replacement as head of the Joint Special Operations Command — the headquarters controlling all U.S. military counterterrorist units, including the Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six.
Mayer called out to Libby Bauer for coffee and motioned his predecessor toward a chair. In short order, she appeared with two steaming mugs, then disappeared closing the door behind her.
“So how’s the book going, Sam?” the current J.S.O.C commander asked.
Rumor said that Farrell was working on a novel, supposedly a thinly veiled autobiography.
“Pretty good. I sit at my desk and tell lies all day. Not a bad way to earn a living,” Farrell replied.
“But you didn’t come all the way down here to discuss literature, did you?”
“No, George. I didn’t.”
Farrell set his coffee aside This was the moment of truth. He’d promised Peter Thorn he’d try to kick the U.S. government into gear on the wild-assed story the younger man had told him. Now it was time to honor his promise. He just hoped Thorn wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. “There’s a container ship headed for Galveston — maybe already there. I believe someone’s trying to smuggle a nuclear weapon into the United States aboard that ship.”
Mayer grinned. “Look, Sam, you can’t run drills like that anymore, you’re out of the—” He stopped, studying Farrell’s expression more closely. His grin faltered and then vanished. “Jesus, you’re really not kidding, are you?”
“No,” Farrell said. “And this is no drill, George.”
He ran quickly through all the information Thorn had given him.
“Christ.” Mayer stood up and started pacing — as though he could work off the horrible implications of what he’d just been told by walking.
“You really think this Caraco Savannah has a nuke on board?”
“Yes,” Farrell said simply. He was committed now.
Mayer spun on his heel. “Who else knows about this, Sam? Have you taken this to the FBI or anybody else?”
Farrell shook his head. “Not yet. You’re the first.”
“Jesus.”
Farrell understood his successor’s confusion. The military, the FBI, the CIA, the State Department, the Department of Energy, and almost every other arm of the U.S. government had given a lot of long, hard thought to the potential threat posed by a nuclear weapon smuggled onto American soil. Procedures had been established, organizations created, and yet here he was bypassing the whole establishment in the blink of an eye.
“Just what the hell’s going on here, Sam?” Mayer asked. “What’s your source for this data?”
“HUMINT,” Farrell said, using the acronym for human intelligence — a fancy term that meant an agent, someone who’d acquired the information the hard way.
“What kind of HUMINT?”
“Someone reliable,” Farrell said.
“Meaning you can’t tell me? Or won’t?” Mayer asked.
“Unfortunately, maybe a bit of both, George.” From what Thorn had told Farrell, Thorn’s name was probably mud around all of official Washington. So there wasn’t any point in attributing the data directly to the younger man. The armed forces and the political establishment had missed the boat before — all because they’d viewed an intelligence source with suspicion.
“But you’re convinced that this isn’t just some cock-and-bull story spun by somebody who’s had one too many drinks?” Mayer asked again.
“I think this is gospel, George,” Farrell said, hoping like hell that his faith in Peter Thorn wasn’t misplaced. “And if I thought I could get action through the normal channels, believe me, I’d be filling out all the proper forms faster than Libby Bauer can make coffee.”
“Uh-huh,” Mayer grumbled.
Farrell knew what his successor was thinking. Farrell hadn’t exactly been known as a stickler for Army regulations during his time as head of the J.S.O.C. But then nobody in the special warfare community was especially proficient at genuflecting before all the established bureaucratic icons. And Mayer was no exception.
“Okay, Sam.” The other man sighed. “If you’re so damned sure about this, I’ll send up a flare and we’ll see what scurries for cover.”
Farrell nodded silently. That was more than he had any real right to ask. He just hoped it would be enough.
Fort Bragg, North Carolina EMPTY QUIVER ALERT — FLASH PRIORITY From: Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters.
To: Director, FBI N: Reliable HUMINT indicates possible nuclear weapon contained in cargo aboard container ship CARACO SAVANNAH. Vessel departed Wilhelmshaven, GERMANY, on JUNE 5. Destination — GALVESTON, TEXAS. Weapon believed concealed inside smuggled Russian-make jet engines shipped as auxiliary generators. Urgently suggest immediate investigation.
Ninety miles north of Wichita, the driver of the big eighteenwheeler yawned and opened his window a crack. Cold early morning air whipped through the cab, rustling the papers and maps scattered across the dashboard. Feeling slightly more awake, he took his eyes off the road for just a moment and glanced back toward the cot rigged up in the space behind the two front seats.
The driver spoke up. “We’re almost to the junction.”
His partner rolled over and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his own eyes. “Good.” He climbed forward into the passenger seat and peered out through the dirty windshield. “More of nothing?” he asked.
The driver nodded, looking out at the same flat landscape of fields and isolated farmhouses he’d been watching go by ever since the sun came up.
The two men had been driving almost continuously since leaving Galveston late the previous day — taking four-hour shifts behind the wheel, and stopping only for quick meals at the diners and fast food restaurants liberally sprinkled up and down American highways.
Whenever they stopped, one man always stayed behind to guard the truck and its precious cargo the five crates loaded at the Caraco warehouse.
A big green road sign loomed up on the shoulder of the highway — announcing that they were approaching the junction with Interstate 70. I-70 ran east and west across the central portion of the United States. Turning east would take them through St. Louis, Indianapolis, Columbus, and eventually all the way to Baltimore. Going west would set them on a road toward the Colorado Rockies, Denver, and the whole network of highways crisscrossing the Western United States.
The big rig turned west and accelerated.
The loading door lock turned slowly — so slowly that the noise it made was almost impossible to hear just a few feet away. The second the latch cleared the frame, two men slammed the loading door up and whirled aside: Half a dozen black-clad figures instantly poured inside through the opening and fanned out across the warehouse. Each man carried an MP5 submachine gun at shoulder level, ready to fire.
Shouts of “FBI!” filled the building — echoing and then gradually trailing off as the assault force realized the warehouse was unoccupied.
And not only unoccupied. The whole building was completely empty — stripped down to the bare, freshly painted walls.
FBI Special Agent Steve Sanchez heard the “allclear” over his tactical radio and entered the warehouse. He tugged off his gas mask and cradled it under his arm. His nose wrinkled at the overpowering smell of new paint permeating the building. The assault force leader saw him coming and joined him near the entrance to the building’s small front office.
“Nothing?” Sanchez asked.
