Aim And Fire

Room 59 had been organized as a decentralized operation, with no main ops center, like other agencies worked from, the better to not find it. Kate’s New York City town house, where she lived and worked, was the closest thing to one, and that was primarily because she hardly had time to leave the luxurious suite of rooms. Terror and threats to world security rarely took days off, so she didn’t, either.

She opened the triple-encrypted, compressed data file. That brought up two e-mail messages, along with an itemized list, including plutonium, that had been highlighted by the sender. B2S had also included current statistics for incidents of violence or large drug caches coming across the U.S.-Mexican border. The name of the sender caught her eye, and a quick check of a top secret deceased-terrorist list confirmed her first suspicion—that the man using the alias Arsalan Hejazi was supposed to be dead.

A deceased man placing an order from beyond the grave? Someone wanted to make a bomb, but what if they got the chance to pick one up that was assembled and ready to blow? All they’d need to do was get it across the border, which, while difficult, wasn’t impossible, according to the most recent border security review, Kate thought.

She used one of the installed back-door programs that enabled her to access any government network without being detected. Bringing up the network for the U.S. Customs and Border Protection department of the DHS, she entered the keywords Mexico, nuclear, border, kill and terrorist, and directed the system to scan all files accessed within the previous forty-eight hours.

Hundreds of messages back and forth between station offices and Washington filled her screen. Kate sat back and used a trick she had learned during grad school. She let her eyes wander over the long list, relying on her subconscious to home in on the message that would be most useful. Her gaze alighted on one subject line. Two Border Patrol Agents And Multiple Illegals Killed North Of Border Outside El Paso. Opening the message, Kate read a concise summary of an incident involving a pair of Border Patrol agents and twenty-three illegal immigrants, all shot at what should have been a routine stop. What was strange was that the coyotes had been killed, as well, and everyone had been shot multiple times, many in the back of the head at close range. The Border Patrol SUV had been found several miles away, a burned wreck, but the truck that had been carrying the human cargo had disappeared. It wasn’t just a random murder; it had been a massacre.

Who would go to such lengths to kill everyone at the scene? she wondered. The answer came to her immediately. Someone who had something to hide, and when their cover was compromised, they didn’t hesitate to kill everyone to insure that they wouldn’t be seen. What could be that important? A suitcase nuke?

Kate leaned forward again and brought up the e-mail from the Border Patrol agent, putting the two side by side. She felt a familiar strange fluttering in her stomach that heralded a leap in her intuitive logic. She knew the two incidents were connected, although she couldn’t explain why. It just felt right; that was all. But that was enough to start on, anyway. The proof would have to come later.

She looked at where the agent’s e-mail had ended up—the in-box of an analyst named Tracy Wentworth. My dear, I think you may be doing a lot more than you expected tomorrow, Kate thought, letting the rest of her dinner grow cold as she made preparations to travel to Washington the next day. Hope you’re up for the challenge.

7

The man known as Narid al-Gaffari had driven more than twenty-five hundred miles over the past three days, but instead of exhausted, he felt more and more invigorated as he neared his final destination.

Traveling down the highway at a steady seventy miles per hour in his nondescript Honda Accord, Narid took a moment to marvel at the diversity of the land he had spent every waking hour driving through so far. This was a far cry from his first visit to America, more than a decade earlier. Then he had been much more cautious, seeing enemies around every corner, the specter of police surveillance on every block. Now he looked back on those days as the easy times. After 9/11, there were still plenty of opportunities to sow the seeds of fear throughout the bloated American infrastructure—seeds that were still bearing fruit. But the paranoia, even if justified, had increased, and then the U.S. agencies had also started getting things right, so much so that al-Gaffari had resorted to what some might have considered desperate measures to rid himself of the surveillance. Desperate but effective—after all, few people spent time looking for a dead man.

This time, he had landed on the rugged coast of British Columbia in the dead of night, transferring from a freighter to a fishing boat that had dropped him off on shore. From there he had driven east, through the thick forests and the Cascade Mountain range and over the Rockies into the Great Plains, where the elevated beauty of the mountains that reminded him of home was replaced by the endless, flat grasslands that reminded him of the arid plains of Afghanistan that bloomed briefly in spring.

