by Dale Brown
“It is here, sir,” Khalimov said. He handed Zakharov a respirator with a full-face mask and small green bottle of oxygen on a shoulder strap. “Hazardous waste materials from the piers in Richmond are brought here for incineration. We will move the device immediately after prearming.” Zakharov donned the mask, checked it, and they left the car. Khalimov retrieved a small yellow case from the back of the Cherokee and followed the Russian colonel inside the facility.
Even with the masks on and with positive pressure against his face, the acidy taste and feel of the air was oppressive. The temperature was at least ten degrees Celsius higher inside. Khalimov went over to the back of the facility, where a row of waste collection hoppers were waiting in a row with a chain around them so they could not be used. Khalimov removed a padlock from the chain, and he and his men pulled one of the hoppers out of the row. He unlocked a large lever and pulled it carefully, tipping the hopper. Several liters of thick sludge dumped out. Bolted to the side of the hopper was a device about the size of a small car transmission, wrapped in aluminum foil and plastic. “It is not petroleum-based oil—the heat from the device might have caused regular oil to burn,” Zakharov explained as he began to carefully cut the foil and plastic away. “It is a mixture of antifreeze and dry cell battery carbon,” Zakharov said as he dumped the slurry out. “It makes an excellent homemade coolant and neutron absorption fluid. The foil should have reflected any other stray gamma rays and alpha particles back into the core, and also prevent detection from passive radioactive detection systems.”
They wheeled the hopper out of the incinerator building so they did not have to wear the respirators any longer. Even though it was almost forty years old, the warhead itself was in almost perfect condition, Zakharov noted as soon as he had the protective wrapping peeled away. It was an AA60 tactical nuclear warhead, very common in a variety of Soviet weapons from short-range ballistic missiles and rockets to large artillery shells. Its design was simplicity itself. It was a gun-assembly-type device, with two eight-kilogram slugs of highly enriched uranium-235 on either end of a tube. One slug was surrounded by a shield or tamper that reflected neutrons back into the supercritical mass; the other end of the tube had an explosive charge that would drive the second slug into the other. When the explosive charge was set off and the two sub-critical slugs were driven into one another, it formed a supercritical mass that instantly created a nuclear fission reaction.
This particular warhead had been used on a 9K79 Tochka short-range tactical ballistic missile, what the West called an SS-21 Scarab. The main part of the warhead, the “physics package,” was simple and required no fancy electronics; the arming, fusing, and firing components were the tricky parts. The keys to deploying nuclear warheads were reliability, security, and safety—three ingredients that were mostly mutually exclusive. These systems had to be bypassed in order to get a nuclear yield, but done in the proper sequence to successfully arm the weapon and create a full yield, yet still allow his men to escape the blast.
Zakharov attached several cables from the test kit to ports on the warhead. “Watch carefully, Captain,” Zakharov said as he punched instructions into the test kit. “I am first removing the barometric arming parameters to the warhead—from now on it does not need to sense acceleration or airflow to arm. Second, I have set the radar fusing system to ‘contact’—as long as the warhead remains inside this container, it will not detonate. Do not touch the warhead or strike it with any hard objects—although the mechanical lock is still in place, any sharp blows may activate the chemical battery and trigger it, and the mechanical lock may not hold. There is a half-kilo of high-explosive material in the warhead that will detonate if the warhead is activated, which will at the very least kill anyone with ten meters and scatter a lot of nuclear debris around. I trust you will drive safely.”
“Of course, sir,” Khalimov replied stonily.
He placed a device in Khalimov’s hand. “Your procedures are simple, Captain. First, remove the mechanical safety lock by pulling this pin. Next, turn on the test kit by turning this key, flip these two switches, and remove the key. Finally, once you are safely away from the weapon but no more than thirty meters away, press and release the red button on that remote. From that moment you will have sixty minutes to get at least five kilometers away from the area. At the end of sixty minutes, the test kit will electronically change the fusing from contact to radar altimeter altitude of three meters. Of course, it will sense the distance from the warhead to the side of the container is only a few centimeters, so it will fuse and detonate immediately.
“Three notes of caution, Captain. One: once you remove the mechanical safety lock, it activates a chemical battery inside the warhead, which powers the warhead,” Zakharov said. “Since the fuse will be set for contact, any sudden movement or impact on the warhead that creates more than twenty Gs could set it off. It does not have to be a violent action—dropping it or even hitting it with a hand or object hard enough could be enough to trigger it. Have your men out of the building when you pull the pin, be careful to walk away from it, and for God’s sake don’t slam any doors on your way out.
“Two: you have just five minutes from the time you pull the mechanical safety pin to when you must turn on the test kit,” Zakharov went on. “After that, the chemical battery will be spent and there will be no way to set off the detonation charge except if you somehow managed to cook off the explosive charge using a blasting cap. The warhead will be all but useless then.
“Third: that remote control device is also a dead man’s switch,” Zakharov concluded. “If you press and hold the red button for more than six seconds, the weapon will detonate when you release the button. There is no way to stop the device from triggering after that unless someone disarms the device while the button is pressed. The device will also detonate when you move out of radio range of the test kit, farther than about two kilometers or so, even if you are still pressing the button. This may help you and your men bargain for escape if you are caught or discovered. Vi paneemayetye?”
