Jack Du Brul - Havoc

Because none of the terrorists’ bodies had been recovered, Mercer, Cali, and Sykes’s Delta team had spent the day with the FBI’s counterterrorism unit going over hundreds of pictures of known terrorists in hopes of identifying the men who’d attacked the barge. One of the bass boats had survived the ordeal and was found packed with enough explosives to sink a cruise ship. As Mercer had noted during the battle, the terrorists were Middle Eastern. He recognized four of the men from the photo lineup. Two were Iraqi and two were from Saudi Arabia. The Arab paratrooper, a former captain in the Iraqi Republican Guard, was well known to the Pentagon, but none of the others were particularly high up in the Al Qaida chain of command. There was nothing in any database on the Caucasian parachutist.

Ira made sure that Homeland Security would keep him in the loop as they tracked how the men entered North America and where they had gotten their weapons. They would also provide twenty-four-hour guards for Mercer’s house. That was his price for cooperation. He didn’t want to take up Ira’s suggestion of moving to a safe house.

With his genitals sufficiently numb, Mercer set the peas on a dishrag next to him and wiped a smear of ketchup from his lips. He’d just finished telling Harry the story of the fight and his dive off the falls.

“I think that makes you the twelfth person who’s gone over the falls and lived,” Harry remarked. “However, technically you didn’t go over them. You parachuted, so it really doesn’t count.”

“Technically, my ass,” Mercer spat back and hobbled to the bar for another drink. “I may not be able to talk about it but in my mind I went over the falls and I’ve got the swollen stones to prove it.” He turned to Ira. “I’ve forgotten to ask. How’s it going with the recovery of the crates?”

“Coast Guard’s on it now with Cali’s teammates, ah, Slaughbaugh and Williams. They managed to recover two of them pretty easily from the Maid of the Mist Pool below the rapids, but the other two are directly under the falls, where the water is deeper than the falls are tall. The good news is there’s no trace of radiation in the water, so we know they didn’t break open.”

“And security?”

“Airtight this time,” Ira said solemnly. “What made you invite Booker along?”

“Poli’s been a step ahead since Africa. He has the original manuscript from Chester Bowie’s safe, which gave him the name of the freighter Bowie used to ship the crates to America. And as Cali proved finding what happened to the Wetherby wasn’t too tough. What I hadn’t anticipated was the number of men he’d employ and the sophistication of the assault given the short amount of time he had to plan it.”

Booker Sykes spoke up. “An operation like he coordinated would have taken weeks, maybe months for training and he pulled it off in just a couple of days.”

“That tells us,” Mercer continued, “that he’s got a lot of assets in the States.”

“And you’re sure he wasn’t with the assault team?” Ira asked.

“Positive,” Mercer said bitterly. More than anything he wished the mercenary had been there when the barge went over the falls. “I did recognize the white paratrooper from New Jersey. He was taking the potshots at us while Poli was driving. I suspect the Qaida fighters on the bass boats were just cannon fodder in case the barge was protected.”

“That’s why all the explosives,” Booker added. “Suicide run if you had a Coast Guard escort. I figure the Iraqi who ’chuted in was the terror cell’s leader but they were working for Poli.”

“Who ultimately works for someone else,” Cali said.

“Someone we don’t have a bead on yet.” Mercer returned to the couch and settled the frozen peas over his groin again. “But it’s got to be Al Qaida. How else could he get their men? For Poli it’s all about the money. Guys willing to die in a suicide attack do it for politics or faith.”

Ira finished his burger and crushed his napkin. “You think this is Al Qaida’s attempt to get the radioactive material they need for a dirty bomb?”

“What else could it be?” Cali answered. “We all know they’ve wanted to get their hands on nuclear material for years. And despite what the media thinks, NEST and other groups are doing a damn fine job closing conduits from the old Soviet republics and any other source imaginable.” She glanced at Mercer almost as if what she was about to say was his fault. “What no one anticipated was finding a cache of natural plutonium that seems to have been lost for a couple thousand years. Using what Chester Bowie rediscovered is Al Qaida’s only chance if they want a dirty bomb.”

“I don’t get something,” Harry said. “If you guys could recover the crates without any problems, what’s the big deal with a dirty bomb anyway?”

Cali met his frank gaze. “It’s a terror weapon. More people would be killed in the initial explosion than would suffer radiological effects, but that doesn’t matter. The mere mention of radioactive contamination would be enough to cause nationwide panic. Remember the anthrax attacks and how many people were hoarding Cipro?”

“Unfortunately,” Ira interrupted, “competition in the media has forced them into using scare tactics in order to sell ad space. A story like a dirty bomb attack would turn the media into a feeding frenzy of doom and gloom that would actually help the terrorists in spreading fear. You have to know that our press is no longer free. And it’s not some vast right wing, or even left wing, conspiracy that’s destroyed its objectivity. It’s our own consumerism that has allowed the media to be co-opted by Madison Avenue in order to sell lingerie and cheaper computers. You just know there are editors and news directors out there who are anxiously awaiting a terrorist attack or a plane crash or a celebrity murder so they can pump their circulation and raise their ad rates. So long as advertisers subsidize the media, the press will always find the negative. It’s human nature.”

“What’s the alternative?” Harry asked. “In countries where the state supplies the news, you get nothing but propaganda.”

“I don’t know,” Ira admitted. “But it pisses me off that when there’s no real news to report they go out and find some horror to exploit. Thousands of teenagers die every year but it’s only during a lull in the news cycle that one death gets turned into a national tragedy. And this happens not because we value that teen over any other but because the constant exposure to the details creates a feedback loop of interest.”

“Pretty cynical,” Harry remarked. “And I can’t deny it.”

“Sad, huh?” Ira said tiredly.

Mercer leaned forward. “We’re getting off topic.”

“Sorry.” Ira scratched at his bald head. “I spent the morning with our media consultants building the cover story around the attack. Leaves a bad taste in your mouth.”

“We’ve secured the bulk of the plutonium Chester Bowie mined,” Mercer stated. “I’m not even going to worry about the little bit that was in the safe. That still leaves the Alembic of Skenderbeg, which we’re still trying to hunt down, and what the Russians mined after Bowie left Africa. Have you gotten anywhere with them?”

“Actually I have.” Ira opened the briefcase at his feet and withdrew a folder. “That’s how I spent my afternoon. I got this from Grigori Popov, a guy whose career mirrors mine. He was a sub driver in the Pacific Fleet who moved to naval intelligence. He’s now a deputy in the Ministry of Defense. I’ve known him for years, and while I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, we’ve been dealing with each other long enough to know when it’s time to put all our cards on the table.”