Worst Case Scenario, page 31
Monk turned. “Who was that?”
McFadden wasn’t sure if the government could now track his phone after the conversation, but he decided not to take any chances. He casually turned it off, then unsnapped the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He shrugged. “Piedmont, he said it might be a good idea to disable the phone until I wanted to use it.” McFadden couldn’t tell if Monk believed him, but at least he didn’t challenge the idea.
“Is Piedmont already there?”
“Yeah, got in early this morning—guess he couldn’t wait.” McFadden shot Monk a quick, reassuring grin, and Monk returned it. That’s a good sign, McFadden thought. He’d been worried about Monk—at last, now he seemed to be coming around. He’d have to be careful what he said from now on. Couldn’t take a chance on losing him at this critical time.
Director Campbell put down the phone and asked, “Did you get it?”
The man seated with the headset turned a dial on the console. “No sir, not enough time.”
“Damn!”
“I didn’t get a location, but I’ve segregated the signal and got an ESN.”
“A what?”
“An ESN—electronic serial number.” The tech quickly changed screens as the FBI Director, and several others looked on. “We can track him from the phone’s ESN now.”
Everybody leaned in closer, watching the man type in the code request to the FCC program. He hit enter, gave a long exhale, and sat back in the chair. The computer studied the request a moment before a message popped up on the screen—NO SIGNAL BEARING. The tech stared at it, perplexed for a moment, before typing in the ESN again and hitting enter. Again, the same answer—NO SIGNAL BEARING.
“What does that mean?” Campbell asked.
The tech shook his head and stared up at the director. “It means, sir, that the phone has been destroyed, or the battery’s been removed. It’s no longer transmitting an ESN.”
“There’s not enough capacity in all the hospital burn units in the entire country to handle the number of thermal radiation casualties we’d suffer if the thing detonated in Washington,” Fuller said. He leaned back in his desk chair and watched Cook’s reaction.
The general’s lips stretched tight. “Hopefully, we’ll never have to find out. What’s the latest?”
Fuller gave up trying to impress him with facts he didn’t seem to care about. He leaned forward and shuffled through some papers. “After we visited with the Speaker, the Secret Service whisked the President away to a relocation facility in Virginia. His family will remain at Camp David for now. As of…” Fuller squinted at the paper before grabbing his glasses. “1400 hours, the Capitol has been declared secure of any hidden nuclear weapons.”
Cook’s brow crinkled. “Says who?”
“DOE’s Nuclear Emergency Search Teams—NEST.”
The general stood. “Have they installed the temporary mobile rad monitors?”
Fuller also stood. “Yes, fifty miles out. Plus, there are the permanent ones a hundred miles in all directions.”
“What about Congress?”
Fuller picked up his coffee cup before realizing it was empty and set it back down.
“They and their families are being quietly relocated, as well as the Supreme Court.”
Cook walked toward the door. “Wonder how long it’ll be before the press gets wind of that?”
“Not long enough. Thanks for coming by, General—good luck.”
Cook turned. “When are you evacuating, Mr. Fuller?”
Fuller shot a glance at the floor. “I’m not. I’ll be in the White House Situation Room.”
“Thought the President might need you at his undisclosed location.”
Fuller shrugged and showed a rare smile. “Well, with everybody else getting out of town—I figured somebody should stick around to mind the kitchen.”
Just as he had sunk his last putt on the eighteenth hole, General Curtis Shaw’s phone vibrated. He excused himself from his three golfing partners and walked across the green, out of earshot.
“Curtis, did you get out?” Smith’s excited voice screeched from the phone.
“Get out of what?”
“McFadden didn’t call you? You don’t know?”
Shaw looked back at the other men and grew aggravated. He let his voice rise a little. “What in the hell are you babbling about, Newman?”
“The police have overrun the ranch.”
Shaw’s breath caught. “When?”
“About three hours ago—I can’t believe he didn’t call—you have to get out.”
