112

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—30 MAY

United flight 1800 landed at O’Hare at 8:05 a.m. local time.

As the Boeing 737-700 taxied to the gate, Marcus forced himself awake and texted Annie to let her know he and the team had landed safely. Thirty minutes later, they had retrieved their luggage and equipment at baggage claim and were met by a young DSS advance man driving a large white rental van. By 10 a.m., they had checked into the Hilton Garden Inn on East Cermak Street, just a mile from Soldier Field.

Once that was done, the advance man gave them keys to two Jeep Wranglers that had been rented for them and were parked in the hotel’s underground garage. Marcus took the keys to the gray one, leaving the red one for Geoff. Then the advance man gave them his mobile number, excused himself, and explained that he needed to head back to the airport to pick up another DSS team that was landing at noon.

They were to meet Roseboro at the stadium, so they dropped off their luggage and met in the parking garage. Marcus took Jenny with him. Geoff took Pete and Donny Callaghan. It was a short drive but complicated. Though it was a full week before the Mass, roadblocks were already up, sealing off the perimeter five blocks from the stadium. That would soon be extended out to ten blocks, but even now, no nonessential traffic was being permitted in this part of the city, angering every Chicagoland resident who had a daily commute into downtown.

Even on a Saturday, traffic was still a nightmare. The first checkpoint was guarded by a dozen reservists in full battle gear and an armored personnel carrier from the Illinois National Guard, topped by a .50-caliber machine gun. Marcus slowed to a stop. They showed their DSS badges and photo IDs and were eventually cleared, but they had to repeat the process at three more heavily defended checkpoints before finally parking in front of the stadium.

Roseboro and his detail met them in the lot.

Marcus shook his friend’s hand and introduced his team, then asked, “How’s it looking?”

“Aside from the fact that we have two terrorist cells on the loose and no idea where they are?” Roseboro said, pretty much setting the tone for the morning.

For the next hour, the director gave them the grand tour. They began inside, examining the stage where the president and pope would be speaking and the multiple routes Roseboro and the Secret Service had planned in case the principals needed to be evacuated. From there, they went up on the roof to see where all the sharpshooters and spotters would be positioned. It was a gorgeous, sunny morning with barely a cloud in the deep-blue sky. The view of Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline—notably the Willis Tower, formerly called the Sears Tower, once the tallest building in the world—was spectacular.

“Any thoughts on bringing in Coast Guard cutters to keep an eye on the shoreline?” Jenny asked.

“Absolutely,” Roseboro said. “Three of them arrive tomorrow.”

“Director, I’d love to see the field hospitals you told Marcus about,” Pete said.

“Absolutely, Dr. Hwang. Let’s do that now. Then I’ll take you to the command center and introduce you all to the watch commanders.”

No sooner had they headed downstairs and gone back out into the parking lot, however, than a Black Hawk helicopter with National Guard markings came roaring into view. It set down on an empty section of pavement about fifty yards from where they were standing, and the side door slid open. To their astonishment, Bill McDermott was sitting in the back and waving them over.

“Get in,” he shouted over the roar of the rotors.

“Bill, what are you doing here?” Marcus shouted back. “What’s going on?”

“Get in—now—I’ll explain on the way.”

Marcus’s phone rang as they all piled inside the chopper. It was his mother. Marcus silenced the call. He felt guilty, but it couldn’t be helped. When the side door was closed and locked, McDermott gave the pilots a thumbs-up. The Black Hawk lifted off the ground about fifteen feet, rotated 180 degrees, then rapidly gained altitude, heading north by northwest. As the Chicago skyline blurred past, Marcus realized they were heading back to the airport.

“What’s going on?” Marcus shouted again.

“A NEST team just picked up two radioactive signatures in Houston,” McDermott shouted back. “One was at an apartment complex about five miles from NRG Stadium. The other was at a parking garage three miles from the stadium. The FBI has cordoned off both areas. HPD is in the process of evacuating everyone. And DOE is deploying more NEST teams to Houston as we speak. We need to get you there right away.”

Soon they were landing at the Signature Flight Support center at O’Hare and boarding a government G5. As they taxied toward the runway, Roseboro and McDermott were speaking urgently into their phones. Marcus was hunched over his phone, scanning social media. The news had not yet broken in either the local or national media. Marcus knew the FBI and other agencies would do everything possible to keep the story contained, but part of him wanted the media to blow the story wide-open. He certainly understood the president’s desire not to create a national panic that foreign terrorists were on American soil and had in their possession nuclear weapons, or at least radioactive material. But the American people had a right to know. And Marcus still thought Washington needed to mobilize the public to find these Kairos cells before it was too late.

Then, just as they were about to take off, Marcus’s phone rang again. Hoping it was Annie, but assuming it was his mother, he checked the caller ID. To his surprise the call was coming from Aspen, Colorado. That could only be one person: Oleg Kraskin, aka the Raven, and given all that was happening, it could not be good news.