The silo sat on its own concrete-and-steel platform at opposite ends of the sprawling warehouse-sized structure. The sheet-steel shed was over eighty feet high and seventy-five yards across—longer than a football field. It may have been the biggest single room Amir had ever entered, and his team would need at least that much space. They were supposed to be at least seventy-five yards from the Krakatoa charges when they went off.
His men now dragged the shoulder-launched FGM-148 Javelin out of their seabag, unfolded its tripod, and bolted the TOW missile launcher onto its mount. They loaded a nineteen-pound tandem warhead into the launcher’s breech and locked it in. Its two consecutive warheads would strike the Krakatoa within nanoseconds of each other. The precursor charge in the first warhead would hit the Krakatoa, driving it into the wall of the pool silo, while the second, even more powerful shaped charge would almost instantaneously blast into both the Krakatoa and the precursor, its own detonation exponentially increasing their destructiveness. The synergist, force-multiplying combination of the three charges would shatter the thick concrete-and-steel silo wall with such shaped, sharply pointed explosive force that it would crater the cask with almost indescribable violence.
They looked up at each other and nodded. This could be rough going.
They were about to pulverize those silos with some very heavy ordnance.
6
“The snake in our blissful Eden.”
—President George Caldwell
With studied insouciance, the broadcaster, Linda Rodriguez—an attractive Hispanic reporter with large dark eyes—tossed a long twisting coil of gleaming black hair over her front shoulder. She was elegantly attired in an ebony evening dress. Linda wore no jewelry except for the single strand of Tahitian black pearls adorning her throat. She was introducing the president from the anchor booth:
“Here he comes, President George Caldwell, entering the hall of Congress. A dozen steps behind him—and fashionably late—is the Saudi ambassador to the United States, Prince Shaiq ibn Ishaq. He is escorting the president’s wife and two children; they are headed for the presidential box.”
Linda’s blond-haired tuxedoed co-anchor, Brad Williams, laughed. “The ambassador is reputedly the richest man in the world, and he brought the president’s family here in style. Did you see their arrival on East Capitol Street?”
“How could anyone miss it? They showed up in Ambassador Shaiq ibn Ishaq’s gold limo.”
“The most expensive limo money can buy,” Williams said. “I heard the sultan of Brunei has one like it. Cost him $14 million. Wonder who got his first?”
“Knowing the ambassador, it was probably him.”
“Here, let’s look at some earlier footage of the ambassador,” Brad Williams said, “when he was riding up to the Capitol Building in it.” Footage of the ambassador’s gold limo appeared on national television, heading toward the Capitol Building. “Get that footage up on the screen. There he is. There’s the footage now.”
“The president’s people tell us Shaiq is President Caldwell’s closest friend in Washington,” Linda said. “I guess that’s why he’s got the First Lady and the president’s two kids with him.”
An earlier clip of Ambassador Shaiq ibn Ishaq’s gold limo was now on television sets around the country. The limo was stuck in a paralyzing traffic jam half a block from the Capitol Building. The ambassador, the children, and the First Lady were helped out by black-suited Secret Service agents with cuff mikes and sunglasses.
“It’s nice to know that even the super-rich get stuck in the traffic,” Linda said with a high, tinkling laugh.
“Just like the rest of us,” Brad agreed. “On the other hand, they did arrive here in a Rolls-Royce Silver Spur stretch limo plated with twenty-four-karat gold. That’s not how the rest of us drive to these events.”
“I’ll say,” Linda concurred. “Look at that limo! How’s that for big bucks?”
“If you got it, flaunt it!” Brad shouted, laughing.
“Something tells me no Secret Service agents are searching that car with crowbars and monkey wrenches,” Linda said. “Scratch that thing, and the ambassador’s lawyers will own you.”
“Let’s cut back to the chamber. Linda, can you give us a little background on State of the Union addresses?”
