A large number of detonators (say, about 50) must be inserted symmetrically into the plastic explosive so that the distance between each detonator and the surface of the plutonium sphere is constant.
When the high explosives are detonated, the shock waves cause the tamper to collapse inwards. The tamper’s inertia helps hold together the plutonium during the explosion to prevent the premature blowing apart of the fissioning plutonium and thereby obtaining a larger explosion.
This would be likely to give a roughly symmetrical shock wave to compress the plutonium sphere. It is very possible that such a device would explode with an explosive power between fifty and a hundred tons of TNT.
Enough to devastate a large part of inner city London.
Practically – this is not that easy to achieve.
When creating a nuclear weapon, measurements like ‘about four inches,’ and ‘fifty or so detonators’ are not accurate enough.
Exact critical mass of the blast material has to be calculated, the detonation has to be incredibly precise and the manufacture of the sphere and tamper has to be accurate within microns.
It is not something that a DIY expert could do in his garage.
No – to successfully construct a workable nuclear bomb you would need someone like Bradley Parker. A man with degrees in nuclear physics, engineering and pure mathematics.
As well as that, the man would either have to be a complete psychopath or a fanatic of some sort.
Or he would have to incentivised in some major way.
Professor Parker was highly motivated to do as he was being told. Because the professor loved his daughter more than life itself. He would do anything, commit any atrocity and break any law to keep her from harm’s way.
And he knew that they had her under lock and key, fully prepared to hurt her if he even contemplated disobeying them.
So he put his head down and he worked.
He worked as slowly as he could without being obvious, and he asked for many materials that he actually did not need, but he still did all that he was instructed to do.
Chapter 9
Garrett arrived back on the evening of the next day. He had driven all day, all night and then all through the next day and he was exhausted.
Before he went upstairs he picked up a bag of Big Macs and fries and a few bottles of soda. Then he asked the reception which room Petrus was in and he went up.
He knocked on the door and called out at the same time.
‘Hey, Petrus it’s me. Open.’
Petrus opened the door.
‘How you doing?’ He asked.
‘Knackered,’ responded Garrett. ‘Eat and sleep is what’s needed.’
He threw the bag of burgers onto one of the beds alongside the packet of soda cans. Then he chucked a pile of newspapers down next to them.
‘I brought some burgers. Also picked up about ten newspapers, local Scottish and national. There’s no mention of our escapades in the highlands. So I suppose that’s good. And bad.’
‘Why bad?’
‘Proves that it’s some sort of big illegal conspiracy. Oh well, whatever. How are you?’ He asked Lindsey.
‘Hi,’ she chirped. ‘I’m fine. Bored, but fine.’ She picked up the bag of burgers and grimaced. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘That’s all that he buys as well. Bloody burgers and soda. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.’
‘Well what’s wrong with that?’ Asked Petrus. ‘Bread, meat, soda. All the major food groups. And it’s just across the road.’
‘Then he eats about fifteen of them and gives me one.’
‘You never want more than one, Princess,’ said Petrus. ‘I do offer.’
‘Yeah, that’s because they’re shit,’ said Lindsey. ‘Haven’t you guys ever heard about salad, vegetables, fruit? And don’t call me Princess.’
‘It’s got lettuce in,’ said Garrett.
Lindsey groaned and grabbed a burger and a can of soda.
Both Garrett and Petrus tucked in as well, looks of enjoyment on their faces.
After a few burgers Garrett spoke.
‘We have got to figure out why these guys kidnapped you,’ he said. ‘Have you got any rich relatives? Uncles, aunts. Anyone?’
Lindsey shook her head.
‘Anyone famous? Politicians, activists?’
Again she shook her head. ‘No. Trust me; I come from a small, boring family line.’
‘And you say that your dad is simply a lecturer? What exactly does he do? What does he lecture?’
‘Listen,’ said Lindsey. ‘If you or Barney Rubble here had a smart phone I could show you his web page at the university, but as you both seem to still use smoke signals to communicate I can’t really help. I mean, he’s my dad, I’m not his employer.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘You’re a smart ass,’ he said. ‘Okay, I’ll go and buy a smart phone.’
‘Get the new Apple iPhone 6,’ demanded Lindsey.
‘I’ll get a couple of the cheapest smart phones that you can get on a SIM only deal so that we can burn them if needs be,’ he said as he left the room.
He returned half an hour later with three Nokia 635’s and three prepaid SIM cards.
‘Got these at Tesco,’ he said. ‘They’ve got a twenty four hour shop just down the drag.’
Lindsey took them and turned them over in her hand. ‘These are shit,’ she pronounced.
‘They’ll do,’ said Garrett. ‘Now set them up, one each, and show me the info on your dad.’
Lindsey spent the next few minutes setting up the phones. ‘What ring tone do you want?’ She asked Garrett.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Sure it does,’ said Lindsey. ‘A ring tone says something about your character.’
‘Just make it ring,’ said Garrett.
‘Boring. Okay, here, this is my dad’s page on the university website.’
Garrett took the phone and looked at the screen.
