Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Charlie,” the president said, shifting his attention to the NATO ambassador waiting to get his ear.

  Twelve hours later, sitting in front of the president’s huge oak desk, Kessel holds back until the stewards shuffle out with the coffee service before putting the last nail in the coffin. “I’m not saying Dickson was complicitous, Mr. President. Only that Straub and DHS sold him a bill of goods. Convinced him there was imminent danger and spooked him so he pushed the panic button.”

  “He had no hard evidence there were terrorists involved?”

  “As you know, we get bits and pieces of information about terrorist activity on a regular basis. But there’s been no consistent pattern.”

  “So no reason to be waving a red flag?”

  “It’s a case of Dickson losing his nerve. He should have pushed back at Straub and Jimmick, demanded more proof—instead he caved.”

  “Always knew he was in over his head. Who would you suggest to replace him?”

  “There are a number of excellent candidates in my department. I’ll get some resumes over by the end of the day.” He doesn’t know if General Whitey Hatkin would even consider taking the CIA job. But someone like Hatkin would insure the military’s position as kingpin of intelligence.

  “What should we do with Jimmick?” Kessel wants to tell him he should clean house over at DHS while he’s at it. But no point in pushing his case too far, Kessel thinks. If events keep playing out the way they are, the boss will come to that conclusion on his own.

  “Your call, Mr. President.”

  “And Straub and this whistleblower character—what’s his name?”

  “Collyer, Howard Collyer.”

  “We need to do something about them so this doesn’t happen again.”

  “They scrubbed the search, we think they’ve given up.”

  “But they are a couple of loose cannons, we don’t need people like that wandering around Washington. Do something about them.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Kessel smiles confidently while thinking, Easier said than done.

  Five minutes after Warren’s SUV abruptly sped out of the boatyard, kicking up dust and chirping its tires as it roared off down the main road, seven stocky Coast Guard noncoms, armed and all business, come bursting into the office where Sharon, Howie and Risstup are having coffee. “We have orders to move you immediately, please come with us!” the lead guy announces, pointing to the Hummers pulled up in front of the building.

  “Can you tell us where we’re going?” Howie asks, as they herd him out the door.

  “Sorry, sir, we need to get a move on,” the officer snaps back at him. Howie helps Risstup out onto the landing, thinking back at the sound of his friend’s voice in the brief phone call twenty minutes earlier, clipped and edgy, definitely out of character.

  Winn had only told him two things. This is the last time we’ll use this cell. And, we’re going to move you soon. Howie was about to ask where when the line went dead.

  These guys aren’t wasting any time, Howie thinks as the men hustle them into the lead SUV, the rest of the group piling into remaining Hummers. The vehicle containing Risstup, Howie and Sharon tears out of the yard, the other SUVs following, heading down the narrow road leading into Fairhaven. Riding up on the bumper of a car poking along ahead of them, the driver leans on the horn until the car pulls over. The convoy speeds past, careening down the winding country road. Sharon bumps up against Howie as the truck swerves around a corner. Off to his left, Howie can see the bay through the trees. We are heading south. Warren took off to the north. Probably headed back to base. Hope that’s the last I see of him.

  “Do you have any idea of what’s going on?” Sharon asks him.

  “I’d say they are taking us to a more secure location.”

  “I bet that’s what they tell people on their way to Guantanamo.”

  “Winn didn’t have time to talk.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just ask.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Sharon leans forward and says into the front seat, “Can you tell me where we’re headed? I think we have a right to know.”

  The Coast Guardsman riding shotgun turns slowly, glares at her and says, “You’ll see when we get there, ma’am.”

  Sharon slumps back in her seat, snorts and turns to stare out the window at the passing scenery.

  Straub is relieved when he sees the line of Hummers wheeling into the lot of the St. Inigoes Coast Guard Station. After his conversation with Dickson, he hustled Jimmick out of the control room and they rushed out to the chopper that Jimmick had taken down from Langley. Straub was relieved when the helicopter lifted off and he watched the wooded terrain of Camp Peary dropping away beneath him.

