Chapter 9 - The Port of Newark Heist
The Port of Newark at three o'clock in the morning was a vast,
surreal landscape of steel shipping containers stacked five stories high like multi-colored skyscrapers.
Towering gantry cranes stood against the dark rain clouds,
their massive yellow frames illuminated by flickering floodlights that cast long,
distorted shadows across the concrete docks.
The air smelled of sea salt,
diesel exhaust,
and wet iron.
Our dark Suburban crawled slowly down the narrow lanes between the container stacks,
its engine quiet,
its lights completely extinguished.
Carmine sat in the front seat,
holding a tactical radio set to the port authority security frequency.
I sat in the back,
wearing a high-visibility technician vest over my dark clothes,
a portable chemical analyzer resting on my lap.
"Security patrol just passed Gate 4,"
Carmine reported softly.
"We have a twelve-minute window before the night shift supervisor makes his round."
"Where is Berth 14?"
Gabriel asked from the passenger seat.
"Three hundred yards ahead,"
I answered,
checking the GPS signal on my tablet.
"Section G,"
"Stack 12,"
"Container number 8849-B."
Carmine brought the vehicle to a smooth stop behind a row of rusted red containers.
We stepped out into the pouring rain,
our boots splashing silently through the shallow puddles on the pavement.
Carmine and three armed guards moved in a tactical formation,
their weapons pointed low,
their eyes scanning the high container walkways above us.
We reached Stack 12.
Sitting at the very bottom of the high steel stack was a bright blue container bearing the corporate logo of Aetheria Medical Supplies.
The heavy double doors of the container were secured by two massive steel bolt locks and an electronic tamper-evident seal.
"Can you break the seal without setting off the automatic alarm?"
Carmine asked,
shining his light on the electronic lock box.
I stepped forward,
pulling a small electronic bypass key from my pouch.
"The seal uses a simple radio-frequency loop,"
I explained,
attaching two copper jumper leads to the terminal pins on the lock box.
"If I maintain the electrical resistance across the circuit,"
"the central monitoring server in the main office won't even register that the door was opened."
I made a final adjustment with my tension wrench,
and the heavy locking bars gave a soft,
mechanical click.
Carmine pulled the heavy door open,
revealing the dark interior of the forty-foot container.
Inside,
stacked neatly from floor to ceiling,
were dozens of wooden crates labeled High-Precision Diagnostic Scanners.
I pulled a crowbar from Carmine's belt,
jammed the edge under the lid of the nearest crate,
and popped the pine boards open.
Inside the crate,
surrounded by dense foam packing material,
was not medical machinery.
Row after row of metal spools filled the crate,
each wound with thousands of yards of fine,
black braided cord.
I drew a small sample knife,
cut a short length of thread from the nearest spool,
and inserted it into my portable chemical analyzer.
The digital screen blinked three times before displaying a bright red warning symbol:
ORGANOPHOSPHATE COMPOUND DETECTED — CONCENTRATION 98%.
"It's all here,"
I whispered,
looking back at Gabriel.
"There's enough poisoned thread in this single container to eliminate every corporate and syndicate leader in the country."
Suddenly,
a blinding halogen spotlight snapped on from the top of the adjacent container stack,
illuminating our position in a harsh,
white beam of light.
"Don't move!"
a cold,
amplified voice boomed over a loudspeaker from above.
"Drop your weapons and step away from the container!"
Through the glare of the spotlight,
I could see a dozen figures in tactical gear lining the top of the container stacks,
their rifles trained directly down on us.
Stepping out from behind a heavy yellow forklift at the end of the lane was a tall,
slender man in an expensive camel-hair coat,
May you like
holding a gold-plated walking stick.
It was Dr. Vance Sterling himself.
