Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

The Kuwaiti noticed the look of concern on the face of this man he had known for less than a day. “Is everything all right?”

  Al-Yamani didn’t answer at first. He was still reeling from the harsh realization that somehow his mission had been compromised. Then, concealing his fury and his sudden suspicion of the young man, he said, “Everything is fine.”

  Yacoub joined him at the wall and looked out across the yard. “It shouldn’t be long now. The ship is at least halfway unloaded.”

  “I think you are right.” Al-Yamani offered the man the binoculars. “What is that building over there used for?”

  Yacoub took the binoculars and looked through them. “Which one?”

  Casually, al-Yamani stepped behind him and pointed over his shoulder to the building with the observation deck on the top floor. “That building right there. The one with the men standing outside.” With one hand still pointing, al-Yamani reached under his shirt and grabbed the hilt of his knife again, only this time he drew the weapon from its leather scabbard. The hand that had been pointing was gently placed on the Kuwaiti’s shoulder and then without warning it clamped down firmly. Al-Yamani plunged the knife into the unsuspecting man’s back with great force.

  The binoculars crashed to the hard ground breaking into several pieces. The Kuwaiti’s body went rigid in response to the unanticipated assault. He arched his back and his mouth opened wide to let loose a scream of agony, but al-Yamani was too quick, too schooled in the art of killing. His free hand moved from his fellow warrior’s shoulder to his mouth, stifling the cry.

  The struggle only lasted a few more seconds, and then the Kuwaiti slid to the ground, his eyes open and still seeing, his brain still registering images, struggling to comprehend why this fellow Muslim had just killed him. Al-Yamani loosened his grip and withdrew the knife as the body went limp. He let the man fall the last several feet to the ground and then in a crouch, barely peeking over the roofs of the cars, he quickly scanned the parking garage. He half expected to see a bunch of FBI men rushing toward him, guns drawn, screaming for him to drop the knife, just as they did in the movies. Al-Yamani’s mind raced ahead for a way not to escape, but to kill himself before they got their hands on him. He could jump.

  But they never came. The seconds passed, and he remained alone on the second to the top floor of the parking garage. Cautiously he bent down on one knee and wiped his weapon on the dead Kuwaiti’s shirt. Al-Yamani took a moment to study the dark, innocent-looking eyes, having not the slightest clue if the man he had just killed was guilty of treachery, stupidity, or nothing at all. It didn’t really matter.

  Everyone was expendable in this just cause, from the greatest of Allah’s warriors to the most inconsequential. The facts were stark. Something had gone wrong, what al-Yamani did not know for sure, but it only proved that he needed to be extra vigilant. He would not allow the Americans to capture him, and he couldn’t take chances with the Kuwaiti. He was better off on his own. Al-Yamani dragged the body to a corner of the garage where it would be mostly hidden by a parked car. He grabbed the man’s wallet and then ran back to the Kuwaiti’s car. The most important thing for him right now was to get away from this forsaken city.

  “Paul,” said Hanousek as the yard tractor rumbled past. She couldn’t hear her boss’s reply, so she waited a few seconds and said, “We’re about to start.”

  “What’s the status?” asked Reimer who was still holed up at the Department of Energy’s facility in Germantown, Maryland.

  Hanousek walked into the warehouse as the big cargo doors began closing behind her. “The container was just off-loaded and brought into a Customs warehouse.” She continued walking through the cavernous space to where her team was setting up their equipment.

  Clasps were being popped, cases opened, and equipment unloaded. Hanousek’s team had been together almost two years. The many drills, false alarms, and random searches had made this activity routine. Never in those two years, though, had they been given such specific information. They all understood, without saying it, that this one was different. All of Washington had its eyes on them right now, and she could tell by watching her people set up that they were a little tense.

  As she neared her team, one of the techs tossed her a headset to plug into her secure satellite phone. Hanousek caught it with one hand and looped the tiny device over her left ear. After she plugged it into the phone she adjusted the lip mike and clipped the sat phone to her belt.

  “We’re setting up the secure satcom right now and should have a preliminary reading for you in…” Hanousek checked on one of her techs who was donning a backpack that contained a sensitive gamma neutron detector, “about sixty seconds.”

  Her other five people were busy setting up laptops, unwinding cables, checking on secure com links, and powering up other vital equipment.

  “Harry, are you ready to go?” she asked the tech wearing the backpack.

  The man fumbled with an earpiece that protruded from the backpack. A moment later he had it in place and flashed her a thumbs-up sign.

  Hanousek watched him begin walking the length of the metal box. “Here comes the moment of truth,” she told Reimer as the tech slowly marched toward her. At the midway point the man looked over at her and raised a concerned eyebrow.

  Hanousek stopped breathing for a second. The tech made it to the end of the forty-foot container and started back. At the midway point he stopped again and listened to his earpiece. After a few excruciating seconds he turned toward his boss.

  “I have a gamma nine, a neutron five hit.”

  Hanousek waved him toward her and repeated the reading to Reimer back in Washington. The news was met with a groan from the former SEAL. She helped the tech take the backpack off and said, “You know what to do.”

