Authors: Nathan Goodman
86
“Sir? We’ve got an ID on that body in the basement. NCIC flagged his fingerprints, not to mention the driver’s license in his wallet. His name is Shakhar Masmal Kundi, a Saudi national. He entered the country several years ago on a student visa. Now he’s on a work visa.”
“Who sponsored the visa?” said Latent.
“Apparently the Nuclear Regulatory Commission did, sir. IRS has his last known employer listed as the Millstone Nuclear Power Station.”
“That’s our man. Well, we’ve traced our source of who stole the uranium we’ve been finding all over that house.” Latent shook his head, and his scowl tightened.
“Isn’t that good, sir? We’ve identified another piece in the puzzle.”
“Good? . . . What? Oh, yeah. Well, hell no it’s not good. Right now, what I need is an identity of someone who’s still alive. Somebody drove that uranium out of here, presumably in the form of a bomb. We’ve got to have a face, a vehicle, something to go on.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I’ve got a team headed back to Millstone right now. We’ll dig up anything we can about him.”
Latent replied, “We’ve got one team on the ground in Oman and one in Jordan. Get them both on a plane to Saudi Arabia ASAP. I want them doing a thorough background on this guy. And call the Saudi consulate in DC. I want their cooperation on this.”
The younger agent scrambled off with a look of justified entitlement on his face.
Latent dialed Uncle Bill’s number. “Bill? What cha got for me?”
“Stevie. Man, was just about to call you.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve got the identity of your uranium thief,” said Bill.
“Hold on,” said Latent, “let me guess. Is his name Shakhar Masmal Kundi?”
“You were always an asshole,” said Uncle Bill.
Latent laughed. “Seriously, what have you got on him?”
“He worked at the plant for about a year and a half. And by a not-so-miraculous coincidence, his last day of employment was the same day as the train derailment—the day he stole the uranium.”
“Funny how that works out,” said Latent.
“Steve, this is serious stuff. This was a coordinated effort. And not just an effort to quit your job on the same day that you steal forty pounds of enriched uranium either,” said Bill.
“How do you mean?”
“The timing of the theft was perfect. I mean fucking perfect. It was no coincidence that the guy was in the uranium storage room at the exact moment that the train was derailed. This took serious, coordinated timing. Think about it. They had to set up the bridge to detonate. They had to know they’d have a train coming by at that exact time. They had to plan how to set the charges so the train would derail off the right side of the bridge, catapulting most of it into the water, but with the last few cars smashing into the shore, right on top of part of the nuclear facility. The result was that the safety systems inside the facility sensed what it thought was an earthquake. The facility went into lockdown. The reactor was scrammed. You should see these surveillance tapes. That place went into chaos. They looked like little ants down there.”
Latent said, “So, let me follow this. The terrorists timed the explosion to coincide with the exact arrival of the train, during a window they knew their inside man would be able to be in the storage room . . . they knew the percussion from the blast and impact from the train hitting the roof would cause the safety systems to trip . . . what then? He just grabs the stuff and walks out?”
“That’s exactly what he did. Nobody noticed. It was pure chaos. Utter chaos. Oh, Shakhar Kundi? He goes by the name Shakey.”
“Shakey. Great. It will be all over the news. A guy named Shakey steals nuclear material. Those media assholes will love that one. Listen, I know they sent you all the surveillance tapes. But how do you know it was his last day of employment? How did you know he went by the name Shakey?”
Bill laughed. “Personnel records, internal memoranda, e-mail chains . . . and don’t ask how I got those.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I won’t. Hey, by the way. He’s dead, you know.”
“Who?” said Bill.
“Shakhar Kundi, Shakey. I’ve got his body right here in front of me at the Hiroshima Hilton. We pulled it out of the basement. He died a couple of hours ago.”
The line went as silent as if the call had dropped. Latent waited a moment and said, “Bill?”
“He’s not dead, Steve.” Uncle Bill’s voice dropped an octave. “He’s alive and well. I’ve got Shakey Kundi on a surveillance camera at a gas station on Route 119 just outside of Charleston, Kentucky. This was forty-five minutes ago.”
87
Cade and Jana returned after canvassing their thirteenth house. They were tired, hungry, and their feet were sore.
“Come on,” said Jana. “Let’s head over to the command center. I’ve got to get something to eat and find out what else is going on. And it’s probably time you get to the airport.”
Cade grabbed Jana by the arm.
“Is that what I think it is?” he said, pointing to the right.
Jana looked over. Inside one of the plastic habitrail enclosure tunnels leading away from the Hiroshima Hilton was what looked like a body.
“I bet you’re right,” said Jana. “Come on.”
The body was laying just inside the translucent sidewall of the enclosure. The man wasn’t resting. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t acting. The man was dead. His eyes were still one quarter cracked open, but there was no life in them. Aside from the bloodshot red and purplish hues, the eyes were coated with a stale, milky quality. Cade shuddered. Neither of them spoke.
