The Rule of Nine (32 page)

A
hmed was back in the rear of the 727, huddled up against the raised ramp over the bomb on its custom-built carriage. Using a ratchet and a set of sockets, he first unbolted the three metal straps holding the bomb in place.

Thorn had trained him thoroughly on all of the preattack procedures and had provided a checklist.

As soon as Ahmed removed the last strap, he went to work on the four long bolts holding the rolling carriage in place. Before he removed that last bolt, he replaced the third one with a soft piece of pine doweling the same length as the missing bolt.

When he was finished the only thing keeping the rolling carriage and the bomb that was on it from moving was the single wooden dowel. When the ramp was lowered, the shifting weight of the carriage, and the two-thousand-pound bomb resting on it, would snap the dowel like a twig. Their fearless leader, the Australian who ran the show, had tested it on the ground using simulated weights, not once, but several times, and each time the dowel snapped as if on cue.

The only difference this time was that the carriage and the bomb would roll down the rails and sail into the open sky from the low
ered airstairs of the plane. The carriage would fall away, free, as the large rear fins and the front canard on the bomb slowed its descent and the laser sensor in the nose cone began searching for the signal.

Ahmed put the ratchet and sockets back in the toolbox and placed the box, along with loose bolts and metal straps, into a storage bin in the plane's cargo area. He made sure the lid on the bin was latched and locked. Then he checked all of the other equipment in the cargo bay to make sure that it was all lashed down tight.

When the airstairs opened at their current speed and altitude, the plane would experience a sudden loss of pressure. This would suck anything and everything that wasn't secured or tied down out through the open door. One loose piece of equipment colliding with the bomb in midair could destroy the entire mission.

Ahmed took one final look and then headed back to the flight deck. He wasn't a minute too early. Just as he settled into the left-hand seat and started to buckle up, two jet fighters screamed past the nose of the plane.

Ahmed nearly got whiplash trying to turn his head to follow the path of their flight. He saw one of them start to take a wide, arcing turn to come around behind the 727, then lost sight of him.

Ahmed took over the controls. A few seconds later one of the F-16s pulled up alongside the nose of the larger plane, about forty feet off the port-side window of the cockpit. The fighter pilot turned his head and looked directly at Ahmed.

“Take the controls,” said Ahmed.

Masud did as instructed.

Ahmed reached down and picked up his radio headset, held it up to the side window, and then signaled thumbs-down, a sign that their radio was out. As far as Ahmed was concerned, he would now use anything just to buy another minute of flight time.

The fighter pilot looked at him, stern eyes from over the top of his oxygen mask, nodded, then maneuvered to wave his wings, the sign that Ahmed was being instructed to follow him. Both of the
Saudi pilots knew they were on a suicide mission. But the goal was worth it. What they had been told was that the bomb was destined for downtown Washington, and the destruction of the United States Capitol Building.

 

Thorn sat on one of the concrete benches along East Capitol Plaza just above the ramp to the Capitol Visitor Center. The subterranean monstrosity was a disaster. Its construction was nearly 1,000 percent over budget and three years late, but it did have a consistent theme.

Forcing taxpayers in a hole to see their government in action couldn't help but remind them of the bottomless pit Congress kept digging with their galactic budget deficits.

As far as Thorn was concerned, the last building any reputable terrorist would want to blow up would be the Capitol. Why kill your most potent ally? Congress had done more damage to the country in the last twenty years than a legion of suicide bombers. And they were still hammering away.

He knew that Joselyn Cole and the two men with her had been tracking him since before he'd left Puerto Rico. His employer had kept him informed through the elaborate telephone code system. How the employer found out about the trio Thorn didn't know. Nor did he care. In ten more minutes it wouldn't matter. By then it would all be over.

He opened the snap locks on the attaché case and checked his watch. He lifted the lid and punched the power button on the laptop inside. Thorn scooted a little sideways to make sure that the computer's antenna would have a clear line of sight to the copper dome over the reading room in the Library of Congress across the street. He watched as the screen lit up and the program booted. The computer battery had plenty of life. The only one he had to worry about was the small NiCad battery on the little brown bat.