Professor Bradley Parker
Oxford DPhil in Science and Technology of Fusion Energy (EPSRC CDT)
MSc theoretical physics
DPhil engineering physics
‘This is one bright dude,’ he noted.
‘Told you,’ said Lindsey.
‘Still doesn’t shine any light on why someone would want to kidnap you. If it’s not ransom then it must be to exert pressure on your dad. You sure that he doesn’t do any work for the government?’
‘Hey it’s not like dad and I sit around every night and discuss his job in detail. But I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t do government work. He’s just not that sort.’
‘Listen, man,’ said Petrus. ‘All this speculation isn’t going to work for us. We’re not detectives. If you really want to get to the bottom of things then we need to do it our way. And before we do that we had better be sure that there is no other route to go.’
‘I don’t know if we have any other choices left,’ said Garrett.
‘There are always other choices,’ returned Petrus. ‘We could take her to the cops and hope for the best. We could leave her with the laird and make things his problems. I mean, we could just leave her and let her fend for herself. There are always choices.’
‘Fuck you, Tarzan,’ snapped Lindsey.
Petrus ignored her. ‘All that I’m saying, my friend,’ he continued. ‘Is that, once we start, you know where things will end up. You know as well as I do what will happen.’
Garrett nodded thoughtfully.
‘What’s he talking about?’ Asked Lindsey.
‘Escalation,’ answered Garrett. ‘Once we step this thing up then there will be no turning back. Not for us, not for you and not for your father.’
‘Why?’ Insisted Lindsey.
‘Let’s just say that our methods, while often effective, may not be best suited to a first world environment. We tend to be a bit heavy handed at times.’
‘Well what have we got to lose?’ Asked Lindsey.
Garrett raised an eyebrow. ‘Ever
ything,’ he answered. ‘Someone’s got to do something and it looks like we are the only ones who are stepping up at the moment.’
‘Oh well,’ said Petrus with a grin. ‘There goes my relaxing holiday.’
‘First I need some sleep,’ said Garrett. ‘Been awake for three days now and I’m out on my feet.’
Petrus pointed at a door. ‘I got three rooms, all connected. That’s yours through there. The other one is for the princess.’
‘Who’s your princess?’ Snapped Lindsey.
Garrett nodded his goodnights and went through to his room.
Lindsey left as well, closing her door behind her. When she looked at her bed she saw a couple of paper bags on it. She walked over and tipped the contents onto the bedclothes.
There was a toothbrush, toothpaste, a set of two hair brushes, a pack of socks and cotton underwear from Marks and Spencer’s and a T-shirt. Petrus had obviously brought them for her when he was last out getting lunch.
She picked up the shirt and unfolded it. It was white cotton, short sleeves. On the front was a photo of Princess Leia from the original Star Wars movie. Printed underneath was the caption – “Don’t call me Princess”.
Lindsey smiled.
And then she lay down on the bed and wept softly until she fell asleep.
Chapter 10
Debra Haddock was an attractive woman. But that was not what one first noticed about her.
Her most noticeable attribute was the almost palpable aura of power that exuded from her. An air of command. A supreme confidence built from years of leading. Years of dedication. And years of complete self-belief.
She had gone to a girl’s only private school, paid for by her father’s earnings as a top barrister. After that she had been accepted into Corpus Christi College Cambridge where she had read Philosophy and finished with a first.
From there she had gone straight into politics working with the Tory party.
Over the years she had worked her way up to become a very influential back bencher. But she would never progress any further. Because, although she had the strength, the determination and the intelligence to progress – she lacked the human touch that allowed one to further their career in politics.
Debra Haddock simply did not have the charm to garner votes. Either from the public or within her own party. She was all cold power and no warmth. Her very own robotic efficiency had become her downfall and had scuppered her chances of ever becoming Prime Minister, her ultimate goal.
But if Debra was anything, she was both truthful to herself and pragmatic. So, realizing her weak points she had concentrated instead on amassing power. And now, although she was officially still a mere back bencher, she controlled more power, ran more lives and affected the running of the country more than most of the members of parliment.
And at this moment that power was concentrated on the man that sat opposite her. One Colonel Grant Peterson, Territorial SAS 21 also known as the SAS Artists Rifles.
‘What do you mean, the girl is gone? I thought that you had your best men on it.’
‘I did,’ spluttered Colonel Peterson indignantly. ‘And now two are dead and two are injured. One of them very badly, we’re not sure if he’ll survive.’
‘Who did this?’ Asked Debra. ‘Have we any idea?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘No. The one attacker was a white male, six foot, dark hair. The other one, my boys didn’t see him.’
‘Were your chaps shot?’
‘No,’ answered Colonel Peterson. ‘Actually, this is where the whole thing gets a bit strange. My chaps have had a close look at the wounds and they reckon that the weapons involved were…’ The colonel looked embarrassed.
‘Come on,’ urged Debra.
‘It sounds unbelievable, but it seems a though the one man was killed by a sword and the other was disemboweled by a spear.’
Debra stared at the colonel for a few seconds before she reacted. ‘Bullshit.’
Peterson shook his head.
