“The information we have indicates that this will happen within the next few days. Given that time frames were used and targets indicated, it’s a good sign the threat is real.”
“That’s not very specific,” Prichard said. “And it doesn’t rule out the other two plants. Again, why do they think it’s us?”
Marti began to fidget a bit in her chair, indicating disinclination on her part to continue, not knowing how Prichard would take the next piece of information.
“The FBI believes someone on your staff has been compromised. The woman’s death was not accidental. The FBI has reason to believe she was murdered and then put in the water. And that puts The Headlands at the top of the list of possible plants to be attacked.”
Prichard looked at me. I tried not to show any reaction to this conclusion. I’d already concluded that and I was sure Prichard had his suspicions, too. He had to know. He was a bright guy, and there were just too may things lining up. But hearing someone else say it out loud seemed to confirm it for him.
He stood up and started pacing around his office, fists clenching and unclenching subconsciously. Then he stopped and for several moments, just stared out his window overlooking the Pacific Ocean — normally a tranquil sight.
“Who else knows about this?” Prichard asked in a low voice, clearly trying to keep his own emotions in check.
“NSIR leadership in Washington D.C., NRC regional headquarters in Arlington, Texas, and the NRC commissioners. The FBI obviously knows, and that probably means Department of Homeland Security knows. We also believe your local law enforcement has been briefed. The FBI likes to keep them in the loop. As we both know, your sheriff is cleared for this kind of information.”
I noticed Prichard had a distant look on his face, as if processing the information in the analytical way he approached problems in the power plant.
“As of now, nobody else is to know. The circle is already too wide to control. But for now, this is to be held in this room only.” Prichard then addressed me directly. “What do you think?”
I’d been sitting quietly, listening, watching, and absorbing the information. I knew that sooner or later I’d be asked for my input. I often liked to keep some of what I thought to myself so as not to taint others’ abilities to provide original thinking. But I had information they didn’t have. Information was like that. It came along in bits and pieces. Being able to put it all together to form a cohesive conclusion was something you needed to be able to do to be successful in this business. Sometimes you didn’t know you had vital information or a piece of the puzzle. And sometimes it just fell into place.
“It would help if we knew who was behind this and what their motive is. However, it’s not al-Qaida.”
“And why is that?” asks Marti, indignantly. “I just told you the information has been verified. I can assure you that it’s solid intelligence.”
Marti was looking at me disapprovingly. She apparently didn’t like being contradicted. But as I looked back at her with unflinching eyes, her look turned more to one of surprise. I’d seen that reaction before. Something about my look was making her uneasy for the first time. I found myself hoping it wasn’t just the technical issues that were making her squirm.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt the threat is real,” I said, not breaking eye contact. “But unless they signed their name to it, trust me, it’s not al-Qaida. I know something of their tactics. And remember, I told you I was just in a bar fight with two ex-military types.”
“What’s your point?” asked Marti, becoming defensive again. “A bar fight in some hick town hardly qualifies as national intelligence.” She looked at me now like who the hell did I think I was and what could I possibly know about their tactics?
“The point is, Ms. Callahan, the men in the bar had a partner — someone pulling the strings. That man was outside The Tavern, in the shadows, watching me. The fight was a deliberate attempt to slow me down or warn me off. Why would they want to do that? The answer is they obviously know I’m here and want me out of their way for some reason. These events are all connected.”
Marti leaned back in her chair again. “That’s all well and good, but doesn’t explain why it can’t be al-Qaida?” She wasn’t able to connect the dots yet.
“I saw the man in the shadows. I know him,” I said. “And he isn’t a Muslim. He used to be an Army Ranger.”
Prichard wheeled around and stared at me, hard.
CHAPTER 21
Jansen leaned back in one of the comfortable leather seats in the private Cessna jet owned by Waxman Industries, as he headed from John Wayne Airport to a private airstrip near Ft. Bragg, just up the coast from San Francisco. He was drinking water and reading the NeXus report on the defensive systems at the plant. He smiled to himself. It was so easy. He’d let Nick Connor do his work for him. He knew Nick from the Army. He’d been in the Army for eight years and was a veteran of several deployments to ‘the sand box’—as the guys down range referred to Iraq — when he’d been selected for the Ranger program. The program was as intense as any in the military and consisted of a very physical ten weeks, including several weeks learning small arms tactics at Fort Benning, Georgia, a few weeks in the mountains of north Georgia learning mountain climbing and cold weather tactics, and a few weeks in the swamps of Florida learning how to survive in snake-infested waters. Only a few of the Army’s toughest were selected for this school. Of those who began the grueling school, only thirty percent made it all the way through and earned the Ranger tab and the right to wear the tan beret, signifying a member of a Ranger Battalion.
It was a difficult program to get into, but one that Jansen felt he deserved to be in. He was strong and experienced. He had a barrel chest, tattoos on his well-developed arms, and a thick neck — every bit the part of what the movies portray as soldiers. He knew how to fight and liked to prove it every chance he got. To him, entertainment meant going to bars at night and picking fights with the biggest guys in the place. He’d get some cuts and bruises, but it was nothing compared to the hurt he inflicted on his opponents.
Despite being an elite program, Ranger school was something of a consolation prize for him. Before being selected, he’d tried to get into the significantly more elite two-year Green Beret program, otherwise known as Special Forces. It seemed he was not up to the task and washed out in the assessment and selection phase — the grueling first three weeks of the program that used physical and mental punishment to drive most of the wanna-bees to sheer exhaustion and mental collapse. Jansen could handle the physical aspects of the training, but the cadre of instructors kept riding his ass. Always in his face with their rules. They didn’t tell you everything you needed to know, but somehow expected you to find out where to be and when to be there. It wasn’t his fault he arrived late at times, or showed up missing key pieces of equipment. Everywhere else in the Army, they made it very clear where you have to be and by when. But not in SF training. They wrote instructions, including what to wear, on a white board outside the chow hall, and then changed them with little or no notice. Because he showed up late or unprepared, the whole group got smoked with punishing physical exercises. The cadre would work them until they dropped or puked their guts out. This didn’t endear Jansen to the other candidates. So at the end of the three-week period, the final activity was for each candidate to rate the others. If the other candidates rated you as someone they did not want to go to war with, they would ‘peer you out’. Not surprisingly, Jansen didn’t make the cut. He was just too much of a prick. The cadre could have saved him if they’d wanted to. But in this case, they chose not to. And the senior instructor was Nick Connor. Jansen, of course, let everyone know he blamed Nick and all the other pantywaists for his failure in assessment and selection, taking no responsibility for his own actions.