Thorn held his breath and hit the keys. A few seconds later the camera on the back of the bat came to life. He breathed easy and glanced around a little to make sure no one was watching. He pulled the lid on the attaché case closed just a bit to gain shade on the screen and to conceal it from prying eyes. Gently Thorn put his finger on the track pad and the camera lens began to move as the gimbal rotated on the back of the bat.

To Thorn, who had been at war for thirty years, the new micro-technology was nothing short of stunning. During the First Gulf War, doing what he was doing now would have required a device known as a “mule.” It was a cumbersome black blunderbuss, a sawed-off shotgun on electronic steroids. It had a shoulder stock so you could steady the laser beam on the target. And when the words “light 'em up” were used, it didn't mean “smoke 'em if you got 'em.” It was the order to paint the target with the mule, a laser designator, to aim it and turn on the switch so that the receiver on the incoming ordnance could home in on the laser beam and strike within an inch of its center.

To anyone standing near a target that was painted, the laser was invisible. The target designator, unlike a laser pointer in a classroom, did not emit a continuous beam. Instead it sent out laser light in a series of coded pulses. These signals were designed to bounce off the target and into the sky. There the pulse would be detected by the seeker on the laser-guided ordnance. The incoming bunker buster would steer itself toward the center of the reflected signal, and unless the people inside had access to laser-detection equipment, the only thing they would hear would be the ear-splitting detonation from the blast that killed them.

Because the device emitted no heat signature and only a tiny radar profile, the gravity-directed bomb would be largely immune to antimissile defense systems, including other missiles and Phalanx, a high-speed radar-directed Gatling gun designed to destroy incoming missiles in flight.

To Thorn, size was everything.

Laser designators came in a number of sizes, generally ranging from a black box that resembled your grandfather's eight-millimeter movie camera mounted on a tripod to a sleeker model that looked like a squared-off set of large binoculars. But the little brown bat could never carry that big a payload.

The key for Thorn was miniaturization. The answer had come from a small firm in Delaware. The company had lost out on a bid with the army to design a miniaturized laser designator. They already had two prototypes, laser-targeting diodes not much bigger than a watch battery. In fact, it was a large watch battery mounted on the back of the bat that provided the power for the camera and the optically linked laser. Thorn had already turned on the camera just for a few seconds in order to train it on the section of roof across the street from the Library of Congress. The beam, when it was turned on, would pulse off the roof of the Supreme Court Building, the area directly over the courtroom. The small watch battery would last only about ten minutes, but for Thorn's purposes that would be long enough.

The reason Thorn's small point-and-shoot camera did not set off the metal detector the day he scoped out the target from inside, the gullible Jimmie Snyder in tow, was that it wasn't a camera at all. It was a laser range finder capable of measuring minute distances with amazing precision. It was made of carbon fiber and plastic.

What Thorn needed to know was the exact distance between floors, from floor to ceiling at each level, as well as the distance from the front edge of the gabled roof to the bench in the courtroom. What bothered him most was the area of the gymnasium with its basketball court. What they jokingly referred to as “the highest court in the land.” Thorn had to be sure that the bunker-busting munitions would “breach the monastery” and penetrate to the correct depth, where it would detonate on cue, directly over the angled bench.

The bunker buster was designed to penetrate up to one hundred feet of earth and twenty feet of steel-reinforced concrete be
fore detonating. To receive his final payment, he had to be certain that the fuel-vapor charge would level the building and leave not a single survivor among the nine justices sitting at the bench.

The rapid consumption of oxygen resulting from the firing of the mixed-fuel mist in a confined area would produce a near vacuum followed by shock waves that would collapse the entire structure where the blast occurred.

Those caught inside a hardened structure by such a blast, if not incinerated or suffocated by the depletion of oxygen sucked from their lungs, would likely die of massive concussive injuries to internal organs resulting from the heat-driven pressure wave.

