9/11 TWO Chapter 15. Transponder

15. Transponder

The journey up Skyline Drive was dark and quiet. The road wound through nature reserves that covered most of the roadway, so the only source of light was that provided by the old Dodge van. MacIver kept the lights on dim. Occasionally they passed through commercial districts or residential enclaves whose spotty lights broke open the darkness, but not enough to stimulate MacIver or Silenzio to speak. Das muttered to himself as he worked feverishly at his lap top. As time went by, MacIver started driving more and more slowly, trying to guess at what point he would need to stop. Das looked up and said, “Keep going, keep going. It’s about another five miles, I think. You’ll see it on your right, back from the road, an open lot surrounded by forest. And there’s a small commercial center just the other side of it. So you should see those lights in time for you to turn off your lights and pull up in front of the house.” Das enjoyed giving instructions to his boss. He turned back to his lap top and reached to the roof to adjust an antenna.

*

MacIver allowed the van to roll slowly to a stop, lights and engine switched off. They could just make out the tarpaulin flapping lightly in the breeze. There were lights on inside, the shades pulled well down. “I’m going to knock on the door,” said MacIver.

“I wouldn’t do that,” whispered Silenzio.

“Wait, sir. I’m getting signals,” said Das, “several signals. Probably several parts inside the missiles have ID chips.”

“Probably a TV or stereo system,” said MacIver with a hint of “I told you so.”

“No, sir, there is a match at least with one of the chips with an ID in my lost or stolen data base.”

“I’m going in!” announced MacIver in a loud whisper.

“No you’re not!” commanded Silenzio.

“I’ll just knock on the door. That’s harmless enough.”

“At five in the morning? And a black van out front bristling with antennae? Better to wait for Buick.”

“That’s why I want to go in now. To avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

“You’re so sweet, but really naive. If you knock on their door, they’ll welcome you with a bullet.”

“I’ll be ready. I’ve got my own, you know.” MacIver patted a bulge under his jacket.

Das noted the pat. “Sir! You pack a gun, sir? You’re a Rambo sir!”

“And you need to come with me. Can you disarm the missiles?”

“Sir! I’m no Rambo sir! I can do what I need to do from here.”

“And you can disarm the missiles?”

“Sir, I don’t know sir! Reading the ID Wi-Fi chips was easy. Getting into the device manager is very hard.”

“I’m going in. They are most likely preparing the attack right now. The original nine eleven was at exactly 8.46 AM.”

“So that gives us 24 hours at least,” said Silenzio as she gripped MacIver’s hand. “You’re no Buick. Keep that trigger finger in your pants!”

“You underestimate me. I’m one of the best in my gun club, you know.”

“Shooting clay pigeons, or whatever, is different from shooting terrorists. Besides, there’s nobody shooting at you in your club.”

MacIver pulled his hand away from Silenzio. “I know what I’m doing,” he said.

“No you don‘t!” Silenzio used all her considerable strength to restrain him. “Look,” she said, “let’s call Buick to see where he is.”

“Sir, it would be helpful if we knew what the payloads were, sir,” said Das.

Silenzio answered, “I am assuming the worst. Nuclear.” She was about to open her phone when it rang. “Buick?” she asked, “where are you?”

“Had a hard time rounding up enough guys this time of night. There are six of us. That should be enough to take on these Al Qaeda animals.”

“Can you get a hold of a Geiger counter and any other equipment that could detect payloads, including bio-toxins like anthrax or ricin?”

“Already thought of that. We have a remote nuclear detector. But there’s nothing for anthrax or ricin. Have to physically collect samples. But we’re bringing what we have.”

“Better bring protective gear too.”

“Will bring a few for you guys. My guys don’t wear that stuff. We draw the line at bullet proof vests.”

“And you call me Rambo!” whispered MacIver to Das.

“So where are you?” asked Silenzio.

“Be there in ten minutes.”

“Tell him no sirens!” pleaded MacIver.

“Buick? No sirens!” She looked at her phone. There was no response. “Don’t know if he got it,” she said, closing the phone.

*

Turgo had achieved everything he wanted on that day. Now, he lay on a cot in the corner of the room, napping, his eyes covered by a sleep mask, Shostakovich playing quietly in the background. The near dead Russian had been dragged to the opposite corner. The technicians had already placed the two missiles on the launcher. Two technicians were tinkering with the missiles, painting labels in roughly drawn letters. One had so far written, IN LOVING MEMORY, BIN — and still had the payload door open. The other was just putting the finishing touches to, HAPPY

BIRTHDAY FROM AL QAEDA.

Two guards, dressed in old jeans and jackets, stood by the front and back doors respectively, handling their automatic weapons. “Getting light outside,” said one. “Should check.”

“Not open curtains! Stay away from window,” called the one remaining technician.

“But heard car pull up.”

“You want let know we here?”

“But if raining not pull back tarp.”

“You’re paid to guard. Not give advice. Take up posts by the two doors.

We’ll hear the rain anyway, fool,” said the technician derisively. Turgo stirred. “Look now, you woke him up.”

“Could slip out back while still dark. Check for spies,” persisted the guard.

Turgo removed his eye mask.

“Spies? What spies, you fool. The Americans have no idea we are here!

How could they know?” mocked the technician.

Turgo sat up on the cot. “They know nothing!” he said, clearing his throat, hoarse from sleeping with his mouth open. “They fear everything.

But we not take chances. Go out, take trash can to front.”

The guard went to the back door.

