Worst Case Scenario, page 29
“Good morning.”
She turned and smiled. “Morning.”
“You’re up early,” he said, readjusting to a more comfortable position.
“Yeah—you, too.”
She’d lost everything: Samuel, her job, her house—her way of life. Bishop recalled something from an instructor at West Point: Not everyone’s sacrifice is equal, nor are their rewards the same. He’d been right. She’d sacrificed everything but kept her life.
She stood, stretched, and yawned; the blanket dropping to the floor. “So, what do we have to do today?”
Bishop rolled across the bed and took her in his arms. “We have an easy day—no heavy lifting. General Cook wants us to drive to some kind of command facility the FBI’s set up. We’ll hang out and maybe look at some photos if the cops stop anyone that looks like McFadden or one of his cronies.”
She touched the bag of clothes on the floor she’d bought on the way to Bishop’s place yesterday. “Okay, I’m going to take a shower.” Cora gave him a quick kiss—half missing his lips. “You start the coffee.”
Cora ducked into the bathroom and pushed the door half-closed. Bishop slipped on a sweatshirt and stretched. From the bathroom, she asked, “Hey, will you buy me lunch anywhere I want?”
Bishop yawned. “Sure, name the place.”
“I don’t know any places in—where did you say we were going?”
“Richmond,” he replied.
“Richmond,” McFadden said. “That’s our last stop before delivering the package to Washington. It’s about thirteen hours from here, the route I intend to take. That route should keep us off the main roads and most freeways, staying on back roads and out of sight.”
Monk hadn’t slept that great and slowly sipped the coffee, holding the mug with both hands to warm himself. McFadden got up and poked the fireplace again. The oak wood had a pleasant, relaxing fragrance, and Monk scooted the rocking chair closer. “I didn’t realize you had a place like this tucked away up here in the mountains?”
McFadden flashed a half-grin. “Nobody knows this place is here but a few foreign business associates. It’s held in the name of a shell company that can’t be traced back to me. I use it for meetings when there are people involved who shouldn’t be seen at the ranch.”
Monk stared up at the ceiling and the vast interior timber-beam construction. “That’s the only time you use it?”
“Yup, I’d much rather be in New Mexico—that’s home.”
Monk started to ask something but hesitated.
“What?” McFadden said, with a quizzical look.
Monk squinted and leaned forward in the chair. “Do you think we have a chance at pulling this off—I mean, if they know we’re coming—”
“Stop, Monk.” McFadden held up a hand—palm out. “Just stop right there.” He ambled over to him. “This is the single most important act a group of patriots has done since the founding of the republic. The people who want to destroy this great country have the voice of freedom almost choked off, but we’re going to release that grip.”
McFadden walked back and forth in front of the cabin’s fireplace—his expression contorted into something Monk hardly recognized. “Don’t you understand we have the power to save a nation—the greatest nation on earth?” McFadden’s voice rose so much he was almost yelling. In the past, when he’d showed this kind of emotion, it had inspired Monk. Now it scared him. McFadden pointed at him like an evangelist working a congregation.
“Don’t falter on me, boy—stay true to the cause.” Froth and spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. McFadden wiped the back of his hand across it. He must have realized he’d overdone it a bit because he quickly calmed down, and his lips thinned with grim satisfaction.
A wave of queasiness passed over Monk.
“It’s time for a new beginning—a new country, and we can make it happen—a once-in-a-lifetime chance,” McFadden whispered. “Are you with me, Monk?”
In a voice he hardly recognized as his own, Monk answered, “Yes, sir, all the way.”
“… and I’m tired of excuses—I want every agent somewhere between here and McFadden’s last known location. Is that clear?”
The Assistant FBI Directors gave their full attention to Director Campbell. He felt like hell. His usual well-tailored suit had taken on a dingy appearance. The once crisp, starched, white shirt was wrinkled and hung limply from his sagging shoulders. Campbell’s disheveled hair and hollow eyes gave the look of a man much older.