“Sure, Brad. Article two, section three of the Constitution requires that the president of the United States give ‘from time to time information on the State of the Union.’ Now there’s nothing in the Constitution dictating when the president must deliver such a speech. Tradition has typically determined the timing of the speech, its form, and indeed the place where it was delivered. In fact, for over a hundred years, it wasn’t delivered at all but handed up to Congress in written form. FDR was the first president to deliver one at night.”
“So President Caldwell’s decision to deliver a State of the Union address on July Fourth does not violate the Constitution?” Brad asked.
“Not in the least. All the Constitution requires is that these speeches are to be given ‘from time to time.’ Now the four hundred plus House and Senate members are in their seats. Here come the House Speaker and the Senate majority leader escorting the president into the House chamber.”
“As we all know, the vice president is recovering from an appendectomy in the Bethesda Naval Hospital.”
“I’m sure, though, that he’s watching us on TV,” Linda said, waving at the camera. “Hi there, Mr. VP.”
“Hi, indeed,” Brad said. “Here comes the president, entering the chamber. The sergeant at arms is announcing his presence.”
“Mr. Speaker, the president of the United States!” the sergeant’s voice roared.
Amid cheers and applause, the president worked his way toward the Speaker’s rostrum, where he would address the audience.
“No copies of his speech have been circulated,” Brad said, “so he doesn’t have to stop and sign them for any adoring onlookers.”
“Just so. A few handshakes and that’s it. Now he’s there at the rostrum.”
The Speaker began introducing the president.
“Members of Congress, I have the high privilege and distinct honor of presenting to you, the president of the United States.”
The president took over the rostrum.
After the usual litany of greetings and thank you’s, shout-outs, and hand waves, President Caldwell began his speech.
“Some of you may wonder why we are interrupting your wonderful Fourth of July celebrations for this State of the Union address. It is because the Ship of State is in grave peril. At this very moment, tyrants abroad—just as in the day of our Founding Fathers—threaten our way of life. You know them by their myriad names and acronyms—al Qaeda, ISIS, ISIL, Daesh, Hamas, Hezbollah, Iran. These entities are the very incarnation of evil, yet some at home would tell you otherwise. They see no reason why we can’t all just get along. They think people such as these are like anyone else. ‘We’re all the same underneath. You just have to get to know these people. See it from their point of view. Put yourself in their position. Walk a moon in their moccasins.’
“People like this don’t believe evil exists. Our Founding Fathers had suffered the brutal tyranny of George the Third, and they knew better. Today, a lot of our people have come to doubt their wisdom though. Easy times, easy living have made us soft, complacent. We smirk and sneer at the very mention of evil. Evil’s a fantasy, we say, conjured up by fire-breathing, pulpit-pounding preachers, by demagogic politicians to scare the good people of the world for partisan gain and financial profit. Well, I’m here to tell you that evil not only exists, America today is surrounded by it on all sides as well as facing enemies within, all of whom wish to acquire nuclear weapons or expand their current nuclear arsenals. And make no mistake about it, if allowed to continue unchecked, our enemies will use those weapons to raze this land, incinerate our shining city on the Hill. Our brothers and sisters in Saudi Arabia and Israel have battled the demon face-to-face,
eyeball-to-eyeball, and they can tell you about him chapter and verse. They have extended the olive branch and the hand of friendship only to have them slapped away. They have dealt with al Qaeda, ISIS, and Iran close-up and in far more perilous proximity than we have. They have learned after much pain and rejection that all such enemies understand is eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, brute force for brute force. They have learned the wisdom of the great Roman Renatus, who wrote: Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you seek peace, prepare for war. Be a good friend, but a merciless, implacable foe. Offer peace, but if it is spurned or even merely ignored, let your wrath know no bounds.
“Let the word go forth that we have great institutions like the Edward Teller Nuclear Weapons Lab, which is celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary this very day, an event our energy secretary is happily attending. We have such nuclear weapons facilities for the very reason that if the world’s evildoers choose the wicked road, if they slap away our hand of friendship, if they persist in their craven terrorism and extremist violence, if they continue to test and push us and, heaven forbid, if they even think of attacking America here on our own shores, that hand of friendship, which we so generously extend, will clench into a fiery fist of nuclear rage.”
