I noticed, too, that in the great tradition of bureaucratic communication, none of these messages directly mentioned the nature of the problem—though you’d have to be an idiot not to understand that the threat was a weapon of mass destruction. To be fair, however, you don’t want to put that out in plain English for other people to see and hear.
On that subject, I also knew from classified briefings and memos that there were two opposing schools of thought regarding alerting the populace that an attack from a WMD was imminent. One school of thought said an alert to evacuate a heavily populated area would cause pandemonium, and injuries and death, possibly in excess of the attack itself.
Theory two said that it was morally indefensible to not alert the population.
To take it a step further, if there was no alert, and the nuke blew, a lot of people in Washington would have a lot of explaining to do. And if there was an alert, leading to panic and chaos, and the nuke didn’t blow—or didn’t exist—there would be unnecessary deaths and injuries. Not to mention great embarrassment.
Tough call.
Well, I didn’t know which theory Washington was going with tonight, but if I had to guess I’d say they were still arguing over the word “imminent.”
Conte showed us an e-mail that said: To reiterate previous instructions, U.S. Coast Guard craft will take the lead in any attempted boarding of target vessel.
I didn’t think that was going to go over big with the NYPD Harbor units. But when the Feds are on the case, as we all knew, everyone else stands back and applauds.
Conte received a text and said to us, “All security craft will leave the harbor at zero eight-fifteen hours and proceed to Gravesend Bay. Or earlier if fuel is an issue.”
I glanced at the fuel gauges and saw that indeed fuel could become an issue, and Andersson confirmed, “Even at idle, we’re not going to make it to eight-fifteen.”
Was that good news or bad news? I mean, at what point do we haul ass out of here with enough fuel to make it out of the harbor? Also, apparently I wasn’t the only one who had figured out that you didn’t want to be here at 8:46 A.M.
In truth, however, 8:46 A.M. had no meaning any longer. By now, of course, Petrov knew that we were on to his game, and I had no doubt that he would advance the clock. I had no idea where he and The Hana were hiding, but I was sure Petrov was going to detonate the nuke as soon as he felt we were closing in on him. By now, however, he had turned off all his electronics, including radar and radios, so he was basically deaf, dumb, and blind, and I pictured him aboard The Hana using only his eyes, ears, and instincts to determine when to make his move. Also, by now he must have understood that he was not going to survive this mission, so he, like us, was preparing himself for his final journey. And also, like us, he was not going to lose his nerve at the last minute; Colonel Vasily Petrov was about to sail into history.
Conte looked at a new text message and informed us, “Due to a credible terrorist threat, all flights into Kennedy, Newark, and La Guardia have been diverted. Also, all public transportation into Manhattan has been suspended, and all bridges and tunnels will be closed.”
So there would be no inbound rush hour this morning, and that would save a lot of lives if the worst happened. But there were still a million and a half people who lived in Manhattan and another few hundred thousand visitors and tourists, plus a few hundred thousand people who lived and worked along the shorelines of Brooklyn, New Jersey, and Staten Island, and apparently there was no plan to attempt an evacuation.
Conte received a text saying: Search continues in New York Harbor and all adjacent waters for target ship. Threat level remains high.
Well, I thought, that was one way of saying to everyone, “Stay awake.”
It was like a stakeout where the hours pass and what you’re looking for and waiting for doesn’t happen. You start to second-guess the information you acted on, and you start to wonder if the bosses got it wrong again. And with each hour that passes, your mind goes from hypervigilance to a sense that this isn’t real anymore. And it’s at that moment when the shit hits the fan.
If I could put myself into the heads of everyone in the White House Situation Room, I’m sure that a bunker mentality was taking hold. Some people would be arguing that the threat was either overhyped, or had passed, or it had never existed.
Also, someone would point out that New York Harbor was blocked, as were the East and Hudson Rivers, and all waterways were being patrolled, and there was no sign of the target ship. Plus, police patrols had checked out all docks and piers in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and New Jersey. More importantly, someone would argue, there had not been a single radioactive hit since this operation began. And that was the real problem. Though I hoped everyone had gotten the word about The Hana’s flooded garage and they understood why The Hana was not emitting radiation.
But when you get tons of negative information, that causes a false sense of security, not to mention a comfortable sense of denial.
There’s not a lot to do in a small ship’s cabin while you’re standing around waiting for a nuclear explosion—or hopefully an alert that the target has been spotted—so Conte and Andersson played with their electronics, monitored their instruments, and pulled up New York Harbor on Google Earth. Tess scanned the water and shorelines with binoculars, and I stared out at the Manhattan skyline, and the Statue of Liberty, and the Twin Beams. Now and then Tess, Conte, or Andersson would offer some theories about the whereabouts of The Hana.
The possibilities were reduced to four: Petrov had long ago aborted the mission and The Hana was on its way across the Atlantic. Or two, it was under the Atlantic, scuttled. Three, there never was a mission or a nuke, and Petrov was aboard The Hana having a party with the prince and the prostitutes, probably off the coast of Atlantic City. The fourth possibility was that The Hana with Petrov and the nuke had found a good place to hide, either in the harbor or out on the ocean, and we would be seeing the yacht and/or the fireball very soon.
Conte pointed out, “We’re not contributing much to the operation.”
I replied, “We don’t know that yet.”
Conte shrugged, then smiled and said, “Hey, I’ve never seen a nuke detonate. I can tell my grandkids about it someday.”
Cops, as I said, have a sick sense of humor.
So we waited.
At 4:15 A.M. Nikola Andersson informed us, “We now have a low-fuel situation.”
I asked, “How long can we idle?”
Andersson replied, “Maybe… fifteen minutes. Then we need to head out.” She added, “We have a five-gallon gas can onboard.”
“Kill one engine,” I suggested.
Conte said, “I’ll kill both. We’ll drift out with the tide, then restart if we get an alert.”
He shut down both engines, and the night became very quiet, except for the sound of helicopters overhead.
We began to drift south, away from Manhattan Island.
Conte said, “We’re doing maybe three or four knots, so it will take over an hour to reach The Narrows.”
Well, we were still in the game, but backing out slowly—though with enough fuel to charge back in if we got the word.
The cabin was getting claustrophobic, so I exited and climbed along the gunnel onto the bow. Ms. Faraday decided to join me, and we sat cross-legged on the foredeck. Behind us the skyline of Manhattan was retreating, and ahead, about five or six miles away, I could see the lights of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge on the horizon. The old fort on Governors Island was passing by on our left, which reminded me that the entire harbor and the entrance to the harbor were covered with radiation detectors and none of them had lit up, and none of them would if I was right about the nuke being submerged in The Hana’s flooded garage. And if everything went wrong tonight, this place would be radioactive for two or three decades.