“I’m afraid it’s not,” he said without looking up. “Please sit down. We need to sort some things out.”
She glanced around the room. “You can’t keep this quiet. That message belongs to a private business — a news business. That’s why we exist. A terrorist blew up that plane. People have a right to know that the whole airline industry could very well be under attack. I need to call my station. This is the biggest news story we’ve ever had — the biggest anyone’s ever had. I don’t understand.”
“Ma’am, calm down. Let us try and confirm the facts,” Riley said. “We don’t need to start shouting anything about the airline industry being under attack. And we certainly don’t want to take away anyone’s rights.”
“May I at least use the bathroom?”
“I’m sorry. Of course.” Riley nodded at a female agent. He leaned over the table and took Griffin’s phone — an indication that he was serious. She didn’t protest.
Another agent entered the room and handed Ford two pieces of paper.
“The official departure was logged at 6:01 a.m. Two minutes after the phone warning. And it was a mobile call. AT&T said it originated from a US Cellular tower at 5970 South Howell Avenue. That’s on the south end of the airport. He was right there.”
“Or very close,” Riley muttered. “They’re still in love with cell phones. After the Pakistanis tracked Khalid Sheik Mohammed to his safe house in Karachi, we all thought they stopped.”
“Terrorists aren’t stupid,” Rand said. “They all know about cell phone tracing via SIM cards and won’t fall into that trap again. They never stopped using cell phones at all; they’ve simply switched to disposables — throwaways. Probably a TRAC phone, prepaid and bought right off the shelf just about anywhere. No ID or credit card required. They’ll use it once and then toss it. It’s impossible to track or trace. We can fix a general radius from where a call originates, but it’s wide and limited. It’s a shame that disposables don’t have GPS tracking ability, or we could narrow the owner’s location down to feet.”
Only if the owner is dumb enough to hang onto it, Riley thought to himself, slightly miffed that Rand beat him to the explanation. He rose from the table and pulled Ross into an adjoining suite. He closed the door.
“All right, who is this reporter and what is she to you?”
“This is nuts, Jack,” Ross said defensively.
“This is way beyond nuts, pal. How well do you know her?”
“I swear we just met.”
“Do you know that she’s a constitutional time bomb? I’m talking unprecedented. She’s a material witness with the ability to panic the country. All she needs to do is pick up the phone and boom — this story becomes world headlines. And I’m not sure we can legally stop it.”
“You think she’d do that?”
“In a heartbeat. Some members of our beloved free press don’t care about keeping information secret even if it aids our enemies. I don’t care if we have to take that bandage off her head and wrap it across her mouth — I will not allow her to do that. The press isn’t tipping our hand. Not this time.”
“I disagree,” Ross said firmly. “She’s not that way. I’ll talk to her.”
Riley scoffed out loud. “Man, are you a dreamer. You just admitted that you don’t even know her. Trust me. She’s using you for one thing. Breaking news.”
Ross massaged his chin. “So what are you going to do?”
“What are we going to do?” Riley corrected as he glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to Washington. I’ve got a fair idea where my boss will want this to go.”
“A big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue?”
“A big, white house.” Riley motioned to a table in the corner of the room. “Have a seat, Mr. NTSB. As far as our little constitutional problem goes, there might be an alternative. I hope you’re up for a special assignment. It’s an extraordinary proposition, but these are extraordinary circumstances. I think it’ll buy us some time.”
Chapter 24
Secretary of Homeland Security Samuel Bridge was a fifty-five-year-old veteran of war, politics, and, for a brief period, acting. A three-term ex-governor of Wisconsin, Bridge was a tall, square-shouldered man with a linebacker’s physique. He had an angry face like that of a freight train’s engine, which left his younger staff in a constant state of timidity and his older staff in a constant state of laughter at the younger staff.
Retired from politics, Bridge had been living in western Wisconsin on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River when the president proposed the DHS cabinet nomination. Bridge accepted under the condition that the administration let him secure the US-Canadian border. As a governor, he had championed the issue for years, but other than modest increases in state funding, little was ever done. In his final term, reports had surfaced about comments he allegedly made about becoming more of a friend to Wisconsin’s Chippewa Tribe on the state’s largest reservation at Lac du Flambeau. Something about sitting down with them “Indian-style,” a gambling compact in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. He vehemently denied the allegations but chose not to seek re-election.
An avid Harley-Davidson fan, Bridge was in his driveway just about to leave on a week-long fund-raising ride in support of the Wounded Warrior Project.
“Sir, it’s Jack Riley,” an aide announced, handing Bridge a phone. “He’s airborne en route to Reagan National. He says it’s urgent.”
Seated in full leather garb on his touring FLHR Road King, Bridge pulled off one glove and unsnapped his helmet. He still bristled at the thought of private aircraft being allowed into DC’s airspace, even with a special transponder code and constant FAA radio contact.
“Mr. Secretary, it appears that we have a specific and credible terror threat,” Riley’s voice announced. “We just confirmed it.”
“Confirmed how?” Bridge asked sternly.
“Someone called the news media and advised them of the crash two minutes before it happened. A warning like that suggests it was premeditated. Probably an onboard explosive,” he theorized. “It appears to be a deliberate action.”
Bridge immediately suspected in-flight explosion tactics similar to those planned by twenty-one London terrorists. Then he considered something even more sinister: Flight 587, which had mysteriously crashed in Queens, New York, sixty days after 9/11. The investigation suggested a combination of pilot error and vortex wind from another jet, but he wasn’t convinced.
“Did you say someone advised the media?” Bridge asked. “On board how and where?”
“We’re not certain, sir. Luggage, in-flight assembly, suicide… it’s too early to tell.”
“Jack, we can’t move on guesses,” the Secretary warned unnecessarily. “If you’re telling me we’ve got a shoe or underwear bomber situation that’s actually worked, then I’m going to personally find Darryl Nadler and serve up his head on a dinner plate.” Nadler headed the TSA’s Office of Security Operations, the group in charge of cargo and passenger screening procedures at all US airports. “What’s your ETA?”
“Half an hour.”
“Step on it,” Bridge ordered. “I’m sending a car.”
Riley clicked off. Step on what? he wondered. The G-1159’s speed was already pushing 480 mph.
Bridge handed the phone to an aide. He checked his watch. “Get me Andrew Bard.” He swung his leg over the Harley and walked it back to the garage, slamming his helmet onto the seat.