Security: Jack Randall #4, page 5
“We already have legislation in place to deal with facilities that do not meet the requirements, Mr. Randall. Are you suggesting that the government take over these companies? Just so you can make them safe by your definition?”
Jack refused to take the bait, but without knowing it, the senator was taking his.
“No, ma’am, I’m simply saying that the standards need to be raised and the requirements enforced to a level that’s effective.”
“To what point, Mr. Randall, perhaps minefields and electric fences? Tanks in the parking lots? Guard towers? Shall we jail the CEO if he fails one of your inspections?”
“Several facilities fail to meet the requirements, and do so purposefully.”
“And they pay the fines imposed until they do so, correct, Mr. Randall?”
“Yes and no.”
The senator was caught by surprise. She asked warily, “Well, which is it, Mr. Randall? Are you saying you can’t tell if the company in question is in violation or not?”
Jack couldn’t help but smile. It was brief and Senator Lamar frowned at him from his perch. Jack couldn’t look as if he were enjoying this. He decided to stall.
“A moment please, Senator.”
Jack covered the mic with his hand and leaned toward Larry. Larry met him half way.
“What the hell are you doing, Jack?” he whispered.
“The senator’s getting a little snotty and now she’s not sure where I’m going with this. I want her to stew a little before I hit her with it. Do this. Every time I mention a company or facility by name, set another file in front of me. I don’t care what’s in it, just keep them piling up. You got it?”
“Mr. Randall?”
“One moment please, Senator.” Jack covered the mic again.
Larry said, “Jack, quit stalling. Answer the lady’s question.”
“In a minute. Did I tell you I’m picking up my new car next week? Sydney’s going to hate it.”
“You’re killing me, you know that?”
“Get ready with those files.” Jack uncovered the mic. Both senators, Lamar and Prescott, were fuming.
“Yes, Senator. The answer to your question is actually both. Some of these companies are in flagrant violation, yet still technically operate within the guidelines as they continue to pay the fines. For instance, Tesco Chemical has scored a failing grade for six years running and been fined every year. Yet they continue to operate since they are the sole contractor for Octol, a high explosive used in specialized bombs and artillery shells for the military.”
Larry dropped the thickest file he had on the desk with a loud thunk and the senator visibly recoiled. Tesco Chemical was in her state and a major contributor to her last campaign.
“The company has been warned several times about security shortcomings to both their physical manufacturing facilities and their computer systems. Each year they have failed to make any improvements, preferring instead to pay the fines. They complain that the cost for making the outlined improvements to be too high and unnecessary. Simply put, Senator, the cost of security improvements is higher than paying the fine, so they do what’s best for their bottom line, and security suffers.”
“I find this hard to believe, Mr. Randall. The exaggerated demands being placed on these companies in the name of security are over and above that which is needed. The cost expenditures alone are far too much for a company such as Tesco to be expected to endure.”
“Estimated expenditures for the Tesco upgrades are placed at twelve million dollars.”
“See? An outrageous amount to—”
“That amounts to point zero-zero-two of the company’s profit last year . . .”
“That has nothing to do with—”
“. . . and exceeds what it gave in political contributions by $2.2 million dollars.”
Silence.
It was Senator Lamar’s turn to hide a smile. Jack had sucked her right it and she hadn’t seen it coming. He glanced down the row of leather chairs to see Ms. Prescott stewing in her chair with clenched fists while an aide whispered in her ear. There was no denying where the money had gone. Campaign contributions were public record. If she defended Tesco now she was saying that her senate seat was more important than national security. After the silence had run its course Jack drove the point home.
“Tesco is not alone. Hamilton Power and Light. Gulfport Aircraft, Peridine Gas, Griffin Defense, Weisman Industries. All of these companies choose to pay the government mandated fine rather than upgrade their security. All of these companies are rated level A on the list of key infrastructure sites.”
The senators and congressman squirmed in their chairs as they watched Larry pile file after file in front of Jack, each of them praying he wouldn’t name a company in their state or district. Several closed their notebooks as if deciding that interrogating Jack was something they’d rather not do today.
After a long silence Senator Lamar said, “Very good, Mr. Randall. I think this is a good time to take a break. Shall we say fifteen minutes, people? Let’s try to keep it to not more than that.”
With that the panel rose as one and made for the doors. The real work would now happen out in the hallway and in the nearby break rooms. Calls would be made and plans would be changed. Deals struck and new alliances made. But most were well aware of who had donated money to their campaigns and in the end there was very little they could do to improve their positions. The rest of the day would be full of softball questions for Jack—most of them would be too wary to engage him in any real debate lest he pull out one of those damn files. The lobbyists would bitch, but they had made their own beds. They would have to lie in them.
Jack sat back with a sigh. Larry poured them both glasses of water before turning the mic off.
“Jesus, Jack.”
“Yup.”
“What now?”
“The senator will steer the conversation from here, make all the changes seem like her idea. Save face and all of that. There’ll be another hearing in a few months.”