“Da, Colonel,” Khalimov responded.
The ex-Russian commando was one of the most emotionless men Zakharov had ever known, he thought. He nodded approvingly. “You don’t seem too nervous, Captain.”
“I have worked around dangerous ordnance many times, sir,” Khalimov aid. “Dying in a high-explosive, biological, or nuclear blast makes no difference to me—I am still dead.” He looked at the Russian colonel with stone-cold eyes and added, “Besides, I watched you shoot me in the chest point-blank with a Dragunov sniper rifle, sir. I have already lived and re-lived death many times since then.”
“Of course,” Zakharov said. “That’s an experience most humans will never have.” They unbolted the warhead from the hopper, set it in a case inside one of their soldier’s vehicles, wrapped it securely in the aluminum foil material again, and concealed it all under a carpet and spare tire. “It must never leave your sight from now on, Captain.”
“It won’t, sir.”
“Good luck to you, Captain,” Zakharov said. “We will see each other shortly. As soon as your operation is complete, I will arrange to wire the funds to your numbered accounts in Latvia.”
“Do you anticipate any problems, sir?” Khalimov asked.
“The Director has not been as well informed as I thought lately,” Zakharov admitted, “but he has always paid promptly and I have no reason to believe he won’t do so again. But I want to be close to him when your mission is complete just to make sure he stays cooperative.”
“Very good, sir,” Khalimov said.
“Razvjazhite Ad,” Zakharov said, saluting the assassin and then grasping his right forearm in a brotherly Roman Legion–style handshake. “Unleash hell.”
“Yes, sir,” Khalimov said confidently, returning the salute and the handshake. “Ih sud’ba nahoditsja v moih rukah. Their fate is in my hands.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico
> That same time
We found him!” Special Agent Ramiro Cortez shouted in the phone.
Kelsey DeLaine looked at the time on her cell phone display; about four A.M. local time. “Who, Rudy?”
“Colonel Yegor Zakharov.”
She was instantly awake, swinging her feet off the lumpy mattress in a flash. “Talk to me, Rudy,” she said, stepping quickly over to Carl Bolton’s room next door and pounding on the rickety door; he was awake and dressed in moments.
“Homeland Security was tracking down citizens, visa holders, naturalized citizens, or resident aliens who recently entered theU.S. from overseas but whose fingerprints collected during customs inprocessing didn’t match in the national database,” Cortez said. “They were focusing on males traveling from South or Central America with advanced degrees or skills such as pilots, chemists, physicists, and so forth, matching Zakharov’s general description. There’s one guy on a flight from Mexico City to San Jose, California; came in last night—commercial pilot, resident alien, but he has no prints on file.”
Kelsey could feel the excitement rising in her gut—this one sounded very promising. “Is it him?”
“It’s a Mexican citizen and three-year resident alien. Real documents, not fakes. Has rented a room from a lawyer in San Mateo for the past year and a half.”
“But you faxed Zakharov’s picture to customs in Mexico City and San Jose, and…”
“Bingo. Positive ID.”
Kelsey punched Bolton’s pillow excitedly. “Did you get an address on him? Did you pick him up?”
“The San Francisco SAC decided to set up a surveillance unit first until he could get an arrest warrant,” Cortez explained.
“If they have his place under surveillance and he hasn’t shown up since last night, it means he probably picked up the surveillance and bugged out.”
“But now we got a new identity and hopefully a whole new set of clues as to his whereabouts,” Cortez said. “He’s an aircraft sales rep for a firm in San Jose, named Tomas Estrada, goes by ‘Tom.’ He travels frequently to Central America…”
“Easy enough to hop on down to Brazil from anywhere in Central America,” Kelsey pointed out.
“Credit cards, frequent flyer account, bank account, all legit and well established,” Cortez went on. “Commercial pilot, Mexican and U.S. licenses. Speaks fluent English and Spanish. Well known to the airline ticket agents and local flying businesses around the Bay area. They’re still checking around to see if Estrada or anyone matching his description has any other places he frequents in the area.”
“An arrest warrant for a suspected terrorist linked to Kingman City should be a slam-dunk for any federal judge these days, for God’s sake,” Kelsey said. “Rudy, I need to get the hell out of here. Hasn’t the director met with the White House yet? Chamberlain needs a good bitch-slapping right about now.”
“The meeting is supposed to happen this morning,” Cortez said. “Don’t worry—you’ll be out in a couple hours. I’ve got a jet on the way that’ll take you to San Francisco to meet up with the SAC.”
“Are you sending Zakharov’s picture…?”
“To every airport, bus, rail, ship, and state police office west of the Rockies—as we speak,” Cortez said. “If he doesn’t surface within twenty-four hours, we’ll go nationwide.”
“Go nationwide now,” Kelsey said. “This guy’s mobile. If he’s a pilot, you’d better include fixed-base operators at as many general aviation airports as you can. He might have his own plane.”
“Good point. I’m on it.”
“Any other clues come up?”