Cade said, “He looks . . . bloated. I guess the radiation exposure did that. God, look at his skin. It looks like it would peel off. I mean, look at his hands; the underside of his fingers are peeling.”
The two stared and shook their heads.
Stephen Latent was on a dead run towards the command center tent when he burst in through the opening. The agent walking out the door never had a chance. Latent, in a flashback to his football days at Georgetown, reflexively leaned his left shoulder in and knocked the blue windbreaker to the ground. Without so much as skipping a beat, Latent began yelling.
“Everyone, listen up! Put out an APB to every law enforcement agency within three states of Kentucky! We’re looking for one Shakhar Kundi. Get our field office in Louisville on full alert. We need every man we’ve got headed in that direction. We need air transport. Get on the horn to the National Guard. They’ve got a detachment on Staten Island, and I think there’s a Naval Air station attached to it. We need every damn plane or chopper they have. Move!”
“But, sir!” said an agent with a buzz cut and black glasses. “Shakhar Kundi is dead. I don’t understand. His body’s right over there . . .”
“Trust me, he’s not dead. We’re looking for a white van. Unmarked, at least on the left side.”
Jana heard all the yelling and came running in. She noticed the blue windbreaker’d agent lying on his back, his moans barely audible.
“We don’t have a license plate on that yet. NSA is working on it. Give me a map of Kentucky!” yelled Latent. “And someone start searching on everything about Kentucky. I want to know stadiums, parades, events . . . anything that is big. Any event that’s going to happen, starting right now.” He stared around the wide tent at agents still frozen in place. “Give me a map of Kentucky!”
The chatter level escalated as agents scrambled onto phones, shouted orders, and banged on laptop keyboards.
An agent with a buzz cut so tight that it looked like it would prick your finger if touched said to another much taller agent, “I still don’t get it. You were the one to pull the prints off that body. Those fingerprints came back as Shakhar Kundi. I mean, he’s lying on the ground in that plastic tube over there. Why are we looking for a dead guy who’s supposedly driving a white van in Kentucky?”
“I know, I know,” said the tall agent. “Those prints were perfect. NCIC doesn’t lie.”
Cade interrupted them. “You say you took fingerprints from that dead guy?”
“Yes,” said the taller agent. “We were in the basement. We were the ones that found him. We scanned his prints with one of these,” he said, holding up the handheld scanner. “Ran it through NCIC. The prints were clean. A perfect match.”
“Well, how could you be sure the prints were good?” said Cade. “What with the skin on his fingers peeling off and everything.”
The two agents looked at each other.
“Skin peeling off?”
“Yeah. Come on,” said Cade, “take a look for yourself.”
They walked over to the edge of the habitrail enclosure and knelt down.
Cade pointed. “Look. See how the skin on the ends of his fingers is peeling. God, that’s disgusting. It looks like cellophane. Like he’s shedding or something.”
Agent Fry looked over at Dan Keller and said, “Holy shit. Look at that. Did you see that before? When you were printing him? I was trying to get him to talk. Did you notice it?”
“Hell no,” said Keller. “I know that wasn’t there before. Well, I don’t think it was anyway.”
“We better have a closer look.”
Keller looked at him. “The Michelin man suits again? Ah, shit.”
88
The tarmac on the Staten Island Naval Air Station bustled with activity. The noise from small jets and helicopters made it hard to communicate. Agents boarded several corporate jets, and others jumped into Hueys for the ride out to LaGuardia to take a larger plane to Kentucky.
“So I guess this is good-bye,” yelled Cade as he braced against the jet wash that buffeted the two of them.
“Just for now,” yelled Jana. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s the best thing. Uncle Bill wants your help deciphering Rupert Johnston’s papers. You knew him best, and we’re desperate to see if there are any hidden clues in those writings that might point us to a time or location. And,” she said, looking back at the plane, “the director thinks we’re headed into harm’s way. It’s a nuclear device we’re after. God help us if the damn thing goes off. He doesn’t want to risk a civilian getting hurt where we’re going.”
“I understand. It’s just that I thought we’d be able to finish this thing together. It’s not like I have a job to go back to or anything.”
“I guess not,” said Jana. “Look, they’re calling for me. And that’s your jet over there. Call me if you learn anything, and I mean anything.”
“Hey, don’t get yourself killed, okay?” Cade said, smiling. “It’s been a long time since I kissed a girl.”
Jana blushed. “That’s not what it seemed like to me.”
There were fourteen agents crammed into a Gulfstream Four that was designed to seat twelve. As the jet taxied towards the runway, Latent grabbed the headset hanging from the fuselage interior.
“Pilot. Get a move on. We’re not on a pleasure cruise. What? I don’t give a shit about your procedures. You get this thing in the air, and I mean right the hell right now. And no, don’t bother waiting for clearance from the tower. As far as you’re concerned, I am the tower.”
The jet rocketed down the runway, banked hard left, and picked up a straight course for Lexington, Kentucky.