  En route to the station, Winn updated Jimmick on developments over the past six hours. Kessel must have convinced the president that Dickson was operating on flawed intelligence. What the president and the Pentagon are going to do now is anyone’s guess. But it made sense to keep their heads down until they can figure out their next move.

  Jimmick knew the perfect place, a Coast Guard rescue station on the northern shore of the Potomac less than an hour’s drive from Fairhaven. He quickly made arrangements with the senior chief in charge, an enlisted man named Andersen, and in fifteen minutes they were landing in a field down the street.

  A small concrete block building set back from the water, with two patrol boats moored on the inlet, it’s a real hole in the wall, Straub decided as the chief showed them around the station—small office, radio room, head and galley—low profile and out in the sticks—just what he needed.

  A half hour later, the convoy pulled up in front of the building.

  “Hard-core crew, looks like Delta Force,” he says to Jimmick as they watch the men in blue uniforms scrambling around helping their passengers out of the vehicles.

  “What did you expect—Sea Scouts?” Jimmick reacts. Looking out the window at the three coming up the walk, he asks, “So the tall one’s Collyer?”

  “Yes, that’s Howie and the other guy’s the pilot.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “The nurse from the VA hospital.”

  “She’s been tagging along this whole time?”

  “This lady doesn’t tag along. Wait until you meet her.”

  Straub watches out the window as the group approaches. He hasn’t seen Howie since Friday at Tysons. Looks fine but still is in need of a shave.

  Winn, Jimmick and Andersen stand to greet the new arrivals as they come in the front door. Straub gets a big hug and wide smile from Howie.

  “Sure glad to see you, buddy,” Howie says.

  “Been a rough couple days, I know. I’d like to have you meet Lucien Jimmick, secretary of Homeland Security,” Straub says, introducing everyone. “Lucien has the Coast Guard in his department, so we’re his guests. And this is Chief Andersen, he’s our host.”

  Sharon shakes hands with Winn. “Thanks for the exciting ride.”

  “We didn’t have any choice but to get you out of there fast.”

  “You want to tell us what’s going on? I’m tired of being the only bump on a log around here.”

  “Certainly, please sit down,” Straub says, pulling out a chair from a good-sized table. “I’ll explain it all.”

  “Finally,” she huffs.

  Straub, Jimmick, Howie and Sharon take their places at the table, Risstup sits off to the side.

  Howie starts off, “Time to get out of Dodge, huh?”

  “It’s getting hot up there, for sure,” Straub says. “For a while we were on a roll. We had the president’s ear. But the blowback on this has already begun. Kessel’s turning the situation to his advantage. First thing he did was to pull the rug on Dickson. Told the president it’s Langley’s last gasp, a desperate attempt to save its ass.”

  “I bet I don’t last the week,” Jimmick adds.

  “How did it all go to shit so fast?” Howie asks.r />
  “The secretary of Defense trumps the director of the CIA. All he has to do is tell the president a bigger lie.”

  “Is there any good news?” Sharon asks.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Jimmick says. “We had a metallurgist and a mechanical engineer inspect a bomb factory we found in Philly. Their best guess is that they were machining hollow stainless steel rings there. The engineer described them as hollow doughnuts—”

  “No doubt packed with C-4,” Howie adds.

  “Most likely.”

  “How big?” Howie asks.

  “Size of a large life preserver. Diameter of three to four feet.”

  Howie pauses before he says, “We are in more trouble than I thought.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The nukes deployed at the time Risstup’s plane went down were designed with the TNT charge at the top. Imagine a cylinder with a tip shaped like the nose of a bullet. The TNT was packed around the atomic charge inside that point.”

  “So what does the doughnut shape have to do with it?”