T
he opening day of the Supreme Court's new session, the first Monday in October, is always high ceremony. The chief justice first welcomes any visiting judges and lawyers from abroad. He then swears in lawyers applying to become members of the Supreme Court bar. All of this takes time before the court begins to hear the argument in the first case of the day.

I can see from a block away as we run through the East Plaza behind the Capitol that a crowd has already assembled out in front of the Supreme Court Building, in the distance across the street.

I glance at my watch. The court would already be seated at the bench. This must be the overflow, members of the public who have been turned away because the courtroom is full.

There is a line of television cameras up on the west plaza, facing the building's white stairs and portico. Reporters are staged in front of them using the stark white glare of the temple's gleaming marble as a backdrop.

“Thorn could be anywhere,” says Joselyn. “We'll never find him.”

“I don't think so. He's going to have to be close by somewhere.”

“Why?”

“The model plane,” I tell her.

“Stop,” she says. Joselyn is out of breath.

“He was practicing against that shed out in the field for a reason. That little toy has something to do with his plan. If that's the case, he won't be able to get beyond the range of the radio controls.”

“You don't understand,” Joselyn says. “The military can fly their drones from anywhere in the world.”

“Yes, but they have satellites. Thorn's not the U.S. military,” I tell her. “He wouldn't have access to satellites. He's going to have to stay within the line of sight to maintain radio control. If his little bird gets behind a building, he's going to lose it. That means he has to stay somewhere close to the target.”

“But he could be in a building or a car,” she says. “We may not be able to see him. Let's call 911.”

“And tell them what?” I say.

“That there's a bomb in the Supreme Court Building.” She looks at me and arches an eyebrow. “The worst that can happen is that they arrest us. But at least they'll have to clear the building.”

We are directly in front of the east steps behind the Capitol. I look at her. “Do it,” I tell her.

“I can't. I don't have a phone. I left my purse back in the room.”

I grab my cell phone off the clip on my belt and flip it to her. “You stay here. I'm going to keep looking for Thorn.” I turn and start running toward the Supreme Court Building three hundred yards away.

“How do I stay in touch with you if you don't have a phone?” she says.

I turn, palms up, shrug my shoulders, and shake my head as I skip away and start to run again.

 

“Potomac air control. This is VNG 118. That's affirmative, he's got all three engines burning hot and fast. No sign of any engine
trouble.” The F-16 flying behind the FedEx flight had a clear view of all three engines and could see that they were throwing heat.

The other F-16 alongside hit his afterburner and pulled out in front of the big 727. He wagged his wings a couple more times in a clear indication that the larger plane was to follow him. Then the fighter made a long, slow, sweeping turn northeast, toward Dover Air Force Base in Delaware.

 

Ahmed reached down, tightened his seat belt, and told Masud to get his oxygen going. Ahmed put on his own mask, tightened the straps behind his head, and then pulled back hard on the yoke. The nose of the 727 started climbing as Ahmed watched the dial on the altimeter start to turn like the second-hand sweep on a watch. Every thousand feet added range to the bomb. The plane had already penetrated both the outer and inner defensive zones. Anything Ahmed could get now added insurance. He put his fingers on the lever controlling the airstairs in the back.

 

“This is VNG 118. I have a lock on the target.”

“VNG 118, you have authorization to launch. Repeat, you are authorized to launch.”

The fighter pilot flipped up the cap cover on the trigger and pressed the button. The sidewinder fell away from his right wing. Just as the rocket motor cut in and the missile began to streak ahead, the rear ramp on the 727 suddenly yawned open. A large bomb fell away, separated from its metal carrier, and before the fighter pilot could react, both the bomb and the carrier were below and behind him.

Two seconds later the sidewinder streaked into the exhaust
port of the 727's starboard engine and exploded. The F-16 pulled skyward, and a second later a massive yellow fireball filled the air where the FedEx flight had been. Hot shards of flaming metal streaked from the fiery blast as the debris pattern left curling contrails in the sky.

