The Labyrinth Campaign (22 page)

Ian McKay was standing next to the US map artwork in Denver International Airport described to him two days prior. As he scanned the crowd, waiting for his contact, he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d gotten to this point in such a short amount of time. Everything had happened so quickly that his normal, methodical approach to planning had been marginalized. At that moment, Ian realized he had no definitive contingency plan and had not made any arrangements should he not return home to England. He was actually contemplating walking away when he spotted the men he was looking for. They were dressed in black suits, white shirts, and black ties, and both had sunglasses dangling around their necks.

They walked right up to Ian, and one man said, “Do, re, mi.”

Ian responded with the agreed response from the song in
The Sound of Music:
“Fa, so, la.”

The man asked quietly, “May I see your ticket stub, please?”

It struck Ian as funny. He sounded just like a ticket agent at the gate.

Ian laughed and said, “I don’t have a ticket.”

The two men looked at each other, frustrated. “Mr. McKay, you had explicit instructions to reach Denver International Airport anonymously. Exactly how did you get here?”

“I drove.”

“Sir, this is a violation of our agreement. You were explicitly told not to rent a car.”

“I didn’t. I bought a very used Honda Accord from a sleazy used-car dealer who didn’t seem to care that my name was Tom Cruise.”

The two men smiled as Ian handed them the bill of sale from College Motors with the buyer name of Tom Cruise.

“Follow us.” They turned and walked toward the west exit of the airport.

Once Ian was settled in the back of the customized Chevy Suburban, the second man, who was in the front passenger seat, turned and began the lengthy instruction phase during the two-hour drive to Vail. Ian was going to be staying in the guest quarters of the Hawkins family estate. It was imperative that no one see him during his entire stay in Vail. He was to stay away from all windows, and tomorrow morning at exactly 8:00 a.m., they would bring Senator Hawkins to him. Their expectation was that the meeting should take no more than ten minutes. The senator would bring a large, nondescript duffel bag with the agreed amount of money.

Ian’s mind wandered. What was he thinking? He felt as if he were walking into a lion’s den. But he rationalized that Hawkins wasn’t crazy. Paying the ransom was the prudent, easy thing to do.

“Mr. McKay,” the man interrupted his thoughts. “Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry,” Ian responded. “Could you go over that last part again?”

“I said, once the transaction is completed, we will drive you back to DIA, and we don’t expect to ever hear from you again.”

Ian nodded, and the rest of the trip passed in silence.

J
ack and Kate were positioned at side-by-side windows in their room overlooking the quaint chapel across the street. They hadn’t left their positions for well over an hour. President Hughes was staying right up the street at a stone mansion once owned by the Webster family of dictionary fame, and it was imperative that they know when the president and his entourage decided to visit town. Their plan was predicated on being there as the president strolled through town so that they could identify a Secret Service agent on the periphery who was isolated and therefore approachable.

Jack had spent hours crafting the note they hoped would reach the president. It was well thought out, with enough proprietary information to provide some level of authenticity to the many eyes that were sure to scrutinize it. But the content of the note was irrelevant if the initial approach was not flawless.

The plan was simple: Jack and Kate would both approach an outlying Secret Service agent and explain that Jack had attended college with the president’s son and was hoping to get a brief chance to say hello. Kate was the diversion. They hoped that with the appropriate attire and a disarming smile, she would be able to preoccupy the agent just enough to take the note and pass it along to his superiors later.

About twenty minutes later, movement up the street got their attention. Four men, casually dressed but looking out of place, were slowly moving down the street, scanning up, down, and side-to-side. It was clear that the larger entourage would be along shortly.

Jack and Kate jumped back from their positions; being observed looking out the window would be a dead giveaway. Within a minute, they both were prepared to exit the hotel. By the time they reached the lobby, the president and his team were passing the valet entrance of the hotel, about to take a right toward the heart of the village.

Jack and Kate stood still, watching along with the rest of the tourists and locals who had noticed the commotion. Once the main group had rounded the corner, the twosome began scanning the street for an agent bringing up the rear. It turned out to be quite simple, as four more agents brought up the rear. After watching for no more than ten seconds, the choice was obvious: The young agent closest to them, though doing his job, was obviously spending an inordinate amount of time observing Kate.

Once the rear escort team had passed, Jack and Kate casually followed. For the next five minutes, they were just two tourists window-shopping at all the fine establishments Vail had to offer but always keeping their Secret Service target in view. When the president finally entered a store and the various agents took their positions, they knew this was their chance. They approached the target together, Jack speaking first. “Excuse me, I know this is quite unorthodox, but …”

“Sir, please move on. I am on duty and unable to converse with civilians.”

“But my friend went to school with Dan Hughes, the president’s son,” Kate said, “and he just wanted you to pass along a message.”

