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The Zarrabian Incident Page 2
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“Hey! Hey! Are you OK? I called 9-1-1!”
Zarrabian glanced down into the face of a friendly young man wearing khaki shorts and a bright Hawaiian shirt. More good Samaritans were getting out of their cars and running toward the wreck.
“Hey, can you get down from there? That was one badass crash, dude! Need a hand?”
Zarrabian ignored the young man. He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out an Israeli-made Negev NG-7 machine gun. The kid’s eyes grew wide.
“What . . .?”
Zarrabian saw understanding dawn on the kid’s face.
It was time to clear the bridge. Zarrabian felt a fleeting moment of irony about using an Israeli-made weapon for this operation, but the gun was dependable. The kid spun and started to sprint away. Zarrabian raised the machine gun to his shoulder and took aim.
President Oliver Whitman burst into the Situation Room. Jack Patterson, the president’s chief of staff, jumped to his feet, followed quickly by the rest of the staff.
“Mr. President!” said Patterson.
Erica Blackwell, the president’s National Security Advisor, breathed a sigh of relief. They’d been waiting almost five minutes for Whitman’s arrival, and this wasn’t the first time the president had been slow when called on an urgent security matter.
“Please sit,” said the president. He took his own seat. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to put off that group of high school scholars. Those young Einsteins are amazing, aren’t they?”
Blackwell cringed inwardly. How was it that she, one of the most brilliant political minds of the decade, was playing second fiddle to this quarterback-turned-politician? Money, looks, and fame, that’s why. Whitman had money, Whitman had looks, and most of all, the voting public was too dumb to know the difference between heroism on the football field and true heroism. At least Whitman was an incredibly fast thinker, like most great quarterbacks. She’d give him that.
Long ago, Erica Blackwell had dreamed of a presidential bid of her own. A Stanford law degree, a term in Congress, a track record as one of the best political strategists alive, extensive service with the State Department—she had been on the fast track to become the first female president of the United States of America.
An ill-considered affair, a nasty divorce, and a vengeful husband who made it clear he’d stop at nothing to torpedo her future had ended her dreams. He’d sentenced her to a lifetime of helping less capable politicians rise to the top while her own accomplishments were lost in history.
Well, when life throws you a lemon. . . . Blackwell knew who really ran the country.
At age sixty-three, President Whitman’s jet-black hair had turned to silver, but he kept his six-foot-three frame trim and fit. He’d won three Super Bowls, a record only beaten by Joe Montana, Tom Brady, and Terry Bradshaw. After he threw his last touchdown, Whitman parlayed his fame into a political career as congressman for his home district in Saginaw followed by eight years as the outspoken, candid governor of the state of Michigan. It turned out that in addition to his athletic skills, he was a masterful speaker. When Whitman gave a speech, people felt like he was right in their living room talking to them one on one. They loved him.
Erica Blackwell had assured the party bosses that Whitman was their man. He was a genuinely nice man, there wasn’t a hint of scandal in his life, and his wife of forty years was equally loved by the public. And he was a natural team player, used to working with a coach.
Blackwell had laid out the cards for him: do it my way, and I’ll take you to a win far bigger than the Super Bowl. It had taken twelve years, moving Whitman from governor to two low-key terms in the Senate, but they had gotten their presidential candidate. Whitman proved even more popular on the national scene than he had in Michigan, and at the end of the campaign, Erica Blackwell became one of the most powerful women in the world.
Unfortunately, Whitman’s football career and his governorship hadn’t prepared him for the realities of world politics, nor for his role as commander in chief of the world’s most powerful military. He could fool the voters, but he couldn’t fool men like Jack Patterson. And he sure couldn’t fool Erica Blackwell.
“OK, what’s the situation, Erica?” he asked.
“Ten minutes ago,” said Blackwell, “a group of terrorists took control of the Golden Gate Bridge. We don’t know their motives or demands.” She gestured toward a large screen that showed a live video feed of the bridge. “We’ve seen seven terrorists. They used four semi trucks to blockade the bridge. There was a lot of shooting with automatic weapons. We don’t have a casualty count. SFPD’s SWAT team is trying to get to the bridge.”
