Gauntlet (57 page)

Dan interrupted. “Oh, so now Wharfdog Charlie is going to dictate tactics in–”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to him!” Rahlson roared.

“That they’re quite similar,” Turbee finished, glaring at Dan. “Fourth point. All of the KDEC shipments to PWS were done aboard container ships from the Karachi Star Line. All of them. And, more significantly, while there seem to be more than 30 ocean-going vessels flying Karachi Star colors, the ship that travels most often, according to the information that I’ve been able to get, is the
Haramosh Star.
You’ve heard of her before, I’m sure, Dan.” Turbee had to curtail a smile when he saw Dan’s reddening complexion.

“Fifth point.” Turbee could see that he had everyone’s attention. “PWS grew in the same way KDEC did — very rapidly, coming out of nowhere. Its competitors can’t match its research and development funding. Looking at it, there’s no way that the sale of a few subs can pay for an army of engineers and scientists like this.”

“Look, Turbee,” Dan broke in again, with a wary eye on Rahlson. “All of that is hopelessly circumstantial. None of it proves anything.”

“Yes, sir, that’s right. But it raises the index of suspicion over PWS, so a few hours ago I programmed a series of web-bots that scoured every particle of information on the net with respect to the company. And I found some real interesting stuff. Besides, you’re always saying you want ALL the facts before we make any moves.”

There was a moment or two of silence, punctuated by the odd snicker. “What?” asked Dan finally. “What what what?”

“PWS controls a very large number of holding companies, trusts, and various offshore entities. Lots of them. And tracking it the best I could, these entities seem to own or control, believe it or not, service stations and convenience stores. Like, there’s just piles of them. Dozens. All over California and north into Oregon and a couple in Washington.”

“What is the significance of that?” asked Dan, a little more cautiously.

“Couple of things. Most of the proprietors of those stores and service stations seem to be refugees from Afghanistan, mostly from northeastern Afghanistan. Pashtun country. But that’s not the clinker.”

“Clinker?” muttered George.

“Yeah. A number of these establishments have been under investigation by the DEA. Nothing obvious, it’s pretty covert. But they seem to be spinning off a very large amount of cash.”

“I know about that one,” said Lance, who was the DEA voice at TTIC. “It’s been going on for awhile. The investigation isn’t going anywhere, but there was, and is, a high degree of suspicion there. Are you saying that, one way or the other, PWS controls these stores and stations?”

“Yes,” responded Turbee. “It looks that way to me, though I can’t be 100 percent certain.”

“Fine,” said Dan. “PWS may be in the laundry business. How does this help us in dealing with the current terrorist threat?”

“You see the red dot on the Atlas Screen, on the Lake Powell reservoir? That’s a piece of property owned by one of those numbered companies. Turns out that PWS used that as a base when it took part in an underwater mapping project, along with a number of universities and government agencies.”

“Uh-oh,” said Rahlson as he realized what Turbee was saying. “You don’t think that...”

“Well, yes I do. I couldn’t figure out how 4.5 tons of Semtex could take out the Hoover Dam. It’s just too well built, and you can’t really get inside of it, which is what you need to do, especially with the level of protection that exists around it right now. But if you took out the Glen Canyon Dam...”

“Turbee, that’s where your logic breaks down,” said Dan triumphantly. “If you can’t figure out how the Semtex could destroy the Hoover Dam, how can you say that the same amount could, in fact, destroy the Glen Canyon Dam? That makes no sense.”

“I’m not sure, Dan. It’s a different dam. It’s not as well built. I’m not sure, but maybe you should look at it.”

“Fine, I’ll pass it along,” Dan muttered, and began dithering with communications links that he didn’t fully understand. Other emails and telephone calls were made, but with Turbee’s equivocal answer and Dan’s hesitation, the new evidence of the involvement of PWS did not gain prominence until much later.

I
T WAS A RUNNER’S DREAM. The early morning temperature on September 3 was in the high 60s. The sun was warm but not hot. The scenery was gorgeous. A different view of the huge reservoir appeared every couple hundred feet. Traffic and other pedestrians were nonexistent. Catherine Gray had what she called her “forever legs” on, clocking an easy, rhythmic 6.8 miles to the hour. After the first hour she was in the zone, and if it weren’t for the intrusive thought of an unfolding national catastrophe, the endorphin-laden cadence of her strides would have been perfect.

