Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [244]
As it had many facets of American government and society, 9/11 had brought into sharp focus the need for more robust material control programs, and to its credit the DOE had spared no expense in pursuit of that goal. NNSA Protective Forces were trained in small-unit antiterrorist tactics and equipped with armored vehicles and heavy-caliber weapons, including grenade launchers, armor-piercing rounds, and at select sites, mobile and fixed Dillon M134D Gatling Gun systems.
None of the URC’s intelligence suggested the NNSA was manning the facility this far in advance, but the Emir had been clear with Musa: Assume you will meet with heavy resistance. Assume you have only minutes to complete your mission.
“Where are we with the other elements?” the Emir asked Tariq. “The truck.”
“It left the plant this afternoon. Transit time is four days. Ibrahim and his team are on the ground. Unless we send him the abort, they should be moving in”—Tariq checked his watch—“three hours. The ship is two days out; our people in Norfolk are ready. As it stands, the ship will probably have to overnight at anchor before being assigned a berth.”
“Good. And Mr. Nayoan’s men?”
“In place and ready. They will not move until you give the order. They’ll need twenty-four hours’ notice.” The Emir nodded, and Tariq asked, “What do you want to do with the girl?”
“Let her go. She knows nothing about us, and Beketov is dead. The link between us and her people is gone. Even if she’s picked up, the only leads she can offer will either go nowhere or go where we want them to go. She’s earned her money.”
“She knows about the facility.”
“What of it? She was hired by some fringe environmental group to dig up damaging information about the facility. That’s all. She’s a mercenary, Tariq. She’ll take her money and move on.”
Tariq considered this, then nodded. “Very well.”
“One last detail: I’ll be joining Musa on his mission.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’ll record a message before I leave. Once we’ve succeeded, you will make sure it reaches the right hands.” Tariq opened his mouth to speak, but the Emir waved him off. “Old friend, you know this is necessary. My death, and what we do here, will fuel our war for generations to come.”
“When did you decide this?”
“It’s been the plan from the start. Why else would we have come here—to this forsaken place?”
“Let me join you.”
The Emir shook his head. “It’s not your time. You must trust me on this. Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”
Tariq nodded.
73
PULLING INTO the town of Paulinia just after sunset, Shasif Hadi could see the lights of the refinery, still some four miles away, long before he could see the complex itself. Seventeen hundred acres of distillation columns, fractionation towers, and high-voltage wires, all festooned with blinking red lights designed to warn off low-flying aircraft, and all unnecessary, as far as Hadi was concerned. If any pilot managed to miss seeing the dozens of pole-mounted stadium lights illuminating the complex’s work areas, he deserved to crash.
The main highway from Campinas, the SP-332, wound along the northern outskirts of Paulinia before swinging back first to the west, then to the north, before finally passing the refinery complex on the left. Hadi drove past it and continued north for another mile before reaching his turnoff, a two-lane asphalt road heading due east. This he followed exactly one and a half miles to where the road curved yet again and the blacktop gave way to gravel. A hundred yards ahead, his headlights picked