“Nothing, except the Estrada character was legit all the way,” Cortez said. “Lots of paper pointing to a regular hardworking guy taking advantage of all the fine things our country has to offer.”
“Hiding out in plain sight, you might say.”
“Exactly. This guy’s smart, Kel. Real smart.”
“He’s a stone killer with his hands on one and possibly more nuclear weapons,” Kelsey pointed out. “I’m going to talk with Richter and Jefferson again to find out if they can tell me anything else about Zakharov and his henchman, Khalimov.”
“I’m wondering why the guy came back to the U.S.,” Cortez said. “Why take the risk, especially since he was almost nailed in Brazil?”
“Only two good reasons I can think of,” Kelsey said. “Either he didn’t get paid and he’s looking to collect, or…”
“He’s not finished blowing things up in the U.S.,” Cortez said ominously. “Or both.”
“Get me the heck out of here, Rudy,” Kelsey said. “Keep on pestering the director until he sees the President himself.”
“Get packed—you’ll be out of there soon,” Cortez said, and hung up.
Kelsey filled in Bolton as she put on her boots. “Where are you going?” Bolton interrupted her when he realized what she was doing. “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” Kelsey stopped in surprise—in fact, that’s exactly what she was going to do, and Bolton knew it. “Are you crazy? No way, Kel! As soon as the director can fix it we’re out of here. As far as I’m concerned, the task force is dead. Rudy gave you privileged FBI information—you can’t share it with anyone outside the Bureau.”
“But…”
“But nothing, Kel,” Bolton insisted. “You can’t even go out there now asking them questions, because they’ll figure you just got some hot information and they’ll want to know what it is. I suggest you keep it to yourself, Kel.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and kicked off her boots again. She found it surprisingly hard to roll back into bed. “Why do I feel like I’m withholding important information?” she asked.
“You don’t owe them jack, Kel,” Bolton said from the other side of the hallway. “This task force thing has been nothing but a royal cluster-fuck from day one, because Richter thought his shit didn’t stink. He abandoned us first…”
“He tried to get me to listen,” Kelsey said. “He told me and Jefferson what he wanted to do.”
“He told you about this hot information he had, sure—and then he left the base without any authorization and was getting ready to go to freakin’ Brazil…!”
“They almost got Zakharov.”
“They almost got themselves killed,” Bolton insisted, “and they still did it without authorization. Why are you defending them, Kel? They screwed up, but it’s our careers on the line! Just forget about these guys, Kel. By lunchtime we’ll be in Washington tracking these terrorists down, and we’ll do it the right way.”
Kelsey fell silent. If she had any hope of falling asleep again before dawn, she was disappointed.
The Oval Office, Washington, D.C.
Later that morning
Attorney General George Wentworth, National Intelligence Director Alexander Kallis, Secretary of Defense Russell Collier, and FBI Director Jeffrey F. Lemke stepped into the Oval Office and found Robert Chamberlain standing right beside the President of the United States, going over some documents. Victoria Collins was on the President’s phone, noticeably apart from the others.
That, Lemke thought, was not a good sign.
“C’mon in, guys,” the President said, standing and motioning to the chairs and couches in the meeting area in front of the fireplace. A steward brought in a tray of beverages and fixed one for each of the attendees according to their preferences. Again, Chamberlain sat on the chair just to the President’s right, the chair normally reserved for the Vice President. He took that chair not only because the Vice President was not in Washington—it had been decided after the attack in Kingman City to have the Vice President stay out of Washington and move locations to ensure the continuity of the government in case of an attack in the capital—but also to highlight the status and power the National Security Adviser held in this meeting.
Robert Chamberlain was in no uncertain terms the de facto vice president—and many in Washington, like Wentworth and Lemke, would say he
was more like the copresident.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Wentworth said. “We have some positive news to report, and a request.”
“Go right ahead, George,” the President said, taking a sip of tea. Wentworth outlined the details of the search for Yegor Zakharov in the San Francisco Bay area. “Interesting he decided to come to the States,” the President observed.
“Any reasons for that would be speculative, Mr. President,” FBI Director Lemke said, “but I think it was a mistake on his part. It’ll make it that much easier to nail him.”
“Robert has been reviewing Zakharov’s background with me,” the President said, motioning to the folder he and Chamberlain had been looking at before the meeting began. “As commander of this Russian tactical nuclear missile battalion, he would certainly know where the warheads were stored, who was guarding them, and who to bribe to get his hands on some.”
“Do you need me to bring you up to speed on Zakharov, Alex?” Chamberlain asked.
“Zakharov was commander of a regiment of short-and intermediate-range nuclear ballistic missiles near Kirov, northeast of Moscow,” Kallis said before Chamberlain could begin. Alexander Kallis had degrees in international relations from Dartmouth and Harvard. He joined the CIA after receiving his master’s degree and quickly rose through the ranks to become a deputy director in charge of policy before being nominated to serve as the National Intelligence Director, the office that combined all the federal, civil, and military intelligence activities of the United States of America. “After the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty was put into effect in 1988, his unit was deactivated. Zakharov publicly denounced the treaty and was quickly retired.
