Worst Case Scenario, page 6
Anyone would have loved Bishop’s room, with its colorful décor and stylish, Southwestern furniture. A strategically placed balcony afforded a great view of the pool six floors below and the Sandia Mountains in the distance. Bishop hated it.
The ice and lime arrived, and he tipped the man with a five. Just needed to relax and unwind before dinner. Bishop filled a glass with ice, added a one-to-three mixture of Bombay Sapphire Gin and tonic, and a quarter of the lime. He drained it before he got into the shower.
After bathing, he sat on the balcony wearing only a pair of gym shorts and an Under Armor exercise shirt. He nestled deeper into an oversized chair and had another couple of drinks, watching the festive crowds around the pool below. As the sun set, the temperature dropped and a cool breeze chilled him, but he stayed a little longer—it felt good. Finally, he slipped on a pair of khakis and a dark blue polo shirt and went down to dinner. He ate at the Casa Chaco restaurant in the hotel—it tasted bland.
He was in bed by eleven. Lying in the dark, the restlessness lay with him. Most of his assignments concerned some chemical, biological, radiological, or nuclear incident. Most of the time, the locals didn’t even know about it before he arrived. This was different. Nuclear weapons had been lost in military plane crashes before but never taken by force inside the US. General Cook and Fuller had been right in their concerns. Whoever took them would want to use one sooner or later. The next few days might be a little busy.
By early Friday morning, Bishop had figured it out. His lousy attitude had nothing to do with the hotel or restaurant—he was the problem. He was impatient and edgy. Nothing’s as bad as a vaguely defined mission, and this one was as vaguely defined as they come. Bishop understood the concern regarding the missing nukes, but he had no clear instructions. Liaison with other federal agencies. What did that even mean? He needed to get out of this room before the walls closed in. He was doubtful the perpetrators would seek him out and surrender while he was laid up in this fancy place.
Bishop consulted his mission briefing packet over morning coffee. He kept the TV off every morning until he finished his first cup. Only then did he feel fortified enough to put up with the nonsense that passed for news nowadays. He dug out the GPS coordinates for the attack on the convoy. He needed to see the place. Go to ground zero. Look at it through the attacker’s eyes. That might shake loose some ideas about what happened. Bishop considered his work not unlike that of a police detective. Anytime there was a crime, clues existed in some form. The only thing he had to do was figure out what was and wasn’t a clue. He packed, ate breakfast, and left before nine o’clock.
Bishop drove west on I-40 out of Albuquerque and took the Highway Three-North exit. Part of the freeway was still closed until repairs could be completed because of the destructive tanker fire. He switched on the radio to a smooth jazz station. Driving in the desert brought back memories of old family vacations, military training exercises, and covert Delta missions far from any US shore. He always loved deserts, except when insurgents were trying to kill him. During the drive, Bishop played with ideas he could use on the FBI to convince them to involve him in the hunt for the nukes. The Bureau was famous for not being overly generous in sharing jurisdiction with other agencies. He didn’t blame them. The old saying about too many cooks in the kitchen popped into his head.
Bishop turned down the gravel road where the convoy had been ambushed. It was in the middle of nowhere. No homes, no businesses, no other vehicle traffic. He drove slowly, with the windows down, examining the road and ditches, looking for anything out of place. Probably a useless exercise—the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team had most likely lined up shoulder to shoulder and walked the road twice. If there were anything unusual, they would already have it tagged and bagged by now.
In less than a mile, there were signs of the attack. Burnt foliage along the edge of the road, blacked stains on the sandy gravel where vehicles lost their fluids. And an eerie feeling lingered in the air—a sense of death and mass murder. Bishop parked and looked around. The cloudless sky reached for miles, a light blue hue that painted the desert floor with a glaring brightness. About two miles out, a lone helicopter approached from the west, lazily easing its way in Bishop’s direction. He shielded his eyes. Too far to tell if it was police, military, or commercial. He walked up and down the road for about a hundred yards, mentally recreating the kill zone the vehicles were funneled into. The day was turning hot, and he began to sweat. Squatting down, he picked up a handful of gravel, studying the area surrounding the narrow road. He let the scene play out in his mind.
