Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

“Not more than usual. You know what it’s like on an Army base. Most of the personnel who live here are young. We’ve had some fights in town. Some of the local citizenry don’t like us much. I don’t blame them. These weapons are pretty scary. We had some problems, when the incinerator was being built, with the construction workers. We’ve had bomb threats, because someone thought we were covering up nerve agent leaks that made them sick. But other than some minor drug use, we haven’t had any significant problems.”

Drake wanted to smile at the way she minimized the problems the depot had experienced. He knew, from news reports, there had been attempts to sneak into K Block. A lab worker had walked off with a vial of nerve agent by accident, causing a panic until the man was found. And, a security guard shot himself during a simulated attack on the depot.

“Tell me about your emergency planning and training,” he said.

“Mr. Drake, I understand you were in the Army. What unexpected threat do you think we haven’t trained for? There’s a no-fly zone here. We train for someone trying to crash a plane into one of the igloos in K Block to cause a nerve gas leak. We train for coordinated attacks at multiple perimeter sites, truck bombs crashing the gates, you name it. Training is what the Army does best.”

Drake knew she wasn’t angry yet, but she was getting close.

“Captain, I’m not here to give you a bad time. I just need to confirm arrangements, so I don’t get in your way tomorrow. Maybe you could show me around the depot and review your plans for tomorrow. I’ll be out of here before you miss me.”

The tight smile on her face said there was no way in hell she would miss him.

After they were seated in the Humvee and driving slowly on the depot’s main road, Capt. Martinez began her review of the arrangements for tomorrow.

“The dedication of the incinerator is scheduled for ten hundred hours. There are three hundred guests and dignitaries invited, your father-in-law included. They have all been screened for us by the Secret Service. No one will be allowed to enter the depot after oh-nine-thirty hours. We’ve doubled the security patrols around the perimeter of the depot. The airspace is already restricted. The Oregon State Police, the Hermiston County Sheriff and the Hermiston Police Department will be on alert. Additionally, the Oregon National Guard unit in Pendelton will have their rapid response team on standby. The State of Oregon, as you probably know, developed our emergency disaster plan. It’s as comprehensive as it gets. I think we’ve got things covered here.”

They were driving by the storage igloos in K Block as Capt. Martinez concluded her briefing. Row after row of earth-covered cement and steel storage units housing the chemical weapons stretched away into the brown and barren distance.

“Who has access to this area?” Drake asked.

“Security staff patrol the area and civilian lab personnel monitor the igloos for leakage. No one else gets in here,” she said.

“What happens if you have an accident here in K Block? What does the emergency plan call for then?”

Capt. Martinez stopped abruptly, next to the entrance of an igloo and turned to face him. “If there’s an accident, Mr. Drake, sirens go on all over the depot. Personnel in the command structure, responsible for responding to an emergency, immediately go to the depot’s emergency operations center. There are cameras installed all around K Block so command personnel can watch personnel responding. Visitors are taken to the emergency center, where they can be protected from any chemical weapon exposure. Our response teams deal with that exposure. Then, the emergency operations center determines the potential exposure to the surrounding communities. The depot’s medical staff prepares to deal with decontamination and treating any victims,” she said, slamming the Humvee into gear. “If you need more information, take it up with Colonel Hollingsworth.”

On the silent ride continuing around the depot, they drove past the chemical agent disposal facility with its giant incinerator. Drake saw that the dedication platform had been erected in the visitor parking area. He made a mental note that the dedication platform was less than a mile from K Block.

“One more question and I’m done,” Drake said, breaking the silence. “If an emergency occurs during the ceremony tomorrow, how long will it take to move visitors to the emergency center?”

“The visitor buses arrive, and then remain behind the grandstands. They’ll take visitors to the emergency center. The VIPs will be brought in by assigned Humvees. Everyone will be instructed to return to the vehicles they arrived in if an emergency siren goes on. Our rehearsals require twelve minutes to return everyone to the emergency center,” Capt. Martinez said, without turning her head from the road.

If rehearsals took twelve minutes, Drake knew the real thing, with all the confusion that sirens would cause, would take twice as long.

“I’d like to see the emergency center, and then I’ll be out of your hair, Captain.”

When he was returned to headquarters, after a quick tour of the emergency center, Lt. Col. Hollingsworth was in a meeting. Drake was left alone in the Commander’s office to look at the books in his glass door barrister’s bookcase. They were mostly biographies and civil war histories. The pictures on the walls were of ceremonial poses with senior officers the Commander had served with. Some were pictures of young soldiers in fatigues, in unnamed places around the world, including one of a much younger Lt. Col. Hollingsworth. Drake wondered how Hollingsworth had wound up in charge of a chemical weapons depot, far away from the action.

Based on his tour of the depot, it was clear that the facility was well guarded against an attack from outside the perimeter fences. If an airplane violated restricted airspace and attempted to crash into an igloo, the earth-covered bunkers were reinforced to withstand the impact. No, if the depot was exposed to a serious threat, Drake concluded, it would come from within-from the civilian security force or some reservist.

“Well, Mr. Drake, did Capt. Martinez convince you we’re secure here?” Lt. Col. Hollingsworth asked when he returned to his office.

“That’s one straight aide-de-camp you have there, Colonel. Yes, she did her best to convince me you’re one hundred percent secure here. But we both know that’s rarely the case.”

Lt. Col. Hollingsworth sat down in his high-backed chair and studied Drake. His look was not defensive, but coolly appraising.

“If you think you spotted something, lay it out for me. Protecting this place and the people who live around here is my job. I take it seriously, but I don’t believe any place is one hundred percent secure.”

“Colonel, I can see you take your job seriously. Just a couple more questions and I’ll be on my way. What identification is required to get into the depot for your civilian personnel and reservists?” Drake asked pointedly.

“The two hundred reservists stationed here all have military ID they were issued by their units. Our security and civilian personnel have security badges we issue. If they have business here tomorrow, they’ll be admitted as always. None of them will want to be here, unless they’re working, believe me. Did you ever attend a ceremony you weren’t ordered to attend?” the Colonel asked.

“No, I guess not,” Drake admitted. “Thank you for the courtesy you extended to the Senator. I’ll head back to Portland and see you when I return with the Senator and his party tomorrow.”

As he was escorted back to the airport, Drake acknowledged the obvious threat. You might know who the individuals were who had access to your secure facility. How could you ever know their secret plans? ISIS might have secret plans that involved the depot, but how could you ever identify the people used to carry out those plans? The question worried him throughout his return flight to the executive airport in Hillsboro.