Shaw strolled further from his friends. A weakness in his legs and knees made it difficult to walk. A rock-hard lump grew in his gut like the one he’d experienced in combat. “Just settle down, Newman. Now’s not the time to panic.”
Smith’s voice rose. “Seems like a pretty good time to me! I’ve told you the reason I called. Run for it while you have time.”
“Where are you, Newman?”
“In the tunnel. As soon as things settle down, I’ll start making my way south. Good luck, Curtis.”
The line went dead, and Shaw slowly meandered back to his golf partners as they finished their putts. They were deciding whether to drink at the club or go to a favorite bar in town. The vote was for the bar in the city as Shaw jumped aboard the cart. He’d been on the course for four hours and had seen or heard nothing unusual. If the feds knew about his involvement, wouldn’t they have arrested him already? His partner parked the cart behind the last one in line and bounded out to retrieve his clubs. Shaw sat there a moment and observed everything and everybody—all seemed normal. Club members strolled past, and groundskeepers went about their business. The warm Virginia afternoon showed no sign of threat or danger.
“Coming?” his partner asked, hefting his bag onto his shoulder.
Shaw came out of his trance. “I’ll be along directly. Need to hit the john.”
“Okay, but the last one there buys the first round—you know the rules.”
Shaw’s mind ran a mile a second as the man walked away. Shaw did a complete three-sixty turn when exiting the cart, trying to catch the eye of anyone watching him. No one gave him a second look. His mind kept racing. If they knew about him, then they had to be here, but where were they? At his home, on the base? He couldn’t force his mind to clear enough to concentrate. Perhaps they didn’t know about him—yet. Maybe he still had time to make a clean getaway. He did another quick turn, but no one paid him any attention.
Okay, he was safe for now, but he couldn’t waste any time. He walked the long way around to the parking lot but stopped at the corner of the building. What if they were watching his car? Waiting for him to return. He stood in a side area of the club that backed up to the trees. He decided not to take any chances. He’d leave his bag leaning up against the building and just walk through the woods. In less than a hundred yards, he’d find a convenience store and strip mall. He could have a cab meet him and disappear.
Wait, leaving the golf bag by the building might draw suspicion. Shaw looked around and spotted a men’s room behind him. Maybe dump it there. He took another long look into the parking lot and then slowly backed down the sidewalk to the men’s room. Shaw peeked inside; it was empty. Stepping through the door, he slid the bag off his shoulder and stepped to the urinal. Just as he finished, the sound of a flushing toilet echoed from a stall to his left.
No! Shaw would have to wait until the guy departed, or he couldn’t leave the bag without drawing attention. The man exited the stall, still cinching his belt. He strolled to the sink and turned on the water. Shaw zipped up, flushed, and eyed the stranger. He was an older fellow, mid-fifties, graying temples, wearing a Rolex and traditional golf attire.
“Have a good game?” The stranger asked, grabbing a couple of paper towels.
Shaw’s hands shook, turning the faucet handle. “Yes, and you?”
The man leaned toward the mirror and raked his fingers through the thick salt and pepper hair. “Any day out of the office and away from the old lady is a good one.”
Shaw relaxed a little. “You a member? Don’t recall seeing you around.”
The man stepped back from the sink and adjusted his pants. “Just a guest—thinking about joining.”
“Who’s your sponsor?”
“Phil Billings, we’re old pals—he’s been trying to get me to join for a while.”
Shaw dried off his hands as the man headed toward the door. Shaw had met Billings—scratch golfer—owned his own window company.
“So, how’s Billing’s electronics company doing these days?”
The stranger frowned. “Electronics company? Must be a different Billings. Phil’s into windows.”
Shaw breathed a final sigh of relief as the man pushed the door to leave. “Hope you enjoyed yourself today—it’s a good club.”
The man looked back over his shoulder. “It’s okay, but the wait’s too long for me.”
