by Tom Haase
"Mr. President, the Secret Service has notified us of the high probability of an explosive device planted on your plane."
"What? You are kidding? This can't be, damnit," the president shouted.
The two men standing in the president's compartment glanced at one another with raised eyebrows when they heard Brennan's words. They exchanged glances. They knew this must be serious for Brennan to curse.
The president continued to hear the voice on the red phone. "A man caught with an explosive device has confessed to placing an explosive device on Air Force One. He said if you deviated in any way from your flight plan to land at Atlanta, the bomb would go off. He killed himself, along with an agent, after admitting it."
Brennan’s mind went to his wife and daughter back in Washington. At least they remained safe from this madness. Again he focused on the immediate problem and asked, "When did this happen?"
"A few minutes ago at Andrews, but we just got the information. The Secret Service thinks the man is for real. They’re notifying your security detachment on board as we speak. The man upgraded the avionics on Air Force One today and placed a worm in the system to detect any deviation from your programmed course."
The president stood up. Color rushed to his face.
The Situation Room's update continued, “If that occurs, the bomb will go off, according to the terrorist. The analyst at Andrews corroborated the existence of the worm in the suspect’s test equipment. You must land in Atlanta to prevent the detonation."
"What? How in God’s name can this have happened?" He almost threw the red phone across the desk. "I can’t believe this. This is Air Force One, for God’s sake." The president slammed the red phone into its cradle, then turned to Gary and ordered, "Get the command pilot back here. Now."
He sat down again, pounding the arm of his chair. As he did so he glimpsed his reflection in the airplane's window. Catching the anguish in his eyes, he made an effort to regain his composure. His usually slow Virginia drawl now came out in a rapid-fire manner as he told his closest advisers what he had learned. Disbelief registered on their faces and they each took a seat opposite the president.
Brennan spoke into the phone he had continually held during this entire event. "Matt, I can’t order us back to Washington, as you may have heard, so I'm relying on you. If there’s an atomic weapon in Atlanta, you must find it before we land in less than twenty minutes." He ended the call. If Matt succeeded, the only remaining danger affected his plane and all on board. At least the citizens of Atlanta would not be at risk.
He clasped his hands behind his head. "How in the hell did we get into this situation?"
2
On Board Container Ship Sea Pearl – Atlantic Ocean
Before dawn, Yuri Borisov stood on the deck of the container vessel and stared at the distant horizon as the ocean miles passed by. He felt the warm sea breeze move his hair around as he recalled with photographic clarity the events leading up to the killings he had performed and the trail that had led them to be on this ship.
He let his mind wander back over what had happened in the last few days, he and Basam al-Hanbali had fled south, away from the scene of an atomic device’s detonation. His device had worked as he had designed it. Then they raced along a Saudi Arabian highway in a stolen Land Rover headed for the border with Yemen. When they stopped, he felt his sweat-soaked clothes sticking to his body after the all-day high-speed drive across open desert. They had only paused for refueling. Occasionally he took a large swig of vodka to help get the grains of lingering sand out of his mouth, and he preferred using the alcohol instead of water to quench his thirst before he took his turn driving. After they switched seats, he pulled back onto what he thought was the highway — at least what passed for one, always covered with a light covering of gritty desert particles. Basam, his Saudi friend, turned on the radio.
"We need to hear what the news is reporting on what happened yesterday," Basam said. "It’s strange, you know, we haven’t seen any increased security on the roads."
They listened to the radio for news of the events they had planned and implemented less than twenty-four hours before. The third item reported:
"Yesterday, an American helicopter crashed in the desert fifteen kilometers south of Ras Tanura. All on board died. The area around the site is being sealed off for fear of explosions from the ordnance the aircraft carried. American military personnel, in cooperation with the Royal Saudi Army, are recovering the bodies. Now for the latest soccer scores."
Basam switched off the radio. Yuri understood enough Arabic to get the gist of the news, while remaining focused on driving.
"What did they say?" Yuri asked in English, since both possessed fluency in that language. Basam gave him a recap, ending with "those infidel Americans are liars."
Yuri drove in silence for a half hour. He knew the Americans had interrupted them before they could fully carry out their mission. With each mile, they distanced themselves from that disaster. Military action had foiled their attempt to destroy the Saudi Arabian oil reserves with contaminated radioactive material. They had also initially planned to obliterate the seaport from which nearly all the Saudi Arabian oil flowed to Europe and Asia, as well as the United States.
One weapon, placed in a deep underground cavern where the reserves were located, had detonated, but an American had killed Tewfik al-Hanbali, the terrorist leader and Basam’s brother. The other atomic bomb, targeted to destroy Saudi Arabia’s oil export city of Ras Tanura and its tanker and refinery facilities, must be in the hands of the Americans since it had failed to explode.
"Can you believe they covered up an underground atomic explosion?" Yuri broke his silence while lighting a cigarette from the one he had almost finished.
"Come on. They aren’t going to tell the world that some terrorists detonated an atomic bomb, are they?" After a few minutes of quiet, Basam continued in his British-accented English, "Yuri, as the nuclear engineer...you built the bombs that we used." Basam shifted and adjusted himself to face Yuri. "What went wrong? Why didn’t it go off?"
