The Zarrabian Incident Page 4

  A collective gasp from the newsroom stopped him in his tracks. He spun around again. On the monitor, the center of the bridge was shrouded by smoke and dust from an explosion. Two Marine Corps helicopters, speeding toward the bridge and still connected to the explosion by missile contrails, banked sharply and turned away, their mission accomplished.

  The voice of Dana Poindexter came from the monitor. “We’ve just witnessed a major counterstrike! This may be the end of the siege. It’s clear this was a major blow against . . .”

  Petri shouted, “Where the hell is Garrett? I want her in front of the camera, and I mean now!”

  Christine could see an oily sheen of jet fuel where the Harrier had crashed. A parachute decorated the waves three hundred yards downwind.

  Her senses were spinning: machine guns, a destroyed SWAT truck on the sea floor, a United States Marines Harrier jet shot down, and smoke billowing from the bridge overhead.

  It finally dawned on Christine: she really was in a war zone. Not Kuwait or Iraq or Afghanistan. San Francisco.

  A motor launch was racing toward her. Crap. Probably some do-gooder hoping to rescue a damsel in distress. The motor launch was bashing through the choppy waves, going far too fast for these rough conditions. She raised her arm to wave them off, but when the boat was about fifty yards away, it suddenly stopped. A man in the boat looked up to the bridge and started swinging his arms in the air. That's weird, she thought.

  Then she realized he was trying to catch a rope that was swinging wildly in the breeze. What the hell? The rope rose into the air and seemed to be tied to the bridge above. The man in the boat finally caught the end of the rope, then waved at someone above. There was another gunshot from far above.

  Enough of this. It was time to get out of here. Way past time. She took one more look at the flailing spinnaker and pulled her sailor’s knife from the sheath on her belt. As she leaned forward to the halyard cleat, a new sound drew her eyes back to the sky. Two heavy helicopters were approaching rapidly. These weren’t police choppers, she realized. They were military gunships, their menacing weapons pods vividly outlined against the sky.

  There was another shot from above, followed by a scream. A body fell from the sky and splashed a dozen yards from the motor launch. The man holding the rope released it, and the boat spun around and sped away.

  The deep thump-thump of the helicopter rotors grew so loud she could feel it in her seat. Two missiles blazed from the helicopters’ weapons pods and streaked to the bridge. The explosion knocked her breath away.

  She shook her head. Her ears were ringing. What was she doing? There was a knife in her hand. Why? The halyard. She was supposed to cut the halyard.

  She snapped out of her disorientation and slashed the lines—first the spinnaker guy, then the halyard. The huge sail, finally freed, billowed on the wind and drifted away, settling on the waves a dozen boat lengths away. She released the spinnaker-pole lift and the long boom dropped to the foredeck. Not great, but secure enough. She looked up into her mast and rigging to be sure everything was clear.

  Above her, the bridge was engulfed in flames, with black smoke billowing in the wind. There was a man sliding down the rope. He was still fifty feet up and descending quickly. But to what?

  Suddenly the rope he was descending broke, and he fell the last fifty feet into the water. The three-hundred-foot rope trailed behind, it’s top end aflame, leaving a smoking trail as it fell and was finally quenched in the sea.

  She could see the man’s body bobbing. Christine’s drilled-in man-overboard training kicked in. It would only take moments to lose sight of a body in these waves and swirling currents. Ten boat lengths away and you might never find it again.

  She pulled the tiller hard over, let the boat fall off to a downwind course, and loosed the mainsail to catch the wind. As she passed the body, she yanked the man-overboard flag from its place on the backstay and threw it into the water where it bobbed to mark the position. There was no chance of stopping while running downwind; she had to come at the man while heading upwind. She started counting off the standard man-overboard procedure—one, two, three . . . ten boat lengths downwind, heave the tiller and haul up into the wind on port tack . . . one two, . . . six boat lengths, tack to starboard, one, two . . . six and she was abeam the flag. There he was!

