“Sure thing, Tom.”
When she left, Estrada pulled out his secure cell phone and sent an SMS message that said simply, “Problem with escrow.” He then packed up his gear, being careful to shut down his wireless network adapter so no eavesdroppers could interrogate or “ping” the idle system, and shut the computer down. He tried to look unhurried and relaxed when Grace came over with the wine and the check, but inwardly he was screaming at her to move faster. He downed the wine much faster than Silver Oak deserved, paid the check, left his usual tip, then departed, being sure to wave at the staff and the other regulars and, more important, not to rush.
Just like that, Colonel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov knew that his days as Tomas “Tom” Estrada, helicopter salesman, were over.
He got into his Ford minivan, carefully pulled out into traffic, and drove ten minutes to the Bay Area Rapid Transit station nearest San Francisco International Airport. Before he left the van in a secluded area of the parking lot, he took his SIG Sauer P230 pistol from its hiding place in his seat and stuffed it into his belt. Executing a well- rehearsed escape plan, Zakharov took the BART train across San Francisco Bay to Oakland. Security patrols were everywhere on the BART stations and on the train, but the guards looked young, tired, and bored. He panicked a bit and started looking for a place to ditch his pistol when he saw the signs warning passengers of security inspection stations ahead, but the airport-like X-ray machines and metal detectors had not yet been installed.
He got off at the Harrison Street BART station in Oakland and walked five blocks to a small cafe on Madison Street across from Madison Park. The word “escrow” in the status message he sent was the clue to the rendezvous location. When Zakharov first mapped out this attack plan, there was a real estate company on Madison Street near this park, in the heart of the city. The park offered good concealment; it was a mostly Hispanic neighborhood, so he wouldn’t stand out too much; and there were lots of small, nondescript hotels nearby in case he had to linger. The real estate company was no longer there, replaced by an organic bean cafe, but it was still a good location. Zakharov found a park bench, kept the cafe in view, and waited. Two hours and four drunks who wanted to use the park bench to sleep on later, he saw a faded blue Jeep Grand Cherokee drive up to the spot with a magnetic sign on the driver’s door of that same real estate company, and he crossed the street and got in the front seat. A soldier that Zakharov recognized was in the backseat, a TEC-9 machine pistol in his hands but out of sight.
“Kag deela, Colonel,” Pavel Khalimov said as he carefully pulled out into the late-night traffic. He headed south toward Interstate 880, staying a few kilometers under the speed limit; other traffic zoomed by as if he was standing still.
“Oozhasna,” Zakharov said. “How do you feel, Captain?”
Khalimov rubbed his chest where the bullet from Zakharov’s sniper rifle had hit him. “It was not broken. I will be fine. How was the flight from Mexico City, sir?”
“Terrible. Security coming back into the United States is oppressive.”
“Then it is mostly for show, sir—I had little trouble getting in,” Khalimov said. Unlike Zakharov, Pavel Khalimov had no secret identities in other countries—he was a Russian commando, plain and simple. He carried no identification, passports, driver’s licenses, or credit cards, just a bit of cash. He traveled fast and light at all times. Whatever he needed, he stole—money, weapons, clothes, vehicles, anything and everything. “Security patrols are concentrating around the larger ports of entry and larger vessels—it is laughably easy to get a small vessel into a small port.”
“Do not get cocky, Captain—it will only get worse,” Zakharov said. He told Khalimov about his Web cam pictures and his house-keeper’s encounter. “We will have to wrap up all operations in the Bay area. My Estrada identity is surely compromised—perhaps the Americans are actually able to utilize those biometric scanners now. If they have perfected the national database to check international fingerprint records, they will eventually hunt down Estrada.”
“The fact that you were not apprehended on the spot here in the United States, even with all the security in place, despite the worldwide dragnet that is certainly out for us, is promising,” Khalimov pointed out. “I tell you, sir, the American security apparatus is all bark and no bite. The level of scrutiny is extremely low, their level of training and experience is very low except for the most high-profile duties, and already the American people are squawking about the invasion of privacy and loss of their rights. Whatever they set up will not last long. The Americans are simply not accustomed to tight internal security.”