‘Don’t shake your head at me,’ hissed the politician. ‘What are you trying to tell me? That Picts armed with claymores and spears are roaming the Highlands, killing our Special Force soldiers and stealing their prisoners?’
The colonel hung his head in shame. ‘No one knew that we were there,’ he insisted. ‘I can only put the attack down to some sort of coincidence.’
Debra shook her head. ‘You know, Grant,’ she said, using the colonel’s first name. ‘Please think before you speak. I can accept coincidences. They do happen. I can accept that two men happened to come across our hideout and that they may have made an attempt to rescue the girl. But what are the possibilities that two random men could actually achieve that when faced with four SAS soldiers? Four of the best killers on the planet. Tell me, colonel – what are the odds?’
‘I see what you mean,’ admitted Peterson.
‘So what are you doing about it, colonel?’
‘I’ve sent another three men up there. They’re busy combing the hills for them. If they’re there, then my boys will find them. I guarantee it.’
‘And if they are no longer there?’
Peterson shook his head.
‘Exactly,’ snapped Debra. ‘Look, I’ll need to bring Commander Hastings into this. The police can definitely help us here.’
She leant forward and dialed a number, placing the call onto speaker phone.
‘Commander. Debra here,’ she greeted.
‘Hello, Debra. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘The girl’s escaped.’
There was a long pause
‘Commander, I said that the girl has escaped.’
‘I know. My men informed me earlier.’
‘And why wasn’t I told?’ Enquired Debra, her voice a study in outrage.
‘I didn’t want to bother you until I had followed up,’ retorted the commander.
‘I am not happy with that, Hastings,’ snapped Debra. ‘We need to find her. Also we need to find out who took her. I’m afraid that we have very little information to go on. I’d like you to put out an APB on her. You know her name and description.’
‘Can’t do that, Debra.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Don’t snap at me, minister,’ argued Commander Hastings. ‘Firstly, I think that you’ve been watching too many American movies. We don’t have APB’s. I could do an all-ports warning or APW, which circulates a suspect's description to airports, ports and international railway stations to detect an offender leaving the country. But are we worried that she’ll be leaving the country? Probably not.
Secondly, if I do that it’ll be out of our hands. Every man and his dog will know about it. There is every chance that the free press will pick up on it and then if they do find her there is absolutely no guarantee that’ll it will be one of our chaps. Could be anyone, and then, once again, it’s out of our hands.
Look, I have already gotten hold of all of my boys that are trustworthy and instructed them to get onto it. I’ll put out feelers as to who might be involved. Also, I recommend that we get some military chaps to search the highlands, she is probably still there.’
‘We’ve already put some men into the Highlands,’ affirmed Debra.
‘Right then, minister,’ said Hastings. ‘I’ll get onto it. Rest assured. I will get hold of all of my trusted contacts, both in the force and in the media. We will find them.’ He cut the call.
Debra stared at the colonel without speaking until he stood up, jammed his cap onto his head and left the room with a curt nod of his head in lieu of a goodbye.
Chapter 11
Lindsey woke up and had a long shower. Then she brushed her teeth, her hair and dressed with fresh underwear and socks and her new ‘Princess’ T-shirt.
She opened the interleading door into Petrus’ room and walked in. The two men were sitting on the bed and there was a torn open bag of breakfast MacMuffins piled high.
Lindsey grimaced. ‘Oh my god. More fa
st food.’
Petrus grabbed a bag from the bedside table and handed it to her without speaking. She opened it. Inside she found a tub of yoghurt, a carton of fresh fruit salad, a carton of orange juice, a straw and a set of plastic cutlery.
She smiled. ‘Thanks.’
Petrus grinned. ‘No worries, princess.’
For once Lindsey let the nickname slide.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Garrett. ‘It seems as though we have little choice. Tactically speaking, we don’t know shit from shinola. We don’t know who kidnapped Lindsey. We don’t know why. We have no idea where her dad is. We don’t know how high or how deep this whole conspiracy goes. Although I reckon that it must be a relatively small contingent of people, corruption is far from endemic in the United Kingdom.’
‘That’s why I reckon that we start at Lindsey’s house, go and smack the dude there around a bit,’ ventured Petrus.
Garrett shook his head. ‘No. Whoever he is, the likelihood is that anyone guarding a house will be so low down the totem pole that he won’t know shit either. We’ve got to do something to negate these people. I think that the best plan would be to go to the media. We get this all out into the open and that will draw their claws. They can’t kill us or Lindsey without drawing attention to themselves or coming out into the open. Plus, it will allow the non-corrupt cops to search for Lindsey’s dad.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ admitted Petrus.
‘Right, Lindsey,’ said Garrett. ‘Could you go online, get a list of national newspapers, find out which one has the biggest circulation and then get hold of their contact details for me.’
Lindsey threw out a mock Nazi salute. ‘Jawhol, mein Fuhrer,’ she shouted. ‘Your wish is my command.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘Just do it, okay?’
The task took Lindsey less than five minutes. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Dial this number. It’s for the SUN newspaper. Biggest circulation, not sure about its quality of journalism though.’
‘Don’t care,’ answered Garrett. ‘I’m simply looking for numbers.’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 64