  She turned into the wind to kill her speed, silently thanking her father. Pop had made her do this drill over and over and over again until she got it right every time. Northern California’s freezing waters were deadly: a sailor in the water would be paralyzed from cold in twenty minutes and dead in forty. Pop had wanted a daughter who could actually rescue him if he fell overboard.

  Her maneuver was perfect: Watergate stalled right next to the body. As the wind started to push the bow off to port again, the boat drifted against the body. Christine had no idea how she was going to pull a full-grown man onto her deck, but she had to get his face out of the water and get him breathing. She reached down and grabbed his collar, heaving his head out of the water.

  His eyes opened and looked directly into her face. With shock, she realized this was not a drowning man. She was looking into the eyes of a predator.

  His left hand clamped onto Christine’s wrist with an iron grip. His right hand rose from the water holding a nine-millimeter Glock. He pointed it directly between Christine’s eyes.

  Inside the boat’s cabin, her cell phone rang.

  Farid opened his eyes. Something was wrong inside of him. Very wrong. It was odd—he hurt, but not terribly. But somehow he knew.

  It took a moment to figure out what his eyes were seeing. It was all sideways. He was lying on the ground, his face pressed to the concrete. Now it made sense. The bridge, the roadway. Smoke rolling across his vision. What had happened? The images came back . . . helicopters . . . missiles.

  He rolled over. A large piece of metal—maybe a piece of the Chevy van?—was protruding from his chest. It was hard to breath. He wanted to pull it out; it looked so wrong there.

  There was something he must do. His brow creased. So much fog in his brain. The mission. The bridge. That was it. His eyes searched the area. There it was. Close.

  He pulled himself, inch by inch, to the controller. It was still connected. He flipped up the safety cover and put his finger on the switch. He was supposed to set a timer, and they were all going to escape. This wasn’t a suicide mission. Colonel Zarrabian had been clear about that: there was more to do after this mission. But now . . . he took one last look around. There was no escape. He could feel the blood leaving his body. His vision was growing dark. He pressed the switch.

  “Boss, boss, stop the car!” Bashir was stabbing frantically at his keyboard. “Something’s happened. We gotta see the bridge!”

  McCaig slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt in the middle of Marina Boulevard. Horns sounded, and Bashir heard curses. Without bothering to pull over, McCaig flung his door open, leapt out, and jumped onto the car’s hood. Bashir did the same.

  The center of the bridge was shrouded in smoke from an explosion, and two US Marine Corps SuperCobra helicopter gunships were banking low over the waterfront, headed back to wherever they’d come from.

  McCaig whistled. “Damn. I guess that’s one way to stop a terrorist.”

  “Wow. I hope they didn’t blow up the bridge, too.”

  “Sure didn’t do it any good. But it’s still there, so that’s good.”

  “What now, boss?”

  “Well, we were supposed to get out there and negotiate with the terrorists. Looks to me like there’s nobody left to negotiate with. But we’ve still gotta get out there. Let’s—”

  As he spoke, a massive explosion bloomed in the center of the bridge. Huge ripples from the shock undulated up the suspension cables. As if in slow motion, the golden cables parted in the center. The Golden Gate Bridge began to fall.

  They both watched wordlessly.

  McCaig felt the world shifting underneath his feet.
This felt like another 9/11. He knew his life and career would never be the same. His throat was tight. He had to blink his eyes a couple times to clear them.

  As the mighty cables sagged into the water and cascades of spray fell back into the sea, the famous San Francisco fog finally won its daily battle with the sun. The gray crept forward, enveloping the now-barren towers in its soft shroud. The bridge faded into the grayness. On the bay below, the brightly colored sails lost their color one by one and disappeared.

  He shook his head to clear it. Enough sentimentality.

  “Come on, Bashir. We’ve got work to do.”

