The commercial freighter, which was flying a Danish flag, was just two days away from the Port of Philadelphia, the largest freshwater harbor in America.
The captain, a Danish transplant from Russia, was in the wheel-house, checking his logs, making sure the paperwork was in order: bills of lading, commercial invoices. He couldn’t afford any unusual inspections, not with the nightmare cargo he was freighting.
He turned to his chief mate and remarked,
“En klar dag for sejlads.”
The sailor smiled back. “Yes, a fine, clear day for shipping.”
It would be an easy cruise up the Delaware River to the busy harbor. The channels were deep and easily navigable, ending in a substantially deep harbor, unlike Bridgeport, Connecticut, whose harbor was too shallow. A grounded ship would be a disaster for the mission. And the big, open sea harbors of New York, Boston, and Norfolk had too much heightened security, too much military presence. Of course taking a freighter as far inland as Philadelphia had its own risks. It was an audacious plan, but there was also a great payoff. It was close, so close, to the two targeted cities.
The captain remained ignorant of the cargo’s history to deliberately maintain plausible deniability. If he was captured by the Americans, he couldn’t confess to what he didn’t know, even under pressure. So the plotters kept each of the captains along the route in the dark about the details.
The cargo had previously been split between two ships. The two
terrible half brothers had been spawned from two monstrous mothers. Now their containers lay side by side in the hold of the ship. Though they housed deadly potential, they still required final assembly and detonation.
One container had come from a ship belonging to IRISL, the commercial line of the Republic of Iran. It had shipped out of the Port of Bandar Abbas, bound for Karachi, Pakistan. There the name of the ship was changed, as well as its flag, to avoid tracking. But the cargo stayed aboard. From there it shipped out for Durban, South Africa. It was now called
The Tigris,
referring to the Middle Eastern river. But the ancient root of the word meant something else as well — it meant “arrow.”
Meanwhile, the North Korean container started its journey in the bottom of a small commercial vessel named
Dai Hong.
When it arrived in Hong Kong, the ship’s flag was changed to Indonesian colors. The ship’s name was changed too. Now
Asian Flower
was painted on the side of its prow.
After a few weeks,
The Tigris
docked in Durban. A few days later, the
Asian Flower
joined it. The container from
The Tigris
was then unloaded and transferred to the cargo hold of the
Asian Flower
to join its evil twin.
The Danish captain had boarded the ship in South Africa. Once again, the name and flag had been changed, this time to reflect a commercial shipping line from Denmark. His job was simple. Head straight to the Port of Philadelphia. An encrypted satellite tracking device had been installed so that the group of plotters who remained behind in Kyrgyzstan could follow its passage across the sea.
The plan was flawless. No one — none of the vessel watchdogs at the Lloyds international shipping registry office in England, nor U.S. Homeland Security — had picked up the flag and name changes, or the notorious cargo, or the convergence of effort among North Korea, Iran, and Russia. The cargo continued to move to its destination without trouble.
In any one of these harbors — Hong Kong, Bandar Abbas, Karachi, and Durban — bells might have rung, at least for a few of the veteran
naval monitors. It was the same route, after all, used a decade before by Iranian ships to carry illegal contraband, including weaponry, in violation of international sanctions.
The Danish captain and the first mate stood behind the seaman at the control panel of the ship. They had rounded Cape May and were well into the Delaware Bay. Soon they would be required to check in with the harbor master and receive a harbor pilot, who would go along for the ride. Pro forma.
Then the docking and the unloading. With that, the pilot’s job would be finished, and for America, the nightmare would begin.
Deborah Jordan was struggling with the urge to call. It had only been twenty-four hours since she and Ethan had separated at Hawk’s Nest. Ethan was at a job interview at a tech company in Denver, while Deborah remained at her family’s Rocky Mountain mansion. As she sat next to the phone, she thought about her feelings for him, how surprised she was at the overpowering impulse she felt to contact him. But the logical part of her mind also thought back to her mother’s advice, even though she would have been slow to admit she had been listening.