Yuri pounded the steering wheel. "Damnit, I don’t know. The one in the well detonated, but we had to run before I could see the damage. The one in the city...shit, I don’t have any idea." He tried to stop himself, but he blurted out, "Maybe your brother didn’t dial the cell phone number before the American killed him."
Yuri lit another cigarette. He continued to chain-smoke for another two hours.
"I’m not saying...ahh...that it’s your fault personally," Basam said, rotating back to stare out the side window at the desert landscape flying by. "But you received a lot of money to do this job. One of the bombs went off, but the other one . . . my brother paid you ten million American dollars to build the weapons." Basam switched topics and said, "We’ve got to get out of this country. The authorities will figure out that I’m involved when they identify my brother’s body."
"After we can get to the port city in Yemen," said Yuri, "we’ll be able to secure passage on something. We will get the hell out of this area of the world."
"Nobody knows what we have with us, do they?"
Yuri noticed the hint of fear in Basam’s voice and decided to calm him down. "No. How could they? I’m sure they think it’s all over. They killed everyone but us, and they don’t know we were part of that attack. But we have to act like they might. We can’t take a chance."
Basam waited a few seconds and said, "You know it’s safe in the case. We’ll use it to punish the ones who attacked my brother."
Yuri took a sideways glance while on a straight stretch of road and reminded himself that Basam did indeed resemble his brother in appearance. The man possessed the sharp, long nose characteristic of many Saudis, and a small beard with a mustache that formed an oval around his chin. His eyes glared with the same cold, intense blackness of his older sibling’s. All Yuri wanted was to get away and hide for a few days to let things settle down. He would then gain some time to think. Buildin
g the weapons had caused him enough trouble. Now that it was over, he wanted to enjoy his money. Alas, he wished Basam wouldn’t keep talking about the device, but that didn’t happen.
"Can you tell me now how much damage such a weapon can do? Just in general."
"Well, this one, the one with us, is the smallest of the three I put together. It’s a fifteen-kiloton atomic weapon. It could destroy everything within eight kilometers of ground zero and most everything out to about twenty. That’s my best guess, anyway." Yuri betrayed his irritation at having to keep discussing the weapons.
"Thankfully you built it small." Basam glanced over his shoulder. The brown leather case mirrored the size of a large overweight bag checked at an airport. By tying it down on the rear seat with bungee cords, he kept it from shifting.
"It’s small,” said Yuri, "but it can go off up to twelve hours after you set the timer. Real simple. However, right now our priority should be to get on a ship and distance ourselves from this area. I will also need a computer."
"No problem. I always keep fifty thousand American dollars in cash. When we buy a laptop, I can transfer more money to an account we can withdraw from if needed. Then the currency will be safe since no one will be able to trace it to me under the false name I created."
"Great, I wish I could get another bottle of vodka," Yuri whined as he pitched the empty out the window "Now why don’t you get some sleep, so you can drive when we cross the border? We’ll change places before then. You are much better at talking to the guards than I."
Basam glanced at Yuri and nodded his approval. Yuri’s blond hair, worn long in the back, topped a pudgy round face with striking blue eyes. He carried too much weight, compared with Basam’s underweight physique. Basam surely assigned Yuri’s condition to his use of vodka and cigarettes. Basam again snuck a sideways glimpse at Yuri Marchanovich Borisov, the thirty-nine-year-old Moscow-born Russian nuclear scientist with whom Basam had spent twenty-four hours a day over the past three weeks. He curled up, pulled his feet up, rested his head on the top of the seat, and went to sleep.
They crossed the border separating Saudi Arabia from Yemen, and then put hundreds of kilometers of open desert behind them. They arrived in the port city of Aden, on the Gulf of Aden near the entrance to the Red Sea. Yuri again drove and he observed many ships were at anchor in the harbor. At a slow speed, he steered past shops, looking into the windows, where he noticed the latest gadgets in telecommunication and electronics displayed, but otherwise everything else looked old. He guessed not much had changed since their first Independence Day following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in 1918. This place was an outhouse of civilization.
Yuri stopped at a computer and electronics store near the harbor and bought a new Sony Vaio. He purchased the latest satellite card so he could have Internet access from just about anywhere in the world. He wouldn’t need cables or telephone lines.
"We now have a way of finding out what the international news and reporting is on the events in Ras Tanura. But first, Basam, let’s find a ship to get us out of here."
"There." Basam pointed. "I see a shipping office down the street."
Yuri parked the Land Rover in a spot about fifty feet from the entrance with a sign that read Transoceanic Shipping Company, LTD. The whitewashed building, with gray doors and shutters in desperate need of paint, appeared deserted, but they decided to check it out anyway.
They entered what they took to be a ticket agency. The interior gloom contrasted markedly with the glaring sunlight outside. A ceiling fan rotated at glacial speed, creating a barely perceptible movement of air. A few pictures of cargo vessels adorned the otherwise vacant walls. Both dirty windows on the front of the office were propped open in a futile attempt to allow a nonexistent breeze to circulate.
