Authors: Nathan Goodman
63
The basement was dark and dank. The back room, however, was brilliantly lit. The smell was something of a cross between an epoxy factory and an old high school locker room. Waseem was disgusted. On his first visit, he expected better. Things should have been in order and more cleanly in anticipation of his visit. Two decrepit couches lined either side of the box-shaped space, one man sleeping on each. Waseem glanced at them; his face twinged against the sharp odor.
In the center of the room, lying on a heavy hewn, homemade workbench, was the prize. It was cylindrical in shape, about three feet long, and twenty-five inches in diameter. On the left end was a heavy metal collar with handles surrounding an aluminum valve and threaded nozzle. Had it been smaller, it would have passed as a standard propane canister, the type found underneath every gas grill in America.
One of the men stirred. Waseem expected him to jump up, kneel at his knees, and kiss his hand. But the man’s eyes were milky and twitching. The dark face, which was full of heavy razor stubble, brightened at the sight of Waseem. Then the man mouthed a few words that neither Waseem nor his young driver could understand. Jarrah realized the man was deeply ill. He leaned down beside the stained couch and put his hand on the coarse fabric; then placed his mouth next to the man’s ear.
“What is it, my friend?”
In a dry whisper, the man said, “It is ready . . . it is ready. Go, go now. It is not safe for you here. We will be with Allah soon—I can almost see him.”
“What is wrong with them?” said the frightened apprentice.
Waseem looked over his shoulder but did not acknowledge the question.
“You have done well,” said Waseem. “You have struck a blow against the infidel. Allah will reward you for this.” Waseem looked at the other couch. The second man was not breathing; radiation poisoning had taken its toll.
“You must leave this place,” whispered the man, coughing. “You must leave this place now. Do not stay. It will make you sick. Take the package. Go, go now, and . . .” The man was gone.
Waseem turned to look back at his driver. “Bring the hand truck from the van. We must load the device. Time is short—move now.”
The driver hurried up the stairs with fear in his eyes, tripping as he went.
64
“Congressional leaders have called for the president’s resignation once again. The president is meeting behind closed doors at this hour, testifying in front of the Senate Oversight Committee on the events leading up to yesterday’s chaotic shootout between the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and security officers of the Central Intelligence Agency. In related news, there are developments in that car bombing at the site of the Marriott Marquis in downtown Atlanta. First reports indicated a car bomb, but now, it seems clear that the vehicle was struck by a missile, possibly fired from—of all things—a military helicopter. Unconfirmed reports out of Dobbins Air Force Base corroborate that story. Those reports indicate that a Marine Corp Apache AH-64 attack helicopter, attached to the Naval Air Station there, was commandeered last night without proper authorization. Commandeered by who is a question that is not known at this time, but when this reporter asked about the current whereabouts of the chopper, neither Air Force nor Navy officials would comment. On top of these developments, we’re getting new word . . . hold on, yes we’re going live now to a press briefing just taking place at the Pentagon.”
“Good day,” said General Marcus Mears.
Camera shutters discharged in the background. It sounded like a swarm of locusts were tap dancing.
“As of exactly 12:32 PM Eastern Daylight Time, the US terrorist threat level went from yellow to red. We have verified information that indicates a significant terrorist event may be imminent. All precautions are being taken. We urge citizens to remain indoors, but to stay calm. If you do not need to travel, stay in your homes. The president has put all US troops and US embassies on high alert. At this time, I will be available for a few questions.” A cacophony of noise erupted in the room. “Yes?” said the general, nodding to a reporter.
“General Mears,” the reporter said, “you said an event might be imminent. Is there an indication as to where the event might take place?”
“We cannot confirm the location. But our best intelligence at this time is that this event will occur within the borders of the continental United States.”
Background noise erupted again, and reporters yelled and shouted over each other.
“Yes, Mable,” said the General.
“General, can you be more specific as to the type of threat?”
“No, ma’am, at this time we are not sure of the type of event, but we are running all scenarios. The president is urging people to remain calm, and to stay indoors.” There was a long pause. The general continued, “I’d like to add one more thing before I go. This country was founded as a Christian nation. But at this time, without regard for religion, I’d like to ask all citizens to . . . pray.”
