Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  “Full throttle,” Risstup repeats, acknowledging the command.

  Sharon stands behind the two as the plane speeds down the runway, the landscape flashing by out the windows.

  “With forty-eight thousand gallons of fuel in the wings and a total weight of 488,000 pounds,” Howie explains, “the B-52 chews up miles of runway in order to gain altitude.”

  “Actually,” Risstup clarifies, “the wings get airborne first and they sort of bully the huge wheel trucks up off the ground.”

  “We’re airborne,” Howie says. “Landing gear up, Major.”

  “Landing gear up,” Risstup repeats.

  “Give me the course, Major.”

  No response from Risstup.

  “The course, Major Risstup,” Howie prompts him again.

  Risstup scowls.

  “You were doing fine, Mark. You were right there with me.”

  Risstup throws up his hands. “I know. I’m sorry. I want to help, but after a while everything goes blank. I start to get into it, I can feel the memories coming back up but then they burst like a bubble and I’m back here sitting in front of your computer. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe we can try again later,” Sharon suggests.

  “There is one thing I could suggest,” Risstup says.

  His comment gets their attention.

  “I hated that medicine they gave me at the hospital, but I think it might have had something to do with bringing back my memory. Although it makes me catatonic, I was able to remember things that normally wouldn’t come back to me. It might be worth a try.”

  “What medicine is he talking about?” Howie asks.

  “Variations of sodium pentothal used for sedation. I don’t want to get technical but at lower dosages that don’t result in sleep or unconsciousness, disinhibition can occur.”

  “Disinhibition? Help me, I didn’t go to med school.”

  “Opening up new pathways in the brain.”

  “Wasn’t sodium pentothal called ‘truth serum’?”

  “That’s what they called it in Hollywood.”

  “What happened to the hypodermic you were waving around a couple nights ago?”

  “It was in my bag. I left it in the cab.”

  “Damn—we’ve got to find some more.”

  “Problem is, without a prescription I can’t just walk into a pharmacy and buy it. And stealing it is out of the question, those pharmacies are locked up as tight as a drum.”

  Sharon hesitates for a second, then adds, “On the other hand, maybe there is a way.”

  26

  The Pentagon, Wednesday night

  Let me tell General Watt you’re here, General Hatkin,” Lieutenant Williams says.

  But the three-star shoulders past him, saying, “I don’t need an introduction, Lieutenant.”

  Watt hears the door open just in time to lift his head off his desk. Arranging his hair and straightening his tie, he glances at the clock as he stands to greet his visitor. It’s 2205. Must have dozed off for a while, he thinks.

  “Mind if I join you, Greg?” Hatkin closes the door in Williams’ face. Even Hatkin looks a bit dog-eared, rough around the edges, not his usual crisp self. But then they are both pushing sixty and have been burning the candle at both ends. Watt stands to shake hands, pulling down his coat to iron out the wrinkles.

  “You should have called, General Hatkin. I would have come down to your office.”

  “I was passing by and I thought I’d drop in, better we do it here than attract attention at my place,” Hatkin says, extending his arm out to Watt. After shaking hands, Hatkin motions to Watt’s chair, “Please, have a seat, Greg.”

  “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You got my message about Front Royal?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Every state and federal agency is swarming over the crime scene.”

  “How long do we have before they figure out Collyer’s involved?”

  “Depends on what evidence they find and how fast they move.”

  “Up until now, I could buy the theory that these terrorists are incompetent amateurs. But not any longer. They might have been monitoring Collyer and could have set the motel on fire to spook him into their hands. For the time being we have to operate on the assumption that we’re dealing with a group of motivated and highly trained people. For some reason, they think Collyer is onto something—enough to want to keep him alive.”

  “Somehow they must have gotten the idea he can lead them to a nuke.”

  “I think we have to assume that. Our Vector Eleven group has their hands full with a Senate subcommittee that’s threatening an investigation of procedures at Oak Ridge. That could go south on us fast. I just had a teleconference on the subject. They’re all feeling under the gun. So while they’re taking care of that matter, let’s discuss our options.”

  “Can I take you through some scenarios my staff has developed?” Watt asks.

  “Certainly.”

  “I’d like to ask you not to draw any conclusions. I’d like you to absorb the information and see where it takes you.”

  “Of course.”

  Watt pulls his laptop off the credenza behind him, walks around to the front of his desk and opens the machine in front of Hatkin. Clicking the keyboard, he brings up a map of the East Coast. A series of lines extend out from Westover Air Force Base, changing from solid to dotted at the point of last known radar contact with Risstup’s B-52.

  “I projected hypothetical flight paths following the three courses SAC bombers took on airborne alert flights, northern, central and southern, and then estimated the course after the aircraft diverted around the storm. I had my people color-code depths in areas where the weapon might have been jettisoned. The lightest blue tone shows the shallowest areas. As you can see, there is a considerable amount of blue around the East Coast.”

  Hatkin points at the laptop screen. “I’ll say. Long Island Sound and the Chesapeake Bay in particular.”

  “That’s right. A good part of the Chesapeake is no deeper than a pond.”

