Assurred Response

Chapter 20

After an extended fuel stop in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, Saeed Shayhidi's chartered Falcon 900EX touched down at the Pochentong International Airport. The capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh, lies at the junction of the Basak, Sab, and Mekong river systems in the south-central region of the country.

Jumpy and tired from his many close calls with the Great Satan, Shayhidi ignored the flight crew and walked straight to his waiting limousine. He sat in the air-conditioned comfort of the stretched Cadillac while his luggage was loaded into the trunk.

The twenty-minute ride to his hotel gave Shayhidi ample time to reflect on the decisions he had made after his narrow escape from the CIA agents in France. The communications center in the long-range Falcon had been put to good use. Of course, Shayhidi had no idea that Echelon Two was listening to his conversations.

First on his agenda: cosmetic surgery, changing the color of his hair, assuming a different identity, and opening new bank accounts. He would have to trust his most senior executive, Ahmed Musashi, the man he had put in charge of his vast empire. In addition, Shayhidi would have to alter his style of dress and his arrogant demeanor.

Impulsively Shayhidi opened the limousines well-stocked bar. He filled a crystal glass with ice cubes and poured three fingers of Chivas Regal scotch. He swirled the amber liquid and then tossed it back in one swift motion.

Lost in his misery and despair, Shayhidi stared blankly out the window at the maze of traffic. Every time he began to feel the least shred of confidence returning, the gnawing reality of what he had done resurfaced. He fixed another stiff drink and ruminated about his predicament, how rapidly everything had unraveled. The swift descent from having his life and businesses well-organized and running smoothly to utter chaos was unfathomable. As hard as he tried, he could not face the simple fact that he had made some very poor decisions.

When the limousine arrived at the Hotel Le Royal, Shayhidi was pleased with the accommodations. Located in the heart of Phnom Penh, the elegant hotel occupied an entire city block and was situated amid fragrant tropical gardens. Opened in 1929 in a structure that was a blend of Art Deco, Khmer, and French architecture, the hotel offered eight restaurants and bars featuring a wide variety of cuisines.

Checking in under an assumed name, Shayhidi paid cash in advance for a three-week stay in their best suite. That would provide enough time to have his newly leased luxury villa refurbished and furnished. He had not seen the home, but the description he had been given while aboard the Falcon sold him on the residence.

In his suite and alone, Shayhidi's alcohol-induced confidence completely dissolved. Traces of paranoia were beginning to surface. What if the crew on the Falcon were informers for the Americans? What if someone in the lobby recognized me? The thoughts were flooding his mind so fast he could barely cope. Since leaving Princeton, Shayhidi had been constantly surrounded by bodyguards and his entourage of self-seeking male and female flatterers.

It was unnerving to be suddenly alone, totally alone. There was no one around to flatter him, no one stepping and fetching at his command. For Shayhidi, the sensation was like solitary confinement, albeit in a first-class prison. No bodyguards who had been vetted, no companions to party with, no servants to abuse, no attention from his followers, nothing but emptiness, loneliness, and paranoia. I have all this money, but I have to hide from the world. What have I done?

He called room service and demanded more Chivas Regal and a wide array of food, making it clear that he wanted his order delivered as quickly as possible. After three waiters hustled the spread to his suite, he ate and drank voraciously until he felt mellow and comfortable. He wanted a female companion, a beautiful young Asian woman, to keep him entertained, but he was too tired at the moment.

Mentally and physically, he was exhausted. After another double scotch, Shayhidi collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep, tranquil sleep. When he awakened with a savage hangover, he returned to the dark side of his existence.

He drank more Chivas and then called his contact in Geneva. This trusted friend was his link to Ahmed Musashi. After conversing with Musashi, the friend would get back to him. Shayhidi had no idea how really difficult life was going to get in the near future.

After they landed at Boulder City, Jackie again tried to contact Hartwell Prost while Scott refueled the Caravan from the self-service pump. The call to Prost would not go through. She waited a few minutes and tried again with the same results.

"You look frazzled," Scott said, while he cleaned the Caravans windshield.

"Fve been trying to get in touch with Hartwell — see what his priority is — but I cant get through."

"Let s take off," Scott suggested. "Gain some altitude in a different location and try again."

Minutes later, they were climbing through 3,000 feet and Jackie again called Prost. He answered on the third ring. After an unusually lengthy conversation, Jackie signed off.

"What s the plan?"