“Who are they?” asked the president.
“This one is out of the blue, sir. No buzz. No suspicious wire transfers. No unusual travel. Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“No, sir. This is a complete surprise.”
“Any idea yet what they want?”
“We don’t know, sir,” she said. “But we can see what they’re doing. Give us a zoom.”
The technician operating the displays zoomed in, enlarging the center of the bridge.
Blackwell continued. “They’re unpacking crates. From this distance we can’t see what’s in them, but the most likely scenario is that those are high explosives and light weapons.”
“What about demands?” asked the president.
“None, sir. Our prediction is that the terrorists will threaten to blow up the bridge before making political demands.”
“What are our options?”
“Sir, our teams are evaluating several responses right now as we gather information.”
The president turned to Patterson. “Fill me in, Jack. Just seven guys and no hostages, right? Can we send in some aircraft and end the situation?”
Blackwell watched Patterson. His face remained neutral, but she was sure she detected a clenched jaw. Before becoming the president’s chief of staff, he had been retired Lieutenant General Patterson. He’d served in three wars under four presidents and was known as a hard-assed leader who brooked no excuses from his subordinates. Never once had Patterson shown the slightest hint of disrespect for Whitman, but Blackwell imagined Patterson at home alone, a Scotch in hand and a fire in the fireplace, reminiscing about serving under other presidents.
Patterson was forced on Whitman as a condition for the party bosses’ support: take Patterson, or you won’t be president. Patterson, they said, would provide needed military experience. Whitman hadn't had a choice. But Patterson? Blackwell had never fully understood why Patterson had accepted the job of running the president’s staff.
Patterson’s uncle was none other than Senator Dean Platte, head of the Senate Armed Services Committee. There’d never been any rumors of nepotism, but then with Platte, you wouldn’t expect rumors. The senator controlled Washington like a puppeteer with invisible strings.
Well, whatever had happened in the back rooms of Washington, Blackwell was glad that Patterson was around.
Patterson contemplated the president’s question for a moment. “Sir, we’re looking for assets in the area right now. Travis Air Force Base is nearby, but it’s mostly heavy transport. Beale AFB is up in Sacramento, and Lemoore is down by Fresno. They both have fighter jets, but it will take a few minutes to get them to San Francisco, and fighter jets aren’t ideal for this situation. The best response, sir, would be from helicopter gunships like the Apache or SuperCobra, but there are none based anywhere near San Francisco.”
“Sir!” said one of the Situation Room’s staffers. “I think we may have something.”
The network’s central newsroom was barely controlled chaos. Grant Petri’s voice boomed over it all, making reporters and clerks cringe involuntarily. “Linda! I want a chopper from the local affiliate station over the Golden Gate. Now!
“Karl! Find out if there’s one decent reporter on the West Coast. Someone. Anyone! Find out if there are traffic cams on the Golden Gate Bridge and get them stre
aming live into this newsroom.”
His voice briefly quelled the chaos as everyone paused to listen, but the moment he stopped the noise resumed and redoubled. Hands reached for phones, fingers flew across keyboards, couriers grabbed folders and dashed.
Petri launched himself across the newsroom with long strides, pursued closely by Jennifer, a young assistant who was practically running to keep up. She was trying to get his attention. “Mr. Petri?”
Petri’s voice boomed out again. “OK, I need to see it, people! Get me a live feed, any network. Now!”
Another assistant answered, “The BBC has it, sir!”
“Show it to me!”
Jennifer tried again. “Mr. Petri?”
“And Linda, start digging up info on these terrorists. Who are they? What do they want? You know the drill!”
Young Jennifer raised her voice. “Mr. Petri! Christine Garrett is back in San Francisco . . . uh, sir.”
Petri stops in his tracks. “Who is?”
“Christine Garrett. Sir. She got back yesterday.”
