“They’re always painting, fixing, or retrofitting something on that damn thing,” Drew said. “I’ve heard that the cost of painting the bridge has exceeded the cost of building it in the first place. The painters start at one end of the bridge and by the time they reach the other, the elements have eaten through the new paint. So they turn around and paint the bridge a second time. And again. And again.”
“Is that true?” Carrie asked.
Fox shrugged. “I don’t know. Drew’s the nerdy guy full of factoids.”
“It’s true,” Drew said with a nod. “The bridge is a steel structure, so you have to paint it or it will rust and fall apart. Now they make this special long-lasting coating, but it costs an arm and a leg.”
“Where are we on the cellphone jammers?” Carrie asked.
Fox hesitated for a moment before replying, “We have them in the CIA vehicles at the ends of the bridge, and some of my men are also carrying them.”
“What’s their range? Do they cover the entire bridge?”
“No, they don’t. But a couple of my men are getting closer to the cordoned-off areas where there are still workers. They should provide sufficient coverage to jam any attempt to set off bombs triggered by cellphones.”
Carrie pursed her lips. Her eyes became narrower and she threw a firm gaze at Fox. “Call your men and order them to move all jammers to the active construction areas. We need complete coverage.”
Fox reached for the dashboard radio, but did not transmit the order. “What if the bombs are placed elsewhere on the bridge, away from the construction? What if terrorists bring in a truck loaded with explosives?”
Carrie thought about Fox’s words for a moment. He was bringing up a valid point. The terrorists would be in a hurry, rushing to put their plan into action before being discovered and detained or killed by the authorities. They might decide to just put everything in a big truck and blow it up somewhere at or around the bridge.
“They’ve infiltrated construction companies for a reason and have had at least two weeks to prepare the setup for their plan. But I agree with you, let’s keep the jammers where they are. At this point, we can close off the bridge. Order your men to clear it of the vehicles already there and stop any others approaching it. And let’s have people inspect any stopped or parked vehicle and arrest anyone who refuses their orders.”
“Right away,” Fox said with a nod and began to talk to his men on the ground.
Carrie looked out the window. They were at the edge of the airport as the North Access Road looped around its northeast corner, with industrial buildings lined up on both sides. An occasional truck or van passed by now and then, and the second Suburban was trailing right behind, its headlights reflecting in the side mirror of their vehicle.
Then they reached an overpass, and before the Suburban merged with the stream of traffic, Drew pulled out a magnetic beacon and attached it to the roof of their Suburban. The rotating light immediately had its effect on nearby vehicles, as they made room for the speeding Suburbans.
A chopper would have been so much faster and better, Carrie thought. But this fog actually works to our advantage. We can’t see that far in the distance, but neither will the terrorists see us coming. And let’s hope there’s still time.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Drew slowed down as the Suburban reached the Toll Plaza. An array of police and emergency vehicles were parked in front of the beige two-story building of the Golden Gate Bridge, Highway, and Transportation District. Two police sedans had formed a roadblock and four police officers were directing the flow of vehicles into the parking lots and the road shoulders, away from the bridge. A few people were braving the rain and had lined up on the sidewalks, throwing curious glares at the spectacle of flashing lights and the commotion. Two news vans were parked on the grass across from the parking lot.
Carrie jumped out of the car as soon as Drew parked at the curb by the District building. She scanned the area, shook her head, then climbed up the stairs leading to the main entrance of the building. A man in a gray striped power suit, in his late fifties or early sixties, with a bald, bullet-shaped head, seemed to be giving orders, as a group of five men and two women — some in police uniform and some in civilian clothes — had formed a semi-circle around him right outside the main entrance doors.
“You’re the one in charge here?” Carrie asked in a loud voice so the man could hear her over the chatter and the background hum of idling vehicles.
A couple of the men in uniform turned their heads toward Carrie. The man in the suit measured her up with a curious look, then said, “Yes, I’m Captain Fraser, Richmond Station. And you are… Oh, yes, you’re with the CIA.” He looked beyond Carrie’s shoulders.
“No, she’s not with us,” said Fox as he climbed up the stairs behind Carrie.
“I’m with the CIS, Canadian Intel Service. There’s quite a carnival here, Captain.” Carrie gestured with her hand. “Discretion was not the first thing on your mind.”
Captain Fraser’s gray eyes fixed Carrie with a harsh gaze. “It was not. The first thing on my mind was the safety of the people of my city. It’s standard procedure to involve all emergency units available in preparing for a—”
A powerful explosion broke off his words. A fireball shot up through the fog. It came from the bridge.
“That’s standard too?” Carrie pointed to the fireball. “Don’t think so.”
She rushed down the stairs, then called to one of the traffic police officers talking to a man in civilian clothes a few feet away, “Hey, throw me the keys.” She pointed at the officer’s Harley Davidson motorcycle parked by the streetlight.
The officer hesitated for a moment and looked up at Captain Fraser for orders. Carrie did not turn her head, but the captain must have nodded or made a gesture of approval, because the officer fished out the keys and tossed them to Carrie. She caught them in the air and said, “Thanks.”
She straddled the Harley, plugged in the key, and turned it. The engine rumbled with a menacing thunder. She brushed the kickstand with the heel of her boot and turned the throttle.
Fox had already gotten inside the Suburban. Carrie gestured at him to go ahead as she snaked behind the Suburban and made a sharp left-hand turn.
She went through the closest toll lane and a few seconds later entered the bridge. She knew so much about the famous landmark of the City by the Bay and had always wanted to visit it and enjoy the views of the city and the water, but not in this weather and in such circumstances. Carrie had read about the magnificent architecture and the excellent workmanship of the bridge, but hardly had time to glance at the tower and the suspension cables as she rocketed underneath them.
The police roadblock had worked well at clearing this entrance section to the bridge. All three northbound lanes were empty and Carrie sped up, reaching seventy. Traffic was still zooming from the opposite direction, and Carrie hoped the officers had closed off the other side of the bridge and no more cars were pouring in.
She blinked to clear the rain from her eyes and moved a few hair strands that had escaped from her ponytail. Then she checked the side mirrors and saw the headlights of the Suburban and a number of police cruisers following behind her.