Security: Jack Randall #4, page 12
Hanad cut him off and grabbed the mic.
“Listen to your captain, people. I have no wish to shoot anyone else aboard. If you do as I say you will not be harmed. We want your boat, not you. All of you get to the mess!”
Silence.
“Answer me now or I shoot your captain!”
The radio answered: “All right, all right! We’re coming out.”
“Be quick. You have six minutes!”
Hanad paced the deck, glowering at his men and the captain.
“How many?”
“We found twelve of them sleeping. They’re in a cabin.”
“Cell phones?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Idiot! Get all of their cellphones! Search them and every cabin! Get them all. And get to the lifeboat, nobody leaves!”
The man scrambled to comply leaving Hanad alone with the captain, his son and the dead first mate.
“Down,” Hanad gestured with the gun, “Get on the floor!”
Captain Hallin slowly dropped to his knees while keeping his hands up. His eyes darted everywhere looking for an escape. His pants soaked up blood that had traveled the floor with the rocking of the ship and he stared at bloody footprints. He followed them around the room, reading their story, until they ended at his son, who stood terrified and confused in the corner.
“Abdi?”
“Silence!”
Hallin ignored him while he confronted his son.
“Abdi, you?”
“Silence!”
“How could you? After what we’ve done for you? Your brother—”
“I said be quiet, Captain! Don’t make me—”
“What will he say?”
Abdi pulled the gun from his pocket and waved it around. “He will be proud of me! I’m taking us home! We don’t belong here!”
“Is that what you think?”
‘I said be quiet!” Hanad stuck the gun in Hallin’s face for emphasis but the captain was beyond caring.
“Fuck you, you skinny bastard! What have you done to my son!”
Hanad struck the captain in the face with the gun. The captain tried to dodge the blows but they kept coming. Hanad had found an outlet for his years of pent-up rage and it poured forth without restraint. The captain’s face became a purple mess and blood poured from his nose to join that of his first mate’s on the floor.
“Leave him alone!”
Hanad spun to face the boy. He stood crying and pointing the gun at him.
“Leave him alone!” he wailed again.
“It’s too late, Abdi! You can’t go back!”
“Just . . . stop.” The boy cried as he now held his head in his hands and sank to the floor. “Stop.”
Hanad spit on the floor at the sight of the crying boy. He raised the gun to put an end to the problem.
Hallin lunged for the weapon. The gun fired, sending a round through the boy’s head and into the sheet metal wall. The body slumped below the halo of blood left above it.
Hallin pulled the body of the much lighter man down to the deck and gained control of the wrist holding the gun. With his free hand he punched blindly at Hanad’s head with all his strength. The sound of the pistol had deafened them both in the small space and the blood in his eyes cancelled out his superior size and strength. The Somali was like a cat, twisting and turning in his grip as they wrestled for control. Hallin rolled on top of him and pinned him to the ground. He began raining blows down on the man’s head as the pistol repeatedly fired harmlessly into the wall and ceiling. Hallin screamed in rage and fear as he fought the smaller man for his life. Grabbing him by the throat Hallin squeezed with the strength of a veteran of the Great Lakes. Hanad’s eyes rolled back and he began to weaken. Hallin’s blood dripped onto Hanad’s face as he choked the life from him.
Rifle fire blasted their ears and the captain was thrown to the deck. Two Somalis rushed into the room and one of them fired again. Captain Hallin came to rest next to his adopted son, his arm across the boy’s body, protecting him even in death.
Hanad was pulled to his feet by his men and held up while he coughed repeatedly.
“What happened!”
“The boy aimed the gun at me . . . so I shot him . . . the captain attacked me.”
“We need him!”
Hanad shook them off and wiped the blood from his face with his shirt. He snatched his gun off the deck and stuck it in his belt before facing his men.
“No we don’t! We can run this ship without them. This is no different than the Colorado. We did it there without them and we can do it here! Where are the crew?”
“The engineer and his men are locked in a storage room below. I have a guard on it and three men in the engine room. The crew are all in the mess under guard. We have twenty-two cellphones and ten radios. Still missing two crewmen, if the captain wasn’t lying.”
“He may have been so we would keep searching for ghosts that are not there. Ask the engineer how many men are on board and then ask the bosun’s mate. If their answers are different they will answer for it until I get a number I believe.”
Hanad checked his watch. They had five hours until the sun rose and much to accomplish.
“I want two men here with me on the bridge. Leave Mohamed in the engine room with his men to get familiar with the engines. Four to guard the crew until we get them all together and locked up somewhere. The rest of you search the ship for more people. You have one hour to find them. If they refuse to come out you may kill them. After that we unload the Clair Marie. Take these with you. I’m on channel two. Go.”
The two men snatched radios out of their chargers and left. Hanad took some deep breaths. He pulled his shirt off and wiped the blood from his hands and arms. Shivering in the night air he pulled on the first mate’s jacket. Staring out the window into the black night he allowed himself a smile.
They had the ship. The hardest part was over. If they could remain undetected for another day, they should be fine.
