by Jones, Rick
The deputy was off and running. In the background the other deputies stood silent and mute.
With less than one year away from retirement, Sergeant Winslow shook his head in non-belief and looked skyward. Stars glittered like fairy dust and the smell of the desert air was crisp and clean and unadulterated. And then he closed his eyes. They did it, he thought. They finally tried to get one across.
And then he reconsidered. After sweeping his gaze across the feebly placed borderline with its crooked posts and barbed wire fencing, there was no doubt in his mind that at least one nuclear device crossed over the boundary.
He had no doubt at all.
#
‘Dante Package’ was the code name for a low-yield nuclear weapon packaged to be mobile, such as in a suitcase or a backpack. During the Cold War, Russia processed dozens of such devices that looked like a five-gallon drum fitted into a canvas backpack. But what the members of the FBI, NSA and Cisen—Mexico’s CIA counterpart—were looking at was anything but.
This device was state-of-the-art, a far descendant of the Cold War version.
Within a brilliant cast of lighting, provided by a perimeter of lamps set up in a perfect circumference around the scene, the aluminum case was spotlighted as the centerpiece of attraction, with the dead Arabs lying supine in the blood-stained sand next to it.
The marginal wind, however, cooled off the landscape, as if to settle the scene.
At three-thirty in the morning the deputy director of the FBI’s Phoenix field office didn’t bother with the tie or expensive shoes, but wore jeans, sneakers, and a tan shirt that was tucked in just enough to reveal his belt badge. Beneath the armpit of his left shoulder he wore a pancake holster with the stock of his sidearm in easy reach.
For six minutes John Abraham stood as if deliberating, his eyes fixed, staring, absorbing everything at the scene and making a mental note before approaching the case and the bodies of those who surrendered their lives to protect it.
Alongside him several NSA officials stood silent, deducing, with every member clad in formal dress attire and conservative hairstyles that were perfectly coiffed. And Abraham had to wonder how this was possible given the short notice to be on the premise, like him. In marginal adherence to his appearance, he tucked the tail end of his shirt to somewhat conform to his law enforcement constituency.
Far be it if NSA should show up the FBI, he considered.
Two men in hazmat suits ventured into the established perimeter zone, the soles of their boots making tracks in the soft sand reminiscent of the lunar imprints left on the moon’s surface. With Geiger counters in hand the men swept their wand over the aluminum shell.
Just a minimal amount of Geiger ticks, nothing more.
Getting to a knee, one of the hazmat officers undid the clasps of the aluminum case and opened the lid while his colleague continued to wave his wand slowly back and forth.
The ticks remained at minimal, the threat of radiation emission at safe levels. Whatever concerns there might have been regarding toxic levels were summarily dismissed.
“Clear.” The call came from the primary hazmat officer who maintained constant communication with his team through a lip mike to the site’s Comm Center, which was a cube van parked beyond the perimeter lights.
Abraham moved forward, as did the principals from the NSA and the Mexican National Security and Investigation Center, with each man gravitating toward the case from all points of the perimeter.
Passing the bodies of the dead Arabs without so much as a glance, the officials circled the device and studied its contents. In the light the burnished spheres lined side by side beneath the Plexiglas shield gleamed imposingly.
“As you can see,” said Valente DeMora-Cuesta, a top-ranking official from the Mexican National Security and Investigation Center, also known as Cisen, waved his hand back and forth to prove a point, “this is Mexican territory.” The man was truly Napoleonic and short, his demeanor radiating a cocky arrogance, in which he forced the importance of his position by reminding the Americans that on Mexican soil he was the primary official. They weren’t buying it, however, even when DeMora-Cuesta tried to force the issue in perfect English that a challenge would be met if they contested his decisions. “This weapon belongs to the Mexican Government and will be appropriated in the name of Mexico.”
Abraham chortled. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” The American border was less than sixty meters away.
DeMora-Cuesta’s arrogant vein never subsided. “Need I remind you that you are on Mexican territory, a sovereign country?”
“Your territory has become a sieve allowing such things to happen to our nation. We need this device to learn how to dismantle it safely, in case others have gotten onto American territory. We need to track its point of origin and find the core group that’s marketing nuclear weapons.”
“Not our problem,” he commented. And then in Spanish, barked a command to his team to gather the weapon.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Abraham.
“What you want on Mexican territory matters little to me.”
As DeMora-Cuesta’s team neared the aluminum case John Abraham nodded to the NSA principal, who whispered something into his lip mike. Within moments, personnel wearing black body armor, helmets and face shields advanced from the perimeter line manning assault weapons with attached laser scopes, the crimson lines crossing the distance between them and the Cisen team as multiple red dots from their scopes settled on the center of DeMora-Cuesta’s body mass. Within seconds the members of the Cisen team were pinned in the crosshairs of two dozen elite soldiers.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said DeMora-Cuesta.
“We can do this one of two ways,” said Abraham. “We can either do this my way . . . Or we can do this my way. You decide.”
