Boston, Massachusetts
July 04, 2018
9:46 p.m.
Dan judged the sealed canister to be about eight inches in diameter and perhaps three feet long. His hands found no wires or connections to the cold metal object, and his search revealed no access panels, fittings or fasteners. Carefully crawling around the object, he found a small lighted LED window on one end showing 00:13:50....then 00:13:49, followed by 00:13:48. A countdown clock clicked down the time, second by second. Something catastrophic would occur in less than a quarter of an hour. With his mind in overdrive, he glanced at the small window. He now had just over twelve minutes to disable, disarm or get rid of this device before the timer hit 00:00:00 at some point during the tumultuous finale of the 1812 Overture. He didn't even know what it was. Explosives? Dirty Bomb? Gas?
The LED read 00:11:30 as Dan lifted and maneuvered the heavy canister to the pipe and followed it down the slope to the water. He cradled it out of the pipe and into the river, scraping the bottom. Without the support of the pipe, it was much heavier than he realized, and he lost his grip and dropped it before heading to the surface. He frantically yelled to the FRB crew before submerging.
"I've got a device. Need to get it to deep water ASAP."
Dan dove to the bottom and frantically searched with his hands for the canister. He found something on the bottom but it felt much lighter. It turned out to be a piece of PVC drain pipe packed with mud. He again took a quick breath on the surface and submerged again, searching desperately. His bare hands finally grasped the canister. With no fins, trying to bring it to the surface and get it onto the boat would be next to impossible. The police Lieutenant on the river bank stood dumbfounded and speechless. He thought the crazy man was dead after spending nearly three minutes under water.
With the help of a strong rescue swimmer, the two wrestled the unwieldy canister to the back of the boat where the other two crewmen pulled it aboard. They were barely over the transom when the Chief threw the throttles full ahead. The boat squatted with the power of the inboard engines driving a mind-boggling volume of water through the steerable waterjets. In thirty seconds, the boat was flying at forty-five knots, a nautical speed of advance of 1,500 yards per minute. Dan stooped and rolled the canister to see the LED now read 00:09:20. He cursed that his fumbling cost so much time. He walked forward and stood in back of the two seat cockpit that looked like it belonged in an airplane.
"Chief, I don't know what's in the package, but I guessing it's a bomb of some sort. It's got a countdown timer that says whatever is in there will be done in about nine minutes. I'm a little nervous about what's cooking."
"Yeah, so I figured." Calm and collected, the Chief seemed comfortable with the situation and completely focused on the task of getting out of the basin and dumping the device. He worked the time and distance calculations with the aid of a state-of-the-art electronic charting system which displayed a route planner among other things. "I radioed the Charlestown lock operator and ordered him to open one of the locks on both ends. He told me he couldn't do it but changed his mind when I told him we were carrying a bomb and that the locks better be open when we arrived in two-three minutes." The boat flew under the Longfellow Bridge twenty seconds later. The Chief had started a countdown clock on the boat's dashboard to monitor the time by the second.
The boat had to maintain speed in order to reach open, deep water and get as far from the waterfront as possible. But tonight, boats of every size clogged the Charles, each representing the equivalent of dangerous and sometimes moving shoal water affecting both speed and safety. The evening sky was clear but dark, and the background lights from the buildings and other boats made the transit even more difficult. Moving at any speed was dangerous and the risk of collateral damage very high. A collision here in the basin would end any hope of getting away from the crowds and minimizing the effect of the blast. The radar showed hundreds of blips, forcing the Chief to reduce his speed to avoid ramming the boats that drifted on the water. Only the larger boats anchored, and few boats displayed the navigation lights needed to avoid each other on the water. After all, this July 4th celebration meant a memorable night without a care!
The FRB had a loudspeaker system and a set of flashing lights, but no one had ever tried to slalom the basin at night with so much traffic and at full throttle. Both the security frequency and channel sixteen were used to alert boaters that a USCG boat was transiting the basin for an emergency and to clear the way. Kayakers out for the evening were swamped as the twin waterjets pushed up a rooster tail and a rolling wake. How many others would end up in the drink? Dan asked the Chief if his crew wanted to leave the boat for their own safety.
