Full Assault Mode (30 page)

Joma reached for the limb of a tree, maintaining a shaky balance, and stepped off the ski with his rifle bag slung over his right shoulder. He nervously turned to Farooq. The men didn’t expect to survive this mission. In fact, if they did survive, then something would have gone terribly wrong. For their own honor, for the honor of their families, both needed to martyr themselves on the soil of their enemy. They were the vanguard cell, with a lot expected of them this night.

Allah willing, brother Nadal and the others would follow their success a month later.

“May Allah be with you, brother,” Joma said, before turning to disappear into the darkness. From the detailed planning with Timothy in the hotel room, Joma knew he needed about eleven minutes to reach a sniper position that overlooked two very intimidating bulletproof towers. His dark-skinned partner, Farooq, had only to wait for his phone call before he would maneuver the bomb under the lackadaisical eyes of the infidel and enter the gates of martyrdom.

Joma still marveled at how bitter Timothy was. He spoke long and angrily about the lapses in security at the plant. How he had pushed for thermal camera installations to protect the plant from this very thing—foot intruders with long-range weapons. Without thermal cameras to pick up heat signatures deep in the tree line, or out into the murky reservoir, the security officers in the towers had to rely on the naked eye or what they could detect from the standard monochrome security cameras. The decision makers at “higher”—the same term for upper-management personnel was used by civilians and by the military—disapproved the security department’s last three requests for advanced thermal cameras.

Joma smiled in the dark. Arrogance would be America’s undoing.

*   *   *

Timothy didn’t mind working the graveyard shift, especially since he was recently given back his officer quals and carrying a sidearm again. It was peaceful but boring duty. Almost four hours into his eight-hour shift, the light impact of raindrops on the roof of the checkpoint building reminded him of a tin-roofed cabin in the mountains. All he had to do was get through the next ten minutes or so and his shift relief would arrive, allowing him to move inside the plant and throw down the leftover slices of cold pizza he had with him that day.

Checkpoint duty was the post that everyone on the security force understood as the least defendable. There were no bullet-resistant enclosures to jump into in an emergency, as there were surrounding the actual reactor building and other vital areas. The building’s tempered glass was merely tinted and vinyl covered for safety, not bulletproof to save an officer’s life. Another example of a simple business decision by the guys with the advanced diplomas on the office walls.

It was understood that if a security officer drew checkpoint duty and a real terrorist attack happened, then they were expendable. Cannon fodder.

Two years had passed since Timothy submitted a conditions report to his superiors. He pushed for upgrades to the checkpoint position. It was the farthest armed-security-officer spot from the actual reactor fuel. It was also the most vulnerable. Only the width of two lanes of blacktop road separated thick, beautiful pine trees and intermittent oak trees. This always bothered him. Yes, they were gorgeous and kept Cherokee from looking too much like Fort Knox, but the fact that terrorists could slip through the trees and thick brush under the cover of darkness made the four cameras on the roof obsolete.

Timothy had pressed for installing thermal cameras that would pick up the body heat of a terrorist lurking in the tree line. Early detection was the key, and for a mere sixty thousand dollars, the guy or gal tabbed with checkpoint duty might just have a fighting chance.

At the moment, though, he wondered if his relief was going to be a little late. He had monitored the radio calls of his coworker, Officer Collins, and knew he was on the other side of the plant taking care of the hourly security checks. The clock had just struck 11
P.M.
, so no worries just yet. Collins would certainly be back soon enough, and cold pizza was cold pizza.

Sure, Timothy was a disgruntled employee. He wasn’t the only one. Cherokee had four hundred employees, so he wouldn’t be the last. They had gripes. They had issues they wanted addressed. Some legitimate, others ridiculous.

Timothy Reston hadn’t gone full traitor on his country. He may have if Nadal hadn’t dropped his notebook on the bus. And who knows? A few more gaming hours with ZooKeeper69 and things may have taken a turn for the worst. Maybe Timothy would have taken the next step. Eventually, he might have shared more than some basic blueprints about what each structure was called, maybe even the code words the security force used. If given enough time, and enough positive praise from ZooKeeper69 about his gaming skills, maybe he would have given some information on the critical-safety-shutdown equipment.