The sun was rising higher as she approached the cliff edge where Yousseff had ordered Ba’al to ditch the truck in the murky waters of Lake Powell. The guardrail was conspicuously swinging in the breeze, drawing attention to the mischief that had gone on there an hour earlier. Catherine paused for a few moments, looking down into the muddy water. The unmistakable outlines of a box van could be seen in the lake, far below. She would be telling the local police force or FBI about that at the earliest opportunity. With modern forensic science, a great deal of information would likely be found there. She carried on with her run. One hour became two, and two was pushing three by the time the first residence appeared: a mobile home just north of the Wawheap Marina and Campsite Complex. She pounded on the door, then looked at her watch, which had automatically reset itself to the local time zone. It was 8:45AM.

D
UANE BECKER and his wife of forty-some years had been happily retired for ten years. They were enjoying their peace and quiet when the staccato knock, sharp and professional, came from the side door of their still-new-looking double-wide mobile home.

They had decided to retire here. They had spent most of their working lives in Las Vegas, he a janitor, she a waitress. Through all the dazzle and bling of that city, they remained true to each other, and both swore that they loved each other more now than they had when they first married. Three children had come, been raised, and left. Two stayed in Vegas, the third was in Los Angeles somewhere. They had spent many a weekend on Lake Mead, north of the Hoover Dam, but found that it was becoming too noisy for their taste. They had migrated north then, and had spent their share of holidays in the Wawheap area, where greater tranquility and more restful trips had become more and more welcome as they both passed 60. They finally decided to pull up stakes in Vegas. To their glee, they discovered that their small home, purchased for $50,000 so many years ago, was now worth $450,000. The couple took a small amount of what they considered to be a fortune, and purchased the isolated double-wide trailer, formerly owned by one of the Wawheap Camp caretakers. The balance of their money was carefully invested and, along with the combined cash flows from two small pensions, they now considered themselves to be fabulously wealthy and blessed.

They’d already finished breakfast, but the delicious smell of coffee and fried bacon still permeated the air. They seldom had company, other than their children and grandchildren, which was just fine by them. A knock at 8:45AM was unusual, especially after the tourist season had finished. Duane became more attentive as his wife reached for the door.

He lunged for the side cupboard the instant he heard her shocked gasp. He kept a loaded Mossberg 590 sawed-off shotgun, just for this kind of situation. At close quarters, the Mossberg would be a potent and lethal weapon. He hadn’t needed to use it yet, but now he thanked God he’d had the foresight to keep it ready.

“I’m there, hon, I’m there,” he yelled as he moved with a quickness that belied his age.

When he got to the door, Sandra Becker was standing absolutely still, staring in shock at the person standing on their front step.

“You’d best explain yourself, ma’am,” said Duane, pointing the Mossberg directly at the intruder’s midsection. “And no sudden moves. This gun’ll shoot you clean in half.”

Sandra backed up, and moved behind her husband’s ample frame.

“I’m Corporal Gray, of the RCMP,” Catherine said, breathing heavily.

“The who?”

“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, that’s who,” replied Catherine sharply between breaths.

“Yes, of course you are. On an early morning patrol no doubt. Lose your way in Toronto?” Duane did not lower the Mossberg. “Lady, if you’re with the RC whatever, then I’m the tooth fairy. Show some ID, and slowly,” he said, his steady eyes not leaving hers.

It was then that Catherine came to terms with the true nature of the problem. In the past 48 hours, she had been locked in an underground room in a deserted coal mine, crawled through a filthy coal-black tunnel, multiple times, spent hours squatting behind more than four tons of plastic explosive, peed in a cooler, played cat and mouse in the pitch black with a furious terrorist/drug smuggler, and to top it all off, had just run a distance in excess of a marathon.

“I must look like hell,” she said, fishing around in her pockets for ID. Of course, at critical moments like these, passports, badges, and other forms of ID were completely lacking.

“Yes ma’am, you do. Now who the hell are you?” repeated Duane, lowering the gun ever so slightly.

