Mitch Rapp 05 - Memorial Day Page 18

  This was what swayed her, ultimately. The president had publicly acknowledged Rapp’s sacrifice and accomplishments, but it went much deeper than that. Rapp was the president’s man. When Hayes really needed to get something done, he turned to Rapp. He had proven his worth and effectiveness time and time again, and if there was anyone who could get the president to move decisively and shut out the rest of the clamor it would be Rapp.

  Instead of being divided in three the large screen at the front of Site R’s command center was now split into six different pictures. Rapp in Kandahar had been added, and at Rapp’s request, Skip McMahon and Jake Turbes at the Joint Counterterrorism Center and Paul Reimer at the Department of Energy’s Germantown facility were all also included in the meeting.

  Kennedy quickly announced the addition of the four new attendees and then told Rapp to begin.

  Rapp’s attire was strikingly different from that of the others involved in the meeting. Although no one had had the time to put on a suit or proper business attire, they were all dressed in civilian clothes, with exception of General Flood, whereas Rapp was the wearing combat fatigues and a tactical vest. He also hadn’t used a razor in more than two days and his face was covered with a thick black stubble.

  “Several hours ago,” Rapp started, “we were led to believe that a nuclear device was brought into the country yesterday by airfreight somewhere on the East Coast.” Rapp paused and held up some documents. “In the face of contrary intelligence, the terrorist who gave us that information has since admitted this was a lie.” Rapp wasn’t about to get into the specifics of how he got Abdullah to admit this, and he doubted any of these people would want to know the gruesome details.

  “We now have good intelligence that the device in question left Karachi, Pakistan, twenty-two days ago by container ship.”

  “Mitch,” said the president, “please tell me this ship hasn’t reached our shores.”

  “General Flood has the Coast Guard checking into that as we speak, sir, but I can tell you that according to the bills of lading we discovered, the ship is due to arrive at the port of Charleston sometime today. In addition,” Rapp said quickly before anyone could interrupt, “there are three other ships that have us concerned. All of them originated from Karachi approximately three weeks ago, and all three of them are due to arrive today in Miami, Baltimore, and New York.”

  Before Rapp could continue, Secretary of Homeland Security McClellan cut him off and said, “Mr. President, we need to shut these harbors down immediately.”

  “I would agree,” seconded Attorney General Stokes.

  Rapp had met Secretary McClellan before. The former two-star Marine Corps general was the exact opposite of the notoriously indecisive Civil War general whose name he shared.

  “Mr. President,” interjected Rapp loudly. “That is a terrible idea.”

  “Excuse me, son?” retorted a red-faced Secretary McClellan.

  Rapp had wanted to handle this briefing for two reasons. The first was that he knew how important nuances got lost as information was kicked up the chain of command, and secondly he knew there would be those who would want to use a bulldozer to do a job that required only a shovel.

  “The worst thing we could do right now is lock those harbors down.”

  “I beg to differ,” said McClellan. “Our first priority is to protect the American public.”

  Rapp wasn’t even the slightest bit deterred. “And the best way to do that is by letting the NEST people and the FBI locate this device.”

  “Mr. Rapp,” said McClellan in a condescending tone, “you’re very good at your job, but you’re eight thousand miles away. I don’t think you have a very good handle on the situation here in Washington. Now, Mr. President, we have rehearsed this…”

  “Secretary McClellan,” interrupted Rapp, “you’re sitting in a damn blast-proof bunker under a mountain two hours outside of Washington.” Rapp’s bold rebuke took everyone aback. “So don’t start telling me you have a better handle on the situation. The situation in Washington is the same as it is every Wednesday morning fifty-two weeks a year. People are going to get up and go to work, and if you try to lock down any of these ports you’re going to create a nationwide panic, which is going to: a) interfere with the NEST people trying to find this thing, and b) alert the terrorists that we’re onto them.”

  “Mr. President, if I may.” It was Paul Reimer, the former SEAL team commander who ran the Nuclear Emergency Support Teams. “I couldn’t agree with Mitch more strongly. Any type of lockdown will only hinder the search.”

  “Excuse me, everyone.” It was General Flood. “The Coast Guard has just verified the location of the four high-interest vessels.” Flood was reading from a sheet of paper. “The one headed for Miami and the one headed for New York are still out at sea and aren’t expected into port until this afternoon.” Flood studied the information. “The vessel destined for Baltimore just entered the Chesapeake and,” he looked up with a grim expression, “the fourth vessel is at the docks in Charleston.”

  In the mayhem that followed the news that the vessel was already docked in Charleston, lots of important people with fancy titles digressed into a free-for-all about what should be done. Mitch Rapp was all but forgotten as the cabinet-level officials forcefully stated their opinions. Fortunately, two individuals with much lower profiles knew what to do, and given the bedlam around them, didn’t bother getting approval to act. The first was Skip McMahon, who was sitting in the FBI’s Counterterrorism Watch Center.