“Get her on the phone! Now! Jesus Christ, she’s right there? Get her!”
“Yes sir!” Jennifer dashed away.
Christine looked up into her rigging, furious at the mess. The spinnaker was still snapping and rattling her mast and rigging. The halyard had somehow gotten snarled in a big knot. She couldn’t lower the sail. Her competitors were long gone, a cluster of receding masts and sails in the distance.
The Golden Gate Bridge loomed just ahead, arching gracefully over the waters. Even hove-to with her flapping spinnaker, the boat was drifting fast; she would be under the bridge soon.
She felt for the knife she always kept on her belt for just such emergencies but didn’t pull it out yet. Landlubbers thought nothing of cutting a rope, but the Kevlar-and-polyester rigging on a state-of-the-art racing sailboat was expensive. She didn’t want to cut the halyard as long as there was a chance of untangling the mess. Besides, if she cut it, the sail would immediately fall in a heap into the water, turning the ultra-light nylon sailcloth into a sodden, saltwater-soaked hundred-pound mess.
This was getting dangerous. Leaving the huge sail flapping meant her only choice was to continue downwind; if she had to do a maneuver that required a turn, she’d end up with the spinnaker tangled up in her mast and stays. And if San Francisco’s gusting trade winds caught her sideways with that huge sail tangled in her rigging, a complete capsize wasn’t out of the question.
Another strong gust shook the spinnaker and made the whole boat shudder from mast-top to keel. She looked up again at the mess. Was it hopeless? The waters of the bay ahead were calmer. Maybe she could turn downwind, let the spinnaker flap in front of the boat, and sail over to Sausalito. There she would be shielded from the wind by the mountains of the North Peninsula and could untangle the halyard.
She had drifted almost under the bridge. She usually loved this part—being a sailor on the raw, open ocean enjoying the wind, sun, spray, and the feel of a lively craft at her fingertips while just a few hundred feet overhead commuters and truckers roared by.
Maybe another day. Today she wasn’t feeling so euphoric.
The bridge was oddly quiet. Must be a traffic jam up there, she thought.
She made her decision: Sausalito’s calm waters.
As she grabbed the tiller to turn the boat, her cell phone started ringing from down in the cabin. But before the first ring died away, it was drowned out by the sound of machine guns firing over her head.
FBI Special Agent Thomas “TJ” McCaig was bored. Really bored.
He leaned his chair up on the two back legs, something that always annoyed Smith, Special Agent In Charge of the San Francisco FBI office. McCaig waited for a reprimand, but Smith was absorbed in his own voice and didn’t notice McCaig’s transgression.
McCaig glanced at his young partner. Special Agent Omar Bashir was the new face of the FBI. He’d grown up with video games in his blood, and had probably used a computer before he could walk.
Crimes, the big ones at least, were committed on computers and networks these days. Sure, there would always be a few bank robbers, kidnappers, and the occasional terrorist who still preferred guns and bombs. But McCaig’s kind was a dwindling breed. He was a weatherbeaten cowboy on an old horse in the era of helicopter herding and factory farms.
Smith droned on, “. . . we’ll be coordinating with local law enforcement on this case. The welfare recipients are the jurisdiction of DPSS, and the drug dealers will be arrested by SFPD. We’re only interested in the organized crime mob—the Russian Mafia gangsters who coordinated the welfare fraud and drug dealers. We have over one hundred and fifty warrants, and we have to serve them all as quickly as possible. I want complete cooperation with our partners in SFPD and DPSS. Is that understood?”
McCaig felt his chair clunk against the wall, startling him awake. He must have nodded off. He quickly glanced around, but Smith was still absorbed in his own voice and hadn’t noticed.
Smith continued, “. . . and I want each of you to submit a summary to me by morning showing how your department is going to address these budgetary issues. Understood?” He paused for a moment and glanced around the room. “Good. Now, the next item on our agenda . . .”
McCaig gave Bashir a sideways glance and rolled his eyes. Bashir had to suppress a smile. They both leaned their chairs back against the wall.