“I’m a corporal with the RCMP. I’ve been following a stolen shipment of high-powered plastic explosive from Canada to here, and I’m not even sure where ’here’ is,” Catherine replied.

“We’re just north of Page, Arizona,” he replied. “We’re adjacent to Lake Powell, just over yonder.” He motioned with his head, still keeping his eyes firmly locked with hers.

“OK,” said Catherine. “Is there anything in the immediate vicinity that terrorists might want to destroy? Something big, something of significant national interest?”

“I can’t really think of anything,” said Duane. “No huge buildings, no airports, no nuclear power stations. Unless,” he added, “unless maybe it’s the dam itself.”

“Dam?” asked Catherine. “What dam?”

“Well Lake Powell is a reservoir, created by the Glen Canyon Dam, which is next to Page. The town was built when the dam was built.” The Mossberg was lowered again, but only slightly.

Catherine’s face grew still in horror. “I need to use a phone, right now,” she said quietly. “I think terrorists are going to blow the dam. I think it’s going to happen in the next hour or so. Please, I must use a phone.”

Duane stared at her in amazement. She did indeed look awful. She still had a residue of coal dust in her hair and streaked across her face. There were twigs and bits of bush in her hair and clothing from her cat and mouse game with Ba’al. Both her hands were still pitch black. She was now sweating profusely and, to her horror, realized that she did not smell all that good.

“Hon,” Duane said to his wife, “grab the portable phone for this person. I’m not letting you in just yet,” he said, half to his wife, half to Catherine.

The phone arrived, born by a tremulous Sandra Becker. She handed it to Catherine, who immediately dialed Indy’s cell phone. Two rings and he answered.

“Indy here,” came his terse greeting.

“Indy, it’s Catherine. I know–”

He cut her off. “Catherine, where the hell are you? Are you OK?”

“Indy, be quiet and listen very carefully. I’m near Page, Arizona, in the US. There’s a huge dam nearby, and they’re going to blow it. This information needs to get to the American Intelligence and military people. Can you connect me?”

“Stay on the line, Cath. I’m at the Heather Street complex. The officers here just talked to an American Intelligence outfit called TTIC a few hours ago. They’re the people who are tracking this. Do not hang up.”

At the moment, Indy was indeed in his crowded little cubicle of an office. Blackman was sitting across from him. They’d just been on the phone for what seemed like hours, connected to various Intelligence Agencies, and to TTIC in particular. Indy was ecstatic to finally be hearing from his partner again.

“It’s Catherine,” he said to Blackman. “She’s in northern Arizona someplace. She knows where it’s going down. What’s the number of that TTIC outfit?”

He punched a series of numbers, and got Johnson at TTIC on the first ring. “This is Indy. We know where the Semtex is. We know the target.”

“Have your guy call this number,” Johnson answered.

Indy relayed the information to a sweating, filthy Catherine Gray. “I’ve got to call this number. It’s the TTIC control room,” she told the Beckers as she started dialing.

“What? The who?” asked an astounded Duane Becker, putting the Mossberg down completely.

“Honey, let me get you a cup of coffee,” exclaimed Sandra, darting back to the kitchen. “Cream? Sugar?” She suddenly became the perfect hostess.

And so it was that an RCMP corporal, covered in sweat, twigs, leaves, and coal dust, sat down at the kitchen table of the Beckers, and explained what had occurred to a rapt TTIC audience.

D
AN DID MOST OF THE TALKING. He pressed her again and again. Describe the sub. What was that other device? Where was she exactly? How much Semtex, and again, where did you say you are? Had they known what was occurring 300 feet under the surface of the nearby lake, neither would have fiddled for so long with the nonessentials. Rhodes and Rahlson were both reaching for their individual telephones. This was taking too much time already.

Frustrated, Catherine finally handed the telephone to Duane. “Tell this dumbo where we are,” she said.

Duane gave the details. “You know where Page is? Guess not. Well look at the map. You guys got a map?”

In distant Washington, George smiled. “A map, you say? Have we got a map?” Within seconds, he had a map centered on Page, Arizona, some 30 feet in size, displayed on the Atlas Screen. The dam was clearly labeled, as was the huge Lake Powell reservoir and the Grand Canyon. For added measure, he displayed a large photograph of the Glen Canyon Dam on the central 101.