A diminutive man with combed-over hair inadequately covering his balding head sat behind the only piece of furniture in the room. He conversed with a tall man wearing a crisp white navy-type uniform. The small man supplemented the air movement by fanning himself with a Chinese paper fan. The naval man, standing at the parade rest position in his military dress, stood with his back to them as they entered. His shoulder epaulets showed four gold stripes.
Yuri squinted to adjust his eyes and coughed. The man seated at the desk glanced up at him and said, "I’ll be with you shortly."
"We want to book passage out of here," Yuri said in English, but his accent caused the uniformed man to glance at him.
"I’m sorry, sir. This is a freight company. We do not carry passengers. There is a passenger office down the street, and the next ferry is due in a couple of days." The seated man turned back to the sailor.
"No. We need to leave sooner," Yuri shouted.
"Sorry," said the man, who didn’t look at Yuri, but continued facing the man standing near the desk.
The man with four stripes looked at Yuri and said in Russian, "Where are you from?"
Yuri opened wide his eyes wide on hearing Russian in this godforsaken place and stood still for a few seconds. He moved to where he could face the questioner. He saw a striking man with an athletic body and a round face sporting a short handlebar mustache. Both his hair and the facial hair were blond. The spotless white uniform gleamed, but the feature that caught Yuri’s attention was the man’s voluminous nose. Yuri answered, "Moscow."
"If you would wait across the street for a few minutes, I will join you," the man said in Russian.
Yuri nodded to Basam and they went outside. Standing beyond the front entrance, Yuri explained what the sailor had said. They strolled over to their car and waited.
Five minutes later, the uniformed man approached and said in good English, "Where do you want to go?"
"Out of here," Yuri replied.
"Are you criminals running from the law?"
"No. We want to get away from here and are willing to pay."
"Perhaps I can help. I’m the captain of the container ship you see in the harbor. We are sailing in six hours to Cape Town, and then on to the United States. Can you arrange to have fifty thousand US dollars transferred to my account before that time? Then you can get passage on my ship."
"Twenty-five thousand, and no more negotiations. And no questions all the way to America," Basam said.
The captain cranked his head back and rolled his eyes. Starting to walk away, he said over his shoulder, "Okay." He returned to where they stood, took a piece of paper from his pocket, wrote down his account information and gave it to Basam.
"I’m Captain Grigori Orloff. Be at that embarkation point, over by that kiosk, at seventeen hundred hours." They could see the small building and nodded their understanding. "That is the last shuttle boat before we sail. When you get on board, one of my seamen will escort you to your cabins. I’ll check to make sure the money is deposited before you show up." He marched away.
"Well, Basam, we now have a way to get the atomic weapon to a safe hiding place where no one is looking for it, or for us," Yuri said as a smile spread over his face, including his eyes.
Basam beamed. "No, my friend. Now we have a way to get the bomb to where we can use it."
3
Eight Days Before the Presidential Flight To Atlanta
Dallas, Texas
Matt Higgins and Bridget Donavan served as the president’s personal covert operations team, tasked by the president with handling certain types of emergencies as needed. They now concentrated on the first job for the new company they had created for a cover. After landing at Dallas International, they took a taxi to the manufacturing plant of Solar Tech Industries, situated in an area outside Grapevine, Texas.
“Isn’t it super that we’re finally able to start legitimate operations to make money for us and our covert careers?” Bridget said.
She glanced over at Matt for a response. His lanky six-foot-one-inch frame clearly didn’t fit well in his suit, but then, on his salary, there weren’t likely to be any pinstriped Giorgio Armani pinstriped suits in his closet. Things
might change if they could get a few more contracts.
At the same time, Matt glimpsed at his image in a car’s window. He viewed his dark suntanned face, the result of the last mission to the Middle East, and then ran his fingers through his thick black hair.
"Review for me exactly how we got this contract, as I'm still not sure I understand the family connection," said Matt. He knew the agreement specified conducting a physical security evaluation and recommending to the company steps to ensure no dangerous breach could occur at the plant. He glanced sideways at Bridget, noticing again that she exhibited all the characteristic of a beautiful young woman. She stood about five foot eight inches, with a slim build and ample endowments, and she possessed piercing golden-brown eyes and flaming red hair.
"Ozman Pasha is my father’s friend. He left Turkey soon after what the government called ‘bandits’ killed his Armenian grandparents. My father gave him a job to get started. He and my father have been friends for as long as I can remember."
"But how did he get into this solar business?"
"He’s the financial backer for a group of developers in the solar energy field. If this project succeeds, it will mean millions of dollars in profits. He wants to make sure the plant is secure from any physical intrusion. You know, to prevent industrial espionage. They moved into this location this week, and Dad says the place still looks like a warehouse."
Matt observed the scenery as the Texas countryside whizzed by. He asked, "What do they make?"
"I’m not sure, but when I called Mr. Pasha, he said he’ll take us on a tour of the facility as soon as we get there. He warned me that it isn’t operational and they’re just starting to convert the old warehouse into a production plant for making solar panels for industrial use."