DeMora-Cuesta scanned the area; totally surrounded, the commandos drawing a bead. “To raise a weapon against Mexican officials is an obvious violation of the covenant between the United States and Mexico. Our government will certainly file a grievance with your government. And you, Mr. Abraham, along with everyone here, will be named.”
“I don’t think our government gives a rat’s ass, since they’re the ones who sent us here with the objective of acquiring this device in the first place.”
DeMora-Cuesta reluctantly conceded, bowing out of the circle of officials and motioning to his team to follow him beyond the lit perimeter. There was no doubt in Abraham’s mind that he was going to call for backup. It was an easy read.
The NSA official chortled. “I like your style, Abraham. You should become one of us.”
“I’m very happy where I am,” he answered.
“Yeah, well—I should contact headquarters since our friend here is obviously on his way to call in a detachment to counter our strike team. This could be fun.” And then he was gone, heading for the Comm Center.
Abraham watched the Cisen group exit the area before leaning over the device and noting the three spheres, the computer boards, and the two phallic cylinders opposing one another with their tapered points less than an inch apart. Probably the strike pins, he considered.
His next business of conduct was to examine the bodies. The Arabs he noted were clean shaven, an indicator they were preparing themselves for death by cleansing the body before entry—a martyr’s belief. It was also a learned pointer he was trained to look out for while coming up through the ranks of the Bureau working in counterterrorism.
Ignoring the Arab who had his facial identity erased after being struck by the impact of the bullet from an assault rifle, Abraham left the area as NSA associates quickly prepped the case for safe travel to Area 4 of the Nevada Test Site.
CHAPTER SIX
Washington, D.C.
0400 Hours
The moment President Burroughs was informed of a ‘Dante Package’ being discovered along the Mexican-American border, he wasted no time in calling Mexican President Cesar Munoz to issue a claim on the device, regardless o
f whether or not it was perceived to be several meters south of the actual borderline, which put it in Mexican territory. There were no discussions, debates, or negotiations. President Burroughs was holding firm on this matter, and was not about to concede since America’s safety was optimum.
Within moments President Munoz relented, promising to withdraw his Cisen team from the area in the interest of maintaining strong political ties with the United States. His commitment, however, came after the president strongly indicated that his contingent team of commandos would use whatever force necessary to appropriate the item.
Point made!
Within ten minutes after the call ended with the Mexican president, President James Burroughs duly invited his leading team of advisors, which included Chief National Security Advisor Alan Thornton, CIA Director Doug Craner, Secretary of State Janet Dommers, Vice President John Phippen, and Secretary of Defense Michael Duarte for a high-priority session inside the Oval Office. Although the sun had yet to show on the horizon, everybody at least appeared fresh for the coming day.
On most mornings President Burroughs was an affable and spirited man, always smiling and quick with a joke. But this morning he appeared aged and less engaging with lips pressed in a tight expression and his eyes markedly deep with concern. After learning of an Arab task force trying to maneuver a nuclear weapon onto American territory, his demeanor quickly took on a mask of worry as if the weapon’s discovery accelerated his aging process at an exponential rate, the skin beneath his eyes hanging with droopy folds.
“Thank you for coming in at such an early hour,” he said. “FBI Director Larry Johnson and NSA Director Davis Means will join us later by speaker phone, once they learn if the item found along the Arizona-Mexico border is real. But at this time it appears to be a nuclear device.”
He turned to Alan Thornton, a chief ally he relied heavily upon when it came to sound direction. “Al, your assessment from the preliminary reports, please.”
Alan Thornton was a man of bookish appearance who wore outdated suits and believed his bad comb-over was good enough to belie the fact that he was balding. Whenever he sat down he did so with aristocratic posture where his spine remained rigidly straight and his chin raised in haughty manner. And when he spoke he did so with a powerful voice. “According to our sources,” he said, “it appears that the device is a workable unit armed by the transference of codes from an independent source, such as the BlackBerry found at the scene.”
“Is it Russian made?”
“The early assumption, Mr. President, is yes, we believe so. The Cold War versions are antiquated to what we consider the backpack version, a cylindrical component roughly the size and shape of a five-gallon drum. But this unit is state-of-the-art, something never seen before, not even by our own intelligence agencies. So the question is this, do the Russians have the capability to cannibalize from the old units to create something new, compact and far more deadly? And right now, Mr. President, the answer is yes. Or at least it appears so.”
The president faced Doug Craner, the leading principal of the CIA who was responsible for monitoring insurgent activities abroad. “And what’s your account, Doug?”
Craner was old-school military whose roots went beyond twenty years and whose service was invaluable as a Marine. His flattop was cropped to specs and the clipped tone of his voice was evident that habits were hard to relinquish. Even now, nineteen years retired from the ranks, Doug Craner continued to air something stoically martial about him. “Of course we know of the Cold War versions, Mr. President, but this package is something unique. The word from intel is that a Russian by the name of Yorgi Perchenko, a former KGB chief who ended up as the assistant director of Directorate S at the end of the Cold War, and summarily dismissed due to his refusal to change his hard-lined views for new alternatives, may be indirectly responsible.” He then handed the president an 8x10 black-and-white glossy photo of an aged male with salt-and-pepper hair. The collar of his jacket was hiked against the cold with the fabric covering the man’s lower jaw, but not enough to cover his face.