His map had been clearly marked, and when he’d reached the correct point, he turned south and followed a small maze of back roads to find what his contacts had said was an unwatched route into the United States of America. Although he had initially expressed doubt about this plan, he had been delighted to discover that it was exactly as promised—unrestricted access to the U.S. Although the passport and identification papers for his alias would stand up to determined scrutiny, he had decided to enter the country this way, not willing to risk being matched to a watch list and compromising the entire reason he had taken this trip in the first place.

As it turned out, he hadn’t had much reason to fear. After the crossing, his trip through the former breadbasket of America had been uneventful, even dull. The next few days had followed the same pattern—driving interspersed with sparse meals—halal food was hard to come by out here—brief breaks for his daily prayers until stopping at small, privately owned motels off the highway that were just glad enough to have a customer prepay in cash that they would overlook the securing of the room with a credit card. The fact that Narid spoke impeccable English, with a genteel British accent, did much to put the proprietors’ minds at ease.

For his part, he was a model tourist—quiet, neat, polite and minding his own business. Even when three drunken good ol’ boys had tried to play “rag the raghead,” as they had jeeringly called it before being stopped by a sheriff’s deputy—which gave Narid his only real fear of discovery during the entire trip—he had thanked the khaki-clad officer and declined to press charges. He had, however, gotten out of town immediately, and hadn’t stopped driving until he was three hundred miles away. Allah would certainly not have looked favorably upon him had he let the entire operation be jeopardized by a chance encounter with those uncultured thugs.

Winding his way through the Dakotas, Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico, Narid had passed plenty of empty land, and the peace and quiet he experienced while driving through those areas reaffirmed his determination to carry out the mission. He knew that the dividing line of the Mississippi River bisected this country to the east, and on the other side were tens of millions of people, crammed into their sprawling cities, half-clad in their revealing clothes, eating their artificial food, watching their mindless entertainment, listening to their banal music, smug in their complacency because they lived in what they thought was the most powerful nation on earth. It was a notion Narid would be only too happy to disabuse them of soon. But in a way, he was glad to see that this heartland wouldn’t be as affected by what he was about to set into motion. The people out here had been unassuming and friendly, men who worked the land and the women who stood by them. For the most part, they had let him go about his business with hardly a raised eyebrow, even given his obvious heritage.

Crossing the border into Texas had lifted his spirits immensely, and now, only a few dozen miles from his goal, Narid’s pulse quickened as the city of El Paso appeared in the distance. He resisted the urge to press the accelerator down, but left the highway and headed east instead, traveling on a series of progressively smaller roads until he turned down a narrow dirt road surrounded by featureless brown plains, broken only by an occasional small rise or hill. He followed it for another five miles, pulling up to a small complex of buildings on ten acres, ringed by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Large signs in English and Spanish warned that the fence was electrified. But what truly made the business unique was the white, three-story rocket that rose like a narrow finger on a launch pad in the middle of the buildings, pointing toward the heavens. A sign on the hill outside the perimeter proclaimed the company’s name—Spaceworks, Inc.

As he approached, Narid looked up at the clear azure sky, imagining the path the rocket would soon take over the eastern United States, and of the mass destruction and terror it would sow when it reached its final destination. And although he was not doing this for fame, everyone around the world would soon be speaking of a new mastermind who had wreaked an even more devastating assault on the world’s last remaining superpower than the destruction of the Twin Towers.

The front gate of the grounds had a small guardhouse, manned by a pair of guards, both of Middle Eastern descent. Narid pulled up to the post and lowered his window. “Assalamu Alaikum. I am Narid al-Gaffari. I have an appointment with Joseph Allen.”

“One moment please, sir.” The guard closed his window and spoke into a microphone on his shirt. Narid had no doubt that both men were armed, and doubtless had access to more than just pistols. With the flood of illegal immigrants coming over the border, the fence, guards and other methods to dissuade people from trespassing were simply the cost of doing business out here on the plains.

The guard slid open his window again and handed Narid a small static sticker. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. al-Gaffari. Please affix this to your side window so it is plainly visible. Mr. Allen will meet you inside the main building, which is straight ahead. Parking will be on your right. Have a good day.” He pressed a button that raised the heavily reinforced metal barrier.