"Hell no, we're all in on this and ready to execute." He turned and yelled at the afterdeck, "Anyone want to go ashore now or all go to Hell together?"
With all their thumbs up, the crew would stick with it.
"With that question behind us and while we've got a few seconds of dead time during this transit, perhaps you can share your plan with me?" The Chief stuck out his hand, "By the way, I'm Senior Chief Boatswain's Mate Kevin Ramsey." On any other occasion, Dan would have roared with laughter at the dead-panned question. Tonight there was no time.
"Nice to meet you Senior Chief. Dan Steele. Former Navy Seal Lieutenant now with DHS. Glad to be aboard. Here's the plan: Head for the deepest point outside the harbor you can get to in..." Dan stopped and moved aft and looked at the LED countdown clock and finished the plan "in seven minutes. I'd like a place with a muddy bottom to reduce the blast effect. I'm assuming what we have here is a conventional explosive."
Dan watched the Chief's hands deftly fly over the console, keeping up a running warning on the radio's handheld microphone and topside speakers, refining the course on the electronic chart system, pushing the diesels to their maximum RPMs, slaving the track to way points and synchronizing the console's countdown clock with the LED.
"How do you drop the anchor?"
"I can release it from here or from the foredeck."
"So my working plan is to get into the deepest water you can find, wrestle the canister into the water and then ride the anchor down to the bottom. I'd like to use the weight of the anchor to crush the canister between it and whatever it hits on the bottom.
"Just so you're not surprised, Lieutenant, our anchor weighs in at a massive forty-four pounds and is attached to six feet of chain so it's not going to speed your trip to the bottom."
With 00:08:05 on the countdown clock, the boat roared past the pedestrian walkway near the Museum of Science curling a deep wake which pounded the seawall, soaking everyone on either side. After nearly careening off the old pilings on the seaward side of the fifty foot wide channel, the Chief didn't flinch, keeping the engines at full throttle, passing under I-93 and boring down on the locks' narrow trough.
The operator radioed the southernmost lock was opening and reported an unusually strong current flowing into the Charles. The boat roared through the open locks at top speed while the sounds of the 1812 Overture echoed off the nearby buildings. Time to go: 00:07:30. Dan's mind raced as the boat shot under the Charlestown Bridge, its 25,000 pounds becoming airborne with the water boiling into the opened lock.
"What else is aboard to get me down to the bottom fast?"
Standing next to Dan, the rescue swimmer answered, "Jacob always brings his dumbbell aboard when the ship is operating to keep his biceps in shape."
"See if you can get it up here on deck pronto," said the Chief, keeping a constant watch on the gauge board and the pop-up window now counting in unison with the canister's LED. Dan went aft to the small working deck to see the dumbbell and revise his free diving plan.
Jacob arrived from a below decks hatch with a gleaming stainless steel dumbbell he carried like a newspaper.
"How much does it weigh?"
"Eighty-five pounds," he replied nonchalantly.
Dan issued some quick orders and returned to the cockpit. The boat flew around Boston's north end and took a southerly course to open water. Fortunately, boat traffic was light, and the normal chop in the inner harbor had no effect on the FRB as it continued at top speed. The boat diverted from its track once to avoid an anchored ship backing and twisting to its outbound course. The Chief called out 'mark' when the boat passed the next way point at the Sumner and Callahan tunnels that link the city with East Boston and the man-made island constructed to keep Logan Airport a safe distance away. The countdown clock read 00:06:10.
Tunnel? Dan shuddered involuntarily when the Chief mentioned the word. He felt a hot flash surge through his head and extend down his body ending in a convulsive twitch. He'd had visceral reactions before but none like this. He tried to focus and ignore the fear that choked him with a shot of acid reflux from his empty stomach.