Wired
Authors: Robert L. Wise
WHEN YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE COMES TRUE…
At four-thirty the phone rang. Graham glanced at his watch and then reached for the receiver, thinking it must be Jackie.
Maybe something had come up.
“Hello.”
“Peck?” the male voice said. “Graham Peck?”
“Yes?”
“This is the Peck who lives on Crown Point in Airlington Heights?”
“Sure. There's a problem?”
“Yes. I'm Detective Bevins with the police department. Your secretary said to call before I came in. Are you sitting down?”
“Sitting down?” Graham grimaced. “Of course, I'm working.”
“Stay there. I'm outside with you secretary. I'll be right in.”
“What's going on?” Graham protested. “What's happened?”
“I'll explain to you in a moment when I come in your office,” Bevins said. “We need you to come home at once.”
“I have been reading Dr. Robert Wise's novels for years.This is his best one yet. It is a must-read!”
—Dr. Larry Jones, president, Feed the children
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Robert L. Wise.
All rights reserved.
Warner Faith
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
The Warner Faith name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books.
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56527-1
Contents
When Your Worst Nightmare Comes True…
To Sophia Amneh Saphorah Wise
Number Thirteen
Thanks so much to Dr. Fred Pike and David Howlett for assistance with research and framing the issues of the final struggle.
In addition, the editorial assistance of Stephen Wilburn and Rolf Zettersten is deeply appreciated, as is the work of my agent,
Greg Johnson. Good friends make all the difference!
November
1, 2022
T
HE EERIE RUMBLING
of a small boat engine echoed across the murky waters of the Long Beach Naval Shipyard harbor at three o'clock in the morning.
Clouds hanging low in the sky covered the moon and killed all light. The craft followed the same route that the passenger
ferry took returning from Catalina Island. Cruising in unnoticed through the San Pedro Bay breakwater, the ebony craft aimed
toward the rapidly approaching sandy shore. The pitch-black night sealed off the stars and painted the entire harbor in the
ominous smudges of darkness.
Hunching over the dashboard, the driver pointed toward the shoreline. “See that string of lights along the edge of the harbor?”
“Yeah,” the man sitting next to him growled.
“Underneath every one of them is a surveillance camera. We want to miss getting caught in their glare. Understand?”
The burly man in the thick dark coat nodded. “Don't worry. I don't want Big Brother down here at Long Beach dock to get a
shot of my mug.”
The motorboat turned to the left and started easing parallel to the shoreline. “We got to watch for naval surveillance as
well,” the driver said. “You can bet that none of these ships are floating out here unguarded.”
“You're the man. Whatever you say.”
“Don't forget it,” the driver snapped. “This operation has to be precise. Remember, if anyone asks your name, you tell 'em
it's Abel, Abel Rabi.”
“Abel, huh?” the man laughed under his breath. “Strange name for a boy from San Francisco. You want to know my real name?”
“No,” the driver said. “Rabi is Arabic. Leave it at that.”
He shut off the boat's engine and the craft drifted toward the shoreline with the incoming tide pushing them toward the beach.
For several minutes the small boat floated silently toward a large naval tanker anchored in the harbor. Searchlights shot
their huge swords of illumination out over the ocean, but none were aimed low enough to spot the black boat easing toward
the tanker a few hundred yards away.
“I don't even know your name,” the man in the dark coat said to the driver. “You call me Abel, but I don't have any idea who
you are.”
“That's correct,” the driver said. “And it stays that way.”
“How come you people paid me such a wad of money to do this job hauling stuff?”
“'Cause you're big and strong,” the driver said. “That's it. Stop asking me questions.”
The man now called Abel grumbled under his breath, but he didn't say anything more.
Staying on the backside of the enormous tanker, the driver steered his craft parallel to the large steel hull. The menacing
towering side of the tanker loomed over them, completely hiding them in the threatening blackness.
“This tanker won't move,” the driver said. “Watch for a rope ladder. It should be hanging around here somewhere.”
The motorboat drifted on top of the gentle waves spreading out from the side of the tanker. The driver in a dark coat pushed
them away from side of the tanker with a long wooden paddle. Off in the distance another wave of shore lights swept over the
ocean. From the backside of the tanker, the outline of a rope ladder dangled just ahead of them.
“There it is,” the driver said. “We're right on target. The ladder is hooked on the deck.”
“Good. Get closer.”
“We have to drift,” the driver said. “Get that bundle on your back and carry it up the ladder. Hurry up. We're going to be
there in a moment.”
The man called Abel bounced over the seat. Sitting behind him was a large package tied to a backpack harness. He slipped his
arms through the harness straps and pulled the entire apparatus toward him. “This thing is really heavy,” he mumbled.
“That's why we hired you and you're so well paid.” The driver pointed at the rope about to float over the bow of their boat.