Having a target set to a commercial plant was like having the blueprints to the White House. Target sets are classified safeguards, translated in military terms as “top secret,” and for good reason. These documents outline the specific pieces of safety equipment that, if destroyed or rendered inoperable, would cause a release of a deadly radiation plume into the atmosphere that would kill every living thing in its path. And even Timothy knew that if they fell into the wrong hands, it could be catastrophic.

No, Timothy, from his perspective, was simply a disgruntled employee, not a traitor to his country. Yes, he wanted to see some heads roll at his workplace, but he wasn’t necessarily interested in a lot of innocent people buying the farm.

But the moment Timothy Reston shared the plant’s blueprints with a faceless new friend over an underground bulletin board and online gaming channels, he became much more than a simple pissed-off employee. On that day, some two or even three months ago, he became a traitor to his country.

His fellow employees had no idea. Timothy gave no indication that he was willing or capable of committing an act of terrorism. They never guessed that his selling out his coworkers, the general public, and even himself had been snowballing. Cherokee’s long-touted Behavior Observation Program missed the signals.

Timothy was now what government intelligence analysts and officials feared most from nuclear power plant employees. He had become an “insider.” And not just any insider. He was an insider who possessed an extensive knowledge of Cherokee’s protective strategy, had access to every key at the plant, and was willing to sell his soul to the devil, all because he didn’t like the way his supervisors treated him. It was really a shame.

Yes, Timothy was extremely disgruntled. Timothy had willingly conspired with al Qaeda terrorists, and although he had never laid eyes on them or even talked with them over the phone, he had crossed the line. And had Kolt and Tungsten not entered the picture, tonight might be his last day on earth. If things had been different, the world would soon know that Benedict Arnold’s treason would be a footnote in history compared with Timothy Reston’s complicit support in engineering radiological sabotage on Cherokee Power Plant—an act of terrorism unequaled on United States soil.

The radio on Timothy’s hip startled him. “Checkpoint, this is Central. Radio check. Over.”

Timothy turned to look at the clock on the wall. Where had the last hour gone since the previous hourly radio check with the Central Alarm Station?

“Central, this is Checkpoint. All clear,” he responded while eyeballing the suite of four monochrome flat screens on the wall above his head, almost as if he was worried the boogeyman was about to attack. Timothy’s post was protected with 360-degree camera coverage. Mounted on the four corners of the stone white checkpoint building, the cameras monitored each cardinal direction from within the building. Inside the protected area of the power plant, both the Central Alarm Station and the Secondary Alarm Station received the same feed that Timothy saw at the checkpoint.

The radio squawked to life again.

“Central, this is Collins. Over.” Timothy’s eyebrows rose quickly. He looked down at his hip to see the red light flashing on his radio. Why in the world is Collins calling Central right now?”

“This is Central. Send your traffic. Over.”

“Uh, yeah, Central, seems I have flat tire out here behind the cooling towers,” Collins said.

“Do you need assistance?”

Collins was quick to respond. “Well, I wouldn’t need any if the tire jack was where it is supposed to be. But since it is missing, I guess I need some help.”

“Understand. Stand by for assistance.”

Timothy shook his head in disgust.
Shitty evening all around, I guess
.

Timothy was feeling the hunger pains, but he was a professional first. He didn’t sweat it and sat back down for some more time-killing gaming on his cell. As Timothy tapped through the selections, he noticed the headlights of an approaching vehicle. He leaned up to see just over the bottom edge of the window and around the flat screen on the corner table, hoping it wasn’t a delivery vehicle that would require him to exit the booth to search it for contraband and explosives.

It’s just Warren.

From twenty feet away, Timothy recognized the company truck and the face of Warren Samperson, the longtime plant engineer, in the driver’s seat. He wouldn’t need to step out into the rain to check his vehicle. Timothy knew the only thing he was bringing back to the plant that he hadn’t left with twenty minutes earlier when making his rounds were his coworkers’ donuts and coffee.

