Havoc - v4

by Jack Du Brul

  As they sailed deeper into the harbor, they could see the massive oil tankers at their moorings. Some were more than a thousand feet long, more resembling steel islands than vessels meant to cross the oceans. Next to them was a container port with a spidery gantry crane for unloading the ships. In the yard behind it, the brightly colored boxes resembled a child’s set of building blocks stacked in neat ranks. Even at this early hour workers were loading containers onto the vessel from flatbed trucks that were lined along the quay.

  Their orders had been specific. They were to bring the fishing boat as close as they could to the tanker terminal before detonating the five hundred tons of fuel oil and fertilizer crammed in her holds. The special barrels brought to them the night before by the one-eyed man were sitting on the deck.

  Hasan tried to clear his mind as they approached the tanker facility’s outer buoy. When that failed he tried to picture paradise, but all he kept seeing was the tears on his little sister’s face when he left Damascus to join the Pakistani madrassa where he’d been recruited by the great Saudi caliph, Mohammad bin Al-Salidi. He recalled his father staring at him stonily, not understanding why his son would rather die than take over the family hardware store. His mother had wailed inconsolably that morning and locked herself in her bedroom.

  The cell’s leader, the acne-scarred Saudi named Abdullah, spotted the trouble first and hit Hasan’s shoulder. A sleek harbor patrol craft had rounded the tall bow of a tanker awaiting its turn to be filled with crude piped to the facility from Kazakhstan.

  So wrapped in his own memories and feeling the weight of dread in his stomach, Hasan was startled as soon as he saw the patrol boat. Its lights weren’t on and they had yet to cross the boundary reserved for the supertankers, but he panicked nevertheless. He rammed the throttles to their stops and spun the wheel to its starboard lock so fast the spindles blurred.

  While the hull and upper works of the fishing boat were weather-worn and used, she had a new Volvo marine diesel in her engine room. Black exhaust jetted from the twin stacks as the engine responded to Hasan’s inexperienced command.

  The boat heeled over as it accelerated, the angle increasing as Hasan kept the rudder buried. In moments her port rail was awash. The netting hanging from her stern derrick was caught by a swell and wrenched off the vessel.

  “Hasan! The barrels!”

  The two barrels sitting on the foredeck had fallen over and were rolling toward the rail.

  Behind them the harbor patrol had noted the fishing boat’s erratic behavior. The security forces at the new facility were well trained and responded immediately. Red and blue lights mounted on a horizontal bar above the open cockpit snapped on. The siren started to scream as the swift vessel began chasing after the fishing boat.

  Hasan saw that they were about to lose the precious barrels, though he didn’t know what made them so important. He spun the wheel to the opposite lock without easing back on the throttles. The big fishing boat leaned over to starboard, stopping the barrels’ headlong plunge. But then they started rolling the other way. For a giddy moment it reminded Hasan of a handheld plastic game he had as a boy where you had to maneuver tiny metal balls into little cups and keep them from falling from their slots until you had them all in.

  Only this game he lost. He was too slow reacting to the barrels’ inexorable slide. The first five-hundred-pound drum smashed into the salt-weakened railing. The metal sagged, but held. Then the second barrel caromed into the first. The rail tore away and both steel casks rolled over the side and vanished under the black waters of the bay.

  Hasan looked to Abdullah, his beautiful face a mask of confusion and shame. “What do we do?” he cried.

  The patrol boat was a half mile away and closing fast. There were three uniformed men aboard, one cradling a shotgun. While another steered the speedboat, the third was shouting into a walkie-talkie.

  Abdullah cursed. This wasn’t how he envisioned meeting Allah, running from a little Russian boat. “Turn us back,” he snarled.

  Hasan spun the wheel once more, cutting across their own wake and driving the boat closer to the tanker terminal.

  When the patrol boat was fifty yards from the fishing boat, one of the sailors called across with a megaphone, and when his hails were ignored the man with the shotgun fired a blast across the bigger boat’s bows.