Narid nodded and drove ahead, pleased at how Americanized the young man sounded; blending in with this culture was vital if they were to subvert it. Every man who worked here had been chosen for their dedication to the cause, his education and his unmarked records, having never appearing on any watch list. Many had actually studied in the United States, acquiring the necessary degrees in engineering, physics and sciences to set their plan into motion.

Pulling into a parking space near the building, he stepped out into the blazing heat, so like the summers back home. The dry, hot environment was like a furnace, and Narid welcomed the warmth enveloping his body. He walked to the main door, which buzzed as he approached.

Inside, the temperature was at least twenty-five degrees cooler, and he shivered in the chilly air-conditioned interior. The small foyer was unassuming but comfortable, with a man standing behind a chest-high console at the far end in front of two thick double doors. Narid noticed two cameras in corners of the room, their unblinking black eyes sweeping back and forth, and nodded again. No doubt he had probably been monitored as soon as he had approached within a few miles of the site.

“Mr. al-Gaffari, I have your security badge ready.” The receptionist, also a man, handed him a laminated card, which Narid affixed to his pocket. “If you will please follow me.” The young man spoke into a cell phone earpiece, then swiped a card and led him through the double doors, which clicked as they automatically unlocked and slid into the walls. The man walked down a hallway with pictures of a smiling, light-skinned man of Middle Eastern descent shaking hands with various people, including the current governor of Texas.

The opposite wall had several large windows set into it, and Narid glanced into the room to see at least a dozen men in what looked like a smaller version of the control room at NASA, with computers and large plasma-screen monitors everywhere. Some displayed the rocket outside on the launch pad, while others showed a map of the United States with trajectory arcs from Texas to various destinations in the eastern United States, including estimated flight times. And on the far wall, high above everything, was a large red digital timer that was currently set to forty-eight hours. The men inside were of different nationalities, from Middle Eastern or Indian to Spanish, Mexican, British and even one white-blond Scandinavian, and each was intent on his task, whether that was programming, running three-dimensional models or conferencing with one another.

The receptionist walked to the end of the hall and swiped his security card through another slot. “Please go inside. Mr. Allen is waiting.”

Pushing open the door, Narid walked into the office. The room was comfortably furnished, with thick carpet, wood paneling and no windows. In the center were two upholstered chairs facing a desk with a computer and a man sitting next to it. On the wall to his right were three monitors, one showing the rocket, the other two each divided into four quadrants that flashed on various security cameras around the area, including outside the perimeter. Another door to his left was open, revealing a small but meticulously clean bathroom.

The man on the other side of the teak desk was dressed in a button-down, dark blue oxford shirt with his sleeves rolled up, a silver tie neatly knotted and dark gray slacks with black wingtips. He was in his early forties. His face lit up as he saw his visitor, a broad smile revealing perfect, capped white teeth. He rose and held his arms out wide as he came toward Narid, who embraced him and returned the traditional, formal Islamic greeting wishing peace, Allah’s mercy and blessings on the other person.

“It is good to see you. We were worried after not hearing from you for so long.” As he spoke, Joseph took a small device from his desktop and walked around the room, studying the needle with every step. Narid watched him pace the perimeter, moving the sensor over the walls, pictures, chairs and desk. He completed his circuit and nodded to Narid, indicating that it was safe to talk. “Something to drink or eat? You must be hungry—believe me, I know how impossible it can be to find decent meals on a trip like that.”

“Perhaps a bit later, after wadu.” All of the travel and motel rooms had left him feeling unclean, and Narid was looking forward to performing the ritual Muslim cleansing. He sank into an overstuffed maroon armchair, luxuriating for a moment in its soft embrace before leaning forward, his expression intent despite his exhaustion. “Do you do that often?”

Joseph Allen tossed the bug detector on his desk and sat on one corner. “Twice a day. In this business, everyone is looking for an advantage. The private space race makes the one between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. look like child’s play. Sure, everyone smiles for the camera and says they are doing whatever their program’s goals are to benefit humankind, but the truth is that everyone’s fighting for the same piece of the pie here, whether it’s for an X-Prize award—still a drop in the bucket compared to what we spend on R&D in a year—or federal grants and loans, there’s still only so much to go around. That’s why our security is so high for such a small company, but you already know that.”