  Escape

  The newsroom staff—reporters, directors, producers, writers, and clerks—stood silently. The big screen showed Dana Poindexter reporting, superimposed on a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. The catastrophe was replaying in slow motion: the huge explosion, shock waves undulating up the cables, the bridge slowly splitting in the middle, then the two ends pulling apart and crashing into the waves below.

  Several staffers had their arms wrapped as if hugging themselves. One couple was holding hands. Even Petri, standing at the front of the crowd, was momentarily still.

  But not for long. He spun around. “People! We’re supposed to report the news, not watch it! It’s 9/11 all over again! You’re standing here like a bunch of hoi polloi!” He kept at it as the crowd scattered. “I want facts! I want opinions! I want an economic analysis! Something, God damn it! Anything! I want every one of you to call in every favor you have, and then call in five more!”

  Jennifer, the young assistant, didn’t move. She stepped even closer to the monitor, peering intently at the screen.

  “Holy crap!”

  Petri’s head snapped around. “What? You see something the rest of us missed?”

  “That’s Ms. Garrett’s boat!”

  Jennifer pointed at a spot in the water under the bridge—a tiny splash of color on the monitor. Petri leaned forward. Several others gathered to see.

  “That sail in the water, it’s Ms. Garrett’s! I recognize it! She took me sailing last month!”

  Petri scoffed. “It’s just a sail in the water. Could by anyone’s.”

  “No, sir! Every spinnaker is different. They’re custom made.”

  Petri barked at the technician, “Get me a close-up!”

  The technician’s fingers flew over the keys and twisted dials on his console. The image rewound and then zoomed in. The fleck of color was still small, but they could clearly see a soggy sail, rising and falling with each passing wave.

  Jennifer pointed excitedly. “There! There’s her boat! It’s the Watergate! Her boat, I mean, that’s the name of her boat.”

  “Zoom on that,” said Petri.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “God dammit! She was there! Right under the goddamn bridge! The biggest news story of the decade, and she didn’t call in! I’m gonna kill her. I’m gonna kill her!”

  The technician zoomed more, and little boat’s image expanded and grew until it almost filled the screen, grainy and pixelated. The technician’s fingers flew over more keys and twisted more dials. The image slowly clarified and smoothed.

  They could clearly see Garrett in the cockpit, her hand on the tiller. A man sat at the front of the cockpit. One arm was extended, pointing a gun at Garrett.

  “Holy crap,” said Petri.

  As they watched, fog swirled over the little boat. The video went gray.

  Bashir’s fingers stopped typing as the black FBI SUV lurched to a halt. He looked around. They were shrouded in fog, but he could see a bit of the bay to their right and a narrow, steep road to their left.

  “Now what, boss?”

  “Time to hoof it.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Under the bridge. We gotta hike through Battery Park up to the bridge. Bring your gadgets.”

  “Can’t boss. Networking is built into the car. Some freaking antique system.”

  “Crap. Well, you’ll figure something out. Let’s go.”

  They left the SUV parked on a grassy field and began climbing the hill.

  The fog-shrouded Watergate glided silently, propelled by a soft breeze that barely rippled the gray water. Christine leaned back against the cabin, shoulders hunched, arms folded across her chest.

  She looked at the man who had fallen from the sky into her life. One hand was on the tiller, steering the boat. The other still held the Glock, though it was now resting in his lap. His shoulders sagged and his brow was furrowed. His neatly trimmed beard dripped salt water and fog. He was wearing her heavy knit fisherman’s sweater, which he’d found while rummaging belowdecks.

  So far he hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. The gun and his gestures had made his orders clear. A few minutes ago he’d shifted a bit, and she thought she’d heard him suck in his breath.

  He peered into the gloom, then down at her navigation GPS, and then nudged the tiller a bit.

  Christine turned her head furtively, trying to peer through the fog to see something, anything, that would give away their position. Judging by the light wind and diminished waves, they must be well past San Francisco and maybe near Alcatraz. She could still hear the foghorn at the bridge’s south tower, but not the mid-span foghorn—that one was forever silenced.