  “They’re shooting at us,” Hasan screamed. “We must stop. We are not close enough. We can surrender.”

  “No.” Abdullah held the detonator that would blow a small charge of plastic explosives set amid the barrels of ammonia nitrate and fuel oil.

  The fishing boat was still a mile from the nearest tanker when it erupted. The explosion blew a hole in the sea a half mile wide and eighty feet deep. The fisherman and the patrol craft were atomized instantly while the shock wave that raced from the epicenter at supersonic speeds blew out every pane of glass in the harbor. Flimsier structures along the quay were blown flat. The container crane withstood the blast but the containers behind it were strewn in haphazard heaps, many of them broken open, their contents littering the ground.

  The explosion sent a tidal wave rearing up in all directions. Part of it went harmlessly out into the open sea, while massive walls of water pounded the port facility. Because the tanker was waiting to be loaded, she carried no ballast and rode high in the water. The wave smashed into its thousand-foot flank, rolling the ponderous vessel on its side. The titanic forces acting on it split the hull at the keel and she started to sink. The sub-sea pipelines that fed the floating terminal structure were sheared off and crude began to erupt through the surface of the bay in great reeking clots.

  The fireball rising in the middle of the harbor seemed to rival the sun climbing over the Caucasus. It topped out at four thousand feet, a roiling column of fire and smoke that resembled a nuclear detonation. As the explosive force dissipated, the ocean surged back into the void the blast had gouged in the water. The torrent created by the backflow ripped floating docks from their moorings, swamping pleasure craft and small fishing smacks in the process. A bulk carrier leaving the port was dragged back a hundred yards by the surge and slammed into another big freighter entering the harbor. Both vessels were holed and started taking on water.

  The echoing roar of the explosion faded, leaving in its wake the angry shriek of thousands of car alarms.

  And under the surface of the churned waters of the bay two containers that had fallen from the deck of the fishing boat lay silent, their tough metal hides dented, as they’d been tossed like leaves in a maelstrom, but they had not been breached. They had come to rest close enough for the plutonium in one container to begin calling to the material in the other like a separated lover. It would take time, but the increasing exchange of charged particles would go critical and their bond would be consummated in a blast more deadly than the one that had just destroyed the harbor.

  “What happened?” Mercer asked as Devrin and Ahmad continued to speak in rapid-fire Turkish.

  “An explosion in Novorossiysk.”

  “That’s the oil port you just mentioned,” Cali said.

  “How bad?”

  “Reports are just coming in now. They say the harbor was leveled. There are ships on fire and many buildings too. The media estimates the death toll in the thousands. Some eyewitnesses claim it was a small nuclear blast.”

  “Poli couldn’t have refined the plutonium to make a bomb that quickly. If anything it’s a dirty bomb.”

  “Which is just as bad,” Cali remarked. “And spreading plutonium dust over the sea will make cleanup virtually impossible. It will be decades before the area could be rendered safe, if it’s possible at all.”

  “We have to tell the authorities about the plutonium,” Mercer said, thinking through the logical steps the Russians would be taking. The harbor would be jammed with rescue personnel, firefighters, and medical teams. They’d be running into an invisible cloud of highly charged plutonium atoms. Inhaling just a tiny amount
of the radioactive dust would cause cancers of unspeakable intensity. “They have to evacuate the city as soon as possible.”

  Ahmad said something to Devrin and the college student handed Mercer his satellite phone. “I do not know who to talk with to get the Russians to evacuate a city,” Ahmad added.

  Mercer checked the phone, waiting a second for it to make a link with an orbiting satellite. He dialed Ira Lasko’s direct office number. Ira’s secretary answered.

  “Carol, it’s Philip Mercer. I need to speak with Ira right away.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting with the President and the national security team. I assume you’ve heard what happened in Russia. Can I take a message?”

  “I have some critical information about the explosion. You’ve got to get Ira for me.”