“Get it on, and be ready to climb.”
Abel exhaled and took another deep breath. “Man, this thing is really, really heavy.”
“There's the rope—grab it and get up there!”
With a quick step, the large man stepped onto the rope ladder and started crawling up the steps. Each movement was labored,
but he kept moving. The motorboat floated on.
“It's a long way up,” Abel shouted over his shoulder.
“Shut up,” the driver whispered. “Just get up there!”
Pulling small earphones out of his pocket, the driver pushed them into his ears and turned on the amplifier in his pocket
so he could hear everything happening on the rope ladder and on the deck. The boat kept drifting silently away.
Abel maintained his steady progress, climbing on up to the top. As he neared the deck, a head appeared over the edge. “Who
is it?” a sailor demanded.
“Abel,” the man puffed. “Abel Rabi.”
“Make it quick,” the sailor barked. “We don't have much time.”
The driver of the motorboat listened carefully, realizing everything seemed to be on schedule. He could hear the man called
Abel talking to the guard on the deck and felt confident about the drift of the conversation.
“Where we going?” Abel asked the guard.
“I've been told to take you down to the hold of the ship. We've got to move carefully. Can you carry that bag on your back
down several flights of stairs?”
Abel cursed. “Easier than I carried it up that shaggy rope ladder.”
“Let's go,” the sailor said.
The driver of the motorboat waited a couple of minutes and then hit the starter switch. The engine sputtered for a moment
and then settled into a low purr. Turning the wheel sharply to the left, he guided the boat back toward the breakwater and
the passenger ferry route out of the harbor toward Catalina Island. Once he cleared the ship's perimeter by a hundred yards,
he pushed the throttle to full speed, roaring away from the inner harbor area.
Reaching down beside the seat, the driver pushed a red button on a switch next to the seat. Suddenly a ball of fire exploded
from the deck of the tanker, spewing fire and debris straight up in the air. For a moment the black night appeared like noon
as human figures shot through the air with pieces of the smokestack. The 20,000-ton tanker shook like a child's toy and a
huge wave ripped across the channel. With vibrant red and orange flames sparkling in the night air, the tanker started to
sink.
The instant the motorboat's driver saw the explosion, he pointed the boat out to sea so that the oncoming wave would lift
him and carry the motorboat forward. Within seconds a torrent of water picked up the boat and slung it onward. He jerked the
speed control forward and the craft lunged forward out of the harbor.
“Goodbye, Abel, or whoever you are,” he said to himself. “We appreciate you delivering the bomb.” He chuckled. “And yourself
to the bottom of the ocean.”
November
1, 2002
T
HE MORNING NEWSPAPER
crashed into the front door an hour before the bedside alarm was set to go off. Graham Peck usually didn't hear such predictable
sounds, but the noise ricocheted through the house like a burglar intruding and forced his eyes open. For a minute he lay
in the dark waiting for the next crash to follow, but nothing happened. The family had lived through another night without
incident or assault, as he had expected. No reason not to go back to sleep, but he couldn't.
Graham kept looking up into darkness and at the strange shapes the outside trees cast, slinging their shadows across the ceiling.
Another day had started much earlier than he usually expected. There would be the rigorous ride downtown on the Metro Express
train that would hurl him like a guided missile across Chicago at one hundred and fifty miles an hour. He would exit at the
stop nearest the Sears Tower and walk on to the mayor's offices where Frank Bridges and the rest of Bridges's staff assembled.
The office noise would be as subtle as the Metro Urban train clamoring over loose tracks. Party bosses, secretaries, and political
analysts would be everywhere. Media personnel always hummed along behind the scenes, waiting for some big break they could
turn into a headline story featuring the mayor on the evening television newscasts. Graham would be in the center of the chaos
like a spinning gear in a transmission box. The job as special political assistant to the mayor of Chicago might have pushed
anyone to their limits, but Graham took his responsibilities with a personal sense of obligation. The thought of the grind
left him tired, and he hadn't even got out of bed yet.
“Graham…” Jackie reached over and ran her hand down the side of his back. “What was that noise?”
“A ghost.”
“
What
?” Jackie leaned up on her elbows. “What did you say?”
“The newspaper.”
“Newspaper? I thought you said…”
“You were asleep.”
“Oh?” Jackie fell back in bed and closed her eyes. “It's too early.”
“No,” Graham said resolutely. “It's too late.” He turned the covers back. “Extra time in the host shower might make me feel
better.”
“Sure,” Jackie said, keeping her eyes closed. “Sure…” She sounded like she had drifted off to sleep again.
Graham got up and stumbled into their private bathroom off of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He could keep the
sound low and stand in the hot water for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, letting the sound of classical music soothe him. He
always felt empty in the morning and something about a quiet symphony seemed to position his feet more firmly on the earth,
assuring him he could keep on moving… regardless.