  The man broke off in a near sprint toward the far end of the warehouse where one of the other techs had already placed the High Purity Germanium Detector (HPGD) so it could begin its background count at a safe distance from the container.

  “Debbie,” said Reimer over her earpiece, “what do you think about suiting up?”

  “It’s probably a good idea.”

  Hanousek strode over to one of the black travel cases and popped the two clasps. “All right, everyone, let’s get our Anti C’s on.”

  Normally there would have been a collective groan upon being told that they had to don their anticontaminant clothing, but not this morning. One by one the team members got into the suits; put on their gloves, boots, and helmets; and duct-taped the seams. By the time Hanousek was done, one of the techs came back with the HPGD in a black computer bag. He handed the device to her and she carefully placed it near the hotspot. Kneeling down she checked to make sure the Palm Pilot controlling the device was recording and relaying the information.

  Nuclear scientists from Lawrence Livermore, Sandia, and Los Alamos national laboratories were at this very moment sitting down in front of secure terminals to analyze the gamma spectral data that the HPGD was collecting. The scientists made up what the DOE referred to as the “Home Team.”

  Hanousek got up and walked back to where her team was set up. Her protective suit was already hot and uncomfortable, but at the moment she was more interested in the information that was being relayed to the two laptop computers. It would take a full fifteen minutes for the HPGD to get a thorough read on what was inside the trailer.

  As the minutes began to tick by, Hanousek stood behind the team’s chief scientist and watched the data pour in. Halfway through the process, things were not looking good. The Home Team was a hell of a lot smarter than she was, but even Hanousek could tell, based on what she’d seen so far, that they were in big trouble.

  “Paul, are you there?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “Affirmative. I don’t understand it, but I’m listening to the Home Team discuss it.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the
brainiacs sound this excited.”

  Hanousek peered through the Plexiglas face mask on her helmet and read the data. “Based on what I’m seeing I think it might be a good idea if we got ready to X-ray this thing.”

  “I concur. Just keep it low-energy okay?”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Hanousek laughed nervously. “I’m standing next to the damn thing.”

  “Sorry.” Reimer meant it. If he could change places with her, he’d do it in a second.

  “Paul,” said Hanousek, “you guys got anybody on their way down here to take care of this thing, or do you expect us to do it?”

  “Green is taking off from Bragg as we speak.” Reimer was referring to Delta Force’s WMD disposal team.

  Hanousek relaxed a bit at the news that she would not be expected to defuse and dispose of the bomb if it was active. “All right, I’m going to get ready to X-ray this bad boy.”

  “Hold on a second, Debbie.”

  Hanousek could hear Reimer talking to someone else. After about ten seconds he came back on the line. “Debbie, the brain trust is in agreement that we have special nuclear material.”

  Even though Hanousek knew it was heading in this direction, the news still gave her pause. The faces of her three children and husband flashed before her. A second later she regained her composure and asked, “Is there enough mass to create a yield?”

  “Yes.”

  Hanousek’s mouth went bone dry. “How big?”

  “Twenty KT.”

  Twenty kilotons. “Holy shit.” Hanousek thought of the explosive force. If this thing went off, the crater alone would be close to a half a mile in diameter.

  “Holy shit is right. Listen, Debbie, I have to deliver the good news to the president. Get me an X-ray. I’ll be back on the line shortly.”

  “Roger.” Hanousek muted the headset and told the team to get the main portable X-ray machine ready. While everyone else went about their work, she was left standing there staring at the large red steel container. The thought occurred to her, not for the first time, but with new poignancy, that she was severely underpaid.

  MARYLAND

  The National Security Council had been waiting impatiently for news about the contents of the container in Charleston. Interestingly enough, the vessel that had been boarded by SEAL Team 6 in the Chesapeake Bay seemed to have no weapons aboard. A search of the entire ship with gamma neutron detectors had produced not a single hit. The specific container in question was located in a rather inaccessible area of the hold, but the SEALs were able to lower a gamma neutron detector down between the containers and get a whiff that came up negative. As a precautionary measure the president ordered the vessel turned around and taken back out to sea, where a floating crane and barge would then be used to move the cargo around so they could take a closer look at the container in question.

  When Reimer’s voice rang out of the secure conference room speakers at Site R, all conversation ceased immediately.

  “Mr. President, it’s Paul Reimer from NEST. I’ve got an update for you on Charleston, and I’m afraid it’s not good.” His voice sounded concerned but not in the least bit panicked.

  The president shot Kennedy a glance, and then looked at Reimer’s face, which was once again up on the large screen at the far end of the room. “Go ahead.”

  “It appears the information provided by the CIA is accurate. My team has confirmed that a device of special nuclear material is in fact inside the container in question, and it is large enough to create an estimated yield in the twenty-kiloton range.”

  No one responded to Reimer’s shocking information at first. Uncomfortable glances were exchanged and a few hushed expletives were mumbled by no one and to no one in particular.

  Finally, President Hayes asked the obvious. “Is it secured?”

  Reimer hesitated for a second and then said, “That’s the million-dollar question, sir. In the sense that it is in our possession, yes it is secure. But just how stable it is…has yet to be determined.”

