Worst Case Scenario, page 32
Piedmont looked at Monk with a blank expression. “Which means?”
Monk finished his water and threw the empty plastic bottle to the truck’s front over the boxes of tiles. “Which means it’s safe to be around until the time of detonation. Come on—let’s finish this up.”
“How much damage can this thing do?” Piedmont asked, watching Monk plug a wire from his computer into the weapon’s USB port.
Monk typed several keystrokes before answering. “This is a W-80 warhead. It has a variable yield function that allows us to set it from 5 to 150 kilotons.” He looked up. “We’re setting this one for 150.”
“What kind of damage will 150 kilotons do?”
Monk continued typing and glanced at Piedmont. He set his computer aside and leaned his back against the truck, resting his arms on his knees. “It’ll be devastating. Everybody within a mile radius will vaporize at ground zero—every structure totally destroyed—no survivors. The gamma radiation blast will leave shadows of people on any concrete or stone wall that’s behind them.” Monk took a drink of water. “The fireball will reach temperatures of over 580,000 degrees. People who happen to be looking in the direction of the blast at the time of detonation will be permanently blinded—their retinas seared. The fallout from radioactive dirt and debris will kill thousands days after the explosion.”
Piedmont sat mute, unable to formulate a response.
“Okay?” Monk raised his eyebrows and again picked up his laptop. “You know everyone thinks nuclear weapons are like you see in the movies—lots of moving parts and timers—bullshit. They’re complicated, but the act of detonation is quite simple. Getting through all the safeguards is the trick. Like this category D permissive action link,” he said, pointing to the computer screen.
Piedmont slid to Monk’s side as he typed. “Can you get through it?”
Monk nodded. “I work on and test these things—watch this.” He typed a seven-digit number/letter code and hit enter. The screen began flashing red with bold black letters that read: PERMISSIVE ACTION LINK DISABLED.
Piedmont moved in closer. “Is that it?”
“Just one more safeguard, and it’s the tricky one. It’s an environmental sensing device.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s to prevent the accidental detonation of the warhead unless it’s properly delivered to the target.”
Piedmont wiped his mouth and squinted at the computer screen. “What does that mean?”
Monk interlaced his fingers and popped his knuckles. “It’s a sensor which detects external effects that should be occurring during delivery—like time in free fall, acceleration curves, temperature, air pressures.” Monk blew a long breath. “Yeah, get this wrong, and the thing could self-destruct on us.”
Piedmont’s eyes widened, and he pushed back several feet away. “Self-destruct?” He stood and walked to the other side of the truck, crossing his arms.
“Don’t worry—I’ve done this a thousand times.” Monk laughed. He typed in the code and waited. Quickly he typed something again, his mouth dropped, and his eyes bugged. “No! They couldn’t have changed it!”
Piedmont flattened himself against the truck and yelled, “Changed what?”
Monk quickly stood and turned the computer toward him. The background flashed red with bold black letters reading: ENVIRONMENTAL SENSING DEVICE DISABLED.
Piedmont’s wide eyes scanned back and forth from Monk’s smile to the computer screen.
Several tense seconds passed before Monk allowed himself the pleasure of a chuckle. “Can’t believe they changed the ingredients in a Whataburger.”
Anger flashed in Piedmont’s face. “You’re an asshole, Monk.”
Monk grinned, powered off the computer, and closed it before unplugging the USB. He left the cord attached to the port in the rear of the weapon and plugged in a small black box, which he taped to the top of the warhead. Looking at Piedmont, he winked. “A router. Now I can control the fusing and firing sequence remotely.”
Five minutes later, McFadden called the Warriors back inside, and Piedmont pulled the tarp off the black GMC 3500 heavy-duty pickup. Someone let out a wow sound as they walked around it. The new wax job, courtesy of Piedmont, made the thing sparkle in the warehouse’s bright light. The whole rear was encased in a large utility box that stood level with the cab.
McFadden circled the machine and admired the Washington Metro Police Bomb logo beautifully stenciled on the sides. The red and blue grill lights looked ready to speed him through any obstacle. “This is a fine Job, Daniel.”
Piedmont beamed with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you, sir. Look at this.” He stepped to the rear and undid the latches. The doors opened to each side and revealed an extendable ramp. Straps were already in place to hold the warhead.
McFadden smiled. “Let’s get this bitch loaded.”
Piedmont backed the pickup to the rear of the box truck. He scanned the truck’s rear compartment with his flashlight. It was three inches thick with borated foam and lined with another three inches of ceramic tiles—just as Monk had ordered. That should shield the bomb from radiation detection monitors while en route to Washington.
The six men lifted the 300-pound warhead from the rear of the box truck, slid it onto the waiting ramp of the pickup, and tightened the nylon straps. Piedmont pushed it into the interior of the compartment and quickly shut the doors as McFadden looked on.
“So, what are you hungry for?” Cora asked.
Bishop had dozed off after some of the best sex he could remember. He barely opened his eyes to see her standing nude in front of the bathroom mirror toweling her hair. “Let’s just order in,” he groaned and stretched.