  “So it’s conceivable that someone with a workboat or small tug could recover a bomb?”

  “If it is an Mk-15 weapon, a small five-ton crane could do the job.”

  “And then they could transport it into a population center.”

  “Yes, load it on a truck with a forklift, pull up in midtown Manhattan or in front of the Capitol, use conventional explosives to blow it to bits and you would have a catastrophe of major proportions. Radioactivity scattered for miles.”

  “One of our own nukes turned into a dirty bomb that contaminates large areas of a major city rendering it uninhabitable for years. That’s the theory Collyer’s been harping on since day one.”

  “And what the terrorists could be buying into.”

  “Exactly. And there is a more troubling possibility. On the outside chance that they have somehow acquired the technology, they could detonate it.”

  “Explode a nuke in downtown DC or Manhattan?”

  “Yes. But in both these circumstances fortunately there are obstacles. First, they’d have to get it out of the water. Then load it on a truck. You’d need a crane to get it out of the water and a barge to handle it. Some of these nukes are fifteen feet long, this isn’t something you throw in your trunk.

  And of course there’s always the issue of radiation leakage. If the bomb’s emitting large amounts, the whole group of terrorists would be glowing and they’d be fried before they got to DC On top of that, whoever’s intending to detonate the nuke would have to have a sophisticated understanding of the triggering process. While the technology is widely understood, it is still complicated and highly technical. This isn’t a case of lighting a match or pushing a button. It would take extensive planning and resources to detonate a hydrogen bomb on land.” Watt sees no point in bringing up the nuclear capsules. So few were actually deployed tha
t it’s a distraction.

  “After 9/11, we have to assume they are capable of anything.”

  “Still, the challenges of retrieving a nuke intact, even in shallow water, infiltrating it into a city without detection, and finally detonating it as a dirty bomb—or as a nuke—are substantial.”

  “They only have to get lucky once.”

  “But they are going to need a lot more than luck. As you know, we’ve maintained that lying in mud and seawater for almost fifty years will cause substantial degradation of the casing and payload. And there is a real question if you could even get it out of the water in one piece.”

  He can tell his discussion is having an effect on Hatkin. He is leaning back in his chair across from the laptop, his fingers tented, staring out the office windows.

  Watt continues, “And then remember that our records indicate the aircraft made it out over the ocean before breaking apart, so there’s a good chance the weapon was dropped over the Continental Shelf. If the nuke is five thousand feet deep, no one’s recovering anything. It’s a total non-event.”

  “I have only one question. At what point are we going to have to sound the alarm? There must be a point where if we don’t take it up the line, we risk compromising national security.”

  “Not until we are absolutely certain the terrorists are about to put their hands on the bomb.”

  “You think we can afford to wait that long?”

  Watt stands, places his hands flat on his desk and leans forward, projecting an air of self-assured confidence for he’s aware the window of opportunity he has will quickly slam shut if he doesn’t succeed in getting Hatkin to sign on immediately. “Here’s why. They are going to have to expose themselves at some point, run some kind of salvage operation and the minute they initiate it they are going to be vulnerable. My recommendation is that we wait until whoever it is—al Qaeda or Collyer— jumps in a boat to go after the nuke. Wherever they are, off the coast or in a bay or river, a Hellfire from an Apache or Black Hawk can easily take them out.”

  “But that would attract attention.”

  “Of course it would. The media will be all over it like a pack of wolves. But we sit back and maintain we foiled a terrorist plot and for national security reasons we can’t go into details. We wash our hands of the whole damn thing. We get Collyer, take out the terrorists and make the nuke go away—kill three birds with one stone.”

  “You’d feel comfortable letting it play out that long?”

  “We’ll find Collyer before then. Or we’ll run down the terrorists. But in the meantime, so we’re prepared we should get the Navy involved in tracking down every damn boat that so much as shoves off from a dock anywhere on the East Coast.”

  “That’s the Coast Guard’s job.”

  “Coast Guard is now under Homeland Security.”

  “Damn merry-go-round in this town these days. Jimmick is running the show over there now.”

  “Right, and he’s as likely to help us as hire Michael Brown back. That goes for the whole crew of them, FBI, CIA, DHS. They’d like nothing more than to pin this on us.”

  “We taking any heat from that mess in Front Royal?”

  “Not so far. From what I hear, it was a zoo. Our agents said they recognized the CIA and of course the FBI was swarming all over the place. People were sneaking off with evidence, they said it was a real three-ring circus. All kinds of rumors, Mafia, drug hit and, as always, talk of terrorists. Sooner or later, they’ll figure out it was Collyer’s car. But I bet it will be a while before anyone figures out he’s chasing a nuke.”

  “Anyone else in Washington who’s onto the terrorist angle?” Hatkin asks.

  “We’ve suspected Winston Straub. We don’t have any evidence but I’d bet he brought Collyer’s wife and daughter into Camp Peary, and as I said there are CIA nosing around Front Royal. I wish we knew more about the CIA’s interest in this Collyer situation, whether Straub has shared it with anyone and if Dickson is involved.“

  “If Straub has any brains, he’d stay away from the CIA director. Dickson’s the closest thing I’ve seen to an empty suit in years.”