  “They should be done in an hour or so. I can have him call you.”

  “I’m on a satellite phone and I may lose the connection any second,” he said, keeping a tight rein on his exasperation. “I know you’re used to dealing with crises but unless you get him for me, thousands of people are going to die a horrible death.”

  A few seconds passed, the phone buzzing in Mercer’s ear. “Give me a minute to transfer you to the situation room.”

  She transferred Mercer to a Marine colonel stationed outside the situation room buried deep under the White House. Mercer had only to say the words “dirty bomb” for the colonel to step into the inner sanctum and bring Ira Lasko to the phone.

  “What’s this, Mercer?” he asked gruffly.

  “We’re too late. I stopped Feines from getting the bulk of the plutonium but he managed to make off with two barrels; I estimate about a thousand pounds’ worth of the ore. I believe it was in Novorossiysk.”

  “Any proof?”

  “Not a shred, but Feines steals two barrels of plutonium and twenty-four hours later a city within driving distance gets leveled. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “We’ve already been in touch with the Russkies. My buddy Greg Popov is apoplectic that extremists would pull something like this but he says they’ve already swept the harbor with Geiger counters and gamma ray detectors. The site’s clean.”

  That wasn’t what Mercer had expected. “It has to be there. Maybe the drums didn’t rupture or maybe their equipment’s bad but I know it was there.” He thought for a second. “How did they do it? The explosion I mean.”

  “Greg tells me it was a fishing boat loaded with explosives, amfo most likely. Ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. They were approaching the tanker side of the harbor when they were spotted by harbor patrol. Last transmission from the patrol guys said the boat was turning away and throwing away contraband. A minute later it went up and leveled about two square miles.”

  “Ira, the contraband was the barrels. I bet they rolled off the deck when they turned the boat. Go over Popov’s head if you have to.”

  “I almost had to when I talked to him about the plutonium in the first place. I told you he’s a cagey operator.”

  Something in the way he said it gave Mercer an idea. What was it Ahmad had suggested earlier, “Be more cynical than you usually are.” That cynicism had been born of grief but Mercer could use it. He spoke even as the idea coalesced in his mind. “The explosion happened this morning, right? It takes hours to begin any kind of relief operation and your guy Popov says they’ve already scanned for nuclear materials so fast. Is that standard operating procedure?”

  “I really don’t know,” Ira replied warily. “What are you getting at?”

  “You told me that the Russians didn’t even know they still had this plutonium until you called them on it. Then two days later Feines shows up just before we arrive. He’s got RPGs capable of bringing down a chopper and enough firepower to hold off an army. What if Popov tipped him?”

  “And let Feines nuke one of Russia’s most important ports? The guy’s cagey, not insane.”

  “Ira, I have it on good authority that a faction inside Saudi Arabia’s behind the whole thing in a bid to prevent Caspian oil from cutting into their bottom line. What if Popov was told they were going to hit the other big oil terminal in Turkey? He wouldn’t have cared less. It would actually help Russia by eliminating competition.”

  “Only he was double-crossed?”

  “I just remembered he was supposed to be coming to the mine today. What was he doing in Novorossiysk anyway?”

  “He did mention he’d been there since yesterday.”

  “Hold on a second.” Mercer strode across the camp to where Sasha Federov was chatting with the pilot. “Sasha, can you think of any reason Grigori Popov could have gone to Novorossiysk last night?”

  The soldier looked confused by the question. “Novo? I don’t know why he would be there. He was supposed to land in Samara last night so he could follow the train. Which is late, by the way.”

  Mercer thanked him and spoke to Ira once again. “Popov should have been in Samara, not on the Black Sea. Ask yourself, do you think he’s capable of helping Feines if he thought the plutonium would be used outside Russia?” Ira didn’t answer for a long moment, which told Mercer everything he needed to know. “Go over his head, Ira. He’s stalling so he can recover the drums, get them back up here, and sweep this whole thing under the rug.”