  McMahon turned to one of his deputies and told him to get the Charleston port captain on the line immediately. He then called Dick Schoyer, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Columbia, South Carolina, field office. Schoyer and several of his agents were already on their way to Charleston, an hour and a half from Columbia. Their plan was to meet one of Reimer’s RAP Teams that was coming up from the Department of Energy’s Savannah River Site to help sweep the port. The good news was their sweep would no longer be random.

  McMahon gave Schoyer very explicit instructions on how to deploy his people. By the time he’d finished with Schoyer the harbor master was on the line. McMahon confirmed that the Liberian container vessel Madagascar was in fact docked, and further learned that she was due to begin off-loading her cargo shortly. Without getting into details, McMahon told the man that he should expect to see Special Agent Schoyer standing in his office in approximately twenty minutes. Until then the port captain was to under no circumstances allow a single container to be taken off the ship.

  The second person to act was Paul Reimer. Technically speaking he was not supposed to deploy one of his Search Response Teams unless he received actionable intelligence from the National Security Council. Reimer had been doing this long enough to know actionable intelligence when he saw it, and he wasn’t about to wait for the egos to stop their posturing. The scientists and technicians from the Savannah River Site were still gathering their equipment, and once they were done with that it would take them at least an hour and a half to get to the port.

  There was a better option. Reimer’s top Search Response Team was sitting on the Tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base in a Gulfstream III ready to go. He called Debbie Hanousek, the senior energy official leading the team, and gave her orders to take off for Charleston Air Force Base immediately. With priority clearance she and her six-person team would be in Charleston in less than an hour.

  Back at Site R, Kennedy got the president’s attention and whispered something in his ear. When she was done the president called for order and then said, “General Flood, will the navy or coast guard have any problem interdicting the two vessels that are still at sea?”

  “No problem at all, sir.”

  “What about the ship in the Chesapeake? Any ideas?”

  Flood quickly conversed with someone off camera and then said, “This intel is being fed to SEAL Team Six as we speak. They’re already on alert status down in Little Creek. They can hit the ship and be
in control of it before the crew even knows they’re on board.”

  “Are they equipped to handle a nuke?” asked the Secretary of Homeland Security.

  “Yes. They’re equipped and trained to detect and disable any WMD.”

  “Have them ready to go as soon as possible, General,” said Hayes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president began searching the screens for the director of the FBI. “Brian, what’s the plan for Charleston?”

  “Boss, if I may.” It was Skip McMahon asking Roach for permission to field the question. “Mr. President, I just got off the phone with the port captain down in Charleston. The ship we’re interested in is the Madagascar. I told the port captain that not a single container is to be off-loaded until he hears back from me. In addition our special agent in charge of the Columbia office is already on his way to the port with a team of agents. A Department of Energy team is also on its way from the Savannah River Site.”

  “Correction,” said Reimer. “I’m also sending my top search response team. They’re leaving Andrews as we speak, and should be there in just under an hour.”

  “An hour?” asked the president’s chief of staff. “A lot can happen in an hour.”

  “Ma’am,” said Reimer with one eyebrow raised in a disapproving frown. “It’ll take them half the morning to unload that ship.”

  “Mr. President,” said Secretary McClellan, “we have a DHS Fly Away team ready to go down there and supervise the entire operation. We can have an on-site command post set up in two hours.”

  Rapp wanted to scream. This entire thing was going to turn into a circus. He desperately wished he was in the room with the president so he could state his case more forcefully. Other than screaming, he had only one other option right now. In an ominous voice Rapp said, “Mr. President, there’s something else I haven’t told you.”

  Everyone fell silent almost immediately. “We believe Mustafa al-Yamani, one of the chief architects behind the African embassy bombings, the Cole, and 9/11, entered the U.S. yesterday evening, possibly somewhere along the Florida coast. He came to America in order to personally direct the attack. We’re finding evidence that points to multiple cells within the U.S. Financial transfers, e-mails, airline reservations, passport applications for at least a dozen countries…we’ve just barely scratched the surface.”

  “What’s your point?” asked the president’s chief of staff.

  “It’s this…let’s take a step back and gather ourselves. We have a good handle on these four ships, but there are bills of lading for thirteen other ships that we haven’t even begun tracking. There are an undetermined number of terrorist cells operating in the U.S., we have missing Pakistani nuclear scientists, we have one of al-Qaeda’s top lieutenants entering the country, and most importantly the terrorists have no idea we’re on to them.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “I think we should keep a low profile and see who shows up at the Port of Charleston to pick this thing up. And then…”

  “I couldn’t disagree more,” said the Secretary of Homeland Security. “We could at this very moment have a twenty-kiloton nuclear warhead sitting on the docks of a metropolitan area with a quarter million people. We need to lock that city down and find out what it is exactly that we’re dealing with. The Department of Homeland Security is…”

  “Mr. President,” shouted Paul Reimer, the man in charge of the Nuclear Emergency Support Program, “would you mind if I cut through all the bullshit?”

