The Zarrabian Incident

by C. A. James

  “And even if the colonel can find them and convince them to abort their operation, there’s still the problem of getting them out of the area without being apprehended. We have no idea how big this conspiracy is, or what risks they’re willing to take. But chances are good that there won’t be roadblocks until around the time they expect the attack. So the colonel has to find them before that or it gets much riskier. The earlier the better.”

  “This is a very good plan,” said Christine. “If this works out, it's more than a smoking gun. It’s a bombshell. This will be the news story of the decade. It will bring down the government.”

  “OK, but don’t get too excited,” said McCaig. “It’s far more likely that the colonel won’t be able to find them, or that if he does, they won’t listen to him. So that brings us to the second possibility.”

  “That they’ll launch their attack and all be killed, just like the others,” said Bashir.

  “Exactly,” said McCaig.

  “And that’s your ‘Plan B?’” asked Bashir. “To let them die?”

  “Nobody is letting them die,” said McCaig. “They are being murdered, and we’re trying to stop it. But we have to be realistic. We’ll probably fail. So we have to plan for that, too.”

  “How?” asked Bashir.

  “We must make their deaths serve a purpose,” said Zarrabian.

  “Yes,” said McCaig. “And it’s all about timing. Christine, you’re going to interview the colonel, get the full story from his point of view. The key element is that he’s going to reveal that there is a third group who plan to blow the Fort Peck Dam.”

  “In other words, the next chapter of what I broadcast yesterday?”

  “Exactly,” said McCaig. “And here’s the bombshell: the government knows about this and is letting them go through with it. Instead of arresting them, they’re going to kill them, just like they did the other two groups.”

  “It won’t fly,” said Christine. “Once I go on the air, they’ll just go in early, take those guys out, and deny everything. They could even hush the whole thing up; nobody would ever know. Both Zarrabian and I would look stupid, and it would destroy the credibility of yesterday’s broadcast. I’d be the laughing stock of the Fourth Estate.”

  “It will fly,” said McCaig. “It’s all about timing. You’re going to air that interview the moment the attack starts, and not a second before. It will be too late to call the attack off. They’ll murder their so-called terrorists, and when the smoke clears and they start doing high-fives, your interview will be staring them in the face. The colonel will have predicted their every move.”

  “Wow,” said Christine. “This is . . . I think this could work.”

  “I can’t believe you’re OK with this,” said Bashir. “You’re talking about men’s lives.”

  “They are soldiers,” said Zarrabian. “A soldier offers his life to protect his country. If their deaths stop a war, it is a fair price.”

  “Omar, you of all people should know that life is unfair,” said Christine. “Especially in war. Or when you’re trying to stop one.”

  He shook his head.

  “But there’s still Plan A, where we find them and stop the attack,” said McCaig. “If Plan A works, we need an escape plan—and a place for you to do the interview. Fort Peck will be swarming with cops, as well as the FBI and National Guard. You’ll need hours in private to do your interviews and a way to broadcast your story. We’ll need to get far away.”

  “Garrison Dam,” said Christine. “We’ll go there.”

  “Garrison?” said McCaig, “Why there?”

  “It’s a couple hundred miles from Fort Peck, and maybe fifty miles from Billings where there’s an affiliated TV station of my network. I can get in touch and have them send a news van out to meet us.”

  “OK, that’s good,” said McCaig.

  “And while we’re driving from Fort Peck to Garrison Dam, I’ll have five hours to do interviews that we can dump to the network once we arrive at Garrison Dam. But mostly the reason to use Garrison is for the effect. I’ll do all of my intro and background using Lake Sakakawea as the backdrop. Maybe get a shot of the so-called terrorists looking out over the lake, too, talking about what they were up to. I’ll give the gruesome low-down on what would have happened if they’d blown up Fort Peck Dam, the water would just now be arriving here and would breach this dam, then cut the country in half.”

  “That’s good, I like that,” said McCaig.

  “Very dramatic,” said Zarrabian.