The last line was greeted with a mixture of shocked silence, confused consternation, and scattered bursts of hysterical applause.
“But just as our enemies abroad shall learn firsthand our righteous wrath, so the enemy on our shores will suffer our retribution, too. Let me be crystal clear about that. Ruthless as we shall be with the foe abroad, we shall be doubly so with the vipers at our breast. Those here, who would see the flag of our Fathers muddied, sullied, trampled on, and burned; those who would see this once-proud people dragged weeping to their knees—against them our fury will know no stint or limit.
“God is fair, God is just, but His patience is not perpetual, and His forbearance is not forever. I swear to you now”—and here President Caldwell put his hand over his heart—“the God who doth not spare our foe abroad shall not forgive the devil in our midst, the snake in our blissful Eden.”
7
Enemies he would cheerfully castrate if he could.
—Governor Walter G. Arnett
Across the continent at the Edward Teller Nuclear Weapons Laboratory, California’s governor sat down with other distinguished guests in a small grandstand behind the podium. He and the others present watched the president’s Fourth of July State of the Union address, which was being televised live and projected onto huge screens erected off to the sides of the grandstand. Governor Arnett, an ardent conservative, was particularly pleased with the commander in chief’s oratory, especially the part about showing no mercy to America’s enemies at home. When Governor Arnett was president, that was a policy he would happily embrace. He also had a whole host of enemies at home whom he would love to settle up with when the time came.
Enemies he would cheerfully castrate if he could.
But now the president was pausing for a glass of water, and Governor Arnett could feel a dramatic announcement coming on:
“And now in keeping with my comments on the enemy within,” President Caldwell said, “I would like to begin my policy of ‘no quarter given’ here and now. I am placing a bounty on the heads of Elena Moreno and Julie “Jules” Meredith of $20 million each. Their photos are being flashed on the screen now and have been e-mailed to the news services.”
Close-up head shots of Elena and Jules appeared on the television screen and President Caldwell’s voice-over continued:
“I have ordered our attorney general and the FBI to bring these women back alive, if possible. I have informed them, however, that these women must be considered armed, extremely dangerous and quite possibly in possession of portable terrorist nukes. They have already killed thirteen federal agents. We have reason to believe they are working with ISIS and are obsessed with committing an act of nuclear martyrdom. Our agents must prepare for the probability that they are wearing suicide vests and carrying nuclear detonators. Anyone who comes upon these two women must assume the worst. Therefore, the FBI and the U.S. military are authorized to shoot them and their accomplices on sight.”
Now that’s the kind of action I could get behind, the governor thought to himself.
8
The 7.62mm cartridges tore through the canvas duffel bag at 650 rounds per minute.
Dressed in white boating garb and deck shoes, Adara and Rashid let themselves through the high green iron gate of the Crestview Boat Basin with Jamie’s plastic, magnetic key. A tall, rawboned, redheaded security guard in a light-blue uniform and a shoulder-slung M16 met them as they opened the door. Jamie had cleared the way, and they were on the guest list.
The guard led them down the walkway, into the enclosed cove, and onto the concrete pier. Rashid had a heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and when the guard offered to carry it for him, he politely declined.
“Thanks, but it’s not a problem,” Rashid said.
High, green, cement walls surrounded most of the yacht basin, and for good reason. The marina of choice for Greenwich’s ultrarich, it contained at least a hundred of the world’s most expensive boats. Adara immediately fixated on an Oceanic 70M, two M60 SeaFalcons, one SF60, a fifty-five-meter Sovereign, and at least three M57 Eidos; and they were only a handful of the first ones she noticed. All the vessels were a scintillating alabaster and not one under fifty meters in length or with fewer than three decks. Sensuous young women in string bikinis—with drinks in hand and hips swaying to blaring music—adorned most of them.
Adara immediately spotted their own craft—a Tanga II. Over sixty meters in length, it was part of the 105 series. Built by Overmarine, it was arguably the fastest yacht on the high seas. It featured two standard MTU diesel engines and a Lycoming gas turbine linked to a central booster. Together, they gave her almost eight thousand horsepower and a top speed of forty-six knots.
