Fire Hawk (56 page)

‘We've given this operation that we're now engaged in the codename Fire Hawk, ladies and gentlemen. And we have to assume the UAV with its anthrax warhead could already be in the United States some place,' the Director went on. ‘Boxed up and probably all ready to launch from a standard forty-foot shipping container like you'll see in any freight yard in any state in the USA. The container's serial number we don't have, nor any shipping details. It's a needle in a haystack, folks.

‘The VR-6 Hawk UAV is a battlefield reconnaissance drone that's standard issue in the forces of the former Soviet Union. Normally it's launched from a canister on the back of an eight-wheeled vehicle. Converting a shipping container to perform the same function would pose few problems to military technicians who knew what they were doing. And we have to believe these guys
do
know what's what. There's a stake of five million dollars behind this single act of terrorism.'

Somebody gave a low whistle.

‘Sure. That's a lot of backing. Now, whether this crazy scheme is the brainchild of Saddam Hussein or of some maverick is more a concern for the NSA and the Joint Chiefs than for us. As lead agency in response to a
terrorist attack, the FBI has two fundamental issues to address. How to prevent that attack, and if we can't, how to deal with it when it happens.

‘As I just said, we have to assume the container with the missile could already be in its launch position. Where would that be? Well, just about any place within fifty miles of the target. And where's the target? We don't know. The terrorists
may
be going after the President, but we can't assume that. Anthrax sprayed from a missile is not the most sensible way to assassinate one extremely well-protected individual.

‘Fortunately this weekend the President is staying in the White House most of the time. The exception is on Saturday night when he makes an election appearance at the Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. The Eagles have a bye week. The meeting's being networked live on TV, which the terrorists would see as an advantage, of course. A decision on whether the President goes ahead with that event will be taken nearer the time.

‘Our first priority has got to be to find that container before it can be used. The terrorists probably have to work on the missile before it can be fired – it's come a long way – so they'll want some place to do that without being disturbed. An old barn or disused warehouse would do just fine. Police in east coast states from New Hampshire to Florida have been tasked to check out all such sites.

‘Priority two is for all agencies to be ready if that goddamned missile
is
fired. The VR-6 has inertial guidance which needs to be programmed and stabilised before launch, a process that takes about twenty minutes, so I'm told. It gets kicked into the air by a solid-fuel rocket booster, then a gas turbine takes over for the cruise. In the brief period between launch and the release of the agent – say ten minutes – there
is
a chance it can be shot down. The DoD has already set up full airborne
radar coverage of the eastern sector of the United States. E-2s and E-3s.'

He turned to the military man to check he'd got his designations correct. The Air Force Brigadier nodded solemnly, then held up a hand to speak.

‘Go ahead Brad,' said the Director.

‘I just wanted to set the record straight on this,' the flyer cautioned. ‘The practicality of shooting down a UAV depends on a whole host of factors. The VR-6
moves.
Up to five hundred miles an hour. Getting an interceptor on to it in time won't be easy. And firing missiles and cannon over a densely populated area doesn't make a lot of sense. The Joint Chiefs are talking with the President right now to decide what rules of engagement would be acceptable. We might just end up killing as many people by intercepting it as by leaving it to reach its target. However, we have put up a CAP of F-15s and F-16s just in case. And the Army's Technical Escort Unit from the Chemical and Biological Defense Command at Aberdeen, Maryland is on stand-by to help the Bureau's own decontamination teams clean up after, if it
does
happen.'

He handed back to the Director.

‘Thanks Brad. That brings me to the next phase. How we handle the anthrax release if we can't prevent it. The spores would most likely be sprayed in a line a few hundred feet above the ground upwind of the target, creating an invisible and lethal cloud that would drift onto the victims. In ideal conditions, just a few pounds of biological agent could infect tens of thousands of people this way. The spores, however, are easily damaged by heat and sunlight and can be dispersed by strong winds or rain. Met conditions are critical. The Iraqi terrorist commander is a military specialist, so he'll know all this. He'll know too that the weather forecast for the next few
days is in his favour. Cool temperatures, light winds, no rain.

‘Gentlemen and ladies. If the attack happens, we have to expect that thousands of people will die within a week. All available stocks of antibiotics will be flown from neighbouring states. We can reduce the death rate that way, but only partially. As you all know, pulmonary anthrax is usually fatal. In the days and months after the attack there'll be the risk of further infection from spores on the ground and in the air-con systems of public buildings. A massive decontamination programme will be required.

‘The optimum time for any BW attack is around sundown, which is a perfect fit for the President's appearance in Philadelphia on Saturday. He's scheduled to speak at seven p.m. If it
is
the President the terrorists want to hit, Philadelphia's the best guess. If they just want to massacre a big crowd, there's no shortage of targets this weekend. There's a good half dozen major football games, both college and NFL. And tomorrow in Washington Pledge for the Family is holding a Sacred Assembly in the Mall.'

Burgess felt ice down his spine. It had crossed his mind, of course, what a fine target tens of thousands of praying Americans would make for a Godless fanatic, but to have it spelled out like this . . . He'd made Carole's day last evening by telling her that he
would
be in the Mall with her after all. Now he was going to have to tell her something very different.

‘The President is fully engaged in all this, gentlemen and ladies,' the Director continued. ‘I talked with him just over one hour ago. We discussed issuing a public warning. We talked about cancelling all open-air events. But in the end we agreed to delay that action in the hope we get new intelligence that narrows the focus. A nationwide announcement would cause real panic. The
Israelis can do it because their population's small and they've lived in a state of war for nearly fifty years.
And
they have good stocks of respirators. We don't. No way can we protect everybody who's at risk.

‘So, no warnings at this stage. Just maximum preparedness of all relevant agencies. For now all we can do is hope. Hope for an intelligence breakthrough and pray this nightmare never becomes real.'

