“What are they planning to do—have the Iranian swim down and strap a grenade to it?”
“Who knows? Maybe dive down with some plastic explosive, C-4 or Semtex, and attach it. Some weapons from that time period had an early model detonator that could easily be set off. Yet this is still a wild guess.”
“Where do they think this thing is?”
Watt realizes he’s going to be tossing a grenade under his boss’s desk with his answer, but he has no choice. “They are out on the Chesapeake searching for it as we speak.”
Kessel freezes for a second, then his eyes bug out and he blurts, “On the fucking Chesapeake? Thirty miles from the goddamn Capitol and White House?”
“It’s only a remote possibility, sir.”
“Who’s out there?”
“Howard Collyer—”
“The fruitcake who kidnapped the pilot?”
“Yes, sir, but we have one of our people on the boat. The officer in command is a former Seal. I know him personally.”
Kessel’s irate and unnerved, his emotions now firing on all cylinders. “Are you yanking my chain, Hatkin, or is this serious shit?”
Hatkin gears down, stays cool and collected, his voice conveying quiet confidence, “Once we’re certain there isn’t a bomb in the bay, and we think in all likelihood there isn’t—”
“What makes Collyer so convinced?”
“The outside chance that this pilot may have credible information.”
“I don’t need to tell you what would happen if this ever got out—nuke in the Chesapeake—terrorists after it. The media would have a field day. And if there really is a weapon out there . . . Jesus H. Christ . . .” He doesn’t finish his thought. The color is leaving Kessel’s face, his eyes scan around anxiously, as if he’s looking for a way out.
“Sir, we’re in control. If they do find a nuke we’ll be the first to know. We’ll cordon it off and take care of it. And in the remote possibility that terrorists try to move in, we’ve got Special Ops forces out of Belvoir standing by. The minute they show we’ll blow them out of the water.”
Kessel blinks, runs his fingers through his hair and leans back in his chair. Now that the outcome sounds less threatening, his composure’s returning.
Hatkin goes on, “And once we’re sure the nuke’s not down there, if the terrorists don’t show we have a plan to draw them out.”
“How the hell are you going to do that?”
“Once the search is complete and the commander is positive there’s no nuke, he’s going to stop the boat. If anyone’s watching, we’re betting it will be a signal they’ve located the weapon.”
“You think they’ll reveal themselves?”
“If they’re out there and have their eye on that nuke, they’ll mark its location and sooner or later they’ll go after it. When they do our Special Ops unit will be waiting for them.”
“And if this boat happens to get in the way, our only losses would be the captain and three crew members.”
“Plus two civilians.”
“Small price to pay.”
“Our man on that boat, Commander Warren from the Coast Guard, reports they’ve almost finished the search and so far there’s no bomb and no terrorists. He’s sure Collyer isn’t playing with a full deck and the whole thing is a hoax.”
“How much longer before we know for certain?”
“A half hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”
Kessel tents his fingers as his mind starts to freewheel. “You know if everything works out the way we hope, the president could really make some hay with this—preventing a terrorist attack so close to the nation’s capital. He’d be a damn hero. Of course, we’d have to play down the lost bombs business.”
“It’s your prerogative to inform him, sir.”
“I just might do that.” Kessel checks his watch. “I know he has a state dinner tonight, Air Force One is flying him up from Kentucky later this afternoon. I do like the idea of telling the president his Defense Department has won another battle for him in the war on terror. Watch the CIA take it in the ear again. Let me know the minute you’ve got it contained.”
At the exact moment that Charlie Kessel swings his bare legs sideways, puts his sneakered feet up on his coffee table and sits back to savor the major coup DoD is about to pull off, the last person in the world the secretary of Defense would expect beats him to the punch.
As the sun slowly sinks behind the rolling hills of the president’s thoroughbred horse farm outside of Lexington, Abner Dickson and the president of the United States stand leaning on a four-board white fence gazing out at the dazzling vista. Oak Tree Farm has been in the president’s family for three generations and now serves as the summer White House. Though the fields have gone brown, the golden glow of the sunset and the flock of purebreds quietly grazing off in the distance combine to create an atmosphere of serenity that ironically contrasts with the conversation.
Expecting to spend the afternoon shooting the breeze with his old friend Dickson, when Abner told him he had a much more critical matter of national security to discuss, the president sent Marine One to ferry Dickson to the farm.
As Dickson was concerned about security, the president suggested they take a walk. Two hundred yards down the drive, the president plants his elbows on the top board and turns to face his old friend.
“What’s up, Abner? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so rattled.”
“There is a possibility that terrorists might try to detonate a hydrogen bomb in the vicinity of the capital.”
For the next ten minutes, except for the one strand of Kentucky bluegrass the president intently chews on, Dickson has his complete attention as he takes him through the events of the past ten days.
President Langan leans over the fence, lifting his foot to rest his boot on the lowest rung as he turns to his CIA director, a vengeful glint in his eyes. “You’re telling me that the Department of Defense would endanger the nation’s security to protect their programs?”
“They are so consumed with trying to cover up the lost nukes and disparage Collyer they overlooked the real danger.”