  “The continuing question about these lost nukes is whether the TNT has been degraded to the point it’s no longer explosive. That’s what the Pentagon’s position has been since they lost the damn things.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “The engineer designed the ring as a primer for the TNT. The suicide diver slips it over the top of the nuke so it completely encircles the TNT. When the C-4 goes off, it’s like a booster, evenly distributing the explosive charge of the C-4 around the TNT so no matter what condition it is in, detonation is guaranteed. It’s absolutely brilliant.”

  “What if the nuke is upside down?’

  “The nuke from Risstup’s plane was a Mk-15. It was dropped with three parachutes so in all likelihood it would have gone into the water tail first. If it’s down there, chances are it’s upright.”

  “So that’s what the swimmer was doing in the pool, practicing handling heavy objects under water?”

  “Right, and in the tank he rehearsed placing the doughnut on the nose of the bomb.”

  “Doesn’t he have to set off the C-4 somehow?”

  “That’s the easy part.”

  “Under water?”

  Straub jumps in, “Done every day in routine underwater demolitions work. Small battery gives off an electrical charge and the C-4 is history. If this nuclear engineer designed a sophisticated booster, it would be like falling off a log for him to figure out how to ignite the C-4.”

  “How long do you figure it would take the suicide diver to put the ring on the bomb?” Jimmick asks.

  “Only a matter of seconds, the swim coach at Rutgers clocked him at ten miles an hour,” Straub answers. “That’s why we have to flush him out. Since they have a foolproof way to detonate a nuke, they can take the technology and apply it anywhere. The hundreds of bombs lying around in bays, lakes and rivers all over Russia, Europe and the US that we hoped were harmless, now every one is a possible threat. Just like the Jersey bomb, if they can find it chances are they can set it off.”

  “There’s another aspect to consider,” Howie adds. “Major Risstup confirmed that this Mk-15 has a nuclear capsule. It’s like a firing pin. No safeties to keep it from going off. Slip that ring over the nose of the nuke and instantly you’ve got hundreds of times the devastation of the bombs we dropped on Japan.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Since Warren was reassigned and we scrammed, they probably think we’ve given up the search. I’d say maybe a day or two if we’re lucky.”

  “That’s all we’re going to need,” Howie says.

  “Why do you say that?” Straub asks. He’s taken aback by Howie’s sudden change in attitude. Before he went out on the bay, he had been skittish and tense. Straub even wondered whether his friend would hold up. But now he’s showing a new side, composed and confident. Straub wonders, What does he know that we don’t?

  “Anything new about the suicide diver?” Howie asks.

  Jimmick answers, “The FBI cooked his computer, discovered a website the terrorists are using to communicate.”

  “And—?”

  “We cracked the code a couple hours ago. We can tell their every move. They just have to make one.”

  “Is there a PC around here I can use?” Howie stands. Straub’s brow furrows. Now what kind of plan is Howie hatching?

  Straub points to Andersen, “I’m sure the chief will let you use his. You want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “First, I have to get on that computer.”

  El-Khadr stands looking over his meteorologist’s shoulder console as the expert outlines the situation. Having watched the storm for the past twelve hours, El-Khadr likes what he sees, a front creeping up the coast, a large green mass now hovering over North Carolina with the potential to turn into a full-fledged system that will shift the prevailing winds.

  Between the months of October and April, he knows conditions can occur spawning violent weather with eighty-mile-an-hour winds, heavy rain, thunder and lightning. El-Khadr rode out a Northeaster one fall when he lived in Baltimore. Shingles flew, cars were pummeled with hail while the rain blew sideways for hours.

  The meteorologist points out the second component of the storm pattern, a cold front dropping down from Canada. “While the storm with all the moisture from the Gulf is coming up,” he explains, “and the cold front is dropping down toward it, a major collision is possible. Though some systems slide out to sea, once in a while they work their way up the coast and wreak havoc.”

  “What’s your guess on this one?”