Stepping over the body of the first mate he picked up a pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. In the pockets of his new jacket he found a lighter. He lit one of the unfamiliar smokes and inhaled deeply, drawing a cough that sent pain through his bruised ribs. He ignored it and took another puff.
Allah would surly forgive his indiscretion.
“Electrical grid vulnerable to terrorist attack.”
—USA Today
—SIXTEEN—
THE ROBERT MOSES POWER PLANT
“Good morning. I’m Sam Beck, the plant manager here at Robert Moses.”
“Jack Randall. Thanks for being here so early. This is my crew, so to speak.” He waited while introductions were made down the line. “And Senator Prescott of California has decided to join us today as well.”
The man’s eyes opened a little wider but he recovered quickly. “Welcome, Senator.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beck.”
“I hope you’re not planning on seeing the tunnel today, Senator? It’s a rather dirty place. I would have advised different attire if I’d known that you were coming.”
“I don’t think I’ll need to see that today, thank you.”
“I would like to,” Jack said.
“If we can split you up into three groups I think that would work the best. I understand you have some security people that would like to talk to my control room?”
“Yes. Eric here has some suggestions he’d like to show you. He and Ms. Lewis will handle that.”
“All right. I have an engineer for the project here to show you around, Mr. Randall, and our best tour guide has come in early for the rest of you. Is that all right?”
“That’s great. Thank you.”
Eric and Sydney were led away by a young Asian woman while Beck and the tour guide gathered up Jack’s wife and the senator. Beck attached himself to the politician, shoving her aide and Debra to the rear of the group. Debra rolled her eyes at her husband before disappearing around a concrete corner. A day trapped in a concrete box with Senator Prescott was not something Jack would wish on anybody.
Greg nudged him as a young man approached. He looked to be about twenty-two. This was their tour guide?
“Uh, hi. I’m Jason Ambrose. I guess I’m your tour guide today.”
Jack looked the man up and down. About 5'9" and maybe 170 pounds. Thin black hair just above his shoulders. Glasses perched on a thin nose and threatening to slide off. He wore the standard white shirt without the expected pocket protector over a pair of khakis. On his belt he sported a holster containing a large calculator and an assortment of pens. A pair of scuffed basketball shoes covered his feet.
Jack and Greg exchanged a look. This kid was who they sent? Really?
“I know,” Jason said, “who’s this kid, right? I get that a lot. I’m actually one of five engineers from the design team that started this whole thing.”
“Okay, Jason. I’m Jack and this is Greg. We’re from Homeland Security and we just want to have a look around and get a feel for the place.”
“That all, Mr. Randall?”
“What do you mean?”
Jason looked over his shoulder before answering. “Well, rumor has it that you guys are here to make a bunch of changes. I’m just wondering why I got this gig today. Feel like I might be interviewing for my own job, ya know?”
Jack said, “Let me guess, you’re the low man on the pole?”
“Yup.”
“Well relax, Jason, it’s nothing like that. We asked for an engineer because we’ve learned that they’re the ones with all the answers we need. Speeds things up. That’s why you’re here and stuck with us. Nobody’s losing their job today, certainly not you. We don’t care about OSHA regulations or cost overruns, that’s somebody else’s job. All we’re here to do is make this place safe from an outside threat. Think you can help us with that?”
Jason physically relaxed. “I think so, Mr. Randall.”
“Mr. Randall was my dad. I’m Jack and this is Greg, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“Downstairs.”
THE PAUL TREGURTHA
Hanad stood on the bridge. The three bodies had been hauled away and thrown over the side to the deck of the Clare Marie. They had been dragged below deck where they joined the boat’s previous owner. A half hour later the boat had disappeared beneath the waves. The barrels had already been brought aboard, rigged and dispersed, some in the now open holds, others below into the unloading system. Wires snaked up the open hatches to receivers shrouded in plastic and taped to the rails. A box with switches now lay in front of him. The circuits were being connected and tested, and the sealed hatches of the ballast tanks were being opened, but they were close to being finished, enough for Hanad to take a much needed break.
His heavy and swollen eyes took in the view of the rising sun as it rose off the starboard bow. The combination of jet lag and the hours of adrenaline-soaked activity had worn him down. The seat was too comfortable and his body was willing him to sleep. He fought it off and forced himself to stand. He watched two of his people move a hose to another hold. The hose gushed a steady stream of diesel fuel from the ship’s bunkers, soaking the mountains of coal inside the ship. He watched to be sure they were avoiding the wires that trailed across the surface and disappeared into the black rock. There was no time to rebury them now, and none of them wished to disturb the barrels in their resting places least they violently complain.
Hanad closed his eyes and listened. The steady drum of the engines traveled through the skeleton of the ship to his ears. He took comfort in it. His man in the engine room had figured the ship out within the first hour, reporting that many of the machines there were the same, or very similar, to those they had used on the Colorado. They had practiced bringing the ship up to a speed of fifteen knots and it had responded without complaint. While the ship might be able to go faster, it would not be much, and fifteen knots was enough for their purposes. They had eased the ship back to the speed they had found it at and stayed on coarse. The log told him they were carrying 63,000 tons of coal. Perfect.