“No way, cowboy—we’re going out.” She ran to the bed and jumped on him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting lazy.” She touched an old, puckered scar on his right arm near the tricep, outlining it with her finger, and stared at the wounds from the mountain lions. “You have a pretty face, but your body has a lot of miles on it. Where’d you get all these scars?”
“Accident-prone.” He yawned and pulled at the covers.
She wrinkled her forehead, and her smile disappeared, all pretense stripped away as she lay beside him and cuddled closer. “No, really.”
“I used to be a soldier. Not anymore.”
“I thought you were with the FBI or CIA or something.”
Bishop pulled the covers tighter. “It doesn’t matter—all on the same team.”
She considered his answer for a few seconds before the mischievous grin returned. “Well, you can’t do anything on an empty stomach. Come on, let’s get dressed—I’m hungry now.” She ran her warm hand under the covers and stroked his inner thigh. “Unless that is, you’re ready for a third round—your choice.”
He chuckled. “How about dinner and then a third round?”
“I need one man to stay here,” McFadden said to the Warriors, touching the hood of the replica police bomb-squad truck, “and the rest outside on guard. Monk, you and Daniel come with me.” He led the way to a back area of the warehouse. “I want to give it a couple of hours before we head out. How about a bite to eat? I’d like a big steak.”
Piedmont spoke up. “You think it’s safe to be seen in public?”
McFadden grinned. “I’ve never been to this town—doubt anyone knows me around these parts. Besides, this might be our last meal together.”
An hour later, McFadden drained his second scotch as Piedmont and Monk finished their salads and hot bread. McFadden felt the need to stimulate the conversation. He looked around the dining room and smiled. “I haven’t been to a Morton’s Steakhouse in a long time—forgot how good they were.” Monk had hardly said a word, and this troubled McFadden—what was he thinking? McFadden couldn’t suppress his apprehension.
“Boys, there’s been a little change of plans.” McFadden leaned closer to the pair. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you privately.” He pushed the remains of his salad aside, and his hard stare pinned them. “Our operation’s been blown. The feds know about all of us and our involvement. Earlier today, they hit the ranch—Newman called and said they were charging through the gate.”
Monk dropped his fork. “When did you find this out?”
“On the way here.”
Before Monk could protest, McFadden held up his hand. “I didn’t tell you on purpose. I didn’t want it to distract you from your work at the warehouse. Besides, there was nothing we could do about it, and too many people around that didn’t need to know.”
Monk sat back and stared at him. “You didn’t trust me—”
McFadden looked at him with a fatherly expression. “Monk, you, Newman, and Daniel are the people I trust the most. Newman has gone to ground—may even be in custody. I’m not counting on the rest for any help.”
The waiter arrived with the sizzling beef plates and served them. After he left, no one spoke for a few minutes, each with his thoughts while only picking at the meal.
Finally, McFadden continued. “They know we’re coming.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew two fat white envelopes. Sliding them across the table to the men, his expression carried an air of finality. “There’s passports and driver’s licenses in false names. Also, there are several thousand dollars cash and offshore account numbers and passwords. You’ll have all you need to live the rest of your lives comfortably.”
Piedmont grabbed his and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Monk just stared at the lone envelope—not moving. He must have figured it out. “So, you’re taking the bomb in by yourself?”
McFadden nodded without comment, trying to give the appearance of normalcy.
“No, sir. I won’t let you,” Piedmont exclaimed.
McFadden glanced his way. “Daniel, we did what we had to do to change this country. There’s only one more step. If it’s not done, then the whole thing will have been in vain. I’m too old to go on the run—too tired. You guys have contributed to my life’s dream. You’ll continue to pay the price for that dream long after I’m gone.”
Monk’s voice sounded calm and reasonable as he asked, “How will you do it?”
McFadden searched his eyes for a moment before answering. “I’m going to finish this steak, have another scotch, put on one of those cop uniforms, and drive the damn thing as close as they’ll let me before detonating it. Who knows—in a marked police vehicle, I might even be able to bluff my way close to the White House.”
“It seems impossible, with all the satellites, drones, and other technologies, we can’t find someone traveling from New Mexico to Washington with a nuclear bomb,” Director Campbell lamented into the phone.
Fuller had called him for an update and now wished he hadn’t—the guy sounded mentally and physically exhausted. “I agree, Mr. Director. McFadden’s had his share of good luck, but our time will come.”
A humorless chuckle was the director’s response. “Time is the one thing we’re short on right now. The roadblocks go up at 10 PM. A public service announcement will follow, informing everyone DC is shut down due to a terrorist threat, and we’ll officially go to code red.”
“Thanks, Bill, and good luck,” Fuller said.
“… and I’m just not sure. Guess I’ll go back to the park service—see if my old job is still there,” Cora said. “After I get things squared away, perhaps next year, might move somewhere else. Still have Samuel’s arrangements to make.” Her eyes misted and head bowed.
Bishop sat back as she stared into the half-empty wine glass. He reached across the table for her hand and squeezed it.
She raised her head, and their eyes met. “So what about you—what will you do?”
He shrugged. “Depends on what happens tomorrow.”