  “I hate to say it, but it’s possible.”

  “Remember Ibriham Ahmad, the Turkish professor I’ve been trying to reach. He’s here with me right now. Turns out he also heads the Janissaries, but the important thing is that we stop fundamentalists from taking credit for the blast and inspiring others in the region from taking up the fight. This shit feeds on itself. If we stop it now, it’s going to save us a whole lot of problems in the future.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “You have to convince the Russians not to disclose this was a terrorist act. Have them report it as an industrial accident, gas buildup in a tanker’s hull or something.” Ahmad mouthed something to Mercer. He clamped his hand over the phone and asked him to repeat himself.

  “Some extremist group will claim the attack on the Internet. The authorities must be ready to discredit any such statement.”

  “Good idea.”

  Ahmad bobbed his head in acknowledgment. “I do this for a living.”

  “Ira, you’ve also got to monitor Web sites and shut down anything having to do with terrorists taking credit for the blast.”

  “What else?” Lasko asked, sounding like he was writing notes to himself.

  “I don’t know. You’re the spinmeister not me. Hey, any word from Booker?”

  “Nothing yet. Give me a phone number and I’ll call as soon as I have anything on either Book or the Russkies. And Mercer, don’t beat yourself up about this. You’ve done a hell of a job.”

  Ira clicked off. Mercer’s friend’s last words were meant to cheer him. If anything, they made him feel worse.

  Mercer handed the satellite phone to Federov. “Contact your superiors. The train’s not coming. They need to send another chopper because I think Grigori Popov has betrayed us.”

  “What?”

  “I think he tipped off Poli about the cache of plutonium here. At first I thought there might have been a security leak on my side, but it makes more sense that Popov betrayed my boss and his own country. What do you know about him?”

  “Not much,” Sasha admitted. “He is a deputy minister, a former admiral. I have heard he favors Western sports cars and is how you say, a maverick, a cowboy. I would not be surprised if he’s had dealings with criminal elements because in Russia these days that is the only way to gain power.”

  “Do you think he would sell black market nuclear material?”

  Sasha’s eyes turned sad as he considered such a betrayal. “I do not know. In this world anything is possible.”

  Ludmilla and her colleague trudged up the switchback road from the railhead. While she seemed as fresh and imperturbable as ever, the male scientist looked on the verge of a massive
coronary. She spoke to Sasha for five minutes, answering a few questions before heading off to eat.

  “What did she say?” Mercer asked. Cali joined them while Ibriham Ahmad and Devrin Egemen consulted privately.

  “It appears none of the containers split open.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  “They were loaded into two of the boxcars. The rest were empty. She says there were sixty-eight barrels, bringing the total to seventy accounting for the two Feines stole. So far there is little heat buildup but she says we must get the barrels isolated from each other soon to prevent the plutonium from obtaining critical mass and exploding.”

  “She’s right,” Mercer said, “but there’s not much the group of us can do for now.” He paused. “Maybe there is. Is there any kind of record of what was in the depot?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Mercer looked to Cali. She spoke first. “I guess we’re going to play grocery clerk and take inventory.”

  The rubberized contamination suit smelled of stale sweat and halitosis and what he was pretty sure was urine, a nauseating combination that churned the tinned borscht lying in Mercer’s stomach.

  “How you doing?” he asked Cali as she sealed the hood over her head.

  “Ugh. Smells like a locker room of a girls’ volleyball team.”

  “I’ve got bad breath and pee in mine. Want to switch?”

  “Pass.”

  They were standing outside the entrance of the old mine with Ahmad, Devrin, and Ludmilla. The Russian scientist checked over their suits, using a roll of duct tape to seal their gloves and boots. She ran her hands over the suits to make sure there were no rips or tears from when she had examined the train wreckage. Mercer wasn’t sure whose backside she lingered over more, his or Cali’s, but the examination in that region had been more than thorough.