  The president’s chief of staff frowned and asked no one in particular, “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that we have it…and the terrorists don’t.” Reimer commented. “At the same time, however, my people haven’t had enough time to ascertain the specific configuration of the mass.”

  Jones waved her hands in front of her face and in an unusually conciliatory tone said, “Mr. Reimer, I’m sorry, but I’m not following you. Could you put this in simple English for those of us who don’t have a technical background?”

  “Simply put,” Reimer sighed, “we don’t know if this damn thing is critical and ready to blow or not.” He could tell he’d finally gotten everyone’s undivided attention. “We have to move cautiously with it. We can’t simply rip open the door of the container and start rummaging around for the device. It could be booby-trapped, so my people are just now getting ready to X-ray the container in an effort to ascertain the configuration and design of the device.”

  The president cautiously folded his arms across his chest and said, “Give me your best-and worst-case scenarios.”

  Reimer shrugged, “Best case…the thing never got this far.”

  “But it has,” the president said firmly.

  “Best case,” Reimer shrugged again, “the device has yet to be armed, and it’s relatively easy to secure and dispose of. Worst-case scenario…someone is waiting for the container in Charleston and they discover that we’re onto them.”

  “And?”

  “They remotely detonate the device, sir, and in the blink of an eye the city of Charleston is history.”

  The president glanced up at his secretary of Homeland Security who had only minutes ago lobbied hard for locking down the city. He made a mental note to himself and addressed Reimer again. “What do you advise we do at this point?”

  “Before we do anything, sir, we need to find out exactly what is in that container. That’s going to take a little bit of time and a lot of patience. Once we know what we’re up against we can deal with it. We’ve got the Delta Force WMD render safe team on its way down from Fort Bragg, and until they’re on site my team is more than capable of conducting diagnostics and design analysis.”

  “How much time are we talking?” asked Hayes.

  “Within thirty minutes my people should have a pretty complete picture of what we’re up against.”

  “And if it’s armed and ticking?”

  “We’ll have an in extremis situation and Delta’s going to have to work real fast, sir.”

  The president scratched his chin and said, “All right, Mr. Reimer. Good work and let us know the second you find anything else out.”

  The dissention started almost immediately, and it was no surprise that it originated from Mount Weather, where Vice President Baxter, Secretary of the Treasury Keane, and DHS Secretary McClellan were cloistered. In hindsight, it had been a very bad idea to put the three of them in the same location, for each man had a Chicken Little streak in him that under normal circumstances was barely tolerable, but in the midst of a real crisis could manifest itself as near hysteria.

  Attorney General Stokes stayed out of it at first. He had been doing a lot of thinking over the last hour, and not just about the immediate events that were going to shape history. He was looking ahead to what the future might hold. The habit had been drilled into him by his mother. Every crisis has a moment where either things slide over the precipice, or disaster is averted. Most people run for cover, panic, overreact, or freeze, but the cunning find opportunity in the midst of chaos, and this crisis was a tectonic event. If this bomb went off, Stokes knew he would be forever associated with a president who didn’t act fast enough.

  Screw the Department of Homeland Security. The American people had only a vague concept of what it was supposed to do. The Department of Justice and the FBI were a different story. Citizens knew that domestically it was the president and then the attorney general who were in c
harge of protecting them.

  And presidents were rarely sacrificed, at least not until the next election. Members of the president’s cabinet were an entirely different story, however. When a full-blown crisis exploded they were used like vestal virgins in an attempt to satiate some pagan god on a far-flung piece of volcanic rock. First you were fed to the press, piece by piece. Your career and reputation in tatters, you were then sent packing back to wherever it was you came from, where you could count on people who once called you a close friend to treat you as if you had the plague. Yes, in Washington the mighty could fall fast and far, but Attorney General Martin Stokes had no intention of becoming a footnote to some modern-day Greek tragedy.

  Always the realist, however, he understood that trying to dodge this particular bullet, this late in the game, would be futile. There was a remote chance that he could throw Secretary McClellan under the bus. Homeland Security was only in its infancy compared to the other cabinet-level departments, but had nonetheless already garnered a reputation as a place staffed by incompetents. Even so, with a disaster of this magnitude, it was likely that it would take more than one cabinet member to appease the wrath that would come down from the Hill, the press, and the public in general. No, this thing was too big to get out of the way of. The best play was to cement his relationship with the president and hope that this Reimer fellow and his NEST people were as good as advertised.

  The bickering from the Mount Weather facility had been going on for several minutes. Secretary McClellan was once again proposing that Charleston be locked down. Morning rush hour was underway, and with each passing minute, he argued, hundreds if not thousands of people were becoming targets. At a bare minimum he wanted the traffic coming into the city stopped. Secretary of the Treasury Keane said if they shut down Charleston, they would have to shut down the financial markets and get out in front of the likely panic.

  Midway through this debate, Stokes noticed the absence of General Flood and Secretary of Defense Culbertson. He supposed they were busy dealing with the other three ships on their list. Stokes was about to jump into the fray when Vice President Baxter made the poor decision to bring politics into the equation.