Full Assault Mode (42 page)

“Well, maybe,” Carlos said.

“I can see that,” Alex said. “Nadal must have misspelled the first word of the code phrase when he scribbled it in the notebook. He meant to write the word ‘scared’ instead of the word ‘sacred.’”

“Scared Indian!” Kolt said. “Kindergarten code for ‘yellow creek.’”

“Come again, Kolt?” Carlos said. “Nadal wrote it three times.”

“I agree.” Alex stepped in. “‘Yellow’ is to ‘scared’ as ‘creek’ is to ‘Indian.’”

Kolt chugged the rest of the water and headed for the door. “I need a car, a cell phone loaded with Raptor X and those relevant phone numbers, and some alias-backstopped government creds. Carlos, get me into Yellow Creek tomorrow morning. Tell them the president wants a vulnerability assessment done or something. Whatever. Please, just make it happen.”

As Kolt exited the room, looking for the men’s bathroom, he heard Alex over his shoulder.

“What do I tell Director Mason?”

Yellow Creek Nuclear Power Plant, near Luka, Mississippi

Nadal crouched low in the passenger seat of the black Dodge Durango, silently celebrating the months of detailed research and planning. He was uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to be silhouetted by the parking-lot lights and reveal himself to the armed officers in the tall towers surrounding the plant. He motioned with his cell phone for Saquib and Hasan to stay low as well.

It wasn’t happenstance that brought Nadal to the main parking lot of Yellow Creek Nuclear Power Plant. No, there were many choices—dozens and dozens, in fact. There wasn’t much special or unique about the reactor design or the structure of the power block at Yellow Creek from a vulnerability perspective. Like many others in the United States, it produced electricity using decades-old technology. No, Yellow Creek wasn’t much different than, say, Cherokee nuclear plant, except for the business decision made just over three years ago by the corporation’s board of directors.

Nobody could argue that it wasn’t a smart business choice—after all, everyone knew security at a nuclear power plant was a financial drain on the plant’s profits and affected the shareholders dividends. By abandoning Yellow Creek’s outer checkpoint, shuttering its ballistic structure, removing the security cameras, and dropping the heavy metal-plate barriers, they had saved hundreds of thousands of dollars and offered a friendlier, welcoming image to the surrounding public. The decision also made life easier for terrorists driving truck bombs to get much closer to the main reactor.

Nadal brought his cell phone up to his mouth.

“Yes, brother Joma, we are in position and our entry point is clear as well,” he said.

“Should I wait for you?” Joma asked.

“No, insert the battery and activate your device,” Nadal said. “Once the red light flashes, drive immediately to your target.”

“I cannot lie, brother Nadal. I am nervous in Allah’s eyes,” Joma said. “I seek courage and your blessing.”

“It is OK to be of a solemn mind, my friend. You must use the chains to defeat a weak mind.”

“Yes, brother, I will use the chains.”

“Good, brother Joma. You have done well. Allah is all-knowing and shines upon his newest martyrs.”

“Yes, Allah is merciful and compassionate. Peace be upon Him,” Joma said. “Inshallah.”

Nadal ended the call and crawled into the backseat with Hasan. Nadal looked past him to the two large packages in the rear of the van. They took up the positions of the two back jump seats, which had been removed to make room. The vehicle’s rear shocks had held up well under the additional weight of explosives, well enough to successfully pass the abandoned checkpoint and reach the parking lot only twenty meters or so outside the main access facility. It wasn’t necessarily the parking lot that was important to Nadal’s meticulous planning, but one parking stall in particular.

“It is time,” Nadal said, reaching over and ripping the blood-soiled pillowcase off Cindy Bird’s head. Gagged and blindfolded after a month’s worth of isolation and intermittent beatings, the woman looked dazed and gaunt.

“Your suffering is almost over,” Nadal said. “Mujahid Timothy made his choice. He is a traitor to both America and Islam. I know you longed for his return, but he chose to abandon you. Allah will not judge him kindly.”

The woman said nothing, but that was as expected. Nadal was amazed at her resistance, even when all hope was clearly lost. She had resisted violently when she was first rolled up at Brueggers Café in Raleigh.

Nadal tugged gently on the chain strapped around Bird’s waist before slipping the blindfold off her eyes and over her head.