“Leave your gun, fool!” ordered the technician.

“But, what if spies there?”

“You as bad as Americans. Go on, get out there! Trash can just outside door. Must get all that ricin and crap out anyway,” said the technician as he pointed to a large black trash bag in the kitchen. The guard grabbed the trash bag and pulled it through the doorway. He heaved it into the bin and wheeled it to street. It was then that he noticed the Das van. Being without his weapon, he began to retreat, but then changed his mind. He would find out who they were.

MacIver was the first to see him. “Someone’s coming! I’ll talk to him,” he said excitedly.

“And say what?” asked Silenzio.

“You’d rather I shot him?”

“I’m beginning to doubt your reputation as a cool, rational scientist.”

Suddenly, Das climbed out of the van, holding up a magnetic sign in one hand and an ID in the other.

“Das! What the —” exclaimed MacIver.

Das slapped the sign on the car door as he climbed out. He waved to the “hypothesized terrorist,” a term MacIver had insisted on, who walked cautiously towards him. Das remained standing by the van, waiting until the hypothesized terrorist was close enough to see the sign, which read GOOGLE STREET. “Good morning sir!” said Das politely, “sorry to disturb you. I am the Google man, recording video for Google’s wonderful Street View web service.” He flashed his Google ID. “I’m sure you have seen the Google van driving around. Have you tried Google Street view on the web?”

“Yes. No. Don’t like this here,” said the hypothesized terrorist. “You go soon?”

“In no more than twenty minutes. We’re having some trouble with one of our hard drives.”

“You invade privacy, no?”

“Oh no sir! We video only public streets.”

“You go soon please.”

The hypothesized terrorist walked slowly backwards, stumbling near the trash can. He then turned and walked briskly to the back of the house.

“So who’s Rambo now?” asked MacIver as Das climbed back into the van.

“No big deal, sir. In my car theft research a lot of people ask me what I am doing. I just tell them I’m the Google man, show my ID, and they go away.”

“Where’d you get the Google ID?”

“Best you don’t know, sir.”

Silenzio’s phone rang. “Buck?” she answered.

“Five minutes away. Sirens off. Tell MacIver and Das to stay in the van. You too.”

*

The guard tramped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

“A van, antennas all over it. Indian, say he Google man.”

“What color is the van?” asked Turgo.

“Black, all black, windows all.”

“It’s not Google. It’s CIA!”

“We take care of them. Just one surveillance van, not many inside.”

“Yes, better you take gun this time,” said the technician.

“No, not yet” ordered Turgo, “we must bring forward the launch. We do it now! Just one payload to finish.”

“But can easily kill them!”

“Yes, Yes. But we don’t know what backup they have. And once we start shooting, we have to launch immediately. I will get both missiles at the ready first. Better keep guns at the ready though.”

“You want the payload for the other missile?”

Turgo detached the open payload door. “Yes, ready now. Careful!”

“Is small bomb, no?” asked the technician.

“Looks small, but very big explosion. Will be felt for twenty miles around. Even here.” Turgo deftly placed the payload in the missile, attached different colored wires and flicked switches to set the launch code. Then he went to his lap top and began programming.

“How long?” asked the technician.

“About three minutes. I set to launch one minute apart.

*

“Patience and perseverance,” said Silenzio, once again holding MacIver back, “those are the most desirable characteristics of the scientist, aren’t they?"

“Where the hell is Buick?” asked MacIver pulling himself away from her. “If these terrorists have any sense at all, they will figure out that this is not a Google van. It looks more like a CIA or FBI van. We need to be ready. They could attack us any time. In fact, I think we should get out of this van. It’s a death trap.”

“But sir,” pleaded Das as he worked feverishly at his lap top, “I have all my computers here and the databases too. I’m making headway into the missile launch manager. Someone in there is programming the launch right now. I’m monitoring his keystrokes. I just need a minute or two.”

“I’m going in there,” announced MacIver as he opened the van door.

“No you’re not!” Silenzio lunged at MacIver and grabbed him tightly around the waist, hugging him to her.

“Feels like high school,” quipped MacIver as he allowed himself to fall back into Silenzio’s lap. At the same moment, the lights of an approaching car appeared in the distance, and as they came closer, they suddenly switched off. It had to be Buick.

In the glimmer of dawn, MacIver could just make out two police vans pulling up about fifty yards down the road. Darkly clad strike force officers slipped out, crouching, coming towards him. Buick was signaling orders.

The squad split up, some creeping to the back of the safe house, the others dispersing to the front and sides.

Silenzio slackened her bear hug as MacIver stepped down from the van. She followed him out.

“You guys, stay in the car. This is man’s work,” whispered Buick very much the commander.

“Don’t kill! Capture!” called MacIver in defiance. “We have to be able to stop the launch. We can’t do it without their help.”

“What do you mean? We just shoot up the missiles and that will stop the launch.”

“And risk blowing us and everyone around here to smithereens,” said MacIver derisively. “Manish is trying to crack the code so he can switch off the launcher.”

Das poked his head out the van window. “I think I disarmed one,” he said with satisfaction. “Trouble is they are set to fire one minute apart. And I don’t know which one I have disarmed!”

“We’re going in! Now get back in the van,” ordered Buick, but MacIver had already darted up to the front window of the house. Buick sprinted up to him. “OK. Professor,” he whispered, “if you must play Rambo. Let me do the assault. There’s always a chance something unexpected will happen. You stay out by the door ready to save me if I’m cornered, right?”

MacIver nodded.