“What kind of time frame are we talking about here?”
“They are close to completing the search.” Dickson glances at his watch. “We’ll have a better read within the hour.”
“Is there anything more we need to do?”
“Nothing we’re not doing already, Mr. President.”
“I’m glad you bypassed channels and brought this to me, c’mon up to the house and we’ll wait it out there.”
After an hour on deck, Sharon went below and tried reading a book. Forty minutes later, she came up looking green and has been topside for most of the time they’ve been out, bundled up against the slight but insistent breeze and drinking so much coffee she found herself having to make regular trips to the cramped space they called the head. Sharon joked that it should be called the hatbox instead but no one was in a humorous mood.
So biting her tongue as she had promised Straub, she whiled away the time feeding seagulls, gazing out at the horizon and watching Howie and Warren stare each other down when they weren’t taking turns checking the readouts. Although the boat smells funky and looks shabby, inside it’s crammed with high-tech equipment, radar and GPS screens, computers monitoring the towed magnetometer and sled and more blinking lights and beeping signals than Sharon’s seen in operating rooms.
Sharon is on another trip to the head when she runs into Howie coming back up on deck. “This is the last section, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to go back over it again just to make sure,” he tells her as they stand at the foot of the ladder in the narrow and low-ceilinged cabin.
“You discouraged?”
Howie shakes his head.
“Sort of shoots down your theory, doesn’t it?”
“Only for the time being.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sharon hisses. “Are we in for more of
this crap? Look, I’ve been a good girl, kept my mouth shut. But I’m sick and tired of being kept in the dark.”
“We won’t be out much longer. Winn’ll fill you in on everything when we get to shore.”
All of a sudden, Sharon feels the boat lurching. She stumbles to keep her balance.
“What the hell’s going on?” Howie mutters, reaching up to grab the top rung of the ladder and quickly swinging himself up on deck. Sharon’s right behind him, raising her head through the hatch just in time to hear Howie yelling, “What in the shit are you doing? I told you not to stop.”
“Engine’s overheating, we’re bending the needle,” Warren shouts. “If we don’t shut down we’ll blow the engine.”
“We have to keep the goddamned boat going, I told you that!” Howie shrieks at him.
A crewmember pops his head up through the cockpit hatch and calls to Warren, “It’s the water intake, sir. One of the hoses has sprung a leak.”
“We aren’t going anywhere, Mr. Collyer,” Warren tells Howie. “Without water in the engine we’ll burn the damn thing up. You know that.”
“Get it fixed as soon as possible, we’ve got to get this tub moving again.” Off in the distance, Howie hears the faint throp, throp, throp of helicopter rotors over the horizon. He quickly raises his binoculars and scans the shoreline.
Sharon’s right behind him. “What are you looking for?”
Howie doesn’t answer. He turns and scrambles back down the ladder, Sharon close on his heels. He’s on his cell phone, his back to her. She hears him telling Straub, “Warren stopped the boat. Claims the engine was overheating. Now what?”
Pause.
“Stay cool? Shit, Winn,” Howie snorts, “we’re sitting ducks out here.”
El-Khadr looks up from his computer as he hears commotion from the control area. He hurries in to find the room on its feet, everyone staring up at the plasma screen, pointing and jabbering excitedly. “He stopped, the boat stopped,” El-Khadr hears. “Collyer has located the bomb.” The room is buzzing, El-Khadr has to raise his voice to be heard.
“Make sure the system has recorded the position,” he commands the GPS specialist at the third console. “Double-check we have those coordinates.” For the past ten hours they have been patiently watching as Collyer searched the bay. This is the first time the boat has so much as slowed down.
He pulls his riding crop out and brings it smartly down on the table three times. He knows he has a split second to make a decision. He can order Naguib to signal Mehran or he can hold back and wait for a more propitious time. The next weather system is still hours away. Will Mehran stay patient? And what about the Americans? What if they start sharing intelligence? Discover the connection between Jamal and Mehran? They are bumblers but not complete idiots.
So many factors to be considered. So little time. All eyes in the room are on him as he paces back and forth, flicking his riding crop up and down, slicing and dicing the air around him.
“Straub just saw the boat stop, Mr. President,” Dickson says as they stroll up between the white fences lining the lane toward the massive white house at the top of the hill. Jimmick’s on the other end of the line, Straub’s updating him from the underground operations room at Peary.
“They found the nuke?”
Putting the phone up to his ear again, he listens then shakes his head. “Apparently not, the boat has a mechanical problem.”
“Is it possible someone could misinterpret the boat pulling up? Decide that’s where the bomb is?” President Langan asks.
“Let me check.” Dickson relays the question and waits as Jimmick consults with Straub. As the president and Dickson wait for an answer, the Secret Service detail respectfully hangs back a hundred feet, watching silently, aware something is going down. Casually dressed, the agents are packed into four Gators, behind them a convoy of Suburbans holds the president’s top staff, their retinue of aides and as always, the officer carrying the ever-present football. Marine One sits on the pad off in the field to the left with four armed sentries standing guard, ready to zip the president over to Lexington where Air Force One waits.