Jamie had told them it was fully stocked and that his captain, Roberto Guttierez, a former Mexican drug smuggler, could be relied on if things got rough. Jamie had once paid a king’s ransom to a Mexican justice minister to free him from prison, where the Juarez judiciary had sent him for the twenty-year-old murder of a cartel drug lord. Jamie felt it was worth the seven-figure bribe, however. Roberto’s loyalty to his boss was absolute, and Jamie valued such things. When Jamie had briefly outlined for Roberto what he needed, the man immediately agreed. Roberto would take them all to Central America until this thing was over.
Attired in a light-blue shirt with epaulettes, matching pants, and a captain’s hat, Roberto waited for them on the dock. His black, sweeping mustache made Adara feel like she was boarding a pirate ship.
“We have plenty of gas, food, liquor, everything,” Roberto said without preamble. “And we’re ready to push off.”
“Ordnance?” Rashid asked.
“But of course,” Roberto said with a modest, palms-up gesture.
After Roberto retired to the pilothouse, Rashid went out onto the bow with the duffel bag, and Adara retreated to the stern. The redheaded security guard was undoing the bowline. He tossed it to Rashid, while the other man—a barefoot boater in a T-shirt and cutoffs—threw the stern line to Adara.
Rashid stayed on the bow with his duffel bag, even as they pulled out of the harbor. He was soon glad he had. While they were heading out to sea, an open-deck, thirty-foot coast guard patrol boat approached them on their starboard.
One of its three uniformed officers, standing on the boat’s bow, shouted at Rashid through a bullhorn:
“We’re pulling up alongside. We have to board. We’re inspecting all craft leaving this marina. There’s been a reported theft.”
A fellow officer joined him on the bow. “What’s in your duffel bag, sir?”
“Why nothing, Captain,” Rashid said, giving them his most innocent smile.
Reaching inside, he quickly locked the M60 machine gun’s ammo belt into the gun’s loading por
t. Raising the bag up to his right hip, he opened fire on the boat’s three-man crew, two of whom were on the bow. The 7.62mm cartridges tore through the canvas duffel bag at 650 rounds per minute. The duffel bag burst into flames just as nearly two hundred rounds slammed into the three coast guard officers at twenty-eight hundred feet per second, morphing them into hemorrhaging, bullet-ripped wrecks. Shaking his weapon free of the blazing shroud, Rashid continued to fire unabated, refusing to stop until he’d blasted away most of the hull’s waterline.
By the time the Tanga II had passed the coast guard boat, the patrol boat was listing hard-port and starting to submerge. Roberto turned out to sea and up the coast at high speed. When Rashid glanced back one last time in her direction, she was gone.
9
The fuel assemblies were laid bare, their exposed rods blindingly ablaze.
Hamzi stood outside under the hot sun in front of the dry-cask silos. He was sure the ringing and banging in his ears would never stop. Even with earplugs, the roar of the shoulder-fired FGM-148 Javelin missile launchers and exploding Krakatoa shaped charges was beyond bearing.
* * *
For the last twenty minutes, Hamzi had watched the six men under him blasting nineteen-pound tandem warheads into Krakatoa charges duct-taped to the sides of the dry casks with tripod-mounted FGM-148 Javelin TOW missile launchers from seventy-five yards away. The copper plates in the shaped charges’ tips, on detonation, were transformed into sharply pointed antitank shells that pierced and blasted through the concrete and steel with tightly focused force.
After they had finally succeeded in blowing a hole in the silos’ sides, he’d watched them shove Krakatoa charges into the smoking, gaping rents and pour missile after missile, tandem warhead after tandem warhead into each of the new Krakatoas, which had been freshly placed in those openings. For the coup de grace, they had shoved and taped three Krakatoa charges into each of the twisted, jagged craters. Those final blasts had knocked everyone to their knees and their TOW launchers to the ground.
And Into the Fire Page 26