“There is no smoking in this room,” the admiral snapped.
“Admiral, you wanna check where my authority comes from?” the master chief replied, lighting up. “Because I could give a rat’s ass if this is a non-smoking area. Or what anyone in this room cares about it.”
The aide leaned forward and whispered in the admiral’s ear at which point the officer nodded.
“Sorry, Mr. Adams,” the admiral said. “Smoke your cigar by all means. In fact, smoke a dog turd if you so wish.”
“Those things will kill you, you know,” the FEMA rep said. But he wasn’t waving the smoke away, which was something.
“I’ve got the life expectancy of a gnat anyway,” Adams said, tapping an ash into the water glass in front of him.
“They’re not that great for me, either,” the FEMA rep pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I don’t really care about your life expectancy much, either,” Adams said. “And it would go up a bit if you’d lay off the fatty foods, Heart Attack Boy.”
“Gentlemen and ladies, open your briefing documents, please,” the admiral said. “The situation is this. We have highly credible intelligence that Al Qaeda is moving a shipment of VX gas into the United States.”
“Fuck,” Adams whispered.
“You didn’t know?” the FEMA rep asked. He didn’t seem too put out over the “Heart Attack Boy” thing.
“All I got was that it was WMD,” Adams whispered back.
“VX, as most of you know, is a binary nerve agent,” the admiral said, reading off notes. “That means that it has two chemicals that are combined to make VX in the field. In systems such as artillery shells they get combined after they’re fired but the materials can be combined up to a week before use and still retain full potency. Each of the chemicals is dangerous by itself, defined as Class Four Hazardous Material. However, when combined they are lethal in very small doses. It’s referred to as odorless and tasteless. What that actually means is that if you taste it or smell it you’re already dead.
“VX, like all nerve agents, works by interfering with neurotransmission. I’m sure I’m covering old ground for most of you but the first sign of exposure is involuntary muscle movement, dizziness and nausea followed by convulsions, respiration failure and death. What it does not do, despite the movie about the stuff, is bubble your skin off. Twist you up like a dying bug? That it does.
“The best method of insertion is via the eyes followed by inhalation, especially through the sinuses, and then skin contact. The material is not a gas at normal temperatures so it is normally distributed as droplets. One droplet, smaller than a drop from an eyedropper, on the skin is lethal. For that matter, it only takes a few picograms in the eyes. That’s smaller than you can see.
“There is a cargo container of VX believed to be bound for the South Florida area,” the admiral continued. “Insertion method is unknown at this time. We have located and seized the suspect ship but it was empty of all such cargo. The crew has admitted, under questioning, that it veered from the sea-lanes and that there were others aboard who left sometime during that change of course. The numbers are unclear. The ship is a tramp freighter owned by shell companies probably connected to Al Qaeda. That is where we’re at.”
Adams actually managed to stay awake through most of the meeting. He wished he hadn’t, but what the hell. And the situation was definitely under control. Definitely. The FBI had two thousand agents in place or on the way. The Coast Guard was redeploying. The CIA was “hot on the trail.” The FBI was “developing leads.” Customs and Border Protection had the ports “locked down solid.” FEMA was “fully prepared,” courtesy of the guy in the seat next to him. The Coast Guard was “all over the situation.” Hell, the Navy had a “solid lock on all action items.”
“And what do the Georgians have for us?” the admiral asked after about an hour of ritual chest-beating.
“Dick all,” Adams said. He’d finished off the cigar long before and was wondering when the damned meeting would end so he could get a beer and wash the taste out. “Oh, we do have a top-flight intel team that doesn’t give a rat’s ass how it collects the intel. And one of the best WMD experts on the face of the earth. And a group of shooters who could probably wipe your Fibbies in about two seconds. And a record of doing this sort of shit and succeeding. Other than that? Not much.”
“If you violate privacy there’s no way we can get a conviction,” the FBI rep pointed out, angrily.
“These guys are all going to Guantanamo, anyway,” Adams said. “Who cares? You do, that’s who. So you’re going to go around ‘developing leads’ right up until you hit that constitutional protection thing. Then give it to us.”
“Chief Adams,” the FBI rep said diplomatically. “This is the United States. There are laws. While I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, if you do any of those things, federal and local law enforcement would be forced to detain you pending charges.”
“Fine, fine,” Adams said, holding up his hands. “In that case, got nothin’. We done? I need a beer.”
“I think we’re done,” the admiral said. “Could I speak to you, Mr. Adams?”
“I need a beer, too,” the FEMA rep said, getting up and taking the documents he could exit with. “But good luck. My job is just to clean up the mess. This is too much mess to want to think about.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Adams said. “Hey. You want some real beer?”
“Sure,” the FEMA rep said, frowning.
“Get with the LT and we’ll arrange a meet,” Adams said, standing up. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”
He made his way through the crowd to the admiral, who was talking to the CIA rep. Another guy wearing a DEA jacket was apparently part of the pitch.
“They’re not used to smuggling into the U.S.,” the CIA guy was saying. “It’s almost sure to be containers. We’ll probably catch those with the sniffers, but I think the main angle of attack is on the shipping company. They are going to have transferred to another ship.”
“So what do you need?” the admiral asked.
“More support,” the DEA guy replied. “Especially from the FBI. They’re trying to find the inside groups. Let’s stop it before it gets here. Seriously, South Florida used to be a smuggler’s haven but we’ve got it locked down pretty tight these days. I don’t think they’re coming in here. I think the ship was a feint; they’re probably going through Mexico. The ship probably transferred on an out-island or at sea and another ship is carrying it to Mexico. And to crunch the numbers, run down those leads, we need to get the FBI to quit dicking around with opening doors all over Miami. The guys they’re talking to my guys already know. They do drugs, not VX. Hell, they’re ruining a dozen cases and stepping all over us!”
“I’ll talk to the FBI,” the admiral said. “But you guys are the outside. So get outside. If it’s not coming in here, find out where it is coming in. You should be arranging that right now, not moaning to me. So go do it.”
The two left, leaving Adams alone with the admiral and his aide.
“Master Chief,” the admiral said, sitting down and waving to a seat.
“I wasn’t sure if the admiral remembered me, sir,” Adams said, taking the seat.
“I didn’t,” the admiral said. “I finally read the briefing document. But there are problems.”
“Aren’t there always,” Adams said.
“I don’t particularly like the way the FBI rep phrased it, but he was on point,” the admiral said. “This is the U.S. We have laws. And, face it, we own the waters around this area. So I’m not sure what you’re here for.”