Two more years, thought McCaig. Two more years. He’d done his time. His condo in Hawaii was ready.
A lot people begrudged federal pensions. They called it “eating at the public trough.” Well, he’d earned that pension and then some. He’d been a good G-man. The best. Two more years. Then he’d never look back.
McCaig glanced at his watch. Was Smith never going to stop? McCaig knew his sidelined career meant meetings, but this was ridiculous. He leaned back again and tried to take his mind to other places and times.
He’d been a Marine, and a good one. Then he joined the Bureau and became one of their best agents.
Omar Bashir’s ethnic background was another thing that was forcing McCaig to adjust. Bashir was born in Chicago, but his parents moved the family back to Palestine when Bashir was just two years old. Bashir’s stories of childhood pranks involved throwing rocks and bottles at Israeli trucks and tanks and then running gleefully down twisty little streets to escape angry soldiers. A job opportunity brought Bashir’s father back to Chicago when he was twelve years old. Bashir ended up an American-as-apple-pie kid with a unique international perspective.
McCaig thought back to his first big bust. He was the junior agent on a team of eight, five of whom were named Dave. The other two agents were named John and Bob. There was no ethnic diversity and no women. After a couple of days of confusion, the team voted to use only last names to keep everyone straight.
This meeting? No Daves here. McCaig looked around the table. Nakamura, Rheinholt, Lee, Garcia, Atkins, Musa, Gupta—it could have been the United Nations. Both sexes were equally represented.
The truth was, McCaig liked it. These were the best of the best. Their job was to prevent crime if they could, and catch the criminals if they couldn’t. Macho didn’t work any more. Brains, motivation, and a clean record were the ticket to an FBI career.
McCaig leaned his head back and rested it against the wall. Smith droned on, “. . . and I shouldn’t have to tell you, but apparently I do, about your agents wearing professional attire at all times . . .”
Captain McCaig and his team of six special-ops Marines are heavily camouflaged to match the drifting desert sands. Peering through powerful binoculars from the ridge of a sand dune, they see a small industrial complex in the distance. It is surrounded by security fences topped with barbed wire.
A large truck is pulling out of the compound. It stops, and a uniformed man gets out. He closes and locks the gate behind the truck, then climbs back in. The truck picks up speed slowly, revealing that it is heavily loaded. It lumbers down th
e road, leaving a trail of sandy dust in its wake.
“Is that the last one?”
McCaig puts down his binoculars and squints against the glare, scanning the horizon with his naked eyes.
“Ten in, ten out. That’s it.”
“Looks pretty exposed, sir. No way to approach except wide open.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s why they sent us, isn’t it?”
A ringing interrupted McCaig’s dream. He blinked and shook his head to clear it. Smith was staring angrily at a telephone in the middle of the conference table. It rang again, loud and shrill. Smith stabbed at a button and the phone went silent.
“OK,” said Smith. “Agent McCaig, you were going to give us an update on—”
The phone rang again.
“Damn!” said Smith. He grabbed the handset. “What? Sir! Sorry, no, we are—” Smith fell silent and listened.
McCaig was suddenly alert. The only person Smith would call “sir” was the director himself. McCaig could see the tension building in Smith’s body as he listened. Smith picked up a pencil and started scribbling notes. Every now and then he would say, “OK,” or “Yes, sir,” followed by more scribbled notes. He finally ended the call with a curt, “OK, sir, we’re on it,” and hung up.
Smith looked around the room for a moment and took a deep breath.
“OK, team, this is the big one. Terrorists just took control of the Golden Gate Bridge. They’ve barricaded themselves in the center of the bridge using some big trucks, and there are reports of automatic weapons fire—lots of it. That’s all we have at the moment.”
A rustling and murmur of exclamations ran around the room as everyone took in this news. Smith glanced down at his notes. “All other operations are suspended. Nakamura and Musa, you’re coordinating with the CIA, NSA, and other agencies. Find out who these guys are, who’s behind this, and what they want.