"Hartwell wants us to work with Wakefield on the houseboat watch and then continue our search for Farkas. He said Farkas knows where the six nukes are and the Feds want to get their hands on him."

Scott engaged the autopilot. "Have I missed something?"

"He said they have solid intel suggesting that a nuke may be on the houseboat."

"Selective amnesia. Wakefield didnt tell you that little detail."

"Right, no need for us to be concerned. Hartwell believes the terrorists may take the houseboat up to the dam and detonate the nuke."

Scott banked the Caravan toward the lake. "So we re supposed to baby-sit a possible nuclear bomb until the Feds get there?"

"That's the way I read it. I better call Wakefield and tell him we're on board — watchdogs for the evening."

When she signed off, Scott descended to 2,000 feet and soon located the houseboat. It was anchored a mile north of the entrance to the waterway leading to Hoover Dam. Other boats of various types were scattered around the area; some were under way, but most were anchored for the evening cocktail hour. Scott removed his sunglasses, placed them on the glare shield, and began a steeper descent.

"What do you think?" Jackie innocently asked. "What's our strategy going to be?"

"We'll land in the open space between number thirty-one and the shoreline, and then drop anchor for the night."

"Do you think that's too close, too obvious?"

"No," he said, setting up for the approach. "Floatplanes, most airplanes that operate from water, would go to shore or anchor close to it."

"I'm not so sure."

"We're supposed to be gathering information for our forthright pal, Wakefield. Can't do it well from a mile away."

"It's your call," she said, and tightened her straps.

He reduced power, checked to be sure the landing gear was retracted, lowered the first 10 degrees of flaps and then another 10 degrees, slowing through 150 knots, and the final 10 degrees at 125 knots. Maintaining a shallow descent rate, Scott continued to slow the big amphibian. He waited for the floats to make contact with the water and hauled back on the yoke as the Caravan settled onto the lake. He raised the flaps and deployed the water rudders. "Voila! We're a boat."

"Nicely done, I must admit."

"Got lucky."

He taxied to a position about 100 yards from shore and shut down the turboprop. He jumped out on the left float, opened the anchor locker, and then tossed the anchor into the water. Back inside the airplane, Scott went into the passenger cabin to observe the houseboat.

He began opening their large canvas bags. "Let's get the radio scanners going," he said, while Jackie retrieved the binoculars from the cockpit.

She took a seat in the cabin and began studying the suspicious houseboat. "I have a question."

"Shoot."

"You know more about boats than I do, but these people have three antennas and a satellite dish on the top deck." She handed him the binoculars. "Take a look."

He surveyed the houseboat from stem to stern, noting the antennas. "It does seem odd."

She activated the radio scanners, one for civilian aircraft VHF frequencies and the other for military aircraft UHF frequencies. They also monitored the VHF marine radio.

Scott observed a man who appeared to be preparing dinner in the galley A second man walked out on the bow deck. He was wearing casual Western-style clothes and had a thick dark beard. The last of the sunlight was directly on his face.

"Confirmed," Scott said.

"What?"

Scott moved the binoculars slowly, inspecting every inch of the houseboat. "At least one of them is Middle Eastern. Bet the other one is too."

"Can you see through the windows?"

"Not very well." He studied the man in the galley. "We may have better luck when it gets dark."

Carrying large round trays of food, the two men gathered on the forward deck to eat dinner. Occasionally smiling, they chatted quietly and constantly shifted their eyes. The sunlight glinted off something by the hatch leading to the galley area.

Scott focused on the entrance for a moment and then looked at Jackie. "Let s break out our weapons," he said matter-of-factly.

Her eyes grew large. "Our weapons?"

"Yes, they have at least one AK-47."

"We better get in touch with Wakefield," Jackie said, as she reached for the satellite phone. "I dont like this."

"WeVe been in tougher situations," Scott said, as he scrutinized the men.

"Yes," she said firmly, "but we weren't sitting ducks in an aluminum Spam can."

Scott forced a smile and stuffed his personal gmm Sig Sauer into a flap pocket on his hiking shorts. "You call Wakefield while I go outside to do a little fishing."

She stared at him for a moment. "Fishing! Are you crazy?"

He grabbed a fishing rod and paused by the cockpit door. "Tell Wakefield we need heavily armed law-enforcement types, lots of them, in boats at first light."

Jackie initiated the call.

Scott stuck his head back in the cabin. "How about joining me as soon as you re off the phone?"

She nodded and glanced at their weapons.

