by Chuck Holton
“No, not that! Look!” His stubby finger stabbed at the sky. “What is it?”
She looked beyond the rainbow and finally saw it. A white zeppelin was descending toward the base of the dam. That’s strange … “It’s a blimp, honey.”
“Like the one they have at the Super Bowl?”
“Well, yes. Only I don’t think it’s very big.” She really couldn’t tell how large the thing was, only that it couldn’t be anywhere near as large as the Goodyear blimp. She squinted into the late afternoon sun. The craft bore no markings and was descending rapidly toward the power plant. The hair on the back of Monique’s neck suddenly stood at attention. Something isn’t right.
By now some of the other tour-goers had noticed the blimp. “Hey, Ken,” one of them shouted. “What’s that thing doing down here?”
Ken peered up at the zeppelin. Monique could now see twin propellers set on either side of a small boxy-looking compartment beneath the sausage-shaped balloon. They seemed to be steering it toward the roof of the building that housed the turbines. Only at the rate it was descending, it was coming in for a crash landing.
This can’t be good. Monique grabbed for her children. “Kids, get back inside, hurry!”
From behind her, a voice yelled, “It’s gonna crash!”
Somebody screamed. Before she knew it, there was a mad rush as everyone on the terrace scrambled for the door.
She stumbled across the threshold, and a thunderclap threw her to the ground on top of her children.
A piercing alarm horn sounded, mixing with shrieks of confusion and pain. When she looked up, panic washed over her like a tsunami.
Junior wasn’t there.
The scream tore itself from her lungs as smoke filled the air. “No!” Monique clawed her way to her knees, suddenly realizing that man’s awesome creativity wasn’t always used for good.
In the chaos, nobody noticed the men high above, watching the scene unfold from an overlook at the rim of the canyon. Before the smoke from the inferno below reached them, they got into their low-rider Imperial and drove away.
Washington DC
“Ladies and gentlemen, our government is failing us.”
Michael Lafontaine paused for dramatic effect, looking over the packed-out National Press Club banquet hall on Fourteenth Street Northwest, only two blocks from the White House and three from his own office.
It had taken some doing to get an audience with this group on such short notice. His perfectly tailored navy blue suit, taut frame, and close-cropped gray hair complemented his hard features and intense blue eyes as he stepped up to the wide oak dais and stared down the crowd. State flags adorned the walls beneath a soaring tongue-and-groove ceiling.
The room was full of people he loathed—arrogant journo-snobs who had their collective finger on the jugular of public opinion, and knew it. That these caviar-sniffing stuffed shirts shaped the American consciousness qualified as a crime against humanity in his book. Normally, he did everything in his considerable power to stay well outside the realm of their attention.
But it was time to use their agenda for his own purposes.
He cleared his throat. “After the tragedies of September 11, America ran to its politicians, demanding increased security. The politicians responded by punishing the very people they had pledged to protect—curtailing our freedoms and creating more bureaucracy at a cost to taxpayers that is almost inconceivable. When the economy fell apart, these same senators and congressmen made grand speeches about economic security while mortgaging the futures of our children and grandchildren.
“But as the tragic events of this week have clearly shown, we are still vulnerable to attack within our own borders. If the reports coming out of Silicon Valley and Los Angeles are correct, the explosive being used in this new wave of attacks has been traced to an Islamic terror organization in Lebanon with alleged ties to Iran.”
He straightened and thumped the podium with his fist. “This is happening on American soil, people. The war has come to our shores again.”
Michael could tell by the way the assembled journalists were shifting in their seats and exchanging glances with one another that he’d hit a nerve. Whether they agreed or disagreed, he didn’t care, so long as they reported what he had to say.
“Make no mistake, the Islamic radicals working to destroy us are cowards—they ply their trade of death and destruction against peace-loving noncombatants. They aren’t attacking military bases, they’re attacking our infrastructure—the very rails that carry our products to market and the roads we use to take our children to school. But cowards though they may be, they’re committed and clever. And they won’t stop as long as they draw breath.
“The solution, however, won’t be found in giving up more of our freedoms. Turning America into a police state will only hand a greater victory to those bent on destroying the American ideal. It’s time to stop half-stepping in this war. It’s time to force our government to do what our former president committed after 9/11. I quote from his speech before Congress on September 14, 2001.”
Michael looked down at his notes. “‘Our grief has turned to anger, and anger to resolution. Whether we bring our enemies to justice, or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done.…Al Qaeda is to terror what the mafia is to crime. But its goal is not making money; its goal is remaking the world—and imposing its radical beliefs on people everywhere.…Our war on terror begins with al Qaeda, but it does not end there.’”
Michael leaned over the podium, punctuating his words. “It will not end until every terrorist group of global reach has been found, stopped, and defeated.” The intensity in his voice had the effect of a laser beam on butter, and the audience of skeptics melted, offering up a smattering of applause.
Good, that’s very good.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to put our money where our mouth is. We can win this war if we set our collective will to victory. The ideals we aspire to as Americans will evolve into something very different if we do not confront this problem at its source and fully prosecute the war on terror. We must, as President Bush declared, ‘destroy it where it grows.’
