “This is the Mk-28, a hydrogen bomb yielding seventy kilotons to 1.1 megatons of explosive force.” Almost fourteen feet long and two feet in diameter, it is sleek and trim compared to the others. Jamal’s workmanship is impeccable down to the tiniest detail, precise welding and stenciled identification. “I am most impressed.”

  Mehran continues, moving down the line to the next bomb. Though he has only seen it in pictures and diagrams—fat and stubby, a long, finless column—it is immediately recognizable. “And this is the Mk-39,” he explains. “Produced in two configurations, three megatons and four. The third is an Mk-15 mod 0, the first lightweight hydrogen bomb, twelve feet long and just under four tons.”

  “You have done your homework, Mehran. I have replicated these since they were the models carried in SAC bombers during the years in question. We will be prepared for any eventuality and when we ascertain the model you will be dealing with, I will provide you with this.”

  Jamal reaches up and takes down a spun aluminum ring—in the shape of a life preserver but larger in diameter—from an overhead rack where a row of similar rings hangs.

  “My proudest achievement,” he says, cradling the object in his hands. Satiny and lustrous, its exterior is rounded while its inner surface is perfectly flat. He carefully slides the ring down over the cone of the Mk-15 until it clicks into place against the bomb’s steel skin as he explains, “The same way the Americans used a shaped charge of TNT to activate the atomic primary stage, I have designed a collar to fit the dimensions of each bomb.”

  Looking around as if someone might be eavesdropping, he leans in and whispers into Mehran’s ear, switching from English to Arabic.

  As he listens, Mehran is dazzled with Jamal’s brilliant breakthrough. Jamal explains how he has designed the rings for maximum effect and precisely engineered them to achieve the objective. In a million years the Americans could never imagine what Jamal has conceived. They think their sleeping dogs can’t be awakened. But with Jamal’s collar, Mehran will prove them wrong. The collar will replace the TNT trigger so ignition is guaranteed. It’s a dazzling piece of engineering.

  Jamal stands and returning to English says, “Now, I am sure you have many things to ask. Please do not hesitate.”

  “What about the safeguard mechanisms on the Mk-28 and -39?”

  “I am confident my collars will override the safeties. And as you know, a few early Mk-15s were fitted with a nuclear capsule—an atomic firing pin that begins the reaction. Finding one of those would be like hitting the jackpot since only mere inches stands between the capsule and the atomic core.”

  “I have long dreamed that the bomb I find will be an Mk-15 fused with a capsule,” Mehran says.

  “Maybe, if we are lucky.” Though he is not about to let Mehran in on his secret, Jamal knows that good fortune may already be working for them. If the man code-named Cindy begins digging up dahlias anywhere on the Middle Atlantic Coast, their dreams will be realized beyond comprehension. For Jamal is one of the few people alive who knows the truth behind the Jersey bomb, and El-Khadr is the only person in the Flowers operation who has even been given a hint. And all he knows is that if Collyer heads toward the Chesapeake, he is to immediately ramp up his activity.

  “How much will each collar weigh?”

  “A good question, follow me.” Jamal leads him to a tall wooden tank at the far end of the workshop. Twenty feet in diameter, constructed of wood planks ringed with circular steel collars, it is like the air conditioning vats Mehran has noticed on rooftops in Philadelphia.

  “This is my immersion tank. I have done tests on the collars in it. An ordinary buoyancy vest will provide the flotation necessary for the collar to be almost weightless in the water. I have tried them myself many times. You will find them easily maneuverable, and with a few hours of practice you should have no problem. We will schedule time in this tank for you to become familiar with each of them.” He doesn’t tell Mehran he has allotted twenty hours of training beginning tomorrow morning. When Jamal has finished with him, Mehran will be able to collar bombs in the dark.

  “I have a question.”

  Jamal knows Mehran will have many questions.

  “Detonation—how is that accomplished?”

  “Of course, a critical part of your mission. In your boat you will carry this,” Jamal explains, pulling a small remote control unit from a fold in his robe. “It looks like a garage door opener—which it is by the way,” Jamal smiles proudly at his ingenuity. “But in it I hav
e installed a powerful radio transmitter tuned to a receiver in the collar. Press the button and the collar will be detonated.”

  “At any depth?”