Director Campbell glanced at his aide. “For the benefit of those who don’t know the latest, Ed will fill you in.”
Ed Bradberry stood and cleared his throat. “After we learned about the conspiracy, we began electronic intercepts on all their phones and computers. At least a dozen of them have stopped communication via those devices. We also began 24/7 surveillance on the group. One of them,” Bradberry said, shifting some papers on the table until finding the right one, “Monk Cole, was believed to be home sick. He’s a nuclear physicist working at Sandia and Los Alamos. We made a surreptitious entry at his residence yesterday—he’s gone.”
Director Campbell tapped the table with his index finger to draw their attention. “This Cole guy worked on the stolen shipment of weapons. He knows all the disabling codes necessary to allow him to set one off. If he’s with McFadden, and McFadden has a weapon—he’s got everything he needs to light off a nuke.”
Bradberry looked down then quickly back at the other men around the table and cleared his throat again. “That’s correct, sir.”
The total silence in the room seemed strange as each man probably considered their worst fears were now realized. A mad man with a stolen nuclear weapon, and the means to use it, was closing in on the Capitol.
Campbell walked to the credenza. He poured a half glass of water and swallowed two white capsules in one gulp. “Tell ’em the rest, Ed.”
Bradberry laid the papers back on the table, and a blush covered his cheeks as he leaned both fists on the table. “It appears we’ve also lost another suspect—FBI Special Agent Daniel Piedmont. He gave MST the slip last night and hasn’t been seen since. We have a security camera video of him walking through the front door of Union Station around ten o’clock, but we don’t know where he is now. He may have traveled to New York—still trying to confirm that.”
Bradberry looked at the Director, who had sat back down. “Sir, every vehicle registered to McFadden, or anyone associated with the ranch, is on our watch list. If they’re spotted—they’ll be stopped. Since Piedmont knows he’s under surveillance, there’s little use in continuing to keep this under wraps.”
Campbell stared back and exhaled. “You’re right—put out an APB on the whole lot. Let’s start picking them up, and let’s hit that damn ranch before the other nukes disappear.”
Bradberry nodded and took his seat.
Campbell stood. “One last thing, ladies and gentlemen. We may have an ace up our sleeve. The major roads around the National Capital Area are ringed with rad detectors for a 100 miles radius. Anything that passes through one, no matter how well it’s shielded—we’ll know about.” Campbell shoved both hands in his pockets. “The only problem at that point will be we’ll have less than two hours to intercept and neutralize them.”
He looked at the men and women. “It’s up to us to find them before it comes to that. Don’t force me to shut down all vehicular traffic into DC.” His eyes again narrowed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to clean up and advise the President about evacuating the Congress and Supreme Court.”
A Mine Resistant Ambush Protected fighting vehicle, otherwise known as an MRAP, is made to survive IED attacks and ambushes in war zones. The FBI started receiving surplus MRAPs as the war in Iraq began winding down—their SWAT teams loved them.
Special Agent Sean Carpenter leaned against his and tried relaxing. The growl of the diesel engine from the last of the Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles being backed off the eighteen-wheeler trailer finally died away. The Bradleys were also heavily armored but had firepower the MRAPs didn’t.
The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team Leader, Rick Ure, tapped Carpenter on the shoulder. He jumped and turned.
“You okay?” Rick asked.
Carpenter wasn’t okay, but he’d be damned if he let anyone know. While he’d been an Army captain in 2003 during the invasion phase of Operation Iraqi Freedom—he’d been kept out of the fighting in his role as C.O. of a transportation unit behind the lines. Carpenter never fired a shot, got shot at, or even saw a dead body. Fellow soldiers were guarding the only Iraqis he’d seen after they’d surrendered. This might just be his baptism by fire.
“Sure—I’m fine. We about ready to go?”
Rick whirled his hand in a circle in the air, signaling to vehicles up and down the line. “Yeah, let’s saddle up.”
