Chapter Thirty-eight

 

 

San Francisco International Airport, California, United States of America

December 5, 7:05 p.m.

 

The Gulfstream G550 glided onto the wet black tarmac of the runway and began to taxi toward the private terminal and hangar of the flight support company Signature. They were located across from the main terminals and away from most of the air traffic, right on the shore of San Francisco Bay. Carrie sat impatiently in her chair, glancing at the thin gray fog and the darkness veiling most of the airport complex.

It had started to rain just as they were descending over the runway and the visibility was reduced to just a dozen or so feet. The Russian pilots did not seem too bothered, as they landed the plane without as much as a bump. It was clear this was not their first time landing in a fog, and Carrie suspected Romanov had picked these men to fly his plane specifically because of their ability to land in such poor conditions.

She spotted two black Chevrolet Suburbans parked in front of the gray terminal building. Their bright headlights cut like thick laser beams through the hazy curtain. It was Fox and someone else from his CIA team. One of the Suburbans started to slide slowly in reverse toward an empty section of the ramp where the pilot was steering the plane. Two other airplanes were sitting on the ramp. One of them was a Gulfstream, but a smaller model, and the other one was a Learjet.

The blonde flight attendant opened the door as soon as the pilot’s voice came over the PA system. Carrie thanked her and her partner and hurried down the flight of stairs without waiting for the Suburban to pull up next to the plane.

She lifted the collar of her brown woolen coat and threw her knapsack over her shoulder. She took a few quick steps and the Suburban stopped by her. Carrie pulled open the back door behind the driver and jumped inside the vehicle.

“Welcome, O’Connor. I’m Fox and this is Special Agent Drew Conti,” said the man in the front passenger seat. He cocked his head and looked at Carrie as he spoke in a firm tone.

Carrie nodded. “Nice to meet you both, and thanks for meeting me here. And you can call me Carrie.”

“Sure thing,” Drew said and he smiled at her in the rearview mirror.

Carrie noticed his clear blue eyes, which she thought were uncommon for a man of Italian descent like Drew. Maybe he’s from northern Italy. On the other hand, Fox had short blonde hair, green eyes, and pale skin, which made her think of a Scandinavian complexion. It went well with his last name, Anderson. The CIA special agents were both dressed in black suits and felt overcoats.

Drew’s foot found the gas pedal and the Suburban roared to life. It went past the other Suburban, then it headed toward the exit on the left side of the terminal.

Fox’s eyes fell on Carrie’s knapsack, then he looked back at her face for an explanation.

“My things,” she said with a shrug. “Cellphone, laptop, an MP-443, and an AK.”

Fox’s face registered a small frown.

“Didn’t want to be a burden, so I brought my own gear,” Carrie said before Fox could voice his protest about the illegal weapons Carrie was bringing inside the United States.

Fox’s frown disappeared as quickly as it had formed and he gave her a nod. “Fine, but we’ll have to take them away at the end of this op.”

Or I can just take them with me to Canada, Carrie thought, but only nodded back.

The Suburban turned right, and someone from inside the terminal flicked a switch and the chain link gate began to roll away with a loud rumble. Drew made a left turn and they were now on North Access Road. The gray waters of the San Francisco Bay appeared on their right side. The thick haze was hanging low over the surface and the darkness had engulfed everything beyond a dozen or so yards from the shore.

“We couldn’t get a chopper as it’s too foggy for a safe flight,” Fox said.

“How long until we get to the bridge?” Carrie asked.

“About half an hour,” Fox said. “Once we’ll get on I-380, we’ll put on our flashers.”

“Is everyone in position?” Carrie asked as she unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted to the middle of the back seat, in order to look at both Drew’s and Fox’s faces.

“Yes, most of the agents. It took some time to bring them in with unmarked vehicles and in a discreet way. They’re on standby at both ends of the bridge. There are also some FBI agents and SFPD officers spread out on the bridge itself.”

“How many construction workers are on the bridge?” Carrie asked.

“We’ve gotten reports placing that number between eight and twelve. See, there are currently four different construction companies working on the bridge. The weather was much nicer during the day: clear, sunny. So we had painters on one side and ironworkers on the other, inspecting and repairing the corroding steel and rivets. And there were some problems with the electrical systems and the foghorns, so another team was fixing those problems. Finally, more workers were paving a section of the bridge. It was pretty crazy.”

“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.