What do I really know about Ethan?
Deborah had been with him as he packed to leave. She asked him directly about the scar on his cheek and his broken nose. Ethan was just as direct: “A barroom brawl with a Marine. Not proud of it, but there it is. I spent some time in the brig.”
She couldn’t resist a smart-aleck crack: “Just tell me that the Marine didn’t win …”
Ethan guffawed and shot back, “Roger that!” But then, in a moment of honesty he added, “The other guy was a lot smaller.”
Almost instantly Deborah had regretted her joke, proof of how mixed up she felt about Ethan.
Deborah had been quick to offer to drive him to Denver. She was glad he accepted. When she got back to her family’s house, she was already sorry he was gone.
She thought back to their last few moments when she dropped him off. He had pulled his bag out of the backseat of the car as Deborah
stood next to him. He smiled and gently put his hand behind her neck. He bent forward. She wanted a kiss on the lips. She got a kiss on the forehead instead.
“Take care of yourself, Deb. I want to see you again soon … if that’s okay.”
She blurted out, “Anytime. Please call me. I need … would like a call. All right? Call me.”
He headed into the hotel but didn’t turn around again. In just seconds he was out of sight.
It was now a day later and he hadn’t called.
On the other hand he was probably absorbed in his job interview. Or whatever.
Deborah sat next to the phone in the great room of the lodge. She had gone riding that morning, through the pasture and down to the river and back. Her big gelding, white with brown spots, used to be her delight. But today riding him just wasn’t the same.
She pulled her little Allfone out of her pocket to make sure it was turned on. Then she gazed back at the phone on the table.
A voice came from behind her. “You can’t make it ring by staring.”
It was Cal.
“Real funny.”
“You aren’t going gaga for this guy are you?”
“Cal, let’s not go there.”
“Whoa, touchy.” Then Cal added, “You see the footage on the news last night, with Dad getting the Medal of Freedom?”
Deborah’s heart sank. She’d been so absorbed with Ethan that she forgot about her dad.
Cal shook his head. “You didn’t see it, did you? … So is Dad going to offer him a job?”
“Don’t know. I hope so.”
“Funny how he refused the request from his own son.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I asked Dad to bring me into the Roundtable somehow and help him and Mom out. Nothing big.”
“What’d he say?”
“Too much risk, which I find ridiculous after what he and I have gone through.”
“I can understand his concern.”
“Oh, really? How?”
“The Roundtable deals with some sensitive information. National security stuff. Highly controversial. There are people in Washington who don’t like what he’s doing. Besides — ”
“What …”
“Let’s be honest. Until recently, you couldn’t be bothered with the kind of issues Dad and Mom deal with: politics, national defense, freedom. You wanted to be an artist.”
“So? I’ve changed my major — and my interests.”
“I respect that. So do Mom and Dad. But this highlevel intelligence stuff, you think you can just jump right into that?”
“Oh, so here we go. You’re the almost-graduate from West Point, and I’m just a nerd at Liberty University. Is that it? Well, there’s only one person in this room who’s gone face-to-face with a terrorist. And you know exactly who that is.”
“I’m not trying to downplay what you went through, but let’s be objective. I’m majoring in defense and strategic studies at one of America’s most prestigious military academies. I’ve studied military history, strategy, counterinsurgency. Up to now your biggest decision was whether to paint in watercolors or acrylics.”
“Ooh, two points sis. Shot right to the heart.”
“Forget it. This discussion is stupid. Besides I’ve got my own professional plans with Dad.”
“Right. I’m sure. Like what?”
Deborah hesitated. There was a part of her that wanted to keep this to herself. But something made her say it. Maybe even flaunt it. “Before he and Mom took off for Washington, I overheard Dad on an international call. Defense guys in Israel are interested in his RTS system. And if he goes to the Middle East, I have every intention of going with him.”
Cal laughed out loud. “Do you really think you can just tell him like that, that you’ve invited yourself along for the ride? This is a guy
who won’t even let his own son play fetch-and-carry for the Roundtable, and you think he’ll take you along to a weapons meeting?”