Whoever planned it had training. All the ingress and egress points were covered. Most likely used blocking vehicles. Once the target trucks rolled in, there was no way out of the kill zone. He dropped the gravel and stood, dusting his hands on his pants. A waft of something burnt floated past his nose. The road was deserted and peaceful now. The only sound, a gentle breeze rustling through the scrub trees and kicking up dust devils in the sand. When Bishop glanced up, the chopper he’d seen earlier now hung about a mile off to the east, making slow circles. It was a Blackhawk with two six-foot-long green pods hanging off each side. Yup, military carrying large area aerial radiation detection equipment.
He was about halfway back to his SUV when the growl of a vehicle approaching from the rear caused him to turn. A dark police car rolled to a stop behind him. Oh, great, just what I need. Bishop stared at the officer behind the wheel.
The officer stared back, speaking into his mic for a moment before putting on his cap and getting out. He was a big man. The golden door emblem read New Mexico Highway Patrol, and the guy looked every inch of what a trooper should be.
The officer meandered up to Bishop and gave him a good looking over. “Having car trouble?”
Bishop gazed at his reflection in the officer’s dark glasses. Don’t trust the locals out there. Since he had no way of knowing what, if anything, the guy knew about the attack—best to play innocent. “No trouble, sir—just looking around.”
Bishop flashed his best smile. The trooper did not reciprocate. The name tag on the uniform read FLOWERS. Pretty big flower.
Flowers cocked his head a moment and pursed his lips. “You have some ID?” he asked as he dropped his right hand to his side—closer to his pistol.
Okay, time’s over for being coy. Bishop handed over his fake military credentials and waited. He had used them often when on assignment in the States due to the Posse Comitatus Act. It stated that neither the Army nor Air Force could execute laws within the United States. The only exception was if nuclear weapons were involved, but the president had yet to authorize this for fear it would be leaked. The only Army unit excluded from Posse Comitatus was the 902 Military Intelligence Group. They were a counterintelligence outfit allowed to carry firearms in a federal agent capacity within the United States. The perfect cover for covert P2OG inquiries within the US.
Flowers studied the identification. He held it up and frowned. “What’s this?”
Bishop raked his hair back in place from a gust of wind. It was clear Officer Flowers didn’t appear very impressed with Bishop’s credentials.
“I’m with the 902nd MI Group—out of Fort Meade.” Bishop could deliver that line with no effort—had plenty of practice.
The trooper studied the identification another moment before saying, “Got a driver’s license?”
Bishop handed over his Virginia license.
Flowers examined the military identification and license, occasionally gazing at Bishop. After a few seconds of probably comparing the photos, Flowers’s head shook. “Hold on a minute.” He walked back to his car, looking back over his shoulder once.
Flowers sat in the police cruiser and spoke first on the radio, then on his cell—it took over ten minutes. Bishop crossed his arms and let out a breath, gazing in the distance at the mysterious helicopter hovering only a few hundred yards out. Well, this explains that. He reflected on whether it had been a good idea to visit the attack site. This scene was still active. Flowers walked back to him. He wasn’t wearing a happy face. He handed Bishop his license and identification.
“Follow me in your car.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just do as I say, all right?”
The guy’s attitude had taken a turn for the worst.
“Am I under arrest?”
Flowers posted both hands on his hips, and his jaw clenched. “If you were under arrest, we wouldn’t be having this conversation—now let’s go.”
Bishop almost protested but decided against it. The guy had talked to someone on the cell, and that someone now wanted to talk to Bishop. Since he had nothing better to do, he may as well play along. He smiled and nodded.
“Whatever you say, officer.”
Still, Bishop’s curiosity was aroused. Where were they going, and who wanted to see him so bad he got a police escort?
