Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  The name was like a Taser to the chest, and Lafontaine flinched, momentarily overwhelmed by the memory of the raven-haired beauty he couldn’t have forgotten if he tried. Something like hope sprouted in him.

  “I did know that name once. But I have not spoken with Miss Saldana in a very long time. Do you know where she is?”

  The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and dropped his gaze. “Yes. I know where she is. I…I am her son.”

  Her son? Lafontaine knew he shouldn’t have been surprised by the news that Mia had gone on to have children, but the shock of her grown child standing in front of him like this was almost too much to bear. In his mind, she was still the same beautiful young woman he had fallen in love with two decades earlier.

  He looked at the boy and weighed his words carefully. “It is nice to meet you. I have often wondered where your mother went after I lost touch with her. I would be delighted to see her again.”

  The boy’s expression fell further. “I am afraid that is not possible.” His lip began to tremble. “My…mother passed away in San José, Costa Rica, three months ago.”

  The hope that had taken root in Michael Lafontaine’s heart exploded like a pipe bomb, tearing open a very old wound. He suddenly needed to sit down. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come in, young man. Tell me your name.”

  The teen looked up at him with tears on his face.

  “My name…is Michael.”

  JSOC Headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Sweeney’s eyes bugged out the second he walked into the cherry-paneled conference room and saw her.

  “Whoa! What happened to your hair?”

  Even with her hair cut way short, Mary Walker was still the best-looking CIA officer—or any other kind of officer—he’d ever seen. Despite being dressed in an Army multicam uniform that was anything but form fitting, she looked like she ought to be on a calendar someplace. For the moment, however, she was seated at the head of the conference table, furiously scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

  She didn’t even look up from her notes. “Thanks for noticing, Sergeant Sweeney. It’s called a pixie cut. Have a seat.”

  John “Coop” Cooper was already there, sitting at the other end of the table with his arms crossed. “You sure have a way with the ladies, Bobby. I already asked her about it.” His square jaw twisted into a grin. “She says she decided the shorter ’do would be easier to take care of.”

  Sweeney back-pedaled. “It’s great. Ah…I mean, I like it.” He grabbed a folder off the table and started fanning himself. “Wooh. It’s hotter than Alabama in August in here. What gives?”

  Mary smirked and threw a glance his way. “The air conditioner’s down.” She stood and picked up a stack of photos, passing them to John. “Don’t worry, Staff Sergeant Baldwin back there is going to get it fixed, right?” She nodded toward the back of the room where Frank Baldwin had his head stuck inside the closet in the corner of the room. Sweeney hadn’t seen Frank since the jump.

  “Ow! I think I found the problem,” came Frank’s muffled reply.

  A smirk crossed Sweeney’s face. “Should we call the paramedics now or wait until he electrocutes himself?”

  John huffed. “If he’s as good with air conditioners as he is with e-bombs, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “I heard that,” Baldwin shouted from inside the closet.

  Rip Rubio burst into the room, tugging at the front of his mul-ticam uniform and grimacing. “Man, ese, whose idea was it to wear the salad suits? It’s hot!”

  “You mean nobody told you?” Mary chided. “The reason we’re here is because the secretary of defense has asked for a briefing on the ITEB issue. And you can bet that he won’t be alone for the meeting. The uniforms will present a positive image.”

  John grunted. “Wonderful. Who else will be there?”

  Mary waved a hand in mock nonchalance. “What, besides my boss? Let’s see, most likely we’ll be looking at representatives from the NSC, DIA, FBI, DHS, NCTC, and the State Department.”

  “Yeesh,” Sweeney groused. “It’s like an explosion in a letter factory. If I’d known we were having a dog and pony show, I’d have brought my dog Bubba back from leave with me.”

  “I’m sure he would have been a hit with the SecDef, Sergeant Sweeney, but since he’s not here, why don’t you pass these out.” Mary slapped a stack of folders down in front of him.

  “Yes ma’am.” Sweeney said, laying the sarcasm on thick.

  Doc Kelly, the team’s African American medic, took the folders from Sweeney and passed them on.