There were more shouts from reporters as the general left the podium.
“
John
Carden back with you. Well, we’ve just heard from the Pentagon. Two-star General Marcus R. Mears indicating that the terror threat level has been elevated to red, its highest level. The general also urged people to remain calm, to stay indoors, and to pray. Keep it glued to WBS for the latest news, weather, and traffic. For now, reporting live from downtown Atlanta, this is John Carden, WBS News.”
65
Uncle Bill worked an array of decryption equipment while the helicopter was in flight. He looked like an airline pilot, or perhaps an astronaut, working multiple systems at once. He keyed his mic and turned towards the cockpit, “Hey, can we get these two on the comm, please?” The noise from the Huey would have been deafening without the noise cancelling headsets.
A moment later, Jana and Cade’s headsets lit up with military radio chatter.
“Cade,” said Bill, “what’s this?” inviting him to lean over.
While the two of them engaged in a technical conversation about decrypting the data, Jana listened to the radio chatter in her headset. She could hear communication from the F-18s, currently off their starboard side. Strangely, she had never felt this safe. Looking out the port side window, she gauged that the Huey and its military escort were heading west towards Atlanta, the city growing large in her view. When they flew directly over Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Jana keyed her mic.
“Pilot, we’re right over Hartsfield. Why are we not going around their airspace? Why aren’t any of the planes on the ground moving?”
The pilot replied, “Ah, roger that, Agent Baker. Ah, ATL is tango uniform as of zero nine hundred today. Everything is grounded. Nothing in or out, ma’am.”
“Grounded? Because of the terror threat? But, Jesus Christ, it’s the busiest airport in the world.”
“Ah, roger that, yes, ma’am. Ma’am? We’ll be touching down on the he-lo pad at Emory Crawford Long hospital in zero-three mics.”
Jana said, “Crawford Long? Why are we going there?”
“Apologies, Agent Baker, I’m not at liberty to say. And, ma’am, when we touch down, you’re instructed to remain in your seat, please. We don’t have much time, ma’am.”
Two minutes later they were hovering directly over the roof of Crawford Long, one of Atlanta’s central hospitals. Cade leaned towards Jana.
“What’s up? Why are we here?”
“I have no idea,” she said.
They bumped hard against the landing pad. On the far end of the roof, a doorway opened, and a nurse leaned against it to prop it open.
Bill put his hand on Cade’s shoulder. “Son, you need to go inside.”
“Me?” said Cade. “Inside? Inside where? What are you talking about?”
“Hurry, son.” Bill glanced out at the nurse. “There’s not much time.”
It wasn’t until Cade saw the nurse standing there that it hit him. A hospital, a nurse, not much time. His father. His father.
Cade flung open the heavy sliding door of the Huey, ducked his head, and ran to the open doorway. For as quickly as he moved, he did not want to go inside.
66
“You have memorized your final objective?” said Waseem as the white van barreled down the New Jersey turnpike.
The van’s driver was stoic, almost mechanical.
“Yes, it is memorized. Routes, times, alternates. I am ready.”
“You will be named in the hall of names. You strike against the beast and all that is evil.”
Cars passed on their left, and Waseem held the AK-47 rifle low and out of view. If they were tailed by a police cruiser, he would not hesitate.
“Once we’re at the dock, you will be alone, with Allah at your back. You understand the detonator? Do everything in your power to reach your final destination, but should you be stopped, detonate the device. Always look to the east, my son,” said Waseem. “You are the sharp end of the stick, now.”
The nurse took Cade by the arm. The hallway was lined with secret service agents. Cade saw no fewer than ten as he entered, several more on the elevator, and a dozen on the eleventh floor where they stopped. The elevator door swung open. Cade spoke for the first time.
“Nurse, what’s happening? Is it my dad?”
“Yes, honey. Hurry, we don’t have much time. He’s very weak.”
They crossed through double doors into the intensive care ward and stopped at room 1117 where the nurse pushed open the hospital room door. Cade stood, staring into the room, he was frozen. He could see the end of the bed and had an irrational thought that if he didn’t go in, none of this would be happening. From behind him, a secret service agent put his hand on Cade’s shoulder.