“Andrews control, this is VNG 118, target destroyed, but incoming ordnance is in the air.”

“Andrews control to VNG 118, say again.”

“This is VNG 118. The target was able to release ordnance.”

“Can you describe, kind and type?”

“Negative.”

“Any chance you can get a radar lock?”

“No, sir. Item was too small, and from what I could see, there was no heat source.”

“Tower to VNG 118. See if you can pick it up.”

“VNG 118 to Andrews control, will do.”

 

On the east side of the United States Capitol, East Capitol Street is like a broad bridge, a concourse for pedestrians only about a hundred and thirty yards long until you reach First Street.

At that intersection, cars cross it going north and south, and vehicles can drive in an easterly direction on East Capitol. On the north corner of First and East Capitol Street is the Supreme Court Building. On the south corner sits the Library of Congress.

I jog past tourists milling in each direction on the pedestrians-only walkway until I am about sixty yards from First Street, when I see him. At first I am not sure if it's Thorn. From this angle I can see only a portion of his face. He is sitting on a concrete bench near the end of the concourse, no more than twenty yards away.

I stop running so as not to draw attention to myself and wan
der over toward the railing on the left-hand side of the walkway to get a better look. I lean against the railing with my back to him and then slowly turn.

At the moment his head is down. He has an attaché case on his lap with the lid open, both hands inside. Whatever he is doing, his attention is focused inside the case. He is wearing dark glasses and his face is shaded. Then suddenly he looks up, turns his head the other way, and for several seconds he stares across the street, not in the direction of the Supreme Court Building. Instead he is looking toward the Library of Congress, up high, toward the copper dome.

In that instant it clicks, the copper wings on the model plane. He has already landed the little brown bat. What it's doing up there I have no idea. But there is no time left. Without thinking I push off from the railing and run straight at him.

Thorn hears my footfalls on the hard concrete and starts to turn his head. Running at full bore, six feet out from the bench I launch myself into the air.

Just as Thorn's startled eyes turn to fix on me I roll my right shoulder into his upper body and smash into him.

 

The impact moves Thorn's thumb on the computer track pad and sends the servomotor for the camera gimbal on the back of the little brown bat gyrating. The laser signal darts skyward just as the sensor in the bomb's nose cone homes in. The servomotors on the canard and tail fins suddenly rotate, lifting the nose of the bomb from its sharp dive to a more flattened trajectory as the control surfaces bite into the air.

 

The impact of my body drives Thorn off the bench and sends both of us sprawling across the pavement. The attaché case flips into the air and slides across the concrete as the laptop flies out of it and skitters along the ground.

A woman screams and tourists suddenly move away from the bench as if it were the entrance to hell.

Even before he hits the pavement, Thorn's hands are reaching out, trying to grab the flying computer as if it were a fumbled football. He hits the ground and instantly rolls up onto one knee.

Before I can move, he scrambles ten feet across the cement to the computer. Single-minded and focused, he tries to get his fingers on the controls.

Just as he picks up the computer and starts to finger the keyboard, a moving shadow crosses the ground. A whooshing sound streaks overhead. Thorn looks up, a kind of pleading expression in his eyes. Two seconds later a flash of light followed by a massive concussive explosion rocks the ground.

 

Joselyn connected with the dispatcher at 911, and reported that there was a bomb in the U.S. Supreme Court Building. She was watching, wondering what was happening, as she saw Paul race across the sidewalk maybe a hundred and thirty yards away, and careen into someone seated on a concrete bench.

“Who is this?” said the dispatcher. “I need your name.”

“There's no time to talk,” said Joselyn. “Just evacuate the building and do it now!”

Before she could even press the button to hang up she felt the ground rock beneath her feet with the force of the explosion. Her gaze turned toward the flash of light and she saw the rising mushroom cloud as it billowed two hundred feet into the air little more than a half mile away.