“Wait on what?” Shaw asked.
The fellow stopped before exiting and turned back toward Shaw. A large black automatic pistol now pointed at his chest. “Waiting on your sorry ass to finish that round of golf. FBI, you’re under arrest, General.”
Twenty-Four
The setting sun hung low in the sky like a lush, ripe orange as the three vehicles drove north on I-95. McFadden hadn’t said a word for over two hours—just stared straight ahead. Monk figured he must be thinking about something, but what? McFadden didn’t share any more information than he had to. Finally, he spoke.
“How much farther?”
Monk checked the GPS. “Forty-six miles to Richmond.”
McFadden glanced at the sun for a moment. “Slow down. I want it to be almost dark before we arrive.”
Monk tapped the brakes and reset the cruise control. It appeared McFadden wanted to tell him something but might be thinking it over.
Five minutes later, McFadden twisted in the seat. “How long will it take to arm the weapon?”
“You mean to make it ready to fire?”
“Yup.”
“Less than an hour, but we shouldn’t do that until just before we’re ready to deploy it.”
“We’re delivering it tonight.”
Monk’s head snapped in McFadden’s direction. “But I thought we were doing it tomorrow.”
McFadden’s lips thinned. “I know, that’s what everyone thinks, and that’s why we’re going tonight.”
Bishop shook hands with the FBI supervisor in charge of the joint operations center. What time do you need us back tomorrow?”
The man gave him an exhausted stare and shrugged. “We’re open all night. But I think we can manage without you until six tomorrow morning. You’re staying in Richmond?”
“We have a room at the Marriott downtown. I gave the duty agent the contact information, and I’ll keep my cell on.”
“Great—have a good evening.”
Bishop walked to the exit, where Cora waited. “We’re good until six tomorrow. Let’s get cleaned up and have dinner.”
She touched her stomach. “Ugh, I’m still full from lunch.” She moved close to him, sensually licking her lips. “I have a better idea.” Her eyes glistened with excitement.
“Just the kind of appetizer I like,” he whispered.
Piedmont’s phone rang three times before he answered it. The number displayed belonged to Monk Cole, not McFadden. Did this mean something? “Hello.”
“Daniel, is that you?” The voice was Monk’s all right.
“Yeah, how far out are you guys—is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine; we should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Piedmont checked his watch. “Okay, I’ll be ready.” Piedmont disconnected and cleared everything away from the entrance to allow all the vehicles room to drive in. He raised the overhead door just as the three-vehicle convoy made the turn off Ruffin Road into the warehouse complex in South Richmond. Piedmont stood at the door and flashed the flashlight three times to guide them. He stepped aside as the King Ranch Super Duty pickup came pulling through; the box truck followed with Monk and McFadden; and bringing up the rear came a white GMC dually. Piedmont took a quick look outside, scanning the empty parking lot before closing the door. Just as he’d hoped—Sunday night at 6:45—the place was deserted.
McFadden jumped from the truck and greeted him with a bear hug. “How are you, Daniel?”
“Good, sir,” he whispered. “Think you should know that I was under surveillance by the Bureau before I left Washington, but everything’s ready for tomorrow.”
McFadden broke the embrace and whispered back. “Don’t say anything about that to the rest—anyway, plans have changed—we’re going tonight.”
Piedmont’s brow furrowed. “Tonight?”
McFadden touched his shoulder. “It’ll be okay. I’ll explain later.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
The four warriors from the other trucks strolled toward them, with Monk following. After greetings all around, McFadden again pulled Piedmont aside.
“Can you help Monk ready the weapon?”
“Sure—right now?”
McFadden nodded. “Right now.” He turned to the warriors. “Boys, I want you to keep watch outside. Stay out of sight, but don’t let anyone sneak up on us.”
Piedmont found Monk squatted behind the box truck holding a laptop and a small, silver toolbox. Piedmont leaned against the vehicle. “Isn’t this the old truck he stores the hot air balloon in at the ranch?”
