Blood Covenent, page 12
CHAPTER 11
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, July 4, 1999
1:00 P.M. EDT
Louis and Jonas drove through the armored gate leading into the Old Executive Office Building. Louis always marveled at the massive amount of security surrounding the White House/OEOB complex. Besides Pennsylvania Avenue
being shut down, there were the bomb-sniffing dogs for every vehicle entering the White House area. Uniformed Secret Service officers sat in white pillbox stations behind glass so thick it had a green tint. After the uniformed officers came the plain clothes and SWAT team officers who patrolled the entire area without restrictions.
The nine-block area surrounding the White House was completely shut down to normal traffic. Heavy concrete flowerpots bordered the area. At least the flowers dressed up these truck bomb barriers. A couple of fortunate district cops got the chance to sit each day in a squad car which acted like a moving gate to allow vehicles access to the White House complex. Hydraulically raised steel and concrete barriers controlled entry through the gates into the OEOB parking lot. In another era, it would have been called the palace guard.
Louis shook hands with General George Carnady as they moved through the parking lot of the OEOB. Carnady looked impressive in his green army uniform with two bright stars on his shoulder boards, and a chest full of metals. He carried a battered black briefcase in his other hand. “Louis—Jonas,” he said, nodding to the younger man.
“George, you got a call for this as well?”
“We’re both on the NEST list.” He looked around at the others filing into the OEOB. “What exactly are we dealing with, Louis?”
“I’m not quite sure,” quipped Louis.
They started walking towards the back door. A Marine Corporal stood in full dress uniform with a Beretta M9 strapped to his side. He snapped off a salute and inspected their identification badges. George returned the salute. “But you have a suspicion.”
Louis shrugged. “They told us it was a suitcase bomb. Considering what’s been flowing out of the National Labs to China, we might be dealing with something like that.”
Carnady seemed to look towards some distant point beyond the plaster and paint of the corridor they walked down. “The Chinese would never let something like that out of their direct control. The chances of our tracing it back to them are too great. Eventhis administration would have to respond.”
“Well the Arabs didn’t develop the weapon by themselves. They don’t have the facilities or the infrastructure to put something this sophisticated together,” countered Louis.
Carnady considered the possibilities. “This Jamal fellow—he was connected to the Hezbollah?”
Louis nodded. The Hezbollah is a radical Arab organization dedicated to the total elimination of Israel and her benefactor states. They specialize in suicide bombers, mayhem, and murder.
“So they purchased the weapon. But if the weapon had our design inside, then we’d know it had come from the National Labs to the Chinese and on to the Arabs,” he sighed. “That only leaves the Russians,” he concluded.
They stopped before a bank of elevators. Only one descended to the tunnel level. “I have bad feeling about this, George,” continued Louis. “I think we may need resources beyond those available here.”
George’s features clouded, “Do you think there may be more than one bomb?”
Louis studied the tile design on the floor. “I really don’t know, but if someone were truly determined, they might have a backup plan. They might have multiple weapons.”
Carnady sensed the distress in his old friend. “Domestic operations are clearly outside of our scope,” he cautioned. Once they had runtheblackest of the black , but the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Cold War, and a new administration with a belief in the peace dividend made them little more than historical anachronisms.
“We don’t have a scope anymore,” muttered Louis bitterly.
They stepped into the elevator and were shuttled to the level with a tunnel connecting the OEOB to the White House. “Unconventional forces as part of an overall plan, or our own operation?” asked George.
The elevator doors snapped open, revealing another Marine. He examined their passes and opened a door leading to the tunnel. As they walked by, Louis said quietly, “They didn’t treat us very well, the last time they used our resources.”
Carnady nodded grimly. These days were the darkest since the Carter Administration. The political leadership had used the armed forces to bomb the El Shifa aspirin factory in the Sudan, goat herder tents in Afghanistan, and Iraqi military installations for no better reason than to distract a disinterested public from impeachment.
George sighed and asked, “How many teams?”
Louis opened the door on the other end of the tunnel. They walked through to another set of elevators. These dropped down to the sub-basement levels beneath the White House. “I think we have three left.”
“You’ve found someone to team up with Harper?”
“Maybe.”
The trio emerged into gray, featureless anteroom three levels below the White House basement. During the Cold War, the situation room had been dubbed the War Room. Theoretically, the President could command and control all US armed forces from this location and monitor their actions with reasonable real time displays. Today it is called theVault.
The great blue screens were dark now. The hardened communication links to the Pentagon; Cheyenne Mountain (the home of the North American Aerospace Defense Command); and to Omaha, where the US Strategic Command was housed; were mostly silent these days. America’s leaders quietly chose to close their eyes to the continued threat of Russian and Chinese missiles pointed at American cities. The emerging threats of North Korea, Iraq, Iran, and half a dozen lesser entities continued to build a capability intended to breach the natural barriers of the Atlantic and Pacific. With all the sentience of an ostrich’s head stuck in the sand, the administration concentrated more on the twin spires of revenge and retaining its grasp on power than the growing number of enemies of American sovereignty.