Carpenter eyed the road that led to the entrance to McFadden’s ranch. No through traffic had passed since they’d arrived almost an hour ago. New Mexico State Police vehicles had blocked both ends of the county road. Carpenter surveyed the vehicles in their invasion force. There were three Bradleys, seven MRAPs, half a dozen vehicles from DOD, the same number from DOE, ambulances, state police SWAT vehicles, FBI Evidence Response Team trucks, and several others at the end he couldn’t identify.
Holy crap, it looks like a small army. Diesel fumes hung heavy in the air as each vehicle idled, waiting for their passengers to load. Carpenter climbed into the back of the sandy-colored MRAP and moved forward. The driver and Rick were discussing something. The driver held a map and pointed at an area along the fence line leading up to the main entrance to the ranch. Carpenter squatted behind them as the heavily armed SWAT team loaded up on metal benches inside the MRAP behind him.
According to Bishop’s report, they could expect strong resistance from a well-trained, well-equipped, and highly motivated group of defenders. Bishop had stressed all precautions for the safety of law enforcement officers should be employed, and extreme firepower should be available to engage heavily fortified defensive positions. Carpenter had to wonder if they’d overdone it a bit. Nothing this big had been assembled since the raid on the Mount Carmel Compound in Waco in 1993. The press had a field day over that. Building this assault force had already engendered wild speculation from the media over what was going on. A false rumor was leaked. Something about a big raid on a major drug kingpin’s ranch—very hush-hush. The press ran with it. That should keep them chasing their tails until this thing concluded.
Rick had devised the strategy for the assault. Two areas were the principal targets. The first—the cave at the base of the mountain, containing the stolen nukes. A Bradley would escort an MRAP with DOD and DOE render-safe personnel to the cave. Their mission—locate and begin to recover the remaining weapons.
Another Bradley would escort a second MRAP to the front door of McFadden’s house. Their job was to arrest anyone they found inside. The last Bradley would run interference for him and Rick in their MRAP—they were the command and control vehicle. The rest of the armored vehicles would provide cover and backup to anyone that needed it. Most of the occupants were FBI SWAT personnel recruited from various offices around the country to assist in the assault. Surprisingly, Rick was the only HRT guy on the ground. His men would land or rappel from two Blackhawk helicopters at the cave entrance and secure it before the render-safe team arrived.
Carpenter wiped sweat from his hands as the last agent climbed in. Carpenter took a deep breath and gave the agent behind him a nod. Three of the four looked at him. They were in full tactical gear, assault rifles at the ready. The fourth one held a small silver cross in his fingers. His eyes were closed while his lips whispered a silent prayer. He opened his eyes, kissed the cross, and stuffed it between his shirt and ballistic vest.
Someone bumped Carpenter’s right knee.
“Put your helmet on and let’s do a radio check,” Rick said.
Carpenter took the black combat helmet with the built-in radio and mike from a hook and adjusted it on his head.
“… 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Did you copy that?” Rick spoke into his helmet mike.
Before Carpenter could answer, the armored beast gave a jerk and pulled onto the center of the road directly behind the already moving Bradley. Carpenter steadied himself from the jolt and nodded back. Even with the noise-insulating material, the MRAP sounded like riding under the hood of a Mack truck. The claustrophobic, hot environment gave Carpenter the willies. He couldn’t afford to show just how frightened he was. The fear of the unknown was always much worse than the experience. His hands shook, so he kept his either bracing himself or holding something so no one would notice.
Rick looked back and yelled over the noise. “Use your mike—press the button on the handset to talk, and release to listen.”
Carpenter found the cigarette pack-size handset on the wire and pressed the button. “Can you hear me?”