Hanad opened his eyes to see a faint light growing brighter in the east and a thick fog forming on the surface of the water, slowly cloaking the ship in its grasp. Allah was providing him with a perfect day for his mission, just as he had done for Atta on his day in September.
THE WELLAND CANAL, LOCK 8
Gary yawned and stretched his arms over his head, maintaining his balance so he wouldn’t fall off the chair. The fog surrounding his tower was thick yet still let in enough sunlight to blind him. He could block it with a shade but he didn’t wish to get up. If he waited long enough the angle would change to be out of his eyes. He would deal with it until Dennis showed up to relieve him.
The radar beeped again and he ignored it. A steady stream of fishing boats had been leaving the mouth of the harbor for the last hour and he was tired of looking at them. His salary wasn’t enough to treat him with a boat of his own and the more he watched them the more jealous he got. Most of the boats were owned by businessmen from nearby Niagara Falls or Americans from across the border in Buffalo. With the ice mostly gone they were all eager to get out on the lake in search of hungry fish. No doubt several would be back in a few hours flying flags from their rigging showing the number of fish they had bagged. Gary would be home by then so he wouldn’t have to watch them. Dennis would have to suffer through that parade.
The radio squawked. A ship was coming up through the locks from Lake Ontario. It was at lock two, still several hours from him, so he dismissed it and went back to his crossword puzzle. Pulling his hat down lower he shielded his eyes from the rising sun.
The radar beeped again, and again he ignored it.
THE PAUL TREGURTHA
Hanad nervously watched the smaller craft as it traveled past them, barely making out its shape in the thick fog. He guessed its length to be ten meters and was relieved to see that it lacked the broad red stripe of a Coast Guard ship. One of his men, with a rifle over his shoulder, emerged from his hiding place and walked to the rail, gazing after the pleasure boat.
“Idiot.”
Hanad snatched up the portable radio and keyed the mic.
“Stay hidden until we get to land. Wait for my signal!”
The man found a place out of sight.
The fool, Hanad thought, that’s all a passing boat needed to see: a skinny black man standing on the deck with a rifle. One call to the Coast Guard and they would be surrounded by armed boats. They were so close, perhaps even close enough so that it would not matter, but he couldn’t take the chance.
The radar beeped. There was land on the screen and the radar prompted him toward the entrance to the harbor. He had already turned the ship twice on the open water and knew how long it took to respond. He had decided to make the turn early before increasing the ship’s speed. The front of the boat was shrouded in mist and he was again intimidated by its sheer size. The boat was just slightly smaller than an aircraft carrier, but it responded well to commands from its new captain.
He examined the GPS display, trying to figure out the many lines and colors. They appeared to be several tracks that the Tregurtha had followed on previous trips with the ship shown plotting a new one in its wake. One of the tracks overshot the others and took a more head-on course to the lock, keeping the boat close to the starboard marker. He decided it was his best option in the dense fog.
“Be ready to turn left,” he said.
BUFFALO, NEW YORK
“Allah with you.”
“For Father,” his brother answered.
They shared a final embrace before turning toward their vehicles. Ahmed was dressed as a construction worker and riding in a construction company truck while his brother, dressed in a business suit, sat in an expensive sedan. The doors to the warehouse opened and one of the men activated a timer before jumping aboard the last truck. On schedule they roared out onto the quiet streets. With few commuters on the road at this early hour they had little trouble staying together. Soon the car sped up and broke away from the trucks, heading to the dam. Mukhtar fingered the silenced pistol in his lap and rubbed his clean-shaven face. The absence of a beard troubled him but it could not be helped. Today he must look like an American, at least for a little while.
THOUSANDS SEEN DYING IF TERRORISTS ATTACK U.S. POWER GRID
—Bloomberg
—SEVENTEEN—
THE ROBERT MOSES POWER PLANT
Jason and his two guests rode in a company van to a nondescript brick building on a back street lot in the downtown section of Niagara Falls. There a bare room housed some supplies and a large elevator. Jason had his guests dress in coveralls, hardhats and reflective vests, and gave them a running dialogue of the tunnel’s birth. Although the cage was big enough to hold an automobile they still felt slightly claustrophobic on the long descent. Jack watched the digital readout on the control panel as it counted off the 400 foot drop. At the bottom Jason opened the cage and the three of them stepped out into the maintenance tunnel. He shouted at them over the noise.
“This is the maintenance tunnel. It runs about three-quarters of the total length of the two outer tunnels with access from the elevators here and another about four hundred yards downstream. The main entrance is at the outlet into the reservoir, but that will be inaccessible during normal operation for obvious reasons. If we need to move something big in or out down the road the tunnels will have to be shut down and the water level in the reservoir allowed to fall below the entrance level. Since we don’t wish to do that we’ve stockpiled this space with as much material and equipment as we can cram in. I’m afraid your suits would have been ruined if we traveled in here for long.”