Carnady surveyed the room and the assembled personages. “Harper can be a real wild card, Louis. One that could blow up in our faces.”
Louis nodded solemnly.
“He could also be the one who pulls our ever loving butts out of the fire,” continued Carnady. “Considering those in attendance, I would tread carefully on revealing such an asset.”
“Yes,” whispered Louis. He locked eyes with the National Security Advisor. No love lost there, as the NSA was the first to break contact. Another time, another operation where the stakes had been measurably smaller, but a price had been exacted for dishonor, and perhaps, the NSA’s life spared. For Harper, honor was a sacred thing and the NSA had violated that trust. Louis had diverted his rampage to a morepractical target.
The FBI found itself represented well at the table, as was the Energy Department. After all, NEST fell under the purview of DOE. Something Louis never quite understood, but a decision had been made in the seventies when oil, conservation, and gas lines were the watchwords.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and a pair of aides found themselves at one end of the conference table. They bristled with medals, sitting ramrod straight in their chairs waiting for the proceedings to begin. No one even bothered to appear from State, and other than the NSA, the White House was curiously absent. Of course it was summer, and the annual trek to Martha’s Vineyard had to be observed.
A captain sat next to a DOE Undersecretary—probably the fellow responsible for nuclear incidents. No doubt, some brooding was happening. Travel and vacation plans were disrupted by the unconscionable act of arming a nuclear device in Lower Manhattan. It hardly seemed fair to some in the administration. After all, they had forestalled the Russian reinforcement of the paratroop brigade located at Pristina in Kosovo by prohibiting Russian over-flight of Hungary, Bulgaria, and Romania. The world was rarely a simple place, and trouble did not take a number to wait in line. Louis whispered a silent prayer that no more nuclear pyrotechnics were scheduled elsewhere this day. Perhaps some deity would even acknowledge his request.
They settled into the chairs reserved for the Central Intelligence Agency. Jonas settled in behind them with a laptop to take notes. He carefully noted everyone in attendance. Louis was manic about keeping his own records and never relying on the White House for anything.
A Marine sealed the entrance to theVault . They became part of a cocoon insulated from every form of surveillance known to mankind. Of course, the most devious kind still lurked within the room, and Louis wondered casually who would discuss fromdeep background oroff the record that a nuclear weapon had been deployed on American soil. He had no illusions about what he might read in theNew York Times or theWashington Post later this week.
The NSA cleared his throat from the head of the table and began quietly enough, “Yesterday, as most of you are aware, a nuclear weapon was defused in Lower Manhattan by members of the New York Bomb Squad, the FBI, and the NEST team located at Nellis. The process took close to two hours, and from what I understand, we are not dealing with a homemade, one-of-a-kind device.
“Captain Speckel has flown in from Nellis this morning. They have had twelve hours to examine the weapon, and these are their findings so far. I would stress these are preliminary findings. However, if anyone has anything useful to add, please speak up. I want to determine if this is some random act, or if we are in for a prolonged problem.” He paused looking up and down the table.
Speckel turned out to be the captain sitting next to the DOE Undersecretary. He tapped the video controls at his spot on the table, displaying a photograph of the capsule on the large monitors positioned around the room. It was not a perfect oval. One end was shaped into a larger circular ball where the actual explosive was lodged.
The shape looked somehow familiar to Louis. The burnished stainless steel cylinder ripped open by diamond saws, and the ancient electronic brain removed from a machined rail system used to lock and hold the motherboard in place.
“We believe the weapon’s origin is Soviet.” He moved a pointer using the trackball and described the electronics and explosives location. “A Semtex derivative formed the explosive trigger mechanism, and the type of mercury triggers are definitely Soviet manufacture. The weapon itself is a plutonium bomb capable of significant yield. Our best guess right now is two kilotons. Considering the population density and the poisonous nature of the fissile material, casualties would have been substantial.
“However, we do not believe this is a weapon of recent manufacture. The electronic components cause us to believe the weapon was designed in the early eighties. The designers used American chip technology and built a computerized trigger mechanism. We have offloaded the programming and uploaded the software to the FBI for analysis.
“Our best guess at this point is that the weapon has been recently entered into play after a dormant period of at least fifteen years.”
Louis tapped Carnady’s shoulder and whispered, “What are those things that look like silver dollars?”
Captain Speckel glanced up from his report and replied before George could speculate. “Batteries, sir.”
“Batteries?”
“Yes, sir. There was an elaborate charging system that actually fed a set of capacitors.” He moved the mouse pointer and circled a set of small barrel-shaped components. “Ingenious actually,” continued Speckel—the admiration for the design bleeding through. “The charging system kept the batteries charged from waste heat off the bomb material itself. A perpetual source of energy—enough to keep the bomb live for years.”
George Carnady squinted at the monitor and asked a question the civilians never even considered. “But why would you want to do that?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied a less sure Captain.
The Chairman JCS piped up next. “You said the estimated blast was two kilotons?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced down at a report in front of him. “A suitcase bomb wouldn’t have enough fissile material to do much more than a sub kiloton yield.”