  As Sweeney went back to his chair, he thought about the first time he’d met Mary. Once he’d recovered from the shock of the team—ODA 374, also known as Task Force Valor—being suddenly attached to the CIA, he had been angry about having been put under the command of a woman. But several months into this mission, he now had to admit Mary, call sign Phoenix, had proven her mettle, at least when it came to running interference for them in the rear so they could get the mission accomplished. So if he still hated having a woman in charge, this one was growing on him. And those full terracotta lips did nothing to stop it, dadgummit.

  Major Louis Williams strode through the door just as the air conditioner hummed to life. A small cheer went up from among the assembled group. The linebacker-sized commander stopped and looked at them in confusion, which made Sweeney forget that he was irked, and he started laughing.

  “What’d I do?” the major said, looking around.

  “Frank fixed the air conditioner,” John said, grinning.

  “Praise the Lord,” Rip added.

  Now Sweeney was peeved again. Two weeks ago in Panama, something had turned Rip from a fun-loving ladies’ man into something closer to a Sunday morning televangelist. It wasn’t a good change.

  The major just shrugged. “Well, if you think that’s great, wait until you see who I brought with me.” He turned and opened the door again. “Come on, son.”

  A clean-shaven, brown-haired giant hobbled through the door, wearing an Army PT uniform and sporting a sheepish smile.

  “Buzz!” The team members jumped to their feet and crowded around one of Sweeney’s best friends in the world, Sergeant First Class Henry Hogan. They hadn’t seen Buzz walking since the day two weeks earlier when the weapons sergeant had taken a bullet during a reconnaissance mission on a remote island off the coast of Panama.

  “When’d you get out of the hospital?” John asked, shaking Buzz’s hand.

  “Jus’ now,” Buzz drawled in his Texas accent. “’Bout a week lat-er’n I woulda liked.”

  The major laughed. “Nurses got tired of his whining.”

  Rip slapped Buzz on the back. “I’ve been praying for you, bro. How’s the leg?”

  Sweeney rolled his eyes. Oh, for the love of Mike!

  Buzz shot him an unsure look, then answered, “Uh, pretty good, I reckon. Got some tingling in my foot. The docs say I’ve got some circulation problems still, so they’re sending me home on convalescent leave for a coupla weeks.”

  Sweeney grinned. “Slacker.” Which was his way of saying, You deserve the rest.

  Buzz smiled back. “You bet, buddy. No catfish is gonna be safe when I get home.”

  Frank joined the group, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your beard.”

  “Yeah, got some flack about it by the colonel running the hospital. I don’t think he likes Special-Ops guys much.”

  “Are you staying for the briefing, Sergeant Hogan?” Mary still stood at the head of the faux-cherry table with her stack of papers. “You’re welcome to.”

  “No ma’am. Sergeant Daly’s waitin’ for me outside with his car. He’s taking me to the airport. I just wanted to stop by before I go. I sure hate to leave before this ITEB mission is wrapped up.”

  The major waved his hand. “Don’t worry, Buzz. We won’t go winning the war on terror without you, we promise. Now go get yourself better
.”

  Buzz nodded. “Thanks, Lou.” He turned to the others. “You men be safe.”

  When Buzz left, everyone migrated back to the conference table and sat down.

  Sweeney plopped into the seat next to Frank and punched him in the arm. “Good goin’ on the AC, sport.”

  “Were you born annoying, or are all southerners that way?” Frank said.

  “You’re just jealous,” Sweeney retorted.

  “That’s enough, you two,” the major said. “The National Counterterrorism Center will be calling any minute, and I want y’all briefed first so you don’t look like a bunch of fuzzy-headed yahoos when they call.”

  Mary pushed a loose strand of hair behind one ear and consulted her notes. “All right, here’s where we stand. The bottle you all recovered from the island two weeks ago was, in fact, our liquid explosive. We still have no idea how it appeared in that jungle clearing, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. Our tests show the explosive is, as we thought, a colorless chemical compound that reacts explosively with oxygen. Our labs have been working on the sample to try to determine its origin, but that’s an uphill battle.”