  “Still, Collyer might be looking for cover, it could be getting cold out there.”

  “Any leads on him?”

  “After what happened in Front Royal, he’s got to be one scared puppy. Keeping his head down big time. But he’s going to have to come up for air at some point, and when he does, we’ll nail him.”

  Pause. Watt checks his wristwatch, waiting for Hatkin to deliver the verdict.

  “Here’s where I come out,” Hatkin says. “For the time being, we stay on this course. But we can’t let things get past the point of no return. We’re playing a waiting game here and I’m okay with that. But we can’t let it turn into a bad bet. I know you understand the difference.”

  “Yes, sir.” Watt says, struggling to keep his voice firm and steady. Hatkin gives him a quick, steely look and exits without another word.

  27

  Georgetown, Thursday morning

  Straub’s Thursday starts at 5:25. Winn goes about his familiar morning ritual, turning on the lights, click, coffeepot, click, computer, click. He’s dying to check his email to see if there’s anything from Howie. Trying to decide how best to help him, Straub had been staring at the ceiling most of the night.

  As the coffee begins to perk, his eyes focus on the new message appearing on the screen.

  Winn, We’re making progress with the pilot. So far we know his plane was carrying a nuke and we hope we can soon pin down where the crew dropped it. Your comment about terrorist chatter got me thinking. Without getting into all the details, I think they might be tracking us. Needless to say, that’s disconcerting as hell. I know you’ll figure out the best thing for us to do. Howie

  Since the beginning Howie has maintained terrorists could go after a lost nuke—now he claims they are. The ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. He wonders why Howie thinks they are following him but quickly decides it doesn’t make any difference. If Howie is certain terrorists are after him, that’s all I need. What to do about it is another question. The phone rings, its insistent tones interrupting the early morning quiet.

  Caller ID tells him it’s the last person in the world he wants to talk to. He’d spoken with Sylvie once and dodged two other calls from her. He’s praying she isn’t calling about the fracas in Front Royal.

  “Sylvie, how are you?”

  “Lousy, if you want to know the truth.” She sounds sarcastic, almost caustic, not a happy camper. “I can’t sleep and Grace is apoplectic about being away from her office.”

  “It won’t be long before this is wrapped up, Grace is back in Raleigh and you and Howie are together again.”

  Her voice drops a register, “Winn, I need you to level with me. It’s all over the news that there was a fire and a car bombing in Front Royal. They said it was a Honda, a silver Accord. It was Howie’s car, wasn’t it?”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “C’mon, Winn, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  He knows he’s not getting away with anything less than the truth with her. Straub takes a deep breath. “Howie’s okay.”

  “It was his car.” Sylvie’s gone from sarcasm to indignation.

  “He wasn’t even near it when it happened.”

  “Jesus Christ, Winn, that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Straub looks out the window. In the light from inside the house, the branches of the shrubs in the garden glisten. On the other end of the line he can hear Sylvie seething.

  “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Get him out of there, goddammit, Winn. Get him the hell out of there.”

  He takes his first sip of coffee. Straub has no idea of how he’s going to pull it off but it’s the least he can offer. “How about if I get you two together? You can try to talk to him.”

  “When?”

  “You’ve got to give me some time.”

  �
��Time? They’re trying to kill him.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you make it any sooner?”

  “We’ll set it up for tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What if they get to him before that?”

  “They won’t.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed until then. Bye, Sylvie.”

  He sets the handset back in the cradle. No choice but to buy her off, otherwise she’ll freak and do something really stupid. He has thirty-six hours to put the rendezvous together. He runs through the tasks. Set up a safe location somewhere, ferry Sylvie up from The Farm, find Howie and bring him in from wherever he is—all the while keeping Vector Eleven and a cell of terrorists at bay.

  It’s a forty-minute drive to Langley, reverse commute so the traffic isn’t snarled, particularly at this hour of the morning. Exhaust steams up from the tailpipes of the cars in front of him as he speeds up the George Washington Parkway along the east bank of the Potomac. He was able to nail down an early morning meeting with Director Dickson.

  Most top-level people at the CIA give the director a wide berth, conducting their operations out of sight. Straub on the other hand has stayed on Dickson’s good side, knowing someday he might have to cash in his chips. A political appointee from Tulsa, the director is slim with craggy features and Marlboro Man skin that makes him look like he just rode in off the range. Dickson likes to remind people of his cowboy heritage by wearing expensive hand-tooled boots and fringed suits that Straub thought looked more appropriate at a rodeo.

  But as corny and hayseed as he seemed, Dickson was no dummy. He’d made a fortune peddling bargain basement car insurance. And though his agency is now at the bottom of the intelligence totem pole, Abner Dickson has something everyone in Washington envies—a personal relationship with the president of the United States. Though they are hardly seen together in Washington, they share a mutual passion—thoroughbred horses—and often ride together at the president’s farm in Kentucky or at Dickson’s spread in Oklahoma.

  “Good to see you. How have you been, Winn?” Dickson asks as he welcomes Straub at the door and ushers him into his cavernous office on the seventh floor of the old headquarters building.