The meeting wrapped up and Burgess returned to the general office that he shared with a dozen others. The dark-haired nuclear specialist was clearing her desk for the weekend.

‘Looks like biological's going to hit the jackpot,' she remarked as he passed her pen. ‘No early night for
you
.'

‘You sound almost
envious
, Jess,' he commented incredulously.

She had the grace to look a little embarrassed. ‘Not exactly that, but this
is
what we train for, isn't it? So if you need any help, just let me know, okay?'

‘I will.'

He sat back at his desk. On the work surface beside his PC he'd set up a small leather photo frame that contained a picture of Carole and the children. He picked it up. He didn't want them in Washington this weekend – because of the terrorist risk, however slight that might be in reality, and above all because their presence here would mean him having to face up to that collision between Carole and his career.

He put the picture down again. He had work to do chasing up US Customs who'd been tasked to search their records for any sign of a container from Ukraine or Cyprus in the past few days. Pointless, since the switched container would surely have originated from somewhere else, but a check that had to be made. He picked up the receiver, but hesitated. Then, instead of dialling customs,
he rang home. No point in delaying the evil moment any longer.

‘The Burgess residence.' Dean Junior's seven-year-old voice pretending to be grownup.

‘Hiya kiddo!'

‘Dad! You coming home tonight?'

‘Not tonight, Dean. Didn't Mom tell you?'

‘Sure, but I thought you might have changed your mind.'

‘I'm sorry. It's just that I've got—'

‘Too much work. I know.' The kid's voice was heavy with sarcasm. Not bad for a seven-year-old, thought Burgess. ‘Mom's here.'

He heard the phone being passed across.

‘Honey, you all right?' Suspicion in her voice. He'd told her not to expect him to ring that evening. ‘We're still on for tomorrow, I hope.' They were coming on the train first thing. He'd arranged to meet them at Union Station.

‘Carole . . .' He'd rung without first working out what to say.

‘Oh boy . . . I can hear it in your voice. You're the pits Dean, you know that?'

‘Carole listen to me. There's something going on that I can't tell you about.'

‘What are you talking about, Dean?' Her voice had gone small, as if suspecting he was having an affair.

‘You know what my work is here . . .'

‘Well, no, honey,' she goaded. ‘I don't. You never talk about it, remember?'

‘Counter-terrorism. You know
that
much Carole,' he retorted.

‘Oh sure. Two words. But that's all I know.'

Hell! He was handling this badly. Sliding straight into a spat.

‘Carole listen! There's something going on right now
that's real serious. I don't want you to come to Washington tomorrow. It could be dangerous for you and for Patty and Dean. I want you and the kids to stay in Westchester tomorrow.'

There was a long silence at the other end.

‘Carole?'

The line cut as she rang off.

‘Shoot.'

He heard something being dropped on the floor outside his pen. He stood up to look over the partition and came face to face with Jess.

‘Just wondered if you needed any help right now,' she explained awkwardly, picking up a ballpoint. ‘Make some calls for you? I don't have anything fixed for tonight.'

‘No thanks.' He could see from her blush that she'd overheard his call. ‘I can manage.'

‘Sure. See you Monday.' She handed him a business card. ‘Home number's on the back. I'm around over the weekend if you change your mind or want company.'

She was as ready for it as a hooker, thought Burgess. If Carole didn't shape up he might even . . .

Oh no. That wasn't the way.

He dialled again. The number rang ten times before Carole answered.

‘What?'

‘Honey, listen to me, will you? This is serious.'

‘Too damned right it's serious, Dean. You think I'm stupid? You think I'll believe anything you come out with? Any goddamn excuse you care to dream up? You've been trying everything to avoid the Pledge assembly. Well it won't work, Dean.'

‘Carole, listen to me . . .'

‘I've done with listening, Dean. And if you're not there at Union Station tomorrow morning, I'm done with you too.'

She rang off. When he dialled again, he found she'd left the phone off the hook.

The flight from Amman via Frankfurt had landed on time. The first few passengers were already emerging. Hanging back from the crowds waiting by the customs barrier in Newark airport's arrival terminal stood a tall, middle-aged man with sandy-grey hair. His large, Labrador eyes seemed like those of a man at his ease, but inside he was as tense as a coiled spring.

Naif Hamdan had been in the United States for two days now, just long enough to get over his jet lag and to recce the launch site and target zone. The man he'd come here to meet was the last piece in his jigsaw, a brother officer as dedicated as he was to the removal from power of Saddam Hussein. Major Sadoun's knowledge of the VR-6 reconnaissance drone was second to none. He'd been responsible for introducing the system into the Iraqi armed forces in 1990 after a stock had been bought from the Soviet Union.

At first he didn't recognise Sadoun without his moustache, shaved off for this mission like his own. A short, wiry man, he wore a smart grey suit and towed a small wheeled suitcase. Hamdan made a move towards him, just enough to catch his eye, then turned and headed for the car park, knowing Sadoun would follow.

They drove in the two cars which Hamdan had hired, heading south on the I-95 towards Baltimore. As each man looked about him at the mongrel mix of American
faces in the cars and trucks they passed, his tension grew. In a few days' time, they knew, some of these people could be in the early stages of death.

By the time Dean Burgess returned to his small rented room in a red-brick lodging house in Alexandria his mind was pounding around like a carousel on speed. He'd tried continually to call Carole again, but the phone had stayed off the hook. He was pissed with her by now. She was behaving with selfish irresponsibility.

There'd been a couple of times during the evening when he'd taken from his pocket the card that Jess Bissett had given him. The address was Arlington, the same side of town as Alexandria. Serve Carole right if he had an affair with a woman who understood the importance to him of his work. Particularly one with a body that most men would give a lot to see unclothed.