“You should be comfortable,” Nadal said. “Would you like to convert before you face Allah’s judgment?”

Bird tilted her head toward the window and away from Nadal at the sound of his voice. Nadal followed her gaze. He saw the round dome of the nuclear reactor in the distance, noticed steam coming from the top of the turbine building, and, in the distance, easily identified the thick wall of evaporating water gushing the from the top of the six-hundred-foot-tall hyperboloid-shaped cooling tower.

“Even now I offer you the mercy of accepting Allah.”

Bird looked at Nadal, her eyes flashing a hint of the anger she had displayed throughout her captivity.

“Very well,” Nadal said. He looked away and bent down, pulling away the floor carpeting and lifting up a piece of sheet metal covering a hole cut into the floor of the Durango. He eased his feet through the hole and then slowly lowered himself down to the asphalt. The dull sheen of the manhole cover confirmed they were in position.

Saquib handed Nadal the crowbar. It took a minute to get the right angle, but Nadal finally lifted the cover and slid it off to the side. The scrapping sound echoed from under the Durango, and Nadal gritted his teeth.

Saquib now passed Nadal several thick plastic bags, accidentally banging the contents of one on the asphalt below.

“Be careful with the scuba tanks, brother!” Nadal said. He climbed down the concrete shaft until his head was below ground level and then powered on his Petzl headlamp to illuminate the way down.

“What do you see?” Hasan whispered.

Nadal did not answer right away. It occurred to him that this was a moment when he should utter something profound as the Prophet would, but as Nadal stared at the graffiti of a cock and balls sprayed there by a worker, words escaped him.

*   *   *

Kolt did his best to keep his temper in check but knew he couldn’t win the battle much longer. With lives at stake and time running out, he was once again dealing with people who did not understand the urgency. In addition, he had taken on yet another identity and was growing tired of being someone other than who he was.

“Look, Mr. Jones, we appreciate you coming on such short notice, but we’ve been at this all day,” the chief nuclear officer of Yellow Creek Nuclear Power Plant said. My folks are exhausted, and I need to send them home. We will reconvene in the morning.”

Kolt let his breath out slowly. “I understand, ma’am. I think we can wrap this review of your protective strategy up in another hour or so,” he said. He looked out the large fourth-floor window that overlooked the Tennessee River as two Coast Guard cutters sailed by on patrol.

“Mr. Jones, I’m sorry, but we really need to call it a night right now,” the CNO said. “I just received a call from the governor. At the president’s directive, he has activated the Army National Guard.”

It’s about fucking time!

“That’s great news, ma’am. They arriving tonight?”

“No, they haven’t been alerted yet, but we expect the advance element to be here in the morning to coordinate the overall security plan.”

Kolt kept his smile to himself, but he was pleased the president had taken this unprecedented step. Kolt didn’t see how he could have avoided it much longer. The intelligence was just too telling, too frightening, and after Cherokee the continued fallout of negative opinion polls and congressional squabbling about becoming a police state made the callout inevitable.

Kolt turned to the plant manager. If there ever was a time that he needed to work his cover and masquerade as Mr. Jones, this was it.

“Bob, has anyone shown signs of nervousness lately? Over the past week? Since the attack on Cherokee?”

Kolt was convinced there had to be a Timothy at Yellow Creek station. There must be an insider. After spending the day with the real Timothy at Cherokee and after Hawk’s cocktail-napkin Nuke 101 lesson at Brueggers, he realized how excruciatingly painful and difficult it was to understand the inner workings of a nuclear power plant. He now knew that the terrorists would be hard-pressed to successfully reach the reactor or the main control room without the required detailed knowledge that was only obtainable from someone who had worked there for many years—or, short of that, without three rifle companies of United States Marines.

“Who is the smartest guy here on these engineer drawings?” Kolt asked. “Who knows the most about the underground pathways?”

“That would be Samuel Price. He works in my office,” one of the engineers in the room announced.

“Where is he now?” Kolt asked.

“Well, good question,” the engineer said.

“What’s up?” Kolt asked.

“We were having breakfast in our cafeteria when the Cherokee attack hit the news that next morning,” he said. “Sam said he didn’t feel well and went home for the day.”

“Happens, I’m sure,” Kolt said. “So where is he tonight? We need him in here to help us fully assess our vulnerabilities with undergrounds.”