The trooper followed him in the patrol car as Bishop walked back to the SUV. He was hot. The day continued to heat up in more ways than one. Bishop swung in behind the patrol car, and they headed west on I-40 to the highway patrol station in Santa Rosa. They parked in the rear lot, and Bishop followed Flowers to the back door under the sally port. A patrol vehicle was parked to the side, unloading an intoxicated female prisoner. She wore cut-off shorts, a halter top, and an ankle monitor. Curses flowed from her mouth in a poetic rant toward the arresting officers as her blond ponytail swished from side to side. Flowers waited until the troopers took her in before turning to Bishop. He looked him over once more, and his eyebrows furrowed and then released.
“You packing?”
Figured this would come up. “Yes.”
Flowers held out his right hand, and with a slight waving of the fingers, said, “I’ll take it until after the meeting.”
“Meeting with whom?”
Flowers took a step closer and narrowed his gaze. He pointed at the building. “Mister, my lunch break starts after I walk you through that door.” In a menacing voice, he added, “And I’m damn hungry.”
Messing with this guy any longer didn’t make sense. There was somebody who wanted to see Bishop, and Bishop was ready to see him. Time for the main attraction. He seldom surrendered his weapon, but he figured he didn’t have much of a choice in this case. He held Flower’s gaze and reached behind his back, under the loose-fitting shirt, and handed over the Sig Sauer .357.
Flowers snatched it from his grip, nodded toward the door, and stepped to the side. “After you.”
Walking in, they were behind the public reception area. Voices sounded from the other side of the partition. People asking questions and receiving answers from the desk sergeant. A voice from a hidden police radio monitor announced a patrol unit was pulling over a speeder south of I-40 and gave a description of the vehicle and tag number.
Flowers directed Bishop to the left. As he made the turn, Flowers said, “And make another left.”
There was an office. The wall facing the hall consisted of a floor-to-ceiling glass window. The name on the open door read Lt. Adams. The office lights were too bright for the small room. They cast a blinding glare as Bishop entered.
The stranger inside was not in uniform. He wore a light grey business suit, a white shirt, and a shiny blue tie. Never took his eyes off Bishop as Flowers handed over the semi-automatic. The guy accepted the weapon from Flowers, laid it in a desk drawer, and slammed it shut. He thanked Flowers, and the trooper meandered toward the door, giving Bishop one last aggravated look on the way out.
No one spoke for a moment. The suit sat on the edge of the desk, facing Bishop with his arms folded. He was about Bishop’s age and build, with brown hair, mustache, and a goatee. The suspicious eyes gave nothing away. Bishop returned the stare. Just my luck, probably a fed.
“Take a seat.” The man motioned to a chair.
Bishop sat and gazed at the fellow, not uttering a word. Something felt wrong. What had he stumbled into? Don’t trust the locals out there.
“What were you doing on that road?” the guy asked.
Bishop gazed around the office with a dismissive look. Two could play this game. “Well, if you’ll tell me who you are, I might just answer.”
The man didn’t blink, just continued staring. His blank expression broke after a moment, and he grinned. He reached into his jacket and produced his identification. “I’m Special Agent Carpenter—FBI.”
Bishop let out an audible sigh. “That’s a relief. Thought I’d wandered into a banana republic by the way I’ve been treated.”
Carpenter went back to the deadpan look. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Bishop leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I think we may be on the same side. I’m with the Defense Department looking for several pieces of lost property—six to be exact.”
Carpenter’s brow relaxed. “That’s what I figured. That’s why I requested the officer bring you here.” He slid off the desk and extended his hand.
Bishop stood and shook it.
Carpenter shrugged. “Sorry for the third degree, but I needed to hear it from you.”
“I understand, not sure if I can be of any assistance, but if you need me, I’m here.”
Carpenter walked back to the desk and again sat on the edge. “I wish I had something I needed help with. We’ve covered the whole area. Searched every inch of the attack site and just completed a concentric circle sweep twenty-five miles in every direction. We’re dismantling the roadblocks. The weapons have disappeared.”
Something about this story didn’t add up. Bishop asked, “What do you think—helicopter took them out?”
