The Black Bullet

CHAPTER NINETY

It was early morning when the 45-foot Sea Ray turned portside from the Atlantic and slipped into Wassaw Sound east of Savannah. The pilot followed the channel markers. Small fishing boats and jet skiers buzzed across the wide bay.

Mohammed Sharif sipped a dark coffee. He had not slept in two days. He knew there would be no sleep until the work on the bomb was underway. That would be very soon. He watched as they passed Sister Island on the left and the opulent homes of the Wilmington Island Club on the right. An attractive blond woman in a tiny bikini stood at the end of a dock and applied sun screen. Mohammed stared at her, watched her rub sunscreen on her breasts, felt the movement in his loins and disgust in his heart.

The pilot looked at his gauges and said, “We will have to refuel in about an hour.”

“They will be waiting for us in a cemetery next to the river,” Mohammed said. “It is called Bonaventure Cemetery, and we will see the road next to the river. This road is Mulryne Way. We will load the truck. You will go on farther, perhaps three kilometers to dock in Savannah off East River Street. Leave the keys, walk away, check into a hotel and wait for instructions. You will fly the plane. You, Anwar, will be the man who releases the bomb on America.”

“It is my honor … my duty and destiny. Allah Akbar. ”

O’Brien pulled into a McDonalds restaurant parking lot. He turned on his laptop and found a signal.

“What are you doing?” Hunter asked.

“If they went south, assuming the boat even had twin diesel tanks, they’d probably be looking to refuel somewhere in the Fort Pierce area. If they went north, Savannah might be as far as they’d get. Now what would be-” O’Brien stopped in mid-thought, his eyes burning into the satellite image of Savannah.

“What is it?” Hunter asked.

“Is Dave Collins out of the hospital?”

“Don’t know.”

“Can you have a chopper waiting for us?”

“Yes, Sean. But I need to know why.”

“It’s a hunch, but I need to Skype in Dave to make it happen.” O’Brien made the Skype connection, glancing at his watch. Nick Cronus appeared on the screen and said, “Hey, buddy. You okay? Where the hell are you, Sean?”

“Where’s Dave? Is he okay, Nick?”

“For an old dude, he’s all right. Got his shoulder in a sling. Picked him up from the hospital last night and brought him back to his boat-refused to stay there overnight. Right now he’s lying down, maybe sleeping.”

“Get him, Nick. We have a hell of an emergency here.”

“Hold on.”

O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose, his scalp tightening, head pounding. He looked over at Hunter and said, “If my hunch is right, we need to head north.”

“Sean,” said Dave on screen. “What’s the situation?”

O’Brien said, “I’m here with Eric Hunter, near Jacksonville. When you were talking about Remote Viewing, you mentioned a physicist. Believe you said he worked at the Savannah River Nuclear Site.”

“Yes, name’s Lee Toffler. Why?”

“You’d said he had a daughter who was just killed in a car accident.”

“Awful. From what I read she died in a car fire. Burned beyond recognition.”

“Did they check dental records?”

“Don’t know. Probably not if it was her car.”

“Was another car involved?”

“A second car? I remember the story … said she’d lost control and hit a tree.”

Eric Hunter looked at his watch and asked, “Sean, where the hell are you going with this?”

“Maybe to one of the most dangerous places in America.” He glanced at the computer screen. “Dave, when was the last time you saw Toffler?”

“Not since the ‘90s when we hired him as a consultant for the Remote Viewing.”

“Do you have his number?”

“Probably in my files. Toffler is the kind of guy that’s lived in the same house for thirty-five years. Drives the same car until the engine dies. Frugal and very smart.”

“Call him.”

Dave sipped his coffee. “Okay. But what am I going to ask him? ‘Hey, Lee, are you sure you buried your daughter. Hell of a conversation opener.”

“No, you won’t have to ask him that because by now he probably knows his daughter is alive and being held hostage.”

“What?” Dave asked.

“When you had mentioned Toffler to Nick and I and then said his daughter had just died, it was about the same time Sharif thought he’d have his hands on the HEU. Kidnap the renowned physicist’s daughter and you raise red flags. Fake her death, nobody remembers in a few weeks. Sharif probably called her father a day after the funeral, put the terrified daughter on the phone a second and then started making demands. Toffler keeps his mouth shut and does what the terrorists want.”

“In this case,” Hunter said, “you get him to take the HEU and make it go boom.”

“Jesus,” Nick said, taking a sip of black coffee.

“Nick,” said Dave, “hand me the Rolodex on the desk, next to the laptop.”

O’Brien said, “After you touch base, ask him who’s holding his daughter.”

Dave nodded. “I’ll put him on speaker. Jump in, Sean, wherever you want.”

In two rings, a fatigued voice answered, “Yes?”

“Lee, this is Dave Collins, CIA.”

“Oh … Dave. I can’t talk right now … ”

“Have your daughter’s kidnappers approached you?”

Silence. Then, “How’d you know she was kidnapped?”

“We didn’t for certain, Mr. Toffler,” O’Brien said.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Sean O’Brien. Old friends with Dave. I’m helping the FBI and CIA find the people who took your daughter. Do you know where they are holding her?”

“I can’t risk my daughter’s life. They said they’d cut her head off if police-”

“We’re not police. We’re the people who can get your daughter back alive. But we can only do it with your cooperation.”

“I’m sorry.” The phone disconnected.