The waitress interrupted with the food, and they put the future aside and enjoyed perhaps their last Italian meal. The small talk that followed was about anything but what was really on their minds. It seemed surreal to Bishop. They were only hours away from possibly losing the Capitol, and the only thing he could do was have dinner.
A half-hour later, in the parking lot, Bishop opened Cora’s door, and she slid into his Black Ford Expedition. As he sat down, she raked her hand through his hair, giving him a sensual kiss.
“You don’t owe me a thing, Troy. I’ll be okay after all this is over—however it turns out.”
She must have read his mind. Bishop had just been thinking about how she’d adjust once she got home. “I bet you won’t have to decide right away. Perhaps we could slip off together somewhere for a week or two and think about it.”
Just before kissing him again, she whispered, “I’d like that.”
“Pull in here and fill up,” McFadden said, pointing to a gas station. For those he left guarding the warehouse, McFadden had made little in the way of provisions for their escape. Leaving them with a truck full of gas, some money, and time to get out of the city was about the best he could do. They’d have to take their chances on the road.
Piedmont parked, and Monk said, “I’ll do it.” He swung the passenger’s door open and slammed it hard upon exiting. He’d hardly spoken during dinner.
Piedmont turned to McFadden, who lounged in the back seat. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s hurt and a little disappointed, I expect,” McFadden said.
Piedmont snorted. “Ingrate.”
Monk finished filling the tank and crawled back into the passenger seat. Piedmont dropped the truck in gear and started rolling almost before Monk shut the door.
Twenty-Five
Bishop and Cora sat in his SUV at the intersection, waiting for the light. Cora leaned forward in her seat and stared at something before gripping his hand. He turned, and she flashed a surprised look. The color in her face had drained, and her lower lip shook.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Her expression contorted into something Bishop had never seen. “I think I know that man.”
“What man?”
She pointed. “The one driving that pickup that just pulled out of the gas station.”
Bishop turned his head toward the departing truck. “The King Cab? Who is he?”
“He looks like Daniel Piedmont. He was about four grades ahead of me at the Academy. I haven’t seen him in years—if that’s even actually him.”
The light changed, and Bishop pressed hard on the gas to catch up to the truck, entering the freeway ramp to I-95 South. “Was there someone else in the truck with him?” he asked.
Cora’s mouth twisted before saying, “I think so, but I couldn’t tell for sure.”
Bishop followed the truck as it picked up speed but left several cars between them. “So, where does this guy live—what does he do?”
She stared at the truck and took a few seconds to answer. In a shaky voice, she said, “He’s with the government—the FBI, I think.”
Bishop’s heart rate increased. Chance and coincidence may have favored him again. The question was, should he call in reinforcements. “How certain are you that’s the same guy? I don’t want to alert everyone unless we’re sure.”
She bit her lower and grimaced, “Maybe 50-50. Maybe a little less, I don’t know—only got a glimpse—just a profile.”
The truck signaled a right turn and moved one lane over, but Bishop stayed where he was—using the other traffic as cover. They were about halfway across the James River Bridge. A beautiful full moon sparkled like a rare jewel off the water’s silvery surface.
Bishop said, “We’ll see where they go before we sound any alarm.”
Once across the bridge, the truck gave another right turn signal before taking the Ruffin Road exit. Bishop held back and allowed several cars to pass, then followed. He coasted to the exit as the truck took another right on Ruffin Road. It turned into a warehouse complex. Bishop held back and slowly coasted to the East side of the first building in the complex, parking the Ford in the shadows, and switched off the lights and ignition. He opened the door, stepped out in the darkness, and said, “Wait here—I’ll be right back.”
Bishop reached the edge of the building as the truck he’d been following pulled into the far warehouse on the end. The interior lights illuminated the shadow of a man just inside the door. Once inside, the overhead door closed. Bishop didn’t have much to go on, just a hunch, and a hunch wasn’t good enough.
Bishop needed good, reliable information before throwing an FBI SWAT team into the mix. A false alert might cause them to miss McFadden driving through town. Bishop quietly slipped around the side of the building to his truck and Cora.
“I couldn’t see much, but something screwy is going on. Might be just a drug ring or cargo theft operation—”
“Or McFadden?” Cora asked in a voice just above a whisper.
Bishop nodded. “Yeah, or McFadden.”
Bishop reached into the armrest compartment and extracted two extra Sig Sauer pistol magazines. “I’m going to get a closer look. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, get out of here and call the FBI.”
A look of doubt crossed her lips. “Don’t be too long.” Cora glanced into the darkness before meeting eyes with him. “I don’t like this place.”
“Be back before you know I’ve left.”
Monk typed in the router code and made the final adjustments to the laptop computer that would detonate the bomb while McFadden struggled with the stolen police uniform. He regretted having too much waistline to snap the front of the trousers, but his belt buckle would hide that. The uniform had been cut to fit Monk, and even being in great shape for his age, McFadden needed another inch or two in the waist. Of course, he had no intention of getting out or stopping the truck for very long. McFadden buckled the Sam Brown belt around his midsection, adjusted the gun and holster, and approached Monk. “About done?”