Rick nodded and gave a thumb up. They were only half a mile from the ranch entrance. Carpenter opened the top hatch and poked his head up, looking around. The cool breeze felt good, and he took a couple of deep breaths to calm down. The ranch had sealed itself off from the world a couple of days ago. No one had arrived or departed since then. Carpenter prayed this would not turn out to be another Ruby Ridge. The Director had ordered the maximum fire-power Bishop recommended to overrun any defenders quickly and secure the nukes. God forbid they were already wired for remote detonation. This section of New Mexico would be blown off the map and him with it. Carpenter scratched his arms. It felt like ants crawling around under his skin, looking for a way out. Got to settle down. He took a swallow of water from his bottle, and one of the SWAT guys in the back stared at his shaking hand. Carpenter quickly turned away and faced the front.
They were up to about thirty miles an hour now, and Carpenter could just make out the guard shack at the front gate through the MRAP’s windshield. It looked abandoned—no doubt they’d been tipped off. This operation had been too big and too loud to keep secret. The ranch entrance was blocked by a big dump truck parked crosswise across the road between the fence and guard shack.
Closing on the main gate, one Bradley and two MRAPS sped past Carpenter and Rick’s MRAP. The Bradley escorting them made a hard turn into the front yard of a mobile home directly across the road from the entrance—Samuel’s old place. The driver of Carpenter’s MRAP also pulled into the front yard behind the waiting Bradley.
“Better button up,” Rick said.
Carpenter ducked inside, closing the top hatch. Night satellite images of three men loading something inside the truck blocking the entrance gave them cause for concern.
“Bradley escort—this is the commander—fire when ready,” Rick said.
“Bradley escort copies, fire when ready—roger, sir,” came the reply.
Carpenter wasn’t prepared for the Bradley’s 25 mm chain gun—he jumped as the cannon sent 200 rounds per minute of high-explosive incendiary shells chewing into the abandoned truck. Every fifth round was a tracer. Looked like a laser saber slicing through the vehicle. After about fifteen to twenty seconds, the truck exploded into a bright orange flash and a cloud of rolling sand. The explosion’s concussion rocked the MRAP, and everything in the vehicle rattled. Carpenter’s silent prayer was interrupted by Rick’s comments.
“Son of a bitch, there must have been fifty pounds of explosives in that damn thing,” Rick said.
The Bradley slowly approached, its turret swiveling left and right, trying to acquire another threat. Only a tiny part of the truck’s frame remained—a twisted and unrecognizable piece of scrap metal. The explosion had demolished the flimsy guard shack—there was no trace of it. The Bradley stopped, its gun turret again traversing from side to side. After a moment, it eased up to the edge of the truck’s frame and pushed it to the right. Its armored tracks bit into the road as the old remains of the truck pivoted and slid to one side. The Bradley advanced through the opening, and the MRAP fell in behind. There was a slight dip as they drove through the crater caused by the blast.
Carpenter looked to his right and left. The other armored vehicles formed a skirmish line and rolled over the barbed wire fence guarding the ranch toward their objectives.
As Carpenter’s MRAP eased farther down the main road into the compound, it appeared abandoned. Only Carpenter and their escort Bradley followed the main road into the settlement. The rest of the vehicles did flanking actions, closing in on their targets deeper inside the ranch. Row after row of neatly kept houses stood on each side of the road with no sign of life.
Carpenter had briefed everyone about the women and children on the ranch, but none showed themselves. An eerie feeling tingled up Carpenter’s spine as they drove past the deserted homes. He studied the faces of the SWAT team members in the rear—they probably had the same feeling. The musky odor of men’s sweat and fear wafted through the stuffy, hot vehicle. Carpenter wiped his brow and took another drink of water—where had everybody gone? Aerial recon had observed no sign of evacuations. After what Bishop said, it appeared unlikely the residents were cowering inside while government types were overrunning their compound.
Looking through the MRAP’s front window, he saw two Blackhawks hovering over the cave entrance on the lower side of the mountain up ahead. One moved to the left and began to descend. Carpenter squinted at the Blackhawk’s assault team waiting in the open doors for landing. Once they secured the nukes, every other thing would fall neatly into place.