Larry opened his mouth to ask a question, but before he could, Jack answered it.
“Yes, you have to come to that one, too.”
Larry closed his mouth and frowned. “We’re gonna need more files.”
They shared a quick and quiet laugh.
In the corner of the room surrounded by her colleagues and several aides, Senator Prescott observed their exchange.
She was not laughing. She spoke to her aide without taking her eyes off of Jack.
“Find out where Mr. Randall is going on his next inspection. I think I might join him.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Al-Qaeda magazine cites weakness of Buffalo Niagara region.”
—The Buffalo News
—SIX—
THE ROBERT MOSES POWER PLANT
The roar of passing trucks had them yelling at each other from a distance of two feet. It was something they did without thought as they checked their way into the job site. The security process was now a familiar nuisance that they all tolerated, each of them opening their lunch boxes for inspection or assuming “the position” for a random sweep of the wand. Most kept their earplugs out until they were into the tunnel proper. There the noise of the conveyor and the grind of the enormous boring machine against the bedrock rose by a factor that made them don headphones and microphones in order to communicate. The constant parade of incoming cement trucks and outgoing dump trucks in the enclosed diameter of the tunnel gave the sound no place to escape. It was like working inside a beating drum. The hum of the fans pumping air and dust out of the forty-five foot tall tunnel was lost in the din. The only positive aspect of the jobsite was that it was out of the weather. Well lit, windless, dry, and kept at a comfortable temperature, it was actually better than the worksites many men were used to.
One of the men absently rubbed the ache in his thigh as he waited in line. He wore a full set of Carhartts under a dirty orange vest and carried a metal lunch pail. His yellow hardhat had a piece of tape with his name on it among the scratches and dents. The leather forehead strap was stained brown by months of dust and sweat as was the tool belt slung over his shoulder. He shuffled forward with an irregular walk until it was his turn with the guard.
“Morning, King. How’s the leg today?”
The man stopped rubbing his leg and hitched up the tool belt. He hadn’t realized he was doing so and silently cursed himself for showing weakness.
“The leg is fine.”
“The cold always makes my uncles hurt,” the guard said as he scanned the badge of the man in front of him.
His name was Mustafa, but the crew had dubbed him “King.” He had asked a neighbor how they had come to that and been told it was from a children’s movie. He’d swallowed the insult and added it to a growing list.
The second guard lazily waved a wand over him. He skipped over the tool belt and tried to avoid Mustafa’s left leg but the wand still briefly chirped, drawing a few looks from those waiting.
“Sorry.”
Mustafa stepped around him, eager to get away from the staring workers behind him. He shuffled as fast as his prosthetic leg would allow and was soon inside the main tunnel, its forty-five foot diameter crowded with machinery. Donning ear covers and hardhat he made his way past the ever-active conveyor belt to the service tunnel entrance. He wove his way through the stacks of supplies and outgoing traffic. His leg complained louder with the constant twisting and turning.
There were three tunnels in the massive project: two large water tunnels with one smaller service tunnel running between them. The goal was to increase the flow of water from the Niagara river to the man-made lake behind the Robert Moses hydroelectric power plant which would then run the water through its massive turbines before returning it to the river downstream. It was a project recently mirrored by their Canadian neighbors on the other side. Soon both plants would be at their maximum allotment of water as agreed to by treaty decades ago. The advent of massive tunnel boring machines had made the project more feasible and now the machine, dubbed Big Bertha by the crew, turned day and night directly under downtown Niagara Falls, slowly carving its way through solid bedrock. Everything had gone as planned, with one exception.
Unexpectedly weak bedrock had forced a delay. Several areas of overbreak had resulted in safety concerns and minor damage to the boring machine. Now the crews were scrambling to inject shotcrete, a special formula of concrete, into the weaker areas before the lining was laid in place. It had also forced an extension of the service tunnel that ran between the parallel passages. With the weak spots now apparent they would need to be monitored more often and the necessary materials and machinery to repair any faults were kept closely on hand. Any fault could result in the rapid formation of a sinkhole, perhaps multiple ones, and that would spell disaster for high-rise buildings in the downtown area above them. Mustafa’s job was to drive the lift holding the crews that were drilling the deep holes in the ceiling of the tunnel and injecting the shotcrete. The boring machine had pulled away from them in the last week and they were now scrambling to catch up. His fellow crewmen avoided the area as much as possible, most of them eyeballing the ceiling of the tunnel as they passed through. Despite their experience, none of them wished to be buried alive or crushed by a several-ton boulder.
Mustafa grumbled as he navigated the maze. The supplies and machinery seemed to switch places daily and one could get easily turned around in the confusing mess. Fortunately, the tunnel ran in only one direction with doors leading out to the two main tunnels every one-hundred meters. He scanned their numbers to gauge his progress and after a half-hour walk he reached the chain-link cage that served as parts storage and unofficial break room.