Deborah had had enough. She stood up and threw Cal her potent older-sister look and a final retort to match: “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Two grade-schoolers tagged along after their mom as she strolled through the mall. Having lived in the suburbs of the Twin Cities all of her life, she knew the mammoth, four-million-square-foot Mall of America pretty well.
She and her two daughters had just stepped off the escalator, and she was trying to locate the men’s clothing store to pick up something for her husband’s birthday. A fashion show was in progress farther down the mall; nearly a hundred shoppers had stopped to watch.
For a fleeting second the mom thought about wandering over herself. She craned her neck, and one of the outfits caught her eye.
Oh my gosh, I think that’s a Lloyd Klein dress. I love that old Hollywood glamour look!
“Mom, what are you smiling at?” her eight-year-old asked.
“Nothing honey. Just a dress.”
Time was short. She only had forty minutes to pick something out for her husband and then renegotiate the labyrinth of the parking lot. She then had about thirty minutes to get the girls to soccer practice. They would have to change into their soccer duds in the girls’ room at the park. They hated that. They preferred to change at home, but life rarely seems fair to an eight-year-old.
As she walked toward the men’s store, something else caught her eye. Standing in the crowd in front of the runway stood a young woman in a scarf, hands on a baby carriage. But instead of a baby she just had packages piled in the carriage.
There was something unusual about the carriage and the woman pushing it, so the mom kept watching. The woman in the scarf was looking around. She took two cautious steps away from the carriage.
Several stores down, a white-shirted security cop in a bike helmet was riding a Segway in her direction. The woman in the scarf turned and began walking away, a little more quickly, leaving the carriage with her packages behind.
The mom had a sinking feeling of dread, fear. But it came and went quickly; she wasn’t looking for something to be wrong.
Then there was an ear-shattering explosion. Instantly her body was punched into the air by the percussion, and sonic waves knocked other bystanders to the tile floor.
“Girls! Girls! Oh my God, where are you?”
The mom found her daughters sprawled on the ground, stunned but unhurt. They started shrieking. She gathered them into her arms and rocked them.
Her eyes drifted back to the fashion show. The world was off-kilter. As the smoke cleared, she could see the bodies by the runway, blown apart and strewn haphazardly. Blood was everywhere. A moment later, the screaming started.
President Corland had been going over the details of the statement he would make later in the day, to be broadcast to the nation over Internet TV and I-radio. The plan was to reveal the fact that the Chicago crash had been a terrorist attack, though he continued to struggle with how many details should be shared with the American public.
But then he’d been informed of the mall bombing. Forty-five dead. Twenty more in critical condition. Dozens injured. Once again, terror had reached the streets of America.
The president felt burdened, his face more drawn than usual, with even more grayish pallor. “I still plan to make the statement about the Chicago air disaster, but I’m not having any Q&A. No press conference. Right, Hank?”
Hank Strand nodded. A somber stillness pervaded the room, but the quiet didn’t last.
Vice President Tulrude wanted to bring the Mall of America attack into the discussion, and quickly. “Excuse me, Mr. President, I think we need to raise the issue of today’s bombing in Minnesota — ”
“Thank you, Jessica. But no. Chicago first. Okay, folks. I plan to tell the American people that the Chicago crash was an act of terrorism.”
Helen Brokested, director of the Department of Homeland Security, winced and twitched. “Just a reminder, Mr. President. Executive Order number 14,321 directed all executive branch communications to avoid using the words
terrorism, terrorist,
and particularly
Islamic terrorism
or any derivatives — ”
“I ought to remember,” Corland broke in. “I’m the one who issued that EO. But I’ve talked with White House Counsel. We’re changing it.”
Tulrude threw a lightning glance over at Hank Strand but quickly regained her composure. That was one she hadn’t been told about. She’d give Strand a verbal smackdown later, in private, for his failure to sneak that political intel to her in advance of the meeting.