“Ma’am, I am unable to—” The agent paused, taking another look at Kate. He appeared to relax just slightly and said, “I’m sorry I interrupted, please go on.”

“As I was saying, Bill, here, went to school with the president’s son, and when we realized he was here I encouraged him to try and say hello.”

Jack said, “I know this sounds odd, but I wrote the president a note, hoping you’d give it to him.”

Kate smiled at the agent. “We were hoping if he wasn’t too busy he might take five minutes for a quick visit.”

Jack jumped in, “I told her there was no way. It was nearly twenty-five years ago. But she talked me into it anyway. If you’d just give him the note, that would be great.”

The agent was still looking at Kate when Jack handed him the note. They both thanked the agent profusely and wandered off, window-shopping as they went. The agent had taken the note and put it in his pocket. Now all they could do was wait and hope.

The day shift at South Carolina’s largest nuclear facility was just ending. Doug Flannery was walking down the hall toward the main chamber when Rick Cortez was exiting, shedding his hardhat and protective eyewear.

“Doug, where you headed? It’s time to get a beer.”

“Yeah, I know,” Flannery told his top supervisor and best friend. “But I’ve got a strange reading on cylinder four up in the control room, and regulations say I got to check it out.”

Cortez laughed. “Doug, you know as well as I do that cylinder four’s meter has been on the blink for weeks. What the hell are you thinking?”

“I know, I just have a funny feeling. I don’t want a full-scale meltdown on my watch.” This time they both laughed. Cortez began to walk away but yelled over his shoulder, “I’ll catch you at the Roadkill later.”

“You got it,” Flannery responded. “But it will probably be late.”

Flannery continued his trek to the bowels of the facility, looking down at his clipboard the entire way. His tracking sheet indicated that there was a pressure aberration on cylinder four, but that was not the case today. The pressure readings on #4 had been out of whack for weeks; so another strange reading on the daily log would not have been a surprise to anyone.

As Flannery casually strode through the main chamber, the massive cooling cylinders seemed bigger than ever. His heart was beating at twice
the normal rate, and he was gazing from side to side in what he hoped was a casual manner to see if anyone was nearby. When he reached #4, he was completely alone. He took one more look around the massive room and then walked behind the cylinder.

He had practiced this moment in his mind a thousand times in the last twenty-four hours. He quickly took the device that was provided to him out of his infamous fanny pack and placed it right where he knew it would do the most damage. Once the acid in the device melted through the cylinder and into the molten core, a meltdown would occur that would make people forget Three Mile Island. Flannery set the timer on the device and quickly went back to his rounds.

Flannery’s rendezvous with his new employers was scheduled for 10:00. He left the facility around 9:45 and drove to the same Motel 6 where they had met previously. As he entered room 112, he had a feeling of déjà vu: Everything looked the same, except that one of the men was not present.

The leader spoke. “Did everything go as planned?”

“Not a hitch,” Flannery said, smiling.

The leader gave the woman a slight nod, and she pulled a Nike duffel bag out from under the bed. The leader quickly opened it and showed Flannery the stacks of money he had been promised. It was impossible for him to hide his elation.

At the same moment, the terrorist who was not present in the room was under Doug Flannery’s 2003 Ford Taurus. He was disconnecting the ABS sensor and draining the brake fluid into a coffee can. The man quickly finished his job, walked around the corner of the quiet motel, and, as if on cue, the door to room 112 opened. As Flannery drove away from the motel, the lead operative took his cell phone from inside his leather jacket and hit “send.” After two rings, someone answered on the other end.

“He’s on his way. Synchronize now. And don’t be late.”

Flannery could not believe his luck. He was driving to his favorite bar $250,000 richer than he had been the previous evening.

As was customary for a director-level employee at the plant, he had set his cruise control at the speed limit to avoid a ticket. Traffic tickets for nuclear engineers were frowned upon nearly as much as they were for pilots. Flannery drove along Highway 119 singing along to the Marshall Tucker Band CD in his player. As he hit his brakes to stop at the 119 and 83 intersection, there was no response.

His immediate reaction was to hit the pedal harder, but the car continued at nearly fifty miles per hour toward the two-way stop. By the time he downshifted to slow the vehicle, it was too late. A speeding eighteen-wheeler smashed into the driver’s side of the Ford Taurus, and the consequences were immediate.

By 6:00 a.m. eastern, the nuclear disaster was reported as the worst in US history. The death of Doug Flannery was merely a page 5 story in the
Columbia Star-Telegram
. By 6:30 a.m., David Ellis was live on CNN, condemning the current administration and reaffirming his support for Senator Hawkins. No one in Vail, other than the president and his staff, was even awake yet.