She looked up again. “All I know is that we’re getting hammered by terrorists of all stripes using different techniques and weapons to hit different types of targets in different parts of the country. And the only thing I can see that they’ve got in common is that they’re damned good at what they do.”
Thorn grimaced. “True.” Every separate attack showed clear signs of careful advance planning and attention to detail. That was one of the factors that had first led him to believe someone with military training might be involved. Something else about the terrorist strikes tugged at his memory. Something about the communiques claiming responsibility…
Helens phone buzzed, breaking his train of thought. “Special Agent Gray here.”
Thorn sat still while she listened to someone on the other end.
“Right. I’ll be there.” Helen hung up. She looked sadly at him. “I have to go, Peter. Flynn’s called a meeting in five minutes to go over the preliminary reports on the monorail bombing.”
“Is he still giving you grief about sharing information with me?” Thorn asked seriously.
“Not much.” One side of Helen’s mouth twitched upward for an instant.
“Mike Flynn’s got a few too many other things to worry about right now. So I think he’s pretty well decided to turn a blind eye on us at least as long as he doesn’t trip over you every time he turns around.”
Thorn forced some humor into his own voice. “Got it. I’ll practice tiptoeing on eggshells.” He stood up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” he asked.
She nodded and came around the desk to kiss him goodbye. “Tomorrow.”
Thorn was on the Metro before he remembered what it was that had been bothering him about the terrorist communiques. Every one of them had been written or spoken in precise, textbook-perfect English. At first he’d thought that was because the terrorists wanted to avoid giving the FBI’s language analysts any regional accents or speech patterns that could be used to identify them later. But what if there was another reason? A simpler reason? Did all the statements sound like textbook English precisely because they were taken out of a textbook?
He thought hard about that all the way back to the Pentagon.
NOVEMBER
22
NBC
News
morning briefing, “Terrorism in America”
NBC
had built a special set in its New York broadcast studios as a backdrop for its daily reports on the terrorist campaigns convulsing the nation. A giant electronic map of the United States framed the news desk and NBC’s top anchorman. Pulsing red lights scattered across the map marked areas officially confirmed by the
FBI
as terror attacks. A large monitor showed the grim, determined face of Senator Stephen Reiser, the Senate majority leader. He was being interviewed by satellite linkup with the Capitol Hill television studio.
“If I understand you correctly, Senator, you believe that the administration’s response to this wave of terrorism has been too weak and too hesitant. Is that right?”
Reiser nodded flatly. “That’s right, Tony.” He frowned. “For God’s sake, we know the kinds of people responsible for these atrocities. I see no reason on earth to keep tiptoeing around the way we’ve been doing. A little police or
FBI
raid here or there isn’t going to stop this thing.”
“What exactly are you proposing?” the interviewer asked curiously. Reiser was a rare politician one noted for his blunt talk and acid wit.
The senator did not disappoint him.
“A knockout blow. Something that would stop these terrorists in their tracks. I think the President should get up off his duff and declare a nationwide state of emergency. We should slap every known member of these extremist groups into preventive detention until we can sort out the guilty from the innocent. And if the police and
FBI
are too damned shorthanded, I think we should deploy the Army and Marines to do the job!”
“Wouldn’t the
ACLU
and other civil rights organisations object to ” the interviewer began.
“The hell with the ACLU!” Reiser interrupted sharply. “We’re at war, whether those idiots know it or not.”
South-Central Los Angeles, California
Officer Carlos Esparo swore softly as the scene in his binoculars swam into sharper focus. He and his partner were stationed seven blocks from the improvised roadblock thrown up across a major street leading into one of L.A.’s poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods. The roadblock wasn’t much not yet. Just a few old clunkers parked sideways across the street. But it was manned by punks. By gang members wearing their colors. By armed gang members. Most wore pistols tucked into their pants, and he could see at least one shotgun. The
LAPD
officer was willing to bet they had automatic weapons too. He’d had too many run-ins with the local street gangs not to respect their firepower.