  “It will transmit deeper than you are capable of diving, my friend,” he says, putting his arm around him. Jamal watches the young man’s expression carefully, looking for any hesitation, any doubt. For when it comes to the detonation mechanism, some things are better left unsaid.

  Mehran’s face relaxes, his tone is assured. “That is good,” he says.

  “Do you have any other questions for me, Mehran?”

  There is one burning subject remaining but he is afraid of offending Jamal. Though he has read widely on explosives, he is not an expert. He is delighted when Jamal reads his mind.

  “If you are wondering whether the charge will be sufficient to begin the detonation sequence . . .”

  “I am interested in your answer.”

  Jamal isn’t surprised at Mehran’s question. If he is going to set off a thermonuclear bomb, he wants to make sure it will be a magnificent event instead of a minor sputter.

  “I have done exhaustive studies and simulations. Each collar has the exact charge needed to guarantee detonation. I can assure you, Mehran, you will go to your glory.”

  25

  Pentagon, late Wednesday afternoon

  Is this something I should be sitting down for, Williams?” Watt asks when he sees the expression on his aide’s face.

  “Bad or good news first, sir?” Williams asks.

  Watt grimaces, “All of it.”

  “Things went badly in Front Royal, sir.”

  “We botched it?”

  “Someone got the jump on us. Alpha Orange located the motel where Collyer was staying—or what was left of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Burned to the ground, owner got charbroiled.”

  “And Collyer?”

  “Somehow he escaped.”

  “I thought we took care of his car.”

  “He didn’t take it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It was illegally parked, sir. Someone tried to tow it. They’re still picking him out of the trees.”

  “Do we have any idea where Collyer went?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Now he’s going to be even more wary.”

  Watt pops another Tums into his mouth, then reaches for the Pepcid. It’s going to be a long day. Someone is two steps ahead of them. Could whoever put out the flier have beaten us to Collyer? Now the suspicion that terrorists are looking for Collyer becomes more credible. And if they are after him, they’re more sophisticated and resourceful than he thought.

  Watt cringes at the thought of his next encounter with Whitey Hatkin. If the situation unravels any further, Watt speculates as he fumbles with the stiff plastic armament of the Tums package, will I end up as the fall guy?

  In the diner on the outskirts of Baltimore, Collyer sits in a booth over his second cup of coffee, his open laptop in front of him. His screen reads 5:35. It’s dark already. The man at the next table glances up and makes a face. Howie realizes he’s been drumming his fingers on the table. He stops, peering out the window at the cab parked outside. The driver’s leaning against the front fender smoking another cigarette. Risstup and Sharon are sitting in the backseat chatting, the major’s been talking up a blue streak ever since they left Lancaster.

  The Free Internet Access sign attracted Howie’s attention and he had the cabdriver pull into the diner. In a nondescript, dingy area full of used car lots and freight yards, it’s been updated with gleaming stainless and glass, modern decor but with a throwback menu. Burgers, eggs and pancakes, fries served with everything.

  They’ve never heard of lattes so he’s making do with black coffee lightened with plastic cups of cream.

  Howie made sure his email to Straub was direct and to the point. He rereads it as he sits in the booth killing time.

  Winn,

  Someone burned down the motel we were staying in. There was a bunch of shooting. Needless to say, Sharon is freaked. What I’m trying to figure out is who’s behind all this? Vector Eleven or someone else? Or are your people working behind the scenes? Can you give me any idea of what you think is going on? Howie

  Then sends the email, takes another sip of coffee, and prays to hell Straub frequently checks his email.

  A few minutes later and sixty miles away, Winn Straub sits with his computer on his lap enjoying his second glass of wine, the warmth of the fire radiating out into the room. Even though the fireplace in the living room of his townhouse is shallow, Straub has discovered if he arranges the logs just so, he can get the fire blazing without filling the house with smoke.

  Straub hears his wife calling him to dinner. He wants to look at his email before he sits down to eat.

  “I’ll be right there, dear. Just give me a few minutes.”

  He sits up quickly. Howie’s email shouts off the screen at him. Straub instantly feels responsible. I shouldn’t have left him out there. I should drive right out and take him down to The Farm. Then he wonders if he’s thinking straight. Maybe it’s the wine.

  “Dear, could you make me a cup of coffee?” he calls into the kitchen.