  “Then what?” asked Bashir. “Won’t you get arrested for harboring fugitives or something?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” said Christine. “It’s still a long way away.”

  “So, Colonel, let’s get started,” said Christine. “TJ, come take the wheel, you get to drive again. Omar, you’re going to be my cameraman. And I hope you know how to transmit this interview from the middle of nowhere to my boss.”

  “No problem,” said Bashir. “Let’s get to work.”

  “I’m an FBI agent, and I just let the most wanted man in America drive off,” said Bashir. “Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?”

  Bashir, McCaig, and Christine watched the form of Zarrabian and his motorcycle recede down a narrow dirt road, leaving a wind-blown plume of dust that drifted across an endless rock-strewn field of dry grass. A few moments later, he disappeared behind a low hill.

  McCaig and Christine turned and walked back to the RV, but Bashir stood still, staring down the dirt road as the last puff of dust drifted away, leaving no trace of Zarrabian.

  “Come on, Omar,” said McCaig. “We’ve got a job to do.”

  “You sure this is the right thing, boss? How do we know Zarrabian is going to do what he promised?”

  “Taxes and death,” said McCaig. “We don’t. We have to hope and trust.”

  “That’s easier for you than me, you know.”

  “You realize he could have left any time, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “A real terrorist would have left long ago. Or more likely, would have killed us and then taken our RV. He’s already shown us some trust.”

  “Yeah.” Bashir turned back toward McCaig and Christine. “Let’s just go.”

  Zarrabian gripped the motorcycle’s handlebars tightly and twisted the throttle, leaning over the handlebars to hold the front wheel on the ground as the machine climbed a steep hill. Chunks of grass and dirt flew from the rear wheel as it slipped, lost traction, and grabbed again. He flew into the air briefly at the hill’s crest, then slammed on the brakes and brought the machine to a halt before it could tumble over the low bluff into the lake below.

  He cut the engine and pulled off his helmet. Quiet fell over the rolling hills, broken only by an occasional breeze rustling the sparse trees and dry grass. The morning sun glinted off the waters of Fort Peck Lake. One small fishing skiff, piloted by a lone fisherman, motored slowly across the water.

  Zarrabian raised a compact pair of binoculars and scanned the lake. Nothing. He tucked them back into his jacket. What was he looking for? Aluminum skiffs? Speedboats? Cabin cruisers? Houseboats? A sailboat? For all he knew they had a submarine.

  He hadn’t realized what an impossible task this would be. A hundred and thirty miles of lake, a thousand miles of convoluted shoreline, thousands of twisty bays, inlets, and coves. Without a helicopter, finding someone on this lake was almost hopeless. He’d started near the dam and was working his way west. They’d be close, not fifty miles up the lake. Even so, it was a long, convoluted shoreline.

  The satellite photos showed that the lake’s south shore was relatively smooth, but the north shore, due to some peculiarity of geology, was a series of impossibly twisty bays and inlets. That’s where Zarrabian would hide a boat, so that’s where he and the motorcycle were searching.

  He’d left the paved highway and followed dirt roads, hiking trails, and sometimes no trail at all. Three h
ours of bouncing over the rough terrain had put him less than five miles from where he'd started, even though he’d ridden at least thirty miles. In and out, back and forth, up and down. Six major bays, a dozen smaller bays, and hundreds of twisty inlets. Was this a fool’s errand?

  A glint of reflected sunlight caught his eye. He pulled out the binoculars again and looked. Nothing. But he’d seen it, he was sure. He stared. There! The top of a boat was barely visible, tucked away in a tiny inlet. And another—two boats, each with two men fishing. He couldn’t see much at this distance, but all four men had rich, black hair. Unusual for Americans. The breeze shifted, and the anchored vessels drifted out of view again.

  He pulled out a crinkled, folded satellite photo from his jacket. The boat wasn’t more than a half mile away, but a deep inlet meant at least five miles of riding separated him from a closer view.