Carpenter shook his head and folded his hands in his lap. “Not likely. We had good radar cover on this area at low altitudes the night of the ambush. We’ve checked the log—nothing. Found a magnetic jamming device on top of the OST scout vehicle—right beside the radio antennas. That jammed their transmissions and left them deaf. We’re trying to figure out who put it there and when. The state police are pissed. One of their troopers was murdered during the commission of the crime just to steal his uniform and car. The vehicle was recovered with the dead trooper in the trunk stripped down to his underwear. Probably used the car and uniform as part of the deception to divert the OST convoy.
Bishop nodded. That explained Flower’s attitude.
The magnetic jamming device and stolen police uniform and car were two pieces of new information to Bishop. The picture started to make a little more sense. Someone with advanced knowledge of the route and cargo had attacked the convoy and staged the tanker truck accident on the freeway as a diversion.
Bishop had yet to come up with a convincing argument on why the FBI should let him on the inside of the investigation. He decided on the straightforward, honest approach. “So how can I help? Since my people have detailed me here, may as well make myself useful. I can assist with coordinating military support, if nothing else.”
Carpenter opened the desk and extracted the pistol. He handed it back to Bishop. “I appreciate it, but I have one, two, and three-star generals all chomping at the bit to do exactly that. If you have four stars, I could add you to the collection.”
Bishop reholstered his pistol and stared at Carpenter. “Above my pay grade.”
“Just stay out of the way. There’s nothing we need at present. We’re looking for clues that can produce leads. So far, we have very few of either. Sending some of our deployed agents back home. Nothing more to follow up. It’s as if the desert just swallowed them up. We’ll call if we need anything.”
They exchanged business cards, and Bishop said, “My cell’s always on.”
Carpenter slid the card in his pocket and smiled, “I think we’re good for now.”
Eight
After leaving the office, Bishop sat in his SUV for several minutes in the police parking lot—just thinking. It was a beautiful day with plenty of clean, fresh air and abundant sunshine. Looked like a shift change taking place in the parking lot with state police patrol cars coming in and going out with fresh officers behind the wheel. General Cook’s orders were to travel to Albuquerque, liaison with the feds, and let the FBI handle the investigation. The Bureau basically told him to get lost—not as encouraging as he’d hoped.
Bishop grabbed his carry-on from the back seat, rummaged in it for a second, and found a New Mexico state map. He ran his finger to the ambush site off Highway Three. Yeah, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. According to agent Carpenter, the chance of the weapons being removed by air was remote. That meant they were trucked out. But where? Which direction? On what road? Bishop scanned the map again and put himself in the attacker’s mind. Where would he covertly transport six nukes? Not north or west, too much activity, too many roads, and people. He let his gaze drift to the east side of the map. Fewer people, but still lots of small towns. People in small towns are curious; they talk about unusual things going on in their communities.
Bishop recalled reading in his briefing packet that the satellite covering the ambush site had been brought down for two hours about the time of the attack. More than suspicious. He drug his finger south of I-40 on the map to the least populated area within a two-hour drive of the attack site. Lincoln County stood out like a bright light on a dark night—few towns, fewer people, almost uninhabited. That’s where he would take something he wanted to hide. Highway Three intersected highway Fifty-Four. The fastest way to Lincoln County.
Departing Santa Rosa, Bishop took Highway 54 South. He’d find a hotel on the way. Besides, on a great day like today, he just looked forward to the scenery and solitude. The drive through the barren high desert reminded him why he liked the Southwest. It had an organic beauty—open rangeland, a mixture of grassy plains, and desert-like scrub. From previous visits in the early spring, he’d witnessed one of nature’s miracles. Millions of wildflowers and blooming cacti colored the landscape. He let the driver’s window down and rested his elbow on the sill. His mind continued working through the possibilities. Another thing Carpenter said popped into Bishop’s mind. The weapons have disappeared. By disappeared, he was also probably referring to their radiological signature. It was simple to hide the physical weapons, but their radiological signatures were another thing. The Department of Energy had paired their scientist working NEST and RAPTER with FBI agents. They continued attempting to pick up any kind of rad signature from the stolen weapons. Probably them in the helicopter that spotted him at the ambush site earlier. So that meant the attackers must have had a prearranged location to hide the weapons that wouldn’t allow aerial detection. Hiding a nuke took even more expert planning—someone with inside knowledge.