They were stopping every car and truck headed into South Central. Only those driven by blacks were allowed through the roadblock. The others, those driven by whites, Hispanics, or Asians, were waved back with menacing gestures and shouted insults.
Esparo clicked the button on his radio mike. “No, sir. There’s been no violence. Not yet anyway. But I still think ”
The voice of his watch commander cut him off. “Don’t think, Carlos. The orders come right from the top. You just stay put and observe the situation. Got it? Don’t intervene unless they start getting out of hand. And even then, you check with me first. Is that clear?”
Esparo gritted his teeth. “Clear, sir.” He understood the reasoning behind his orders even if he didn’t like them very much. With racial tensions climbing every day, the
LAPD
could not risk sparking another disastrous riot. Even his request for a
SWAT
sniper team on standby had been refused. They were too busy guarding vulnerable installations and city officials.
NOVEMBER
23
Oak Brook, Illinois
The coils of razor wire strung across the quiet, suburban street west of Chicago seemed utterly out of place. So did the hunting rifles slung over the shoulders of the well-dressed, mostly middle-aged men clustered around a tiny portable heater. Their breath steamed in the freezing late autumn air and they seemed acutely uncomfortable. But they also looked angry and utterly fixed in purpose.
Against police advice, Oak Brook’s various Neighborhood Watch groups had decided to arm themselves against what they saw as a rising tide of terrorism and civil strife. Their members, mostly wealthy lawyers, doctors, and stockbrokers, were taking turns away from work to patrol the streets and to man checkpoints at key locations. All of them were determined to make sure that no “undesirables” bent on murder, rape, or pillage menaced their homes or families.
America’s social fabric was starting to come apart at the seams.
NOVEMBER
24
On the Potomac River, near Leesburg, Virginia.
(D
MINUS
21)
A severe autumn storm the howling, roaring creation of high winds and driving sheets of ice-cold rain tore across Maryland and Virginia just after dark. The long, black wall of clouds came pouring down out of the Blue Ridge Mountains, scudding eastward across rolling hills, woods, and open farmland toward the Chesapeake Bay. Thirty miles northwest of Washington, D.C., the storm swept over the tall steel towers of the PennMarVa Electrical Intertie.
The intertie’s transmission lines linked Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia electric utilities together in a common power pool. Under normal conditions, the network enhanced each company’s market and power supply position.
Lines running north gave them access to cheaper hydroelectric power routed from Canada. The intertie also made it possible for member utilities to swap electricity back and forth to meet unexpected demand or to make up for out-of-commission generating plants.
Now, though, the power transmission network was a liability a weak point open to attack. Its long high-voltage lines were especially vulnerable where they crossed the Potomac.
Sefer Halovic turned his face to the bitter, clearising wind with something very like exultation in his soul. For him the storm was a manifestation of God’s power a vast and elemental force lashing out at America’s sophisticated technology and its material works. It was surely a sign of divine favor for his own secret war.
Strengthened by this revelation, he swung back to the task at hand.
A massive electrical transmission tower loomed out of the darkness above him like some primeval monster. As warning to low-flying aircraft, a ruby-red light blinked at its peak, one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. The fierce wind keening through the tower’s steel girders rose and fell in eerie counterpoint to the low, crackling hum of raw electricity coursing through the 500-kilovolt lines it supported.
Halovic peered through a blinding torrent of rain, following the swaying power lines northward across the Potomac until they disappeared in the swirling darkness well short of the Maryland shore. Another tower soared there, visible only as a hazy, pulsing glow in the distance. Truly, this was the place to strike, he thought. Once again, General Taleh’s planners had done their work well.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
Khalil Yassine had to yell to be heard over the wind and rain. “The charges are in place!”
“Good!” Halovic patted the backpack slung from his let* shoulder. “I will place the detonators myself Use the radio. Find out how Nizrahim and his men are coming along.”
The young Palestinian nodded sharply and slithered down the rain-soaked slope toward where they’d parked the vehicle they were using tonight a dark-colored jeep Wrangler. It held the automatic weapons they would need later, spare explosives, and communications gear.