  It was probably not the third Iranian team. Just fisherman, or a family on holiday. But . . . he flipped the ignition switch and kicked the engine back to life.

  Christine and McCaig spotted the roadblock at the same time.

  “Uh oh,” said McCaig.

  “This doesn’t look good,” said Christine.

  “Get in the bedroom, Omar,” said McCaig. “I won’t lie, but unless they ask I think it’s better that we’re just a couple on holiday.”

  McCaig slowed the RV as they approached. A transport truck and a Humvee blocked the road. A young soldier, probably National Guard, stood in the road signaling them to halt. A half-dozen other young men, fresh faced, clean shaven, and with buzz cuts under their helmets stood on either side of the road. All were equipped with full body armor and had a rifles hanging ready from their shoulders.

  McCaig rolled to a stop and opened his window. The soldier approached.

  “Sorry, sir, there’s a problem up at the dam today. The area’s closed.”

  “It’s Captain, soldier. McCaig, retired, USMC.”

  “Yes sir, Captain. But I can’t let you through. Strict orders, sir.”

  McCaig glanced at the name stenciled on the young man’s uniform and the stripes on his shoulder. “Corporal O’Brian, we’ve got critical information for the investigation going on up there. We need to get through. What can you do to make that happen?”

  “Sorry, sir! Strict orders. Nobody through, no exceptions.”

  Christine leaned across and held up her press credentials. “Corporal, I’m Christine Garrett. I’m here to cover this story. You know about freedom of the press, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But my orders stand, ma’am. You’ll have to contact the local authorities back in Fort Peck. They may be able to help you, ma’am. I can give you directions.”

  McCaig looked at Christine. She shook her head.

  “Sorry, sir, ma’am. Orders.”

  “Of course, corporal.”

  McCaig fingered the button to roll up his window, then shifted into reverse. A Guardsman behind the RV signaled McCaig to back up. He took his foot off the brake and started rolling backwards. Suddenly the guardsman held up his hand, palm outward. McCaig stopped.

  In front of them, a lieutenant with a clipboard emerged and waved Corporal O’Brian over. O’Brian pointed to their RV. The lieutenant checked his clipboard and gave an order. O’Brian gestured for McCaig to drive forward again.

  McCaig looked at Christine. “This is either good or ominous. What do you think?”

  “What choice do we have? We can’t just leave.”

  He put the RV into gear and drove forward. “It feels like a trap.” He rolled the window down and stopped.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to wait here for a few minutes,” said O’Brian.

  “We . . .” said McCaig. But O’Brian spun and disappeared behind the truck that was blocking the road.

  “I guess we wait,” said Christine.

  After fifteen minutes, McCaig shut off the engine and rolled down the windows. Several soldiers glanced his way.

  “Could one of you go see what’s going on?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Just wait, TJ,” said Christine. “You really don’t have a choice.”

  McCaig closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. “Wake me if something happens.”

  A half hour later, O’Brian emerged. “The lieutenant says you’re on the list. Can I see some ID please?”

  After examining their ID’s, O’Brian signaled the lieutenant, who barked an order. A few moments later the Humvee moved aside. McCaig put the RV in gear and slowly rolled past the roadblock, then accelerated. The soldiers and roadblock receded in his rear-view mirror.

  Bashir emerged from the RV’s bedroom. “What the hell just happened?”

  “I have no idea,” said McCaig. “Somehow, they were expecting us. That lieutenant had both of our names on his list, and received orders to let us through.”

  “Crap, this isn’t good. How could they have known we were on our way to Fort Peck?” asked Christine.

  “I don’t know.”

  They were silent for a few minutes, absorbed in thought. Bashir finally spoke. “It was the Rio Vista Library.”

  “What was?” asked Christine.

  “That’s how they knew we’d be here. Crap, that was stupid. They monitored the Internet and found our searches from the library in Rio Vista.”

  “That’s pretty far-fetched, Omar. Why would they be monitoring a library in Rio Vista?”