There he joined his fellow tunnel rats at a row of lockers where he stowed his lunch. After looking around to see if he was being watched he pulled up the leg of his pants to reveal the metal shaft of his artificial leg. Yanking off the item taped to it he quickly stowed it away in the locker before slamming the door. He gave the lock a spin before shuffling off to find the forklift he would sit on for the next ten hours. Raising and lowering concrete workers from the tunnel floor to its ceiling all day was far from selling rugs in his native Afghanistan, but fate had determined that he be here. The Americans had taken his leg, his wife, and his children, and then thought they could replace them with a piece of metal and a job in America. They foolishly thought it was what everyone wanted, that this was some great gift they had bestowed upon him to make up for their carelessness.
They would soon learn just how wrong they were.
THE COLORADO
Lieutenant Nick Parker broke the surface of the water just enough to let him see his target a quarter mile away. The Colorado was turning on its anchor as it had for the last six hours. He and his team had watched the ship track up and down the coast while being chased by pirate skiffs. They had watched them bring the ship in close to shore and anchor for the night. Today was no different than the last four.
Except for one thing.
The weather and the phase of the moon had changed. Something the brass at Ft. McDill had decided was worth waiting for before they green-lighted the mission. The sky and the ocean were now pitch black. No starlight danced on the waves. No moonlight shone across the water. The clouds were thick and low. The weather report from the carrier George Bush called for rain in three to four hours, but with weather like this he and his men would need only one.
He took in the full length of the ship. Its pale blue paint was rusting in spots, and he used them to gauge where he and his men would approach. The deck was minimally lit, enough to give those on board a sense of security, but not burn too much precious fuel. That worked to his advantage as well. He scanned the white superstructure for movement and was not surprised when he didn’t see any. It was 0300 local, the time when the human body’s circadian rhythms were at their slowest. If the pirates had staged any guards on the deck they would be fighting to keep their eyes open. Good. He held his position for another minute, kicking his fins slowly so as not to disturb the plankton. In this part of the ocean the microscopic creatures glowed if disturbed. It was something first-time sailors marveled at when their ship left a glowing path for miles behind it. Right now it was something that Parker and his men did their best to avoid. This meant a deep transition when they launched from the destroyer, a slow final approach, and an ascent from directly under the target.
Parker lowered himself beneath the water and dropped straight down to the sandy bottom. A faint glow guided him to where his men waited next to their anchored SDVs. The Swimmer Delivery Vehicles were basically electric motors with props and handles, able to drag a SEAL behind them for over thirty miles on a single charge. These were heavily modified and equipped with side-scanning sonar and GPS locating beacons. A man activated an infrared strobe that they would use to find them on the way out, should they need to. The current running up the coast was less than two knots. If they had to return for the SDVs it was going to be a tough swim.
Parker split his team into pairs and they spread out on line, letting the current take them to the target. After a careful kick count Parker rolled on his back to see the hulk of the ship above him. They rose slowly and broke the surface at the stern. A man went to work on the rudder, affixing an explosive charge and activating its remote receiver. If for some reason they left quickly, the George Bush could now disable the Colorado’s steering. The others assembled the aluminum pole they would need to board the ship. One removed the caving ladder he had coiled around his waist and secured it to the hook on the end of the pole. When everyone was ready they gave Parker a nod.
Parker took the point and made his way down the port side of the ship, counting the rust marks. He found his spot and gave a hand signal. Two men held the third man still as best they could while he raised the pole and attempted to set the hook. He was successful on the second try, but any jubilation was cancelled out by the tap of the ladder on the hull. The metallic sound seemed to echo across the water forever. They trained their weapons on the rail overhead. After enough time had passed without a skinny sticking his head over the side Parker’s best climber grabbed the end of the ladder, slipped off his fins, and planted his feet against the hull, holding it steady for the first man to ascend. Parker sent his point man up. Despite the HK-MP5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder and a forty-pound combat load, he was up the slippery ladder in well under a minute. He scanned the deck once before better securing the hooks to the rail. A hand signal brought the rest of the team up behind him. As each man slid silently on board they took up a position on the perimeter and scanned the deck.
“Equipment,” Parker hissed. Each man frisked himself for anything missing. To his amazement they had arrived intact. It was going too well, he thought.
Parker donned his NVDs and studied the bridge through a crack between the stacked containers. Nothing. Where was the crew? They were his first priority. He had three locations that were the most likely places, but he only had eight men to cover them all. They had spent the last few days studying the engineering plans for the ship until they knew every level, every berth, every passageway, frontwards and back. They had practiced on the destroyer day and night, scaring the hell out of the crew. Each of them had a job and with a wave of his hand Parker sent them to do it.
Two men would scale the outside of the superstructure and take the bridge. Parker and his point man would make their way to the crews’ quarters and secure that. Another pair would seize the engine room while the last two would control the deck, providing cover for the others in the event that they had to make a quick exit. Parker pressed down on his throat mic and t’sk-t’sked into it. He got a return from each man before they set out in different directions.