Halovic moved in the opposite direction, toward the nearest leg of the giant transmission tower. He knelt beside the white blocks of plastic explosive Yassine had molded to the steel, and reached inside the backpack for a reel of detonator cord. More blocks of C4 were visible on another of the tower’s four supports. Ignoring the freezing rain soaking through his jacket, the Bosnian began his delicate work. First, he stuck sections of the detcord into all of the charges the younger man had placed. Then he spliced the separate lengths together. He did not hurry. Men who took foolish chances when rigging demolitions rarely lived to regret their haste.
Satisfied that his splices would hold, Halovic started back toward the Wrangler, carefully trailing the detonator cord behind him. Again, he took his time, making sure of his footing before taking any step. Slipping in the mud now could undo all his hard work.
The Bosnian would have preferred using a surer, easier means to set off his explosives, but that was impossible. This close to a high-voltage source, timed or electrical detonators were too likely to malfunction or go off prematurely.
Yassine rejoined him halfway down the slope. “Nizrahim says they are almost ready. He is standing by.”
Halovic nodded without looking up.
Five minutes later, he knelt again, this time on the muddy access road next to their stolen Jeep. This far away, the transmission tower was only a halfseen blur through the pouring rain. A dirt embankment offered rudimentary cover. He pulled more equipment out of his backpack. In quick succession he taped the end of the detcord around a nonelectric blasting cap and then attached a time fuse and fuse lighter. Ready.
Halovic climbed up the embankment and gently placed the detonator assembly on the ground within easy reach. Then he slid back down the embankment. Set.
Yassine crouched beside him holding the walkie-talkie to his face as though it were a sacred talisman.
The Bosnian reached up and gripped the pull ring on the fuse lighter. He glanced at his companion and nodded sharply. “Go!”
The younger man clicked the transmit button on the walkie-talkie.
“Fire!”
In that same instant Halovic yanked the pull ring out of the lighter and flattened himself against the embankment. The blasting cap exploded, sending fire racing through the detonator cord at 21,000 feet per second.
THUMMP
.
THUMMP
. Harsh white light flared against the dark, rain-drenched sky as their plastic explosives went off, shearing through hardened steel supports as though they were butter.
Two more explosions echoed across the river as the charges Nizrahim’s team had set on the Maryland tower detonated.
Halovic cautiously raised his head over the embankment to check his handiwork.
With two of its four steel supports shattered, the Virginiaside transmission tower shuddered, whipping back and forth through the rain. Then gravity and its own enormous weight took hold. Girders and bolts buckled under stresses they were never designed to withstand. Slowly first and then faster, amid the wrenching scream of tearing metal, the tower swayed sideways and toppled.
The long, twin 500-kv lines fell with it, whirring downward through the air, smashing through trees, and splashing into the white-capped Potomac. On the way down, they made contact and shorted out. Streamers of hellish blue light arced back and forth between the swishing wires like bolts of lightning trapped in a narrow space. Abruptly, everything went black.
Halovic blinked away the dazzling afterimages and turned toward his staring, openmouthed companion. “Come, Yassine. We have much more to do before we are done.”
The Palestinian nodded and followed him down the embankment to their waiting vehicle.
PennMarVa Intertie Emergency Control Centers As planned, the terrorist attack came at the worst possible time the hour just after sunset when the demand for electricity peaked. Streets were now brightly lit against the gathering darkness. Office lights, computers, and copiers were still on. And millions of people coming home from work or school were flipping on lamps, televisions, ovens, and microwaves.
So when the PennMarVa Intertie’s 500-kv line went down, it created havoc in seconds. Current was still flowing south with nowhere to go. Emergency circuit breakers tripped automatically, desperately shunting the electrical load to secondary 230-kv lines. But the cascading load was too much for them to handle. Line temperatures rose rapidly, climbing toward the danger zone. More circuit breakers blew out across the entire system.