 

The VRE, Virginia Rail Express, had just pulled out of Union Station, headed for Fredericksburg, in northern Virginia, when the blast ripped up the rails a quarter of a mile behind it.

The explosion sent a mound of dirt and debris high into the sky as the concussion rattled the trailing truck on the last passenger car off the rails. The slow-moving train immediately applied its brakes and came to a screeching halt as flames and an immense plume of black smoke rose into the sky just down the tracks behind the train.

 

With the concussive blast, all eyes around us suddenly turn away from the brawl on the concrete toward the north and the rising plume of smoke. A couple of women are screaming. A few of the tourists start to run. Others seem frozen in place.

I look into Thorn's eyes. What I see is desperation and anger. Only he and I know that the collision on the bench and the massive explosion were connected.

He looks at me for only a second before he darts toward the sidewalk on First Street. Suddenly he realizes he has a chance to escape. He looks at me with a scowl, turns, and starts to walk away.

In an instant I'm on my feet.

He turns, sees me, and starts to run.

“Paul, let him go!” It's Joselyn behind me, running to catch up. “Let the police get him.”

I turn, look at her. “Stay there!”

She cups her hands around her mouth. She's still a hundred feet away. “Let him go. The police will find him.”

But by then it's too late. Adrenaline has taken hold. I turn back toward Thorn, and with the chase instinct of a cat, I find myself in
a footrace. We run down the sidewalk on First Street dodging tourists and government workers.

Thorn is maybe two hundred feet ahead of me, running at full speed. He reaches Independence Avenue and doesn't even slow down. He runs out into the intersection against a red light, dodging cars with honking horns.

By the time I get there, he's opened up a lead of almost half a block. I continue running. I can see him in the distance. Suddenly a car pulls up next to me. It's a cab and Joselyn is in the back. She opens the door. “Get in!” she says.

I turn and look back at Thorn just as he runs between two barricades blocking cars from turning onto First Street across the intersection up ahead. “Go around and head him off,” I tell her. “Don't get out of the car. Use the phone to call the police.”

She nods, slams the door closed, and the cab speeds away.

I continue running down the block until I reach the traffic barricade, then step between the two gates and start to jog again. I am in a canyon between two House office buildings, in the shade. I catch a fleeting glimpse of Thorn as he steps off the sidewalk to the right and disappears somewhere beyond the next intersection up ahead. I begin to wonder if he has a car parked in a garage or a lot. I pick up the pace and start to run.

As I clear the barricade at the other end of the block, I see the yellow cab coming this way. Now if he has a car we can follow him and call in the location to the cops. The cab screams up the street and stops at midblock. A few seconds later I reach it just as Joselyn is getting out of the backseat.

“I hope you have some money. All I have in my pocket is some change, a credit card, and my Metro pass,” she says. “And we'll need that.”

“Why?”

“Hurry up. Pay the driver,” she says.

I do it and she grabs me by the hand, pulling me across the
street. Then I realize where we're going. The sign says
CAPITOL SOUTH
. It's an open, cavernous concrete hole in the ground with escalators. We jump on the one going down.

“You sure he went in here?”

“I saw him,” she says. “I just hope he hasn't gotten on one of the trains yet or we'll lose him for good.”

The escalator drops into the bowels of the earth, maybe two hundred feet belowground. When we reach the underground station, it's a milling madhouse with vending machines and a ticket kiosk that has a long line in front of it.

“Follow me.” Joselyn reaches into her pocket.

I stay right behind her.

She reaches the turnstile and slips a plastic card into the slot then steps through. She grabs the card as it's spit out on the other side then reaches and hands it to me. I do the same and within seconds we're running for the platform. I'm looking both ways, scanning the crowd to see if there's any sign of Thorn.

Joselyn sees two uniformed cops patrolling the station on the other side of the tracks. “Give me a moment, I'll have to go back up and over the top so I can tell them what's happening. I'll be right back.” She leaves me standing on the platform as she heads back toward the ticket area.