“I feel that is changing rapidly, Captain,” Zakharov said, “and now is the perfect time to strike. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Khalimov replied. “We added two four-man strike squads as a backup, for a total of six going at the target itself. We have the original twelve squads handling security.”
“Very good. And the devices you will use?”
“The outer security teams will use C-4 with the gasoline in the fuel tanks as accelerants,” Khalimov replied. “The inner security units will use divided amounts of HMX and ONC. We will have CS gas and high-explosive grenades to use to disperse first responders as well.”
“You will not use units that carry only ONC?” Zakharov asked. ONC, or octanitrocubane, was the world’s most powerful explosive—over three times the explosive power of TNT—but was available in relatively small quantities and at vastly greater cost. HMX (High-melting-point explosive), or cyclotetramethylenetetranitramine, was almost as powerful as ONC but was more readily available. C-4, or Composition-4, was the world’s most widely used and widely available explosive material, although not as powerful as the other two.
“I felt the risk was too great, sir,” Khalimov explained. “The mission might not be accomplished if the attack units carrying only ONC were captured. I felt it necessary to have each of the four main attack units have the same destructive power. Unfortunately we were unable to bring in enough ONC for just one vehicle to do the job per squad.”
“And the device itself?”
“Safely delivered and ready for arming, sir,” Khalimov said.
“Atleechna. Pashlee. Let’s go.”
They drove northbound on Interstate 880 to the Oakland–Bay Bridge. Traffic was very light. It was a good opportunity to look at the new security measures instituted on California’s large bridges and tunnels. The ten lanes of freeway on-ramps leading to the bridge were narrowed into three, with Humvees and Bradley armored vehicles stationed here and there.
“The National Guard forces do not appear to do much here, sir,” Khalimov explained. “Every now and then they will stop a large delivery truck to search it, but generally the soldiers stay out of sight. They appear to be very sensitive to rush-hour traffic lines and will open up three more lanes approaching the tollbooths twice a day for three hours each time.” He shook his head. “Ten dollars cash now just to cross this bridge into San Francisco, unless you use one of the electronic wireless express-pay devices. Outlandish. It is twelve dollars now to cross the Golden Gate Bridge into the city. All of our vehicles have the payment devices.
“The troops stationed on both sides of the bridge are lightly armed except for their vehicles. The Humvees carry fifty-caliber machine guns. There are usually four on each side, two in the westbound and two in the eastbound sides. The Bradleys are fairly new and represent the most serious threat. They have a twenty-five- millimeter Bushmaster cannon with sabot, high-explosive, and armor-piercing rounds, and a 7.62-millimeter coaxial machine gun. They all appear to be the M2A1 variant instead of the more capable M2A3 or M3A3 models. They have TOW antitank missile launchers fitted but I do not believe they carry any missiles in them—they may still be in storage magazines in the vehicles, but none appear to be in the launchers themselves. There are usually Bradleys on either side of the bridge, one on the eastbound and one on the westbound side. They move them several times daily but that appears to be just for maintenance or crew rotation purposes, not for tactical reasons.”
“A little more than just show, but not a real defense force,” Zakharov summarized.
“My opinion as well, sir.”
They crossed the Oakland–Bay Bridge into San Francisco, then exited the freeway and made their way to the Financial District. The streets at this hour were almost deserted, but the police presence was noticeable. “Approximately one police cruiser every other city block in the Financial District,” Khalimov said. “No parking allowed on the streets—everyone must use parking garages, and they are heavily patrolled.” They stopped at a traffic light at Market Street between Main Street and Spear Street. “The heaviest security is here, at the U.S. Federal Reserve Building. One special police cruiser on each corner; absolutely no cars allowed to park or wait here.”
“But no military forces?”