  “Highly unpredictable. Still too early to tell, but I don’t see enough energy in the warm front to go up against it.”

  “If the storm heads out over the Atlantic, what direction will the wind rotation be?” El-Khadr asks.

  His meteorologist’s answer makes him smile. It might not turn out to be the perfect storm, but it will do. Instead of the mushroom cloud heading out to sea, it will be swept inland.

  Pressure has been coming down from the mountains above Pakistan, the messages becoming more and more insistent. All eyes are upon you. Seize the moment, strike when the iron is hot, the posts read. If he had more evidence that the spot where Collyer’s boat stopped was the site of the bomb, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Everything is ready. Mehran already has the coordinates and is prepared to strike. Yet the storm leaves El-Khadr little choice. He cannot miss the opportunity to have the winds spread Mehran’s gift far and wide, scattering deadly radiation as far west as the Ohio Valley, as far north as New York and New England.

  “Send a post to Mehran. Tell him he must be patient. We are waiting for the helping hand of Allah to make dahlias bloom all over the Eastern Seaboard.”

  Straub, Jimmick, and Howie sit in front of the PC reading through the posts on Jeffri’s Garden. Sharon stands behind them, alternately horrified and spellbound by the wealth of information and detail in the messages over the past ten days. What she’s reading confirms everything that Howie’s been telling her.

  Not only have the terrorists been shadowing every move they made, from Pittsburgh to Baltimore, they have prepared for every eventuality— deep water recovery or shallow water detonation—and seem to have teams everywhere ready to perform their mission.

  All of a sudden a new post pops up.

  “This is real time—exactly what they are saying to the suicide diver,” Straub explains. “He’s probably reading it right now.”

  You must be patient. We are waiting for the helping hand of Allah to make dahlias bloom all over the Eastern Seaboard.

  “Dahlias are bombs?” Sharon asks.

  “H-bombs, right,” Jimmick confirms.

  “You don’t have to be a codebreaker to know what they are talking about,” Howie says as they sit staring at the screen. “They are waiting for the weather to explode the bomb. Look—”

  Howie clicks on an NOAA weather site
displaying radar and satellite pictures of the Atlantic Coast and points to the front coming up the coast. “That’s what they mean by dahlias blooming all over the Eastern Seaboard. Instead of the prevailing winds taking the radiation out to sea, this storm will sweep it inland and spread it everywhere across the northeast US.”

  Straub says, “They must be certain the bomb’s where your boat stopped yesterday.”

  “If they aren’t, they soon will be,” Howie says, jumping up from his chair and turning to Jimmick. “Mr. Secretary, can you arrange for Chief Andersen to take me for a cruise?”

  “It’s his call. What do you say, Chief?”

  The chief turns from the window overlooking the inlet in front of the station. “It’s starting to get pretty nasty out there, sir.”

  Howie’s on his feet, heading for the rack of foul-weather gear as he says, “Not half as nasty as it will be if we don’t finish this guy off.”

  Mehran can feel the wind picking up, rattling the doors on the boathouse and whipping up the bay. He hears waves breaking on the pilings outside. Retracting the canvas floor, even inside the boathouse the water is stirred up and sloshing around. He checks the readings on his instruments, the winds are up to twelve knots from the southwest. The temperature is steady at 47° but the barometer is sinking fast. The weather system is approaching, and so is my time.

  He picks up his cell phone and clicks on Jeffri’s Garden. Since Saturday afternoon, he has been logging on every hour anticipating the signal. Catching a few winks, looking at the website again, off and on for almost eighty hours. He has double- and triple-checked everything. The collar has been carefully loaded into the rack, gas tank filled to the brim, batteries fully charged, his tanks at the recommended PSI, the coordinates logged into his GPS. The posts advise him to be patient. So he sits quietly in his makeshift loft reading the Koran, listening to the gulls squawking overhead and the waves noisily slapping the boathouse walls.