  “You’ve got it backwards. They didn’t monitor the library, they monitored for people Googling Fort Peck. And not only did we Google Fort Peck, we Googled for terrorism threats about dams and zeroed in on Fort Peck.”

  “Damn. You’re right,” said Christine. “That was pretty stupid of us. Wow.”

  “So what’s it mean?” asked McCaig. “They knew we were coming, yet someone gave orders to let us through.”

  “I don’t know, TJ. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Bashir hid in the bedroom again when they finally reached the lake’s shore. A guardsman directed McCaig to park the RV and shut off the engine. In front of them, a dozen military vehicles formed a half circle, the center of which was occupied by a large tent. Radio antennas sprouted here and there, and a group of officers leaned over a map table.

  “Can you see the dam?” asked Christine.

  “I think I see it through there,” he said, pointing past the trucks and tent and through a sparse stand of trees. “We must be about a mile away.”

  “So they’re hiding this operation. They still haven’t caught the terrorists.”

  “And they’re not going to,” he replied.

  “What?”

  “This is an ambush. If they wanted to catch these guys, the lake would be swarming with helicopters, boats, and armored cars. But this? They worked hard to keep this hidden. They’re going to wait for the attack and mow them down. And we can’t do a goddamned thing except watch.”

  “We’ll expose them, TJ, just like we planned. Grant got my interview and it’s queued up.”

  “What if they cut us off? If the terrorists attack, you won’t be able to get a message through.”

  “It’s the other way around, like a ‘don’t send it yet’ message. Bashir is sending him text messages. Just the word ‘hold’ every ten minutes. If Bashir stops, the interview goes live.”

  “Clever,” said McCaig.

  A guardsman approached McCaig’s window. “Captain McCaig, Ms. Garrett, please remain in your vehicle. It will be just another minute or two.”

  As he finished speaking, a Black Hawk helicopter flew over, low and quiet, and landed quickly in the field next to the trucks. McCaig whistled. “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “That’s a stealth Black Hawk helicopter. Nobody thought any more of those existed. Did you hear it coming?”

  “Not really, not ‘til it was right on top of us.”

  “They only made two of them. They used them when they killed Osama bin Laden. Remember that?”


  “Sure.”

  “One of the two choppers crashed and the Marines destroyed it. Maybe this is the other one, or maybe they made three of them.”

  “And why is that significant?”

  “The pilot flew up that low valley behind us, popped over the trees, and landed. Quiet as can be. They don’t want the terrorists to know they’re here.”

  “I don’t see why that’s a surprise,” said Christine. “Of course they don’t.”

  “You’re thinking in police terms. Normally police try to stop crime. These guys are making sure that the terrorists go for it.”

  “If they’re trying to stay out of sight, why use a helicopter at all? Why not just drive in?”

  “Good point. Beats the hell out of me,” said McCaig.

  Just then the helicopter’s door slid open and a man in a business suit stepped out.

  “OK, there’s our answer,” said Christine. “Jack Patterson, the president’s chief of staff.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said McCaig.

  “I know. This is hard to believe. The White House is involved?”

  “It can’t be,” said McCaig. “Or can it?”

  “We joked about it the other day, that it could be Patterson. But here he is.”

  “Christ, he’s practically confessing to conspiracy,” said McCaig. “Didn’t you say his uncle was Senator Platte? Could he be part of this too?”

  “Wow. Yes. Now it’s starting to make sense. Platte’s the head of the Armed Services Committee, and he’s got his nephew in the White House. And Senator Platte was the guy who was banging on the podium about how we should have attacked Iran a long time ago. Christ, it’s all making sense now.”

  “So why the hell would Patterson come here?”

  “For an audience.”

  “An audience?”

  “Men like Patterson are profoundly arrogant. He wants to bask in glory, but nobody even realizes what he’s achieved. This is huge, the pinnacle of his career. He’s starting a war, but his role will be lost in history. That’s why he let us through the roadblock back there. We’re the witnesses to his victory.”