“Sir, the second F-18 is almost finished with midair refueling. Once it’s done, we have to go.” He held his arm up, motioning Cade to enter the room. “Please.”
Cade walked into the darkened room where clear plastic formed a large box over his father, protecting his shattered immune system. To enable him to speak to his son, Cal Williams’ ventilator had just been removed. His breathing was labored and choppy.
Cal craned his stiff neck to the left. “Cade? Is that you, son?” The voice was raspy like the winds of the Mojave Desert.
Cade went to his side. The nurse silently unzipped the plastic enclosure.
“Yes, Dad, it’s me.”
“Son, I want to say something to you.” His dry cough ended in a distinct wheeze. “Son, I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the man you’ve become. And . . . I’m proud of the things you are doing right now.”
“You know what’s going on, Dad?” said Cade.
“I had to twist their arms, but yes. They told me everything. I guess they figure spilling a few national secrets to someone who won’t be here in a little while doesn’t matter much.”
“Dad, don’t talk like that.” Cade clenched his throat.
“I’m glad I got to see you one last time, son. You need to go now. You need to help those people, son. And, Cade? Remember what I always told you”—and they said in unison—“never do anything you’re going to regret for the rest of your life.”
Cade felt like he was ten years old again.
“Promise me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need to go. Don’t waste any more time on me. I’ve said my peace.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, son.”
Cade turned to leave then stopped. But before looking back, he thought better of it. Outside, the secret service agent spoke into the mic tucked into his left shirt cuff, “All posts, all posts. Server is on the move. I repeat, Server is on the move.”
Cade rushed out onto the roof then into the Huey, whose rotor blades thumped wildly. As they lifted off, Cade could see the green space at the street level of the hospital below. A grandfather in a white robe pushed a portable IV and played with his grandchildren. And somewhere on the eleventh floor, in the intensive care ward, a heart monitor’s alarm sounded in a long, continuous fashion before being switched off.
“All right, we’re patched into the decryption center now. Running diagnostics. Roger that, you should have the package,” said Bill into his headset. The Huey took only four minutes to touch down on the far end of the tarmac of runway four at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. The trio boarded a heavy Gulfstream Five whose jets were roaring. It took less than sixty seconds to load Bill’s equipment.
“Ft. Meade has the decryption algorithm running now. It won’t take long to crack it,” said Bill.
The jet’s engines rumbled, and the plane hurtled down the long, empty runway, then banked northeast.
Cade said, “It won’t take long? Really? Isn’t that a CIA cipher?”
“Sure it is,” said Bill. “But it won’t take long to crack. I wrote it.”
Jana smiled and shook her head from side to side. “Bill, remind me to kiss you later.”
“I don’t think the missus would appreciate that,” laughed Bill. “Besides, I think Cade here would be jealous.”
“Pilot, can you patch me into FBI headquarters?” said Jana. “Into the director’s office?”
“Yes, ma’am. One moment, ma’am.”
A phone rang in her headset. “Director Latent’s office,” said a female voice.
“This is Agent Baker, I need to speak to . . .”
“Yes, Agent Baker. The director is expecting your call. One moment please.”
Jana was taken aback that anyone would be waiting for her call, much less the director of the FBI.
“Baker? This is Latent. You all right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jana.
“Thank God. Baker? Baker, listen, I’m sorry about what happened to Kyle. There’s some things about Kyle . . . some things you don’t know, things we should talk about later.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jana gritted her teeth in an effort to quell her emotions.
“What’s the sitrep?”
“Sir, Uncle Bill has the package. He’s working on it here, and it’s been sent to Ft. Meade. He thinks we’ll be able to crack it quickly, sir,” said Jana.
“Well, if anybody can crack it, it’s Uncle Bill. Damn, last night I thought that son of a bitch was dead. Baker, once the data is decrypted, I want you in the field. We still have to catch that asshole Waseem Jarrah. He’s just graced the ten most wanted list, and you’ve got operational experience dealing with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing,” said Latent. “Tell Bill he’s not off the hook for that twenty bucks he owes me from Super Bowl XVI. Thinking he’s dead doesn’t count.”