Officer Reston opened the door to the security booth to wave Warren Samperson through as he activated the button to raise the yellow drop-arm barrier but remained in the doorway to stay out of the rain.

The vehicle barely came to a stop before the first round was fired. From the backseat directly behind the driver’s seat, Abdul ripped the balaclava off his head as he raised his H&K .40 caliber auto pistol, leveled it at Timothy’s chest, and fired two rapid shots that blew the safety glass out of the left rear window. Abdul didn’t even bother to roll the tinted window down. Timothy never saw it coming, and it shocked Kolt almost as much. That wasn’t the plan.

That son of a bitch! I knew it!

Immediately after both shots were fired, Warren ducked into a ball on the floorboard. He didn’t think to place the vehicle in park first and accidentally pressed the gas pedal with his knee. The vehicle lurched forward and rammed directly into the metal barrier twenty feet ahead before it stopped cold in its tracks. Both passenger air bags deployed, one engulfing Warren and the other slamming into Kolt’s head like a sledgehammer, knocking the revolver from his firing hand.

Bleeding badly and quickly heading into shock, Timothy struggled to crawl away from the truck. Abdul’s marksmanship was effective, but off the mark. Timothy was bleeding from his left hip as the first round grazed the holder of his Mace can and entered just under his gun belt. The second copper round had pierced his left palm since he had instinctively raised his hand as if he could stop a bullet.

Lying in his own blood, he didn’t think to make a radio call to Central. He didn’t have time to sound the general duress alarm. He was too busy scrambling to survive. At that moment, every bit of tactical training Timothy ever received rushed back to him.

He had been training for this moment his entire life. All the preparation over the past sixteen years was for the moment when he would have to deploy his weapon for real. For when he would have to actually use deadly force against an armed intruder. For when he would have to do his duty, his duty to protect the American people. The moment when he would quite possibly live up to the extraordinary standards of professionalism and dedication to a cause that everyone in his extended family colored his cousin Darren with.

Timothy didn’t have time to go into shock. No, Timothy knew exactly what he had to do.

He drew his semiautomatic sidearm and power stroked the slide to make his weapon hot.

But Timothy’s body wasn’t keeping pace with his survival instincts. Inside the truck, Abdul swapped his pistol for his AK-47 rifle. He placed the backs of his upper arms on the door, ignoring the small pebble-size glass pieces still present, balanced himself, and stuck the rifle out the window.

“Allah u Akbar! Allah u Akbar!”

Kolt turned from the front passenger seat toward Abdul. “NOOOOO!” he yelled. It was too late.

Lying on his back and panicking now, Timothy pleaded, “Don’t do it. Don’t do it.” He nervously raised his pistol, fighting the wobble nerves, and broke the hammer three times rapidly. Three 9mm rounds tore into the side of the vehicle, failing to penetrate the truck’s door.

Timothy missed, but Abdul didn’t. He struck Timothy once in his bulletproof plate and twice in his upper chest area, closer to his shoulder.

Timothy’s grip released his sidearm, dropping it to the tarmac just outside the doorway. It bounced three feet away before coming to rest near the truck’s left rear whitewall.

Kolt quickly reached toward the coffee holder, picking up two Styrofoam cups and flipping the plastic tops off with his thumbs. He lifted them out and, in one smooth motion, reached over the seat and threw the scalding hot coffee in Abdul’s face. Abdul let out a painful scream, dropped his rifle, closed his eyes, and, naturally, brought his hands to his face.

Kolt reached over and turned the ignition off. He barely noticed Warren, still huddled on the floorboard. Warren’s hands were over his head, as if to protect himself from falling objects. The deflated air bag rested on his shoulders.

Kolt frantically searched for his dropped revolver, ripping the air bags out of the way. No luck.

Kolt bailed.

Abdul should have bailed, too, but he didn’t.

Kolt moved quickly to Timothy’s side and took a knee. He didn’t have time to unclip Timothy’s rifle sling from the lower receiver and pull the rifle away from his body. Instead, Kolt leaned down and placed his right eye behind the Trijicon day sight and raised the muzzle to place the red dot near the back window. He steadied it at the head propped back on the headrest.