“Pilot, what airport are we headed for? What? Bluegrass Airport? You’re making that up, aren’t you? All right, never mind. Get on the comm, make sure there are two choppers waiting there for us. That’s right, heated and ready.”
Latent spun his swivel chair to face the other agents, and all eyes locked on him.
“We’ve got three HRT groups in-air. They might be on the ground before we are. Also, Navy SEAL and Army Delta Force teams are airborne and en route as well. We’re headed for Lexington, but we still don’t know our final destination. NSA has eyes on every damn camera they can find and hack into. The problem is that since this asshole was spotted on a rural route—where’s that map again—okay, Route 119. It’s a rural highway. He’s likely staying off the larger roads where we’d be more likely to find cameras. Yes, Agent Baker, what is it?”
“What’s the plan, sir? I mean, once we’re on the ground. If we don’t know where he’s headed, where do we go?”
“I know, I know, we don’t have his agenda. We’re going to cover every event we can. Everyone should pray NSA can tip us either by spotting the vehicle on a camera or finding out some other way. Who’s got that list of Kentucky events?”
“Sir?” said another agent. “With the emergency alert system active, telling people to remain in their homes, wouldn’t all these events be cancelled?”
“One would think,” said Latent. “But no, these events are not cancelled. Remember, this isn’t the big city. Everybody anywhere in small-town America is determined to not let their lives be upended by a bunch of bomb chuckers. You’ve got to give them credit. They’ve got guts. Okay, here’s the list. This is a list of every large-scale event we could find that’s happening in the state. Keep in mind that we aren’t even sure Kentucky is his target. In fact, I’d be surprised if he’s not heading for a major city. Chicago would have come to mind. Anyway, here’s the Kentucky list. This is the best we can do at the moment. We’ve listed each event in the state. He could be anywhere. There are about a dozen large universities with big sporting events. University of Kentucky, Western Kentucky, Eastern Kentucky, Murray State, Morehead State. Jesus Christ, anyway, three of those have football games today or tomorrow. We’re talking about large stadiums here. Also, our people say that based on the amount of uranium stolen, the largest device they could construct would be nominal, say half a kiloton. That’s not enough to take out a small town, but it could damn sure take out a stadium and probably a lot larger. We’re thinking a target like a stadium would be ideal. The blast radius isn’t that large, but you put a half kiloton into a bowl shape, like a football stadium, and you’d have devastation. Let’s see, other events—we have a town parade in Evansville; there’s the state fair in Bowling Green. A state fair would be huge. That one scares the shit out of me. I’ve got one HRT team touching down there in about fifteen minutes. There’s a bluegrass festival, whatever the hell that is, up in the mountains somewhere. A national Boy Scouts conference in Paducah; God help us.”
“The list doesn’t narrow it down much,” said Jana. “I mean, they’ve been targeting things that are so . . . American. You know, American to the core. A Little League baseball game in Phoenix, a town barbeque in Montana. All the final objective targets were places like shopping malls, community picnics, craft beer festivals . . . things that you’d identify as American. And all things you’d like to destroy if you were a terrorist. Your list, it just doesn’t narrow it down much. Nothing jumps off the list as the obvious target.”
“All right, Baker, think like a terrorist for a minute. Use your intuition. If you had to choose just one, which would it be?” said Latent.
“I would have said the Kentucky State Fair,” said Jana. “But you’ve got that covered with the Hostage Rescue Team. If I’m choosing where we go, I’d say either the town parade in Evansville or the bluegrass festival in . . . wherever the hell that was.”
Latent said, “Perfect. You’re on Agent Jones’s team. I’ll be there as well. That’s right, people, don’t look at me like I’m an old man. I’m going into the field with you. That team will be heading to the bluegrass festival. Is
bluegrass
one word or two? Anyway, gather all the info you can right now: maps, routes, how many people will be there, when does it start, when does it end, all that shit. And, people! As you study your assignments, don’t forget to consider evacuation routes. If we have any reason to believe we have our target, we’ll use the emergency broadcast system, loudspeakers, or whatever we can to get people out of harm’s way.”
Jana shimmied back to the tail section of the plane and sat down with Agent Jones and two others to discuss their options.
“More news coming in at this hour regarding the so-called Hiroshima Hilton in Queens, New York. Authorities are neither confirming nor denying reports that three bodies have been found inside the radiation-filled structure. At this time, a four-block radius has been cordoned off in the area, and residents evacuated. Federal authorities are considering widening the radius of the containment zone and are conducting tests in the area to determine if there is further risk to public health and safety. In other news, Acting President John Palmer has lifted the ban on commercial aviation, which originally went into effect two days ago. The move had rocked Wall Street, as stocks tumbled to their lowest levels in seven years. Further complicating airline industry woes, a person’s ability to fly commercially may not be of much benefit to the airlines. Recent polls indicate most Americans are too afraid to travel, citing fears of more terrorist incidents. The US retail sales report was released earlier today, indicating a grim outlook as shoppers are simply not showing up at retail stores. Fears are escalating that the US economy is headed into catastrophe.”