Scott eased his way down the strut and made himself comfortable on the big float. Using a spinner, he repeatedly cast and slowly reeled in the line. He never looked directly at the men on the houseboat, catching a glimpse of them only when he cocked his arm to cast.

Carrying her fishing rod, Jackie soon joined him on the wide Wipline float. She sat down and spoke in a whisper. "Wakefield is concerned, afraid they're going to take the houseboat up to the dam tonight."

"Is he rallying the troops?"

"He's working on it. He'll get back to us as soon as he can."

"You gave him our location?"

"Exact location — GPS and direct relation to the dam." She cast her line and absently let it sink. "He wants us to monitor these guys, let him know if they do anything strange, like prepare to get under way."

While they discussed their options, an arched pinkish band of twilight settled over the lake. The warm air was absolutely still and the water was like glass.

Scott propped his fishing rod against the struts and got to his feet. "I have to attach our all-around light pole."

"Need any help?"

"Thanks, but I've got it."

He retrieved the battery-operated antiglare recognition light from the cabin, stood in the cockpit door, and clamped it to one of the radio antennas. Scott glanced at the houseboat and saw the men cleaning the table on the forward deck. He turned on the bright light, climbed down, and sat next to Jackie. A few minutes later the men went inside their boat.

Jackie reeled her line in and set the rod next to her. "Maybe we should think about getting out of here, let Wakefield and his crowd deal with this situation."

"Well," he began in a hushed voice, "that would be my preference too."

She leaned close to him. "But it's too dark, right?"

"You got it." He reeled his line in for the last time. "Were not going to take a chance on hitting some idiot, anchored in the middle of the lake, who has his radio and lights turned off for the night."

"That makes sense," she said, and rose from the float. "I'll fix us a nice cold dinner if you'll open some of that vintage wine we picked up in Boulder City."

"With pleasure."

To save the aircraft electrical power, Scott positioned three flashlights in the cabin. He rigged a plastic screen made from large trash bags to separate the cockpit from the cabin. Periodically, he would enter the darkened cockpit, let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and then watch the houseboat. A few lights were on inside, but the mysterious men were nowhere in sight.

After dinner, Jackie and Scott sat on the port float. Shortly before ten o'clock, Wakefield called. Scott went into the cabin. The conversation was over in less than two minutes. He returned to the float and plopped down.

"What's the news?"

"They're going to be here in force in the morning."

"At daybreak?"

"Probably a little later, logistical problems."

"It figures." Jackie stared at the stars for a moment. "Do you think we should take off as soon as it gets light, give us an opportunity to get out of the line of fire?"

"That's certainly an attractive option." He put his arm around her shoulder. "We'll see what Wakefield's timetable is."

A major gateway to the global market for tens of millions of manufacturers and consumers across the United States, the busy port of Long Beach has had over $105 billion in trade move across its wharves in one year. The 3,000-acre facility provides excellent service for its numerous customers, who represent some of the largest and most prestigious shipping lines. No doubt about it, the Long Beach facility was considered one of the most efficient ports in the world. It had the ability to move large amounts of goods across the land-sea interface.

The port also was extremely critical to the base infrastructure of California. The state depended on a single pier for off-loading 45 percent of all maritime crude shipments to California each day. This amounted to approximately 25 to 30 percent of the crude oil consumed by the state during each twenty-four-hour cycle.

Farooq al-Zawahri, a trusted employee who had worked on the piers for over three years, was getting worried. His shift was about to come to an end, and his long-awaited mission had not been completed. He worked rapidly, filling out forms to accompany cargo that had arrived from Honolulu. Glancing at the wall clock every minute or so, he kept an ear tuned to the marine radio.

Al-Zawahris supervisor, Mariano Aguinaldo, a retired U. S. Navy chief petty officer, had not noticed that his protege had become more restless in the past few days. But tonight he saw a clear difference in al-Zawahri s behavior. The younger man, who normally worked at a leisurely pace, was constantly in motion and unusually quiet.

"Farooquie." Aguinaldo affectionately called him this. "Are you feeling okay? Stomach bothering you?"

"No, I'm fine."

Aguinaldo had reservations. "Why dont you go ahead and take off. Go get some sleep."

"No, I'm okay."

"Sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Suit yourself."

The Lucille Garrett, one of the largest containerships in the world, was fifteen minutes from sailing through the Queens Gate entrance to the port of Long Beach. The 1,124-foot vessel was carrying the equivalent of 5,200 maritime shipping containers. The behemoth ship, which drew 46.5 feet of water, was loaded with many varieties of cargo from various ports in Southeast Asia.