Narid was fully aware of the reasons, along with many other things about Allen and his leading-edge aerospace company. The man in front of him was a second-generation American citizen who had spent the past fifteen years founding and building the space-exploration company, getting his master’s degrees in astrophysics and engineering to build the next generation of lightweight, fuel-efficient rockets to carry payloads into space. He was well-known in the field, had published papers on aspects of rocket telemetry and aerodynamics and had received awards ranging from business accolades for minority hiring to recognition from a national science organization for advances in fuel efficiency that had been adopted throughout the burgeoning industry.

He was also one of the deepest cover terrorists working in America.

Allen had been raised in the strictest sharia ways by his father, who had been one of the founding members of the first American al Qaeda cells, established even before the World Trade Center bombings in 1993. His father had understood the struggle and the sacrifices that would have to be made, and had chosen to have his son learn from their enemies, to use their own knowledge against them to carry out an attack that would be unlike anything anyone had ever seen. He had changed his name and worked at a factory in Texas, saving every penny he could while indoctrinating his son.

Allen had founded Spaceworks with two goals—build a legitimate company with absolutely no ties to any publicly known terrorist operation, and develop the next generation of rocket technology—but for a far more glorious purpose than taking humankind to the stars. His success as a businessman was ironic, since the attack on the United States would come from within, and was being financed, constructed and carried out with backing from the unknowing U.S. government and various venture capitalists.

“I understand that it arrived before me. May I see it?” Narid asked.

Allen smiled. “Not even here for five minutes and already you’re asking about it. The Barretts arrived safely, as well, glory be to Allah.” Allen went to a locked cabinet, opened it and removed the only item inside, a locked aluminum-sided chest. He brought it out and set it on the desk. “There it is.”

Narid slowly rose and stood over the case. He flipped the latches and opened the top, revealing the inner workings of the ten-kiloton nuclear weapon that an al Qaeda cell had risked their lives to steal from the Russian arms dealer. It was beautiful.

“We shall fight the pagans all together as they fight us all together, and fight them until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in Allah.” Narid bowed his head over the case, and when he raised it again, the tears of true belief shone in his eyes. “My friend, we are about to embark on the greatest mission of the jihad our people have ever known. Prepare the installation immediately. In three days, the world will know of our might—and this nation will be forever changed.”

Narid—whose real name was Sepehr al-Kharzi—bowed his head over the case again and intoned his pleasure at seeing his plan coming to fruition, “Allahu Akbar.”

“God is great.”

8

Tracy’s morning hadn’t started well at all. On her way to work, she had picked up the Washington Post to see a below-the-fold headline—DHS Warns Of Potential Water Contamination Plots.

What the hell—I thought Gilliam said this wasn’t “actionable” enough, she thought. Skimming the article, she found that it delineated exactly what she had laid out in her report. The article painted a chilling picture of what could happen in the event of a water-supply contamination, including the strain on local hospitals and emergency personnel in an area. There were even ominous quotes from Gilliam himself, warning that the DHS “was on top of the situation,” and “already working to strengthen security at waste-treatment plants around the country. This simple plan could incapacitate hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and we must make sure that won’t happen on our soil.”

Aren’t you the noble mouthpiece, she thought. Of course, there was no mention of the DHS analysis—not that Tracy would have cared. Besides, the tone of the article said it all. He’d sent the report upstream anyway yesterday. But why? And why lie to me about its importance? There could have been any number of reasons, she supposed. Perhaps he didn’t want a leak to be revealed before the article was published. Was there some kind of turf battle at headquarters? Most likely, the top brass was pressuring him for something they could show to the press, and he had seized on this. But she couldn’t understand why he’d told her he was going to delay it, then pass it up the chain right away. Is he just that much of a glory-hogging dick? Maybe they’re pressuring him for something from the department, and he’s parading this out as his own idea, she thought.

After clearing security, Tracy walked to her cubicle to find a triple latte sitting at her desk, and Mark sitting across from her with a copy of the Post in his hands. “Congratulations, you really nailed that one.” His expression, however, was hangdog.

“Thanks, but at my meeting yesterday, Gilliam told me the actual threat level was too low for review, and he was going to sit on that report for the next few months. I don’t understand why he told me that, then rushed it upchannel so fast.”