"You sure could say that, Mr. President," Reimer laughed.

"So what exactly is a naked physics package?"

"Sir, it's essentially," Reimer held his hands up to form a circle, "a sphere of weapons-grade nuclear material minus the fire set and explosive material that are used to trigger the implosion."

Hayes thought he followed it. "So this thing is basically the core to a nuclear bomb...and nothing else."

"For the most part that is correct, sir."

"So it can't go off."

Reimer thought of explaining the one exception, but the odds of it happening were so small it wasn't worth getting into. "Without the explosives and fire set, sir, there is no way for it to reach any measurable yield."

"So we're in the clear?" asked Valerie Jones.

"That's correct. The nuclear material, as it sits, is no real threat to the city of Charleston."

The room burst into celebration over the good news. There were sighs of relief, nervous laughter, and even a few hugs. The president and the others on the council congratulated Reimer and his people on a job well done. After just a minute things settled down, and Hayes was about to ask Reimer a question when the door to the conference room opened. One of Valerie Jones's people entered the room and walked briskly to the chief of staff's side.

Jones listened for only a second and then grabbed the phone in front of her. She stabbed her forefinger at the blinking red light and said, "Tim." She listened intensely for a full ten seconds. Several times she tried and failed to cut the other person off. Finally she said, "Tim, I get the picture. Have him in your office in fifteen minutes. Tell him I'll talk to him directly."

She listened for another five seconds, shaking her head the entire time. "That's a bunch of crap, Tim, and you can tell him I said that. If he can't wait fifteen minutes, I'll make sure he never gets another interview with anyone involved in this administration again, and then I'll call his boss and have the story stuffed right back down his throat. Now have him in your office in fifteen minutes and call me back."

Jones slammed the phone down and looked up at the president. "TheTimes is about to break the story that you and your entire cabinet were evacuated from the capital last night."

CHARLESTON

As the clock ticked past nine in the morning, Ahmed al-Adel grew increasingly nervous. He'd made hundreds of trips to the yard since taking over the trucking company, but this was without a doubt the most important, and hence stressful. More often than not the trips went smoothly. Al-Adel would leave early from Atlanta so he could avoid the horrendous traffic, and arrive at the port of Charleston before the gates opened at 7:00 a.m.

Everything was legitimate. It had to be that way. Al-Adel was a thorough man, and he'd discovered that the transportation industry was not as rife with corruption as he had once been led to believe. This was not a problem for him, however. Al-Adel planned on playing by their rules right up to the very end.

The international transportation industry was dominated by large multinational corporations with billions of dollars at stake, but as always there was room for small players to carve out a niche. Al-Adel's niche was importing items to Atlanta's burgeoning Muslim population. As long as he paid his bills and followed all the rules laid down by U.S. Customs, the multinationals would continue to ship his goods, and he would continue to pick them up.

He'd done that for a year now. He had a nice little business going for himself. He wasn't turning a profit, but that was because there was no real incentive to. The business was only a short-term cover, so he made almost no effort to get costs under control or expand his distribution. Three times a week he made the trip from Atlanta to Charleston, twice to pick up inbound containers from India and the third time to meet the weekly ship coming from Pakistan.

His fastidiousness had been his salvation. As a Saudi immigrant, and owner of a trucking company that did international business, al-Adel had attracted the attention of the FBI. At first he had cooperated, mostly because he saw no other way, and he knew he had covered his tracks so well he had nothing to hide, but as the FBI's probe into his professional and personal life ground on, al-Adel grew irritated, and then worried that they might actually find something. After many months his Arabic pride emboldened him. He'd lived in America just long enough to understand what to do.

The idea came to him while watching TV one night. There was a panel on one of the cable talk shows and they were discussing the Patriot Act. One of the guests was a civil rights attorney from Atlanta. Al-Adel had heard of him before. The man's name was Tony Jackson, but he was more commonly known by his nickname, the Mouth of the South. A convert to Islam, Jackson loved taking on causes that garnered media attention. After listening to Jackson passionately argue that the Patriot Act was an affront to the Bill of Rights, al-Adel paid him a visit the next day. He explained his situation; that he was an American citizen trying to run a legitimate business, and that the FBI was harassing him at every turn. Jackson took the case and instead of using the courts, he used the media to get the FBI off his client's back.

Al-Adel was very proud of himself for outsmarting the Americans. During his cultural isolation, he had begun to see himself as a solitary, righteous warrior standing up for his faith in the midst of corruption and evil. This feeling of moral clarity and superiority served to sharpen his already quirky awareness of the great cultural and religious divide between his native Saudi Arabia and the decadent American landscape. He would stay one step ahead of the Americans right up to the very end.

He was truly on a mission from God, and he doubted Allah would let him get this far only to fail in the final days of his journey. This thought was foremost in his mind when he was given permission to enter the yard and pick up his container. Al-Adel turned and looked at his companion. Both men exchanged looks of relief. It was so hot and humid they were beginning to worry that the truck might overheat. They had a long drive ahead of them, and the last thing he needed was for the rig to break down on the highway and invite the scrutiny of the police.

The parking brake was released and the truck put into gear. As he drove, al-Adel sat hunched over the large steering wheel and looked around for signs of anything unusual. So far everything appeared normal. The gigantic blue cranes were swinging cargo off the ship, and the rude longshoremen, who were prone to bark at him if he made any wrong move, seemed intent on their own business.

Al-Adel drove through the yard behind another truck with a naked trailer. Both vehicles eventually came to a stop between some orange cones. Quickly and efficiently one of the big containers was maneuvered into position and al-Adel and his associate watched intently as it was lowered over the chassis of the truck in front of them.

SCHOYER AND HISmen put their plan together on the fly. McMahon had called from D.C. and reiterated Rapp's concern about someone waiting to pick up the nuke. Upon checking with Port officials they discovered that a truck was in fact waiting to pick up the container that had just arrived from Pakistan. Schoyer saw no reason to complicate the matter. A quick surveillance told him that there were two men in the vehicle.

One of his agents suggested calling in a tactical team for backup, but Schoyer dismissed the idea after only a second of thought. He already had six of his own people on-site and another dozen local cops armed with shotguns and submachine guns. If for some reason the two men in question didn't surrender easily Schoyer felt they had enough firepower on-site to handle the situation. Time was the bigger factor. They'd created a backlog of rigs waiting to pick up containers. If they didn't let those trucks in the yard pretty soon, the suspected terrorists might get suspicious and make a break for it.