  “Couldn’t we have dinner first? Normal people drink coffee after dinner.”

  “Instant will be fine. Something just came up with Howie that I need to deal with.”

  He hears a groan from the kitchen. One quality his wife doesn’t lack is a flair for the dramatic.

  He composes one email. It sounds sappy. The next sounds coldhearted.

  Barbara brings out a cup of coffee, setting it down crisply so the cup clinks in the saucer, letting her husband know she’s serving him under protest.

  His mind works through the possibilities. One stands out. There have been recent reports of increased al Qaeda communication. There are so many fingers in the intelligence pie that any uptick in the chatter level immediately surfaces in the rumor mill. The CIA’s own intelligence connects some of the noise with nuclear materials but that’s nothing new. That buzz has been around since the early ’90s.

  But still—Straub is reminded of the old CIA parable: Grandma on the roof. A woman gets a call that her favorite cat fell off the roof and died. Upset, she berates the caller for breaking the news so suddenly. Says she should have delivered the news more gradually, first called to tell her the cat was on the roof, then telephoned some time later to tell her the cat was creeping toward the edge and in a final call let her know the cat had tumbled off and died. Two months later the woman gets another call— grandma is on the roof.

  Has Howie awakened a sleeper cell? Howie has often said that terrorists might get their hands on one of our nukes. Have they somehow picked up he’s now on a search for one? He decides to give Howie the straight scoop, no speculation, no embellishment, and see where he takes it.

  Howie, Thank God you’re okay. I wish I could say we had something to do with it, but we didn’t. I don’t want to alarm you but there is an increased level of terrorist chatter out there. I don’t know if it means anything in terms of what you’re doing but it is something we should keep in mind. Relocate and get in touch with me first thing tomorrow. We’ll figure out what to do then. Winn

  Sitting in the diner, Howie is relieved to see Winn’s email pop up on his screen. But relief rapidly shifts to dread for what Howie reads makes his eyes widen and his face flush. Terrorist chatter—he keeps hearing himself thinking—terrorist chatter. Though he has often maintained that terrorists might try to retrieve a lost nuke, he’s always considered it more a scare tactic than an actual possibility. He’s rattled by the thought that keeps running through his mind—what if they were attracted to my website and have been watching me? And now I’m leading them to a nuke?

  His attention drifts up from the computer screen to the cabdriver standing outside. All the way to Baltimore he seemed too interested in our conversation. At first Howie thought nothing
of it. He’s a typical cab driver, the kind you see in every city. Immigrant, maybe Turkish or Lebanese. Darker skinned, curly hair. Family pictures tucked into the visors over his head, wife, kids, little boy missing front teeth holding a plastic bike, a big smile on his face. Just another guy trying to make a living. But when Risstup shifted the conversation to his flight training in California, the driver’s eyes seemed riveted on them—until he caught Howie looking at him and quickly averted his eyes. Eerie that he would be so interested. Could terrorists have spooked us right into their hands?

  As the cab driver lights another cigarette, his eyes fixed on the interior of the restaurant, Howie puts together a plan.

  His first job is to get Sharon and Risstup out of the cab. Then see how the driver reacts. What he does will tell me who he is. Howie stands, grabs a menu out of the holder, leaves his laptop open in the booth behind him and heads for the door.

  He tries to appear nonchalant, sauntering down the set of stairs toward the cab. Opens the car door, leans down and says in a breezy tone to his friends in the backseat, waving the menu at them to get their attention, “Hey, anyone hungry? They’ve got great burgers and fries in this place.” Catching Sharon’s eye, he ducks his head a couple times to make sure she gets the message.

  “What took you so long? The major and I are starving,” she says, playing along, sliding across the seat and climbing out.

  “We won’t be long,” Howie says as he passes the driver, one arm guiding Risstup along, as long as he has some help he’s fine without the wheelchair.

  The cabbie nods and holds up his cigarette to Howie as if it’s no problem to him. “I stay and smoke,” he says.

  When the three are seated in a booth, Howie says, “Nice place, huh? Some great stuff on the menu, burgers, fries, cheese fries, corn dogs, barbeque.”

  Seeing through his feigned nonchalance, Sharon leans across toward Howie and whispers, “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “Read this email,” Howie swivels his laptop so she can see the screen. As she reads the message from Winn, her expression quickly clouds over.