“Can’t do that, sir,” the engineer said to Kolt. “Before coming back to work, Sam decided to take two weeks of vacation.”

“Vacation?” Kolt asked.

“A cruise to the Bahamas, I believe,” the engineer said. “We haven’t heard from him since he left over a month ago.”

“Call him!” Kolt said.

“Why?”

“Just do it. Just check on him,” Kolt demanded as he noticed the business-suited CNO raise her right hand in the air as if to signal
stop
.

“Don’t call him, Bob,” the CNO said, interrupting. “Mr. Jones, I am not bothering one of my most trusted employees at this hour. Mr. Price is on extended leave for an illness that is confidential. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Please, I have to put my foot down here. We are going home.”

“OK,” Kolt said. Nothing he could do to change the CNO’s mind, that much was obvious. Besides, after the late night drive from Atlanta, he realized he needed some eyelid maintenance as well.

“If we are the terrorists’ target of choice, and God help us if we are, I am confident that our security professionals can defend this plant,” the CNO said.

You’d better hope they don’t have to prove it.

*   *   *

Joma eased the Durango into a long shadowed area created by the two-story building on his right. He reached back with his left hand, turning his body in the driver’s seat awkwardly because of the uncomfortable bulletproof vest, and activated a small red toggle switch embedded in a small black box connected to the wooden crates. Turning back around to face the looming nuclear plant to his front, he removed the iPhone 5 battery cover, reached to open the ashtray in the dash, and pulled out the lone lithium-ion battery. Joma inserted the battery, delicately seated the battery cable, and replaced the cover without bothering with the tiny screws. After powering on the cell phone, he waited a few seconds for it to run through its activation sequence, registering itself with cell towers in range. Joma fingered several numbers into his cell and watched as the phone connection was made on the screen, before looking in the rearview mirror to check his work. The LED counter activated and flashed triple zeros for a few seconds before flashing to 2:00 minutes.

1:59

1:58

1:57

*   *   *

As Kolt and the plant’s staff headed down the marbled circular stairwell like a herd of stampeding cattle, he knew he was the only person concerned about being attacked by terrorists. His cell phone chirped three times. He froze in midstride, slowing the crowd and forcing them to move around him. A few threw him dirty glares as they passed, then quickly went back to their small talk about how early the morning would come and what they still needed to pick up from the store before getting home. Others were more cordial.

“Have a good night, Mr. Jones.”

“Get some sleep. We’ll get back at it tomorrow.”

Kolt nodded and quickly waved as he ripped his cell from its carrier above his right hip. He swiped in an L shape with his forefinger, providing the correct password to unlock the phone. On the screen, Raptor X had pinged on Hawk’s iPhone 5.

That can’t be right.

Kolt stared at the number in disbelief, trying to understand how Hawk’s cell number had been entered into the Raptor X hunt on the phone Tungsten gave him last night.

Carlos!

Unbeknownst to Kolt, Raptor X had been hunting remotely for Hawk’s phone, the distinct fifteen-digit identifier just as it hunted for the terrorist-related numbers since he left Atlanta. Kolt was shocked, though; he refused to believe it. Now alone, he sat down on the stairs to steady his nerves and take a closer look.

Kolt knew it was a shot in the dark. Alex had told him before he left last night that his cell could only run a lite version of Raptor X and offered a quick analogy of the differences. She told Kolt to think of it like hunting a running deer but only being able to open your eyes every other minute. With your eyes open for one minute, you can see the deer, but it keeps running. But you’ll have to close your eyes for another minute. You have an idea of where you last saw it but are hoping for another sighting when you reopen your eyes. If you are lucky, the deer will stop running and try to hide for a few minutes so you can hone in on its position.

Kolt got enough out of Alex’s lesson to understand that it wasn’t simple, that it wasn’t a procedure: it was a hunt.

He decided to tap the geolocate button, which, if it worked, would bounce off the local cell towers and tell him exactly where Hawk’s cell phone was. But, unlike the more robust Raptor X that used satellites to quickly track Shaft when he was on a singleton mission in the Goshai Valley, Kolt’s iPhone could only task Raptor X Lite to remotely hunt for a device by connecting to an Amazon server in Seattle.