  “Didn’t they get anything from the lab we found?” Rip said.

  “You’ll recall that there wasn’t much left when we were done with it,” Mary replied coolly.

  Sweeney shook his head. I’d rather not think about it. That old World War II bunker-turned-explosives-lab in Panama had almost become a tomb for Mary, Rip, and himself.

  “What about the two college guys who were hostages on the island?” Frank asked. “Did they ever get found?”

  “I can answer that,” Rip said. “Fernanda told me the Panamanian police found her cousin and his friend tied up in the house of some tipo on the mainland who was working with the pirates—ferrying supplies to them on the island. I guess the guys were pretty hungry and beat up, but they’ll be okay.”

  “Fernanda’s the young lady you found on the island?” Major Williams asked.

  “Roger that,” John replied. “Rip’s been having a long-distance love affair with her since we got back.”

  “It’s not like that, man.” Rip looked irritated. “We’re just friends.”

  “Sure you are.” Sweeney laughed. “You don’t want to cheat on all your other girlfriends, right?”

  The others chuckled, but Rip’s response surprised him. Instead of the wink-and-nod routine, or even the bristling anger of a former gangbanger, Rip just pursed his lips and spoke quietly. “You’ll see, ese. I ain’t like that anymore.”

  Sweeney shook his head. Whatever. Rip was no fun.

  Mary cleared her throat. “Anyway, one thing we did get from the bunker was that set of digital photographs that John brought out. From them, we’ve identified the containers that we believe held the ITEB in its original, diluted state.”

  “Great!” John said.

  “Not exactly. Judging by the number of containers, it appears that a large amount of ITEB was distilled and bottled there. Based on what we’ve found so far, it appears that there is quite a bit left to be found.”

  “Not great,” John said, frowning.

  Just then the phone on the conference table rang.

  Mary snatched up the receiver. “Phoenix.” She listened for a moment. “Yes sir. Okay.” She grabbed a remote control off the table and pointed it at the large flat-panel plasma display on the wall, switching channels until the image of another conference room appeared.

  To Sweeney, the dozen serious-looking older men in suits assembled around the table reminded him of one of the deacons’ meetings he’d had to endure as a kid. He recognized Secretary of Defense Nelson Brimmer—largely because the man’s scowling photo was part of the chain of command display at the chow hall. He had no idea who the men around the SecDef were, however.

  Here we go. Bring out the ponies!

  A clean-shaven, bespectacled man, whose double chin seemed out of place on his gaunt frame, arose on the screen and addressed Sweeney’s team. “Gentlemen, I’m Steven Stark, deputy director of the National Clandestine Service.” He turned to the men around the table in a room three hundred miles away from Fort Bragg, where Sweeney and his team were seated, and gestured toward the monitor. “And may I present Task Force Valor. Led here by one of our fine paramilitary ops officers, Mary Walker, code name Phoenix.”

  Sweeney decided the deputy director would look really funny in a clown suit. The man’s jowls jiggled as he continued speaking. “Phoenix, may I introduce you to Secretary of Defense Nelson Brimmer.” He indicated a dour-looking man in a rumpled gray suit sitting at the end of the table.

  Mary smiled at the television on the wall. “Thank you, sir. Nice to meet you, Mr. Secretary.”

  The hard-faced man nodded. “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it, shall we? Miss…” The SecDef consulted his notes. “Walker. What progress has your team made recently on the problem of this ‘liquid explosive’?”

  Sweeney leaned over to Mary. “Break a leg,” he whispered.

  She stabbed him with a glare, then smiled at the screen. “Thank you, sir. As you may know, two months ago a hotel was blown up in Beirut using an exotic liquid explosive known as ITEB, which stands for Iso-Triethyl Borane. This compound is used in all sorts of applications in industry, from pharmaceuticals to microchip fabrication, but it’s always diluted with another chemical that keeps it from exploding on contact with air.”

  The SecDef waved a hand to hurry things along. “Yes, yes. And you and your team thwarted the terrorists who were planning to use it. I’ve been briefed on that already. What did you find in Panama last month?”