“In the years since this long struggle began, we as Americans have become tired of war, because we are not a warlike people. But it’s time to renew our commitment to take this war to the enemy and put an end to it once and for all.”
A few of the journalists present appeared to be in hearty agreement, and their enthusiastic applause made up for those who remained silent. Michael waited for the din to settle before continuing.
“I spent twelve years as a soldier. I left the military as a colonel because I realized that I could have a greater impact on the world if I were outside the military framework. This country has been good to me—as you no doubt are aware. I feel a deep responsibility now to leverage that success and do my part to stiffen the resolve of our elected officials to live up to their commitments to all of us and finish this fight.
“To that end, I am embarking on a speaking campaign in the coming weeks to raise awareness for this cause. I appreciate your generosity in allowing me to begin this effort with you here at the National Press Club. In addition, I will be establishing a scholarship fund for the children of families affected by this disaster. I encourage all of you to put your money where your mouths are by supporting a similar charity. Thank you.”
Michael stepped away from the podium as the applause returned. When he sat down at his table, he realized his hands were shaking. Not from having to speak in front of several hundred people or even from the passion he felt about his topic.
He was shaking from fear.
Michael Lafontaine had decided on a course of action and was going to see it through, even though he was now sure that doing so would forever change the course of his life.
The motor of the Ukrainian army truck whined as the vehicle ground its way along the barely improved road leading away from Pripyat.
Mary sat in the back,
chafing at her bonds, staring defiantly at the dozen Ukrainian soldiers who surrounded her.
The men gazed back with unadulterated malice at the two “terrorists” now in their possession. None more so than a bald sergeant wearing a green bandanna, who stared at her from hate-filled slits carved in a pumpkin-shaped head. He saw her looking at him and said, “Rosiiska? Nimetska? Angliiska?”
When she didn’t answer, he spat on the floor of the truck at her feet.
Mary dropped her gaze. I can’t believe this is happening again. She fought back the depressing ramifications of their situation and tried to focus on her options. Unfortunately at this point, escape wasn’t one of them.
The Ukrainians had stripped her and Rip of their combat gear before putting them in handcuffs and shoving them unceremoniously into the back of the army truck. She’d heard nothing from John or Sweeney since before their capture. If they’d escaped, they weren’t in a much better position than she and Rip were, since she could see both ATVs behind them, being ridden by two soldiers probably having the time of their lives.
On foot, Sweeney and John had little chance of escaping the dead zone, especially cross country, without absorbing a horrific amount of radiation. Giving themselves up might actually be a better option. And if they hadn’t escaped…She wouldn’t allow herself to follow that train of thought any further.
Either way, there was no way she and Rip could count on them for a rescue.
The truck braked hard, sending Mary sliding forward into Rip and causing him to grunt in pain. She twisted to look at him and could see he needed medical attention. The side of his head was caked with blood, and his usual olive complexion was closer to maroon on that side. But his eyes locked on hers for a moment, and he gave a barely perceptible wink.
The pumpkin-headed sergeant grunted and dug the toe of his boot in Mary’s side, causing her to gasp in pain. She leveled her gaze at him, eyes daring him to kick her again.
He was about to oblige when the tailgate of the truck slammed open. An overweight officer shouted a command, and the soldiers rose and hopped one by one onto the pavement. A staccato discussion ensued out of her view.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Rip said.
She shrugged. “I hope John and Bobby are all right.”
“Don’t hope,” Rip whispered. “Pray.”
She nodded, wondering if her previous cry for help would qualify as a prayer. It seemed like hours ago. “I’ll try,” she said quietly.
Two soldiers hoisted themselves back into the truck. A moment later, the engine revved, and they began moving again.
The truck navigated around a large crater, which Mary could see once they’d gotten past it. The frame of an unrecognizable vehicle sat at the bottom of it, smoldering. Only then did Mary recall hearing a large thunderclap in the distance during the firefight with the same soldiers by whom she was now being guarded.
The truck turned, and Mary saw that they were only a few hundred meters from the reactor, which looked like a giant concrete aircraft hangar surrounded by a high chain-link fence. As far as she could tell, it was undamaged in the attack. The fence was guarded by a phalanx of soldiers, each with his AK-74 at the ready.
The truck rolled through the gate, and the soldiers disappeared into the dust thrown up as the truck growled away from the reactor. Her hopes of escape or rescue faded with every passing kilometer.
Ten minutes later, when the truck stopped again, her shoulders were burning from being shackled, and her legs had fallen asleep.
The fat Ukrainian officer appeared again at the back of the truck and ordered them out. She slid to the tailgate and was helped down by the two young soldiers who had ridden along with them. Then they did the same for Rip.
The overweight officer’s jowly, pockmarked face and pronounced underbite made him look like an unhappy bulldog. “You speak English?” The man’s voice sounded like gravel in a blender.
