Sea of Fire by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin Page A
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure
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the United States has faced for years. How do you monitor every point of access? It’s tough enough catching drug shipments. Radioactive materials are even more difficult.”
Coffey was right. There was not much that anyone could do about it. A terrorist could use a lead-lined fountain pen or pocket watch or even a rabbit’s foot on a key chain to slip plutonium into a country. Just a few grams of weapons-grade material would be enough to kill thousands of people or contaminate tens of thousands of gallons of water.
“Has the press been all over this?” Hood asked.
“Not yet. The government is trying to keep this as quiet as possible,” Coffey said. “Patients and visitors are being kept away from the man’s room, but this is a big hospital. Someone is certain to hear that something unusual happened. The game plan is to deny that anything hot was involved.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Hood asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Coffey replied. “Right now it looks as though someone’s motioning for me. I think they want me in the room. Paul, I’ll call you back when I can.”
“I’ll be here another hour or so,” Hood said. “Then you can get me on the cell or at the apartment.”
“Very good,” Coffey said and hung up.
Hood placed the phone in the cradle. He sat back and thought about what was happening on the other side of the world. It was strange how events like this caused the globe to shrink. Conceivably, what Coffey and the others were dealing with could impact the United States within hours. Nuclear material could be transported clandestinely by sea and then loaded onto an aircraft anywhere in the region. The plane could be flown to a small airfield in Washington or New York or Los Angeles. A small amount of nuclear material could be walked into the terminal and left in a waste can. Or dropped on the floor under a bench. The human toll would be extraordinary. A larger amount of nuclear matter could be attached to a makeshift explosive. Perhaps homemade plastique or cans of spray paint triggered by a car flare. The human toll of the dirty bomb would be unthinkable.
All of that could be in progress right now, Hood thought. The realization came with a keen sense of helplessness.
There were always crises. That was why Op-Center had been chartered. They were the National Crisis Management Center. But the personality of these disasters had changed over the years. The speed, the scope, and the frequency of them were terrifying. And though more resources were being applied to combat them, those resources targeted existing patterns and likely perpetrators. A methodology had not yet been created to anticipate what Bob Herbert called “kamikaze genocide”—the piecemeal extermination of Westerners by suicide attacks.
Several years ago, when Op-Center was combating neo-Nazis, Herbert said something that had stayed with Hood.
“When the brain doesn’t have enough information, only your gut can tell you what to do,” the intelligence chief said. “Fortunately, since some depraved sons of bitches blew up my wife and my legs, my gut has been able to digest some pretty sick thoughts.”
Hood suddenly felt energized. He and his team would figure this out. They would figure out everything that came along. Every deviant variation, every monster. They had to. It was necessity but also something more.
It was stubborn, blessed American pride.
FOURTEEN
Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:47 P.M.
“Madam, we are not going to inject the patient with anything!”
The speaker was a man in a white tunic. Probably the attending physician. He was standing in a tight circle with Ellsworth, Loh, and Jelbart. Ellsworth was the one who had motioned Coffey over. The man’s strident voice was the first thing Lowell Coffey heard as he approached the closed door.
“Doctor,” said Loh, “we have a situation that needs to be resolved as swiftly as possible—”
“And I have a patient who needs rest,” he
Coffey was right. There was not much that anyone could do about it. A terrorist could use a lead-lined fountain pen or pocket watch or even a rabbit’s foot on a key chain to slip plutonium into a country. Just a few grams of weapons-grade material would be enough to kill thousands of people or contaminate tens of thousands of gallons of water.
“Has the press been all over this?” Hood asked.
“Not yet. The government is trying to keep this as quiet as possible,” Coffey said. “Patients and visitors are being kept away from the man’s room, but this is a big hospital. Someone is certain to hear that something unusual happened. The game plan is to deny that anything hot was involved.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Hood asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Coffey replied. “Right now it looks as though someone’s motioning for me. I think they want me in the room. Paul, I’ll call you back when I can.”
“I’ll be here another hour or so,” Hood said. “Then you can get me on the cell or at the apartment.”
“Very good,” Coffey said and hung up.
Hood placed the phone in the cradle. He sat back and thought about what was happening on the other side of the world. It was strange how events like this caused the globe to shrink. Conceivably, what Coffey and the others were dealing with could impact the United States within hours. Nuclear material could be transported clandestinely by sea and then loaded onto an aircraft anywhere in the region. The plane could be flown to a small airfield in Washington or New York or Los Angeles. A small amount of nuclear material could be walked into the terminal and left in a waste can. Or dropped on the floor under a bench. The human toll would be extraordinary. A larger amount of nuclear matter could be attached to a makeshift explosive. Perhaps homemade plastique or cans of spray paint triggered by a car flare. The human toll of the dirty bomb would be unthinkable.
All of that could be in progress right now, Hood thought. The realization came with a keen sense of helplessness.
There were always crises. That was why Op-Center had been chartered. They were the National Crisis Management Center. But the personality of these disasters had changed over the years. The speed, the scope, and the frequency of them were terrifying. And though more resources were being applied to combat them, those resources targeted existing patterns and likely perpetrators. A methodology had not yet been created to anticipate what Bob Herbert called “kamikaze genocide”—the piecemeal extermination of Westerners by suicide attacks.
Several years ago, when Op-Center was combating neo-Nazis, Herbert said something that had stayed with Hood.
“When the brain doesn’t have enough information, only your gut can tell you what to do,” the intelligence chief said. “Fortunately, since some depraved sons of bitches blew up my wife and my legs, my gut has been able to digest some pretty sick thoughts.”
Hood suddenly felt energized. He and his team would figure this out. They would figure out everything that came along. Every deviant variation, every monster. They had to. It was necessity but also something more.
It was stubborn, blessed American pride.
FOURTEEN
Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:47 P.M.
“Madam, we are not going to inject the patient with anything!”
The speaker was a man in a white tunic. Probably the attending physician. He was standing in a tight circle with Ellsworth, Loh, and Jelbart. Ellsworth was the one who had motioned Coffey over. The man’s strident voice was the first thing Lowell Coffey heard as he approached the closed door.
“Doctor,” said Loh, “we have a situation that needs to be resolved as swiftly as possible—”
“And I have a patient who needs rest,” he
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