“I remember him,” the president said lightly, placing the photo down. While serving as a statesman in the Senate, Burroughs kept a watchful eye toward the Eastern Bloc when the Berlin Wall fell and communism collapsed. But during that time Perchenko’s name kept coming up as a stolid hardliner who constantly voiced his opinion to the elitists in the Russian parliament that resistance was to be met with brutal force for the sake of self-preservation, not with the totality of surrender. His recompense for his verbal barrages was a quick reassignment to the Directorate S, where he did a brief stint before disappearing altogether.
It was a name he had not heard until now.
“We believe,” said Craner, “prior to Perchenko’s assignment to the Directorate S, that he had accessibility to the military-based storage units and absconded with the antiquated versions during the confusion at the time of the Soviet Union’s fall. We know for a fact that some portable versions have gone unaccounted for, and Perchenko maybe the reason why.”
“But why now? Why would Perchenko retaliate against American sovereignty more than twenty years after the fall?”
“He’s not,” said Thornton.
Craner nodded. “We believe Perchenko has developed a more sophisticated weapon by cannibalizing parts from the Cold War versions, and is now proposing them on the black market to the highest bidder. At this time we’re trying to verify this information.”
The president fell back in his chair, his jaw muscles working out the growing tension. “And the highest bidders, in Perchenko’s black market sale, were the Arabs at the border.”
“It appears that way. Right now we’re looking for a money trail.”
The president nodded his disgust. “For a person to sell such a weapon on the black market is incredibly irresponsible and undeniably lacking in reason and conscience, which makes Perchenko a very dangerous man. And such men do not deserve the right to walk this planet.”
After a moment of tense silence, the president offered an inquiry in a tone suggesting forced calm. “Tell me about the weapon found at the site.”
Secretary of Defense Michael Draewhite proffered a faxed photo taken at the scene. “When NSA opened the lid they discovered that the case was lined with a thin layer of lead to act as a marginal shield. The essential parts of the unit, as Doug mentioned, were cannibalized, but only to a degree.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The workings within the case, Mr. President, are basically computerized components manufactured with microchips, processing boards—things that didn’t exist during the Cold War. What is the same, however, are the three spheres inside, units I believe were taken from the Cold War versions and reassembled to what you see there.”
“And the spheres are what exactly?”
Draewhite didn’t pull any punches. “They are the crucibles that provide the ignition of an atomic blast.”
President Burroughs continued to examine the faxed photo as Draewhite continued.
“The Cold War versions possessed only one sphere with the bulk of the backpack possessing a detonator unit, which consumed a large capacity of space. Over time those units have been miniaturized to provide more room. So instead of holding one sphere as the old units did, the new unit is now capable of holding three, tripling its yield.”
“And how much yield does each sphere contain?”
“A single sphere contains exactly one kiloton.”
President Burroughs closed his eyes. Three kilotons was approximately one-quarter of the yield that wiped out Hiroshima.
“And Perchenko may be responsible?” When the president said this he did so more to himself as if slipping off into reflection, quickly realizing when the KGB transitioned into the Directorate S, Perchenko’s role as assistant director was to watch over several departments, one that included conducting terrorist operations and sabotage in foreign countries. Although he might not have p
ulled the trigger, he at least provided the gun. Everything seemed to fit, at least on the surface.
The president sighed. “What about the men killed at the site?”
Doug Craner laid a second photo before Burroughs, his finger pressing it firmly to the desktop for a brief moment as he spoke. “We have confirmation that all three men were on the FBI watch list. But one in particular is of extreme interest. This is Khalid Hassan, an Iraqi national who fought in Iraq before serving with al-Qaeda forces against American troops in Baghdad. His stint was cut short due to being severely wounded. But we believe Hassan is responsible for the deaths of nearly thirty-seven American troops and operatives prior to his decommission from battle.”
The president leaned forward, a photo in each hand, a Russian and an Arab, the man trying to determine the ties that bind them. “So now I pose this question to you, Doug: In the assessment of the CIA, do you believe the Russians and Arabs to be working together against American interests?”
“All I can say at this point and time, Mr. President, is the BlackBerry found at the scene is definitely a Russian make with Russian Cyrillic on the keypad, and in the display window. We even traced the serial numbers on the processing boards within the unit itself and followed it to a manufacturing firm in Minsk. But we believe Perchenko is working independently. I don’t believe the Russian government has a hand in any of this. But again, we’re looking at all angles at this time and dismissing none. On the surface it looks like the Arabs were working strictly with an independent agent.”
The president gingerly laid the photos on the desktop. “Upon further assessment, do you believe a terrorist faction succeeded in getting a unit across the border?”
Craner’s demeanor became less hardened. “Yes, sir, I do. Cells work independently from one another in case one gets caught so others can succeed. There’s no doubt in my mind they achieved the means by slipping at least one unit onto American soil.”
The president’s voice remained inquisitively impassive. “And maybe more?”