She regarded him for a moment before answering, weighing the wisdom of speaking Russian. If they thought she couldn’t understand it, they might speak more freely with each other in her hearing, something that could be to her advantage. She decided on English.
“Yes,” she said evenly.
“You are from America?” His accent was as thick as cold peanut butter.
“Ireland,” she lied, giving him a defiant look.
The officer was faster than he looked. Before she saw it coming, his huge open hand crashed against her jaw.
“Hey!” Rip took one step forward but was dropped to his knees by a rifle butt in the midsection. Two soldiers hauled him, retching, back to his feet.
“I think you lie,” said the fat man.
Though her face burned from the blow, Mary forced herself to hold his gaze.
They were in a parking lot next to a two-story block building. There were no cars in view, but based on the fresh paint and recently cut grass around the base of it, the building appeared occupied. Mary guessed it was a military headquarters of some sort.
Two more guards arrived, and the prisoners were prodded along a well-kept sidewalk and into the building, then down a set of wide concrete stairs into the basement. At the end of a brightly lit hallway, they turned into a dank-smelling room covered in cheap tile. At one end were a row of toilets. The other end held a row of dripping shower heads.
The officer in charge squeezed into the room, holding his pistol in one hand like a forgotten cigar. “You take your clothes.”
Not comprehending what they were being told, Mary looked at Rip, who shrugged.
Frustrated, the officer repeated the command, adding hand motions as if he were engaged in a game of charades.
Suddenly she understood, though her mind refused to believe what he was saying. Strip, he’s saying. He wants us to strip! She stared at him, wide eyed. “I will not!”
“Contamination. Must wash.”
She gaped at the officer and the four soldiers, who now had their guns leveled at her. They are serious!
“Hey,” Rip said quietly. “They’re right. We’ve been rolling around in radioactive stuff all morning. We’ve got to shower this stuff off.”
Mary’s head was swimming. She could tell by the serious looks the Ukrainians wore that she was going to do this whether she wanted to or not.
Rip was already peeling off his clothes with his back turned to her. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I promise not to look.”
15
THE RISING SUN was reflecting off the Rio Grande behind Edgar as he pulled off of what the map told him had once been the celebrated Route 66 south of Albuquerque, New Mexico. But the historic significance of the road meant nothing to him. He sped southward, glancing at the map occasionally as he honed in on the next red circle. He’d plotted them himself from the grid coordinates that had accompanied his final instructions.
He did not appreciate having to drive through the night. But the objective would be an easy one, so he had chosen it for himself.
A few minutes later he turned right again and wound his way through a neighborhood of ridiculously large houses, which, in his country, would have been the domain of the very few super-rich. But in America, everyone was rich, it seemed.
The Albuquerque neighborhood soon gave way to scattered farms that took their irrigation off the river. A stray chicken scurried across the road in front of him, but he didn’t slow down. When the road turned to gravel, he knew he was getting close.
Edgar edged along the dirt road slowly, not wanting to risk hitting a pothole with the morning sun in his eyes. Eventually he came to a bluff overlooking the river where the road again turned south. Five minutes later, he spied his target.
The bridge that stretched across the river was far too narrow for vehicles, but that wasn’t its purpose. Girders rose from a concrete base that surrounded a twenty-four-inch metal pipe as it emerged from underground like a silver snake from its hole. The pipeline then crossed the wide muddy river on its way
back to California, carrying millions of cubic meters of compressed natural gas.
The area was deserted. Edgar put his Ford SUV in park and stepped out, stretching his legs after the eight-hour drive. The heat of the day wouldn’t arrive for several hours yet.
He smiled. The day was predicted to be a scorcher.
Walking around to the back of the vehicle, he lifted the tailgate and flipped open one of the four giant Coleman ice chests he’d purchased at an outdoor store. He removed the thin leather gloves that he wore as a matter of habit, then fished around in the ice that was packed carefully around the glass bottles within. He found what he was looking for—a can of Budweiser—and cracked the top open to down a long, satisfying gulp. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The desert air was cool and fresh. He imagined sitting on the patio of a home like those he’d just passed, enjoying the good life. Before long that dream would be a reality. He downed the beer in another gulp and tossed the can into the weeds.
He checked his phone. No text messages. He considered calling the leader of the gangbangers he’d hired at the restaurant but finally decided against it. Give them just enough rope to hang themselves.
Despite their attempts at professionalism during the meeting-making careful notes of his instructions and studying the map he’d given them—Edgar knew how their minds worked. MS-13 was a well-organized criminal gang, but it was still a gang, and its members rarely thought about much more than their own petty turf wars. If they succeeded at the mission he’d given them—hitting the power station at the base of Hoover Dam—it would be a miracle.
Edgar thought the plan was insane. ITEB was powerful, but not that powerful. He knew two bottles wouldn’t do much damage to the dam or the power plant. But now that the press had gotten wind of the attack, he realized it didn’t matter. People believed that it could have knocked out a significant percentage of the electricity to power-starved California. And in fact, the news was reporting that the plant was being taken off-line while federal investigators inspected the damage.