So odd to be out on a country lane with the sun an orange wafer hanging over the horizon, Dickson reflects, standing in the pastel light in the middle of Kentucky horse country, as we sweat out a severe threat to the country’s security.
Dickson holds his hand over the cell phone receiver as he relays Straub’s answer, “So far they haven’t seen anything, Mr. President. But they are watching carefully just in case.”
“Good,” the president says, looking relieved for the first time since Dickson brought him up to speed. He turns and starts up the walkway to the house, “I’m going up to change. But I won’t take off until we have a resolution on this situation. C’mon in and make yourself at home, and let me know the minute you have anything.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Dickson stands aside as the contingent of Secret Service agents gun their Gators and roar off up the lane after the president, the Suburbans close behind.
So far, so good, Dickson thinks to himself. He is surprised when he looks down at his hand holding the cell phone. It’s trembling, shaking like a damn leaf. Funny, he muses, I didn’t think I was that flustered. But then it’s not every day that you deal with the possibility of a hydrogen bomb somewhere on the bottom of the Chesapeake.
Hatkin and Watt are monitoring the two Black Hawks and three Apaches hovering in the lee of Tilghman Island ready to dart in at any sign of a craft heading to the spot where Warren stopped. ”Hold off just out of sight,” Hatkin radios the helo pilots. “We have to get a fix on them first.”
Neither Watt nor Hatkin could bring himself to believe that a cell of terrorists could be lurking on the shoreline waiting to go after the nuke. But they were not taking any chances. Assured that they had come up empty-handed in their search for the nuke, they gave Warren the command to stop the boat. Warren had ordered a crewman to sneak into the engine room and close the water intake. When the needle on the temp gauge shot into the red ten seconds later, Warren shut down the motor and Hatkin ordered the helos airborne.
Each helicopter is relaying real-time color video with panoramic views of the bay onto the bank of screens arrayed in front of Hatkin and Watt. Monitoring their input in addition to the satellite feed and radar surveillance of the area from the AWACS 707 in the sky overhead, the two generals are poised to send in the helos the second a threatening blip appears.
On deck, Howie scans the horizon with his binoculars for anything coming from the shore. Then he spins around to focus the glasses on the western coast. Sharon can only guess what’s going on, Howie’s close to frantic, Warren’s rushing around trying to repair the boat. Howie keeps swinging his binocs around the bay, looking for what? Vector Eleven? Terrorists? Sharon watches as Warren drops down into a pushup position on the deck, his head hanging into the hatchway, talking with the crewman in the engine room working on the water line.
“That should do it,” he says, hopping to his feet, wiping his hands on a rag as he heads for the wheel.
“Get this scow going, c’mon! It’s been too damn long already,” Howie shouts to him. Warren turns the key and the engine rumbles to life.
“The boat’s underway again,” Straub tells Dickson on the secure cell. “So far no one’s appeared so we might be out of the woods—at least for the time being.”
“I’ll let the president know, hang on in case he has any questions,” Dickson tells him. Straub waits on the line, realizing for the first time that Dickson has involved his close friend.
On the other end of the line he hears the instantly recognizable voice of the president of the United States: “Mr. Straub, this is President Langan. Director Dickson has briefed me on the entire operation. I want to tell you how much I appreciate the fine work you’ve done over the last ten days.”
“Thank you, Mr. President, but it’s not over.”
“I’m sure you
have a few things to tidy up, but at least we’re no longer facing the threat of a hydrogen bomb in the Chesapeake Bay.”
Don’t bet your life on it, is what Straub wants to tell him. But he chooses his words more carefully, “Yes, Mr. President, we’re most likely over that hurdle.”
“And you can be assured Secretary Kessel’s going to hear about this.”
“I’m glad to know that,” he says. But inside, he’s smiling as he thinks, Right now, you might be talking about giving Kessel an earful, but if I have anything to say about it you’re soon going to be asking for his head.
“No nuke, and so far no terrorists,” Hatkin says, sitting back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his neck as he surveys the monitors and the plasma screen overhead.
“Nope, just another quiet Sunday evening on the Chesapeake,” Watt adds, folding up the charts Warren had emailed him.
Hatkin orders him, “Radio the helos to sweep the shore for a final check before it gets dark. I’m going to call the SecDef.” Hatkin grabs his stew. Kessel gave him a direct line to his E-ring office. The secretary of Defense picks up without hesitation.
“Mr. Secretary, I’m glad to report that our mission has been successful. As I expected no bombs turned up and there was no sign of terrorist activity. Frankly, I think it’s been a false alarm but we’re overflying the coast now just to make sure. In a few minutes it will be dark and no one’s going to be doing anything out there.”
“Good work, General Hatkin. You’ve done a fine job in a demanding situation.”
Hatkin basks in the praise as the SecDef lays it on thick. Going from having his entire program threatened and his career shot down in flames, he’s now sitting tall in the saddle as Secretary Kessel tells him of his intent to take the president aside during the upcoming state dinner and tip him off about how DoD has avoided a potential terrorist attack.
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