  Mary swallowed but held her composure. “Mr. Secretary, the lab we found in Panama was processing the diluted chemical into its raw, pyrophoric form, then sealing it in bottles.”

  The SecDef grimaced and looked at her over his bifocals. “And how many of these bottles were made?”

  “The intelligence we have gathered indicates there were close to three hundred.”

  “And how many have you recovered, Agent Walker?”

  Sweeney watched Mary’s confidence start to crack. “We have recovered…one bottle, sir.”

  The SecDef took off his bifocals and stared hard at her from the screen. “You mean in over two months of operations, your team has solved one-three-hundredth of the problem!”

  Major Williams spoke up. “Mr. Secretary, I’m Major Lou Williams, the unit commander. Task Force Valor has done a great job so far. No one could’ve done better. Keep in mind that much of the ITEB was destroyed in the process of tracking it down. So that part is off the market.”

  “How much?”

  Williams punted to Mary with a look.

  She checked her notes. “We believe approximately two hundred bottles are accounted for so far, Mr. Secretary.”

  “So where is the rest of it?”

  “We’re still working on that, sir.”

  The SecDef tapped his notes. “Then it is possible that this explosive could be making its way across our borders as we speak, and could be used to kill U.S. citizens at any moment.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Beads of sweat were evident on Deputy Director Stark’s round bald head, even on the television. He sputtered a reply. “Mr. Secretary, I can assure you that intercepting the remaining cargo is our top priority.”

  The glowering SecDef shook his head. “I’ll agree that is very important, Steve, because as I’m sure you are aware, the current technology in use at our borders is not capable of detecting this compound. That means it would be a simple exercise to drive it onto our soil. The president will not take kindly to that sort of thing. But what if there’s a factory somewhere that is cranking this stuff out by the gross? Thirty days from now we could be looking at a problem that’s a hundred times larger. No, we’ve got to find the source.”

  The SecDef turned his attention back to Mary. “Agent Walker, I suggest that you and your men bring every resource at your disposal to bear
to track down the source of this compound immediately to keep any more from being manufactured.” He stood and dropped the handouts on the table. “Until you’ve accomplished that, I consider Task Force Valor a failure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to brief the president.” The SecDef turned and left the room. Several of the others followed him out.

  Steven Stark’s jowly face filled the screen once again, a few shades paler than it had been before. “You heard the secretary,” he hissed. “I want you to make finding the source of the ITEB top priority. I will be in touch.”

  Mary’s face was almost as red as her hair. “Yes sir.”

  The screen went black.

  Sweeney decided he didn’t really like the SecDef very much.

  3

  Parishev, Ukraine, Inside the Dead Zone

  BIRDS FLITTED AMONG mature fruit trees laden with apples, pears, and plums. Except for their chirping, the entire village was as quiet as death. The fruit would be full and almost perfectly ripe in another few months, but no one was there to harvest it, or ever would be again.

  A wooden cart approached. It was pulled by a bony black gelding that plodded along with its head down. The rasp of the wagon’s wheels and jingling of the reins intruded on the stillness, and the hunched form of an old man sitting in the cart did little to add life to the scene.

  Alexi Babichev’s creaky joints protested as he pulled the stubborn horse to a stop. “No, Tupy, we’re not going back home just yet. I want to pick some flowers for Mother.”

  The little horse grumbled but turned to the tug of the reins, pulling the wooden wagon toward the small church at the end of the village instead of down the path that led home.

  Alexi clucked his tongue at the stubborn animal. “Oh, you’re just being a maliatko because it’s your birthday. But I know where there are some beautiful roses that will make Baba very happy.”

  The horse seemed to accept that his supper would be delayed and plodded off toward the church. Alexi dropped the reins to his lap and retrieved a flask from his hip pocket, letting his attention wander past the overgrown trees that lined the unkempt path, all that was left of the once-tidy stone-chipped lane that ran through the center of Parishev. It had never been a busy place, even before the accident, but now it was so lonely even the spirits stayed away.