The screen changed again. “We ran an analysis on warhead configuration. It’s a unique design, but the computer model from Los Alamos suggests a potential yield between two and five kilotons.”
“Whose bomb design—I mean, does it match any of ours?” asked the Energy Secretary all too quickly.
“Origin unknown.” The Energy Secretary visibly relaxed, relieved to find out this was not another secret lost on his watch. “However, as I stated, we believe the bomb is of Soviet manufacture. Chemical analysis of the case alloy and explosive charges indicate that.”
“And the computer components?” queried the NSA.
“All of those are American manufacture. We’ve turned all the components over to the FBI for analysis,” replied Speckel.
“You would classify this as a suitcase-class weapon?” asked the Chairman JCS.
Speckel nodded. “Without a doubt sir. It weighs approximately one hundred seventy pounds. Certainly something two people could move with nominal effort.”
“A suitcase weapon has only two military applications,” continued the Chairman JCS. “The first was general disruption at strategic points in a general war. We know there were choke points to any deployment from the United States to Europe. It took us six months to build up five hundred thousand men in ’91 against Iraq.
“The second is obvious—a terror weapon.” He surveyed his audience. “Does anyone think we’re dealing with anything other than terrorism at this point? A terror weapon and perhaps a terror campaign. Terrorism comes under the auspices of the FBI.” His gaze came to rest on Lou Feldman.
Feldman found himself shifting uncomfortably. A terror campaign would never leave them as lucky as the first time. He cleared his throat. “We’ve kept the truth about yesterday out of the media for the moment, simply calling it a high explosive device. And we managed to withdraw the weapon using a helicopter.”
The NSA nodded sorrowfully. Another black helicopter video clip with the white FBI lettering and seal emblazoned on it side had made every major newscast since yesterday. He had instructed the White House Press Secretary to get the story off the front pages and focus on something else. The problem was that Monday followed July Fourth and a long weekend. He brooded about the story dying quietly, and mused about more bombs set to explode tonight.
A black helicopter tended to invigorate an overactive imagination and hypersensitive distrust in about thirty-five percent of the country. The story of a black helicopter crossing the New York skyline with a live nuke would spawn conspiracy rumors. His lasting legacy would be as the supervisor of OperationDesert Fox , the bombing of an aspirin factory, and the first successful terrorist attack on American soil.
He popped a couple of Tums. His expectation for a soft job in the private sector might evaporate tonight. He rubbed his eyes and returned his attention to Feldman.
“We’ve increased the size of the New York office by pulling agents in from the western United States. The purpose is to minimize press scrutiny. We feel no one will notice a missing FBI special agent in Missoula or Santa Rosa. A call up from Boston and Washington would tip off our concern over yesterday’s incident.
“Operational control remains ours at the JEH Building. We also have active liaisons with DOE and the CIA. We’ve moved two NEST teams to the Chicago area to provide better nationwide response. Besides the teams based in Nevada, we have activated a third team here in the Washington, D.C. area.” It was a painful reminder that they were in prime terrorist real estate.
Louis doodled on a note pad. He considered what he knew aboutSAMSON .SAMSON was just a rumor. How does a weapon that never appears on any order of battle list end up in the hands of Hassan Jamal? Who knew the weapon existed?
He wrote two names on the pad: DAVID KUDRIK and ARKADY MALIKOV. Next to their names, he drew two lines to a bubble with the words ARZAMAS-16. He forced himself to think like a cold warrior.
Next to this, he put a question mark. If the strategic rocket forces did not authorize the bomb, then who? He puzzled over his own understanding of weapon procurement. A suitcase bomb could not be launched from a plane, fired from a howitzer, or fitted on a missile. So why would the army be interested? It was not the kind of weapon a professional soldier would procure. A suitcase is carried. He jotted under the first line: MAN PORTABLE DEVICE.
The Chairman JCS explained the purpose of such a weapon was to disrupt strategic points in a general war. Strategic terrorism? He dismissed the concept. It was an oxymoron. Terrorism is localized. It is aimed at panicking civilian populations and paralyzing national governments.
The weapons were built in the late seventies and early eighties. He ticked off the world disposition: Ronald Reagan, Lady Thatcher, and an ailing Brezhnev. The Soviet feared Reagan and a rearmed America. WasSAMSON the product of a rogue operation? Who would have the power to accomplish such a coup? He shook his head, remembering something Jonas had once said:“No one built nuclear weapons without somebody knowing about it.”
He wrote a third line with a single name: ANDROPOV—KGB Chairman and Brezhnev’s replacement. He swallowed and returned to the strategic implications of a suitcase bomb. Military supply for Europe relied on the availability of civilian airlift. Knock out a half dozen major airports across the country and the ability to effectively leverage NATO’s ninety divisions against the Warsaw Pact diminished rapidly. However, NATO no longer concerned itself with the Warsaw Pact.
SAMSONis a strategic weapon! For it to work, the bombs would have to be close to their targets. The delivery mechanism could be something the size of a Chevy Nova. Park the car, punch in the arming code, and walk away. Could it be that simple? The best plans usually were.