Monk stood and grinned. “Yeah, slapped on a different color paint and a new sign. Now we’re a tile company.”
Piedmont read the name. Arizona Floor and Tile. “Clever.”
Monk pushed off the truck. “Okay, we’re only opening one door of the truck. We have to get inside and close it behind us quickly—no screwing around—ten seconds from start to finish.”
“What’s the hurry?” Piedmont asked.
“I’ll explain once we’re inside. Ready?” Monk handed him the computer and tool case. “Hold these until I get in.”
Monk removed the lock and twisted the handle until the left door broke loose. He slung it open, bounded inside, and accepted the case and computer from Piedmont as he scrambled into the back of the truck. Monk quickly pulled on an interior strap and closed the door tightly in place. Darkness enveloped the area before Monk switched on an overhead light.
About five feet from where they stood sat boxes of tiles, stacked four feet high, strapped to the floor.
Monk turned on another switch, and two small fans blew a soft, warm breeze through the back of the stuffy truck. “It’s not much, but the best we have. Get as comfortable as you can. It’s going to get hot. Help me with these straps.”
Piedmont scanned the interior—it had an unfamiliar smell, like something sour. The whole thing, even the doors, was lined from top to bottom and on all sides with a thick, white, plastic material. He reached out and raked his fingers across the surface—it was rough. “What’s this?”
Monk looked up. “Borated polyethylene shielding. It’s to prevent the gamma rays and neutrons from being detected. Just like this tile. That’s why we have to keep the back door closed.”
Piedmont loosened the straps on the boxes of tiles. “So the tile’s just a decoy?”
“Of sorts, but it also shields gamma rays from detection. You need a high-density material for shielding—floor and roof tiles absorb the rays. Let’s move these boxes to the side,” Monk said, easing the first forty-pound box to the floor.
Piedmont helped. In the center of the stack sat a dull silver-colored cylinder. Piedmont touched it. It had a strange feel—coated with something. He scratched it and found wax under his nail.
Monk grinned. “Paraffin, also used for shielding. I advised Mr. McFadden to give them a wax bath before transporting.”
Piedmont stood and removed his outer shirt, using it to wipe sweat from his face. “So what are we going to do?”
Monk opened the tool case and removed a small knife-like object. “Hold the flashlight on the spot I’m scratching.”
Piedmont shined the light as Monk squatted and removed the wax from a quarter-size area on the back of the weapon. Once done, he scraped inside the area until the corner of a piece of tape came into view. Monk retrieved a pair of oversize tweezers from the tool kit and used them to pull a round piece of gold-colored tape off. He held it up for Piedmont to examine. “Teflon.”
Piedmont leaned forward and examined the area where the tape had been removed. There was a silver hexagon nut recessed in a shallow hole. Monk retrieved a large Allen wrench from the case and attached an oversized black metal handle. He stuck it into the hole, braced himself, and let out a loud groan, using both hands to turn it counterclockwise. Once it broke loose, he spun the handle until the quarter-inch bolt dropped out on the floor of the truck. Piedmont shined the flashlight into the hole. There was a USB port. Monk wiped sweat from his brow and reached for the computer. He turned it on and sat back, giving a long exhale. He reached into his bag and threw a water bottle to Piedmont before opening his own. “Two-minute break,” he said, taking a long swallow.
Piedmont took a drink and splashed a handful on his face. “So, what’s next?”
Monk checked his computer. “I’ll explain as we go. The rear area of the weapon contains the arming and fuzzing system. The main thermonuclear element is located in the smaller nose section.”
“Are we in any danger… you know, from radiation?”
“Nope, this is the same warhead used in Tomahawk Cruise missiles on submarines. Made from super-grade plutonium. It has a strong alpha, weak gamma, and medium neutron nuclear signature. Safe to store and live in the area of sailors and naval aviators.”