  Hayes looked up at the screen. The former SEAL had one of those voices typical of an officer who had led an elite fighting unit. It was efficient and precise and it demanded attention. The president liked his proposal and said, “By all means, please.”

  “The absolute last thing we need right now is for you to lock down Charleston. Let my people and the feds down there do what they’re trained to do. We should give them whatever it is that they need and other than that we should just stay the hell out of their way.”

  The president found himself nodding in agreement as Reimer spoke. He turned to look at Kennedy, who concurred, and then at his chief of staff who reluctantly did the same.

  Hayes stood, signaling to all that the debate was over. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  CHESAPEAKE BAY

  The six helicopters flew across the dark water like a pack of hunting dogs stalking a large beast. They approached from the stern of the ship, skimming the surface of the relatively calm Chesapeake and slowing their speed as they neared the target. The entire horizon to the east was a mind-numbing gray and to the west a blanket of darkness. It was twilight, a time when the water could trick the eye with relative ease.

  A quarter of a mile out they reported visual confirmation of the specific high interest vessel and were immediately given the green light to proceed with the takedown. The first two helicopters continued their course and heading, while the other four helicopters broke formation and increased speed. They would encircle their prey, and when everyone was in position they would strike.

  The two MH-6 Little Birds moved in almost silently from the stern, the massive container ship towering over them as they approached. Three black-clad SEALs sat on the specially outfitted platforms on each side of the two birds. Each man carried a H&K silenced MP5 submachine gun. The helicopters moved quickly into position, one on the portside and the other on the starboard. No longer able to see each other, the pilots stayed in constant radio communication calling out course, speed, and heading.

  They paused for only a second and then the two Little Birds rose simultaneously, passing the rusted hull of the ship and up the towering superstructure to the illuminated bridge. Once they cleared the observation decks on either side of the bridge the pilots did the unthinkable and closed in on the bridge, the rotor blades of their machines coming to within a mere foot of the bridge’s glass windows. Matching speed, they expertly set their landing skids down on the observation deck railings, and gave the go word to the men. The pilots were so focused on nursing the controls as each man departed that they didn’t even notice the man standing behind the ship’s controls a mere forty feet away. Not more than five seconds after the skids had touched the railing their task was accomplished, and each bird deftly slid away from the ship and peeled off.

  The officer at the helm of the gigantic container vessel hadn’t even noticed the two small helicopters that had set down on his starboard and portside observation decks. Part of this was because prior to this calm morning he didn’t think such a feat possible, but it was more directly due to the fact that his attention was focused on something else. A large gray helicopter had suddenly appeared directly amidships, and was noisily hovering above the neatly stacked multicolored containers.

  The helicopter’s door was open, and two men dressed in black were pointing guns at him. The officer froze, not quite believing what he was seeing. He momentarily thought of changing course, and then noticed a flash of red light on the windscreen of the bridge. The diffused red light tightened and formed a red dot on his chest, and he suddenly realized its significance. Out of fear for his life, he threw himself to the deck, seeking cover behind the controls of the helm.

  The HH-60 Seahawk came in and held a position above the cargo area to provide sniper cover for the Little Birds and another helicopter that was coming in at the front of the ship. The fourth helicopter, another matte-gray Seahawk, flared in over the bow of the ship and came to a hover five feet above a relatively small area that was clear of wires and other obstacles. Twelve SEALs leapt the short distance to the deck and took off in pairs to secure preassigned areas of the ship.

  Even though they’d had less than thirty minutes to plan the op, each man knew his responsibility and moved with efficiency and assuredness. They had conducted this maneuver hundreds of times on a variety of vessels in both training and real life. The key, as with most things the SEALs did, was to move with lightning speed and overwhelm the opposition before t
hey knew what hit them.

  Up on the bridge a man-portable mobile phone jammer was set up and the radio shack was secured and locked down. One of the commandos took the helm while the rest of the strike team began working its way down the superstructure to the crew’s quarters. They moved silently, with no shouting and no intent to use lethal force unless they were met with like resistance. Every crew member who was encountered, with the exception of the ship’s captain who was brought to the bridge, was forced to lie face down on the deck and bound by the wrists with plastic flex cuffs. In less than five minutes the ship’s vital areas were secured and every crew member accounted for.

  A fifth helicopter approached the ship out of the darkness at a much safer altitude and speed than the others had. It went into a slow-moving circular pattern a hundred feet or so above the superstructure. The commander of SEAL Team 6 looked down at the ship and surveyed the situation. Now that his men were in control of the ship, he ordered the sniper platform into a holding pattern at a thousand feet. He doubted they would be needed for the remainder of the operation.

  Lieutenant Commander Andy Lynch adjusted the microphone arm on his bulky headset and said, “General Flood, the ship is ours, without incident. I’m sending in my WMD team. You can tell the president we should have confirmation for him shortly.”