Only a tiny fraction of the thousands of containers aboard the Lucille Garrett would be opened by the Customs Service inspectors. There was not enough time or manpower to check even 10 percent of each arrival. Otherwise, ships would start backing up ad infinitum.

Under a moonless sky, a lightly armed U. S. Coast Guard patrol boat pulled alongside the Lucille Garrett. An armed team boarded the ship, half the men going to the bridge, the other half remaining in the engine room until the vessel docked. The patrol boats men would accompany the big containership, as they did with cruise ships, supertankers, bulk cargo ships, vessels from Middle Eastern ports, and other high-interest ships.

Overhead, a coast guard HH-65A Dolphin helicopter slowly circled the Lucille Garrett. The helicopters powerful searchlight constantly scanned the dark waters, looking for anyone who might attempt to commandeer the vessel and ram it into another large ship or petroleum storage tank.

The Lucille Garrett was running late and al-Zawahri was becoming more nervous by the minute. There was no way to know its exact location unless he tried to raise it on the radio. That would be too risky, with his boss sitting nearby. The minutes seemed to pass more quickly than usual, and al-Zawahri s shift was about to end.

"Hey, time to go," Aguinaldo said to al-Zawahri as their replacements arrived. "Want to get some breakfast?"

"Thanks, but I have a few things to do," al-Zawahri said mechanically Til see you tomorrow."

"Okay, take care."

"You, too," al-Zawahri said, as his boss greeted the newcomers and then left the building. He chatted amiably with the two men and then heard the radio announce the news he had been waiting for. The Lucille Garrett was about to enter port.

He excused himself and went to his locker to retrieve his oversized lunch pail. Saying good-bye to his co-workers, al-Zawahri left the office and walked to his car. Instead of leaving the port, he drove to an area where he could watch the Lucille Garrett enter the harbors narrow entrance.

Opening his lunch bucket, he attached two wires from a battery pack to his transmitter. Farooq al-Zawahri was about to create some major headlines around the world. Patiently, he waited for the huge ship as the helicopter slowly circled the vessel. Al-Zawahri was beginning to feel ebullient when a security guard stopped his vehicle nearby and shined a spotlight at him.

This can't be happening. He reached under his seat, pulled out a 9mm Beretta, and placed it in his lap.

The guard drove up next to al-Zawahri s well-used Ford Escort and stopped. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, sir." Al-Zawahri smiled and showed the man his credentials. "Just passing time, watching the stars and the ships."

"Yeah, its kinda relaxin, aint it?"

"It sure is, especially on a clear night like this."

The young security guard continued a steady stream of banal blather as al-Zawahris nervous system went on edge. Go away, before I have to blow your head off.

Time was rapidly running out. The bow of the Lucille Garrett was about to enter the crowded port. In desperation, al-Zawahri triggered the powerful bomb on board the containership. Twice as potent as the Khobar Towers bomb, the thundering explosion blew the ships massive hull wide open on both sides.

With his mouth agape, the dumbfounded guard became hollow-eyed. "Holysonofabitch! Gotta go!" He roared off as total chaos erupted in the port.

The Lucille Garrett's bow and a long section of the keel were already dragging on the bottom. She sank with her stern thirty yards inside the harbor s narrow opening. Many of the maritime shipping containers and the twisted superstructure of the ship jutted out of the water like a macabre sculpture.

Although the shock wave from the mind-numbing explosion severely rocked the coast guard helicopter, the pilot maintained control of the craft. The Dolphin worked with the damaged patrol boat to rescue eleven of the fifteen crewmen and all the coast guard team.

The other members of the crew either perished in the explosion or drowned after they panicked and jumped overboard without their life jackets.

Smiling with great satisfaction, Farooq al-Zawahri drove to the edge of a remote pier and tossed the incriminating evidence into deep water. He did not want to be seen leaving the port after the calamitous event. He would wait until midmorning when things settled down. Al-Zawahri had been instructed to remain on his job and wait for further orders.

Trying to temper his feelings of elation and accomplishment, he drove back to the familiar parking lot to sleep in his car. However, he soon discovered that it was impossible to sleep with all the commotion caused by the deadly assault.

The terrorist attack would close the port of Long Beach for many long weeks. Because California's refineries were operating at full capacity, only a small supply of petroleum was stored in the state. The crushing disaster would seriously erode California's gasoline supply, causing great damage to the economy of the western United States.