“OK,” said Dan. “We’re looking at a map. We have Page. Where are you in relation?”

“It’s not complicated,” said Duane. “You take Lakeshore Drive north to Wawheap Marina. Go past that. There’s an old mining road winding north along Lake Powell. We’re about ten miles beyond that. Technically we’re over the line, in Utah.”

“Are there any residences or structures beyond that?” asked Dan.

“Yes,” replied Duane. “Go another 20 miles up and there’s a couple of buildings. It’s a testing facility of some kind, owned by some Californian company.”

“Thanks. Can you put the Corporal back on the line?”

Catherine accepted the phone, and the coffee that Sandra had poured. Duane glanced at his wife, impressed that she was still holding up. This was more excitement than the Beckers had seen in years. Yet Sandra was calmly pulling the little bits of twigs, moss, and leaves from Catherine’s hair, the picture of warm maternal concern.

“Corporal Gray,” said Dan, firmly in charge, “we’ve got General Odlum from Army Intelligence sitting here. Can you describe the other piece of equipment that you saw? Not the submarine, but the container that they were packing the Semtex into.”

“It was a very strange device. It looked highly machined, highly polished. Very precise. It was made of different metals. Maybe steel or nickel alloys, maybe molybdenum. It had a very odd shape, almost like an ancient ship. High in front, and in the rear, but very short in the center.”

“Was there a ribbon of different metal running along its crest, perhaps even gold?” asked the general sharply.

“Yes, I think so. They were taking their time packing the Semtex into it too,” said Catherine.

“Shit,” was all General Odlum said.

“Corporal Gray, please stay by the phone. We’ll probably have more to ask you in a minute or two.” That was all Dan said. The line went dead.

Catherine and the Beckers looked at each other. “They’re going to take out the Glen Canyon Dam,” said Catherine, as she continued to pick coal dust out of her ears, and twigs and dirt from her clothing. “Enjoy your waterfront view. You may not have it for too much longer.”

“Would you like some bacon and eggs?” asked Sandra. “You must be hungry. And let me get you some damp towels. Honey, you are a mess.”

Duane smiled. His wife had always thought that a cup of tea would solve even the most dire of problems. She always managed to take the edge out of a tricky moment. But they’d never been in a situation quite like this one, and Duane was quicker to realize the possible danger here. He was also more to the point. “This is the Semtex that was stolen out of Libya, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I think so,” Catherine answered.

“And terrorists really have commenced an attack on the dam, haven’t they?”

“Yes, I think so,” Catherine responded quietly. “I’m pretty sure. The attack is probably under way right now. It’s taking place many hundreds of feet below the surface.”

T
HE AGITATION in the TTIC control room had quickened after Turbee’s announcement, and heightened still further once Corporal Gray divulged her story. General Odlum, from Army Intelligence, wanted the floor.

“What is it, General? What are you thinking?” asked Dan.

“The description the Corporal gave,” said the aging General. “It’s a shaped charge explosive. If they do it right–”

Dan interrupted him. “Who knows more about these types of explosive devices than anyone on the planet?” he said. “We need to talk to this person. We also need to get more information.”

“If it’s what I think it is, then it’s like a bunker buster,” said the General. “If that’s what it is... Johnson, can you get me Livermore Labs on the line? There’s a guy there, name is Sandilands. Dr. William Sandilands. He knows more about this stuff than anyone on the planet.”

“Johnson, get him on the line,” barked Dan to his sidekick. “Now!”

“Why do we need to talk to this guy?” asked Lance, nervously tapping his desktop. “We’ve been just behind whoever is orchestrating this every step of the way. The seconds are precious. We need to call the cavalry now. Let’s >just assume that it’s powerful enough to blow the dam. We can worry about the fine details later.”

“No, Lance. I’m the one in charge here,” Dan snapped. “We need to get the facts straight first. We can’t just be pulling assets from the Hoover Dam and Las Vegas. Johnson, get Sandilands on the line, NOW.” The word “now” was emphasized with his fist striking his desk. He did not see that most of the TTIC personnel were feverishly talking on cell phones already.