  “You are missing the interview of a lifetime, Ms. Garrett.”

  She was startled by his voice, but even more so that he knew her name. She looked at him intently.

  “Yes, Ms. Garrett, I speak English. And I watch American news frequently. I became quite fond of your television station while I was an engineering student at Berkeley.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” she said. “Berkeley? You?”

  He nodded, then adjusted their course slightly.

  “You’re serious? An interview?” she asked.

  “There isn’t much time. You are wasting it.”

  The turnaround in her perception of this man was so profound that it took her a moment to readjust. She wasn’t going to die. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain.

  “First question: Why this interview?”

  “It is very unexpected that I survived today, and even more so that a well-known reporter saved my life. So I have an opportunity. We are sending a message, and it is easily misinterpreted. Clarity will make the message more effective. ”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am a soldier of the Islamic Republic of Iran Army.”

  “What organization do you represent?”

  “As I said, the Islamic Republic of Iran Army.”

  “Let me ask a different way. Who is behind this attack?”

  “This interview is not going well.”

  “Forgive me, but . . . OK, what is your name?”

  “My name is not important. Only why I am here.”

  “Your rank?”

  “I am . . . we have different systems, but I would be called a colonel in your army.”

  “A colonel? Seriously?”

  “Do not insult me.”

  “Why did you destroy the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “That should be obvious, Ms. Garrett. We do not have B-1 bombers, so retaliation is more difficult. But not impossible.”

  “Retaliation for what?”

  “Do not waste my time.”

  “Colonel, you want your message to be clear, no misinterpretation. Yet you aren’t answering my questions.”

  He looked at her strangely. “I have answered the most important one. There can be no ambiguity.”

  “Are you saying that this terrorist act was carried out under orders from Iran? That you were acting in your official capacity as an officer of the Iranian army?”

  “Terrorism? You Americans think everyone who attacks you on your own soil is a terrorist. But when you attack us on our soil, you call yourselves soldiers and defenders of democracy. So remember this, Ms. Garrett: I am a soldier.”

  “A soldier? Then why did you blow up a target with no military v
alue? And how many did you kill today?”

  “This operation had enormous military value. Morale is a valuable military asset, Ms. Garrett. Our countries are at war. The police and soldiers who died today, well, that is their job.”

  “What about the civilians? How many innocents did you kill today?”

  “You, an American, ask me about innocents? What about Hiroshima? Nagasaki? Dresden? Iraq? Afghanistan? Syria? Did the United States of America spare the civilians in those actions? What about Vietnam, Cambodia, and Korea? Or should we go back in history to—”

  He was interrupted by Christine’s cell phone, ringing from the cabin.

  “Get it.”

  Christine stared at him, unmoving. He raised the gun. “My first choice is to let you live. But it is not my only choice.”

  She stared at him a moment more, then leaned into the hatchway, stretched to reach the shelf below, and retrieved the phone. It continued to ring.

  Zarrabian held out his hand. She held the phone a moment more, but then relented and handed it to him.

  Zarrabian looked at the caller ID. He answered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Petri. Ms. Garrett is not available . . . . She is alive, and should remain so . . . No, I have no statement to make at this time . . . . Goodbye.”

  He ended the call and then powered off the phone completely. “My little joke.”

  “OK, you’re not a terrorist. What are you?”

  “I am disappointed, Ms. Garrett. No more questions.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. The ghostly breeze pushed them silently. Christine tried to peer through the heavy fog, hoping for a glimpse of a buoy, or even a shoreline, but there was nothing but an unbroken wall of gray.

  “Do you remember the lunar eclipse?” His voice startled her again. He paused, waiting. Christine looked away. He continued. “It was while we trained for this mission. So beautiful. The blood-red moon in full eclipse as it rose over the dunes.”

  He looked down at the GPS and adjusted their course.