The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Inside, a black metal box sat suspended on a bed of a dense gelatin. The same substance coated the inside of the lid. Kassar Suri, the weapons specialist from Pakistan, placed his hands on either side of the black box. "Gentlemen, you are about to inspect one of an estimated 250 Soviet made nuclear weapons designed in the Sixties. The USSR intended this to be a tactical weapon for use on a battlefield. Not a strategic weapon designed for large populations such as Boston or New York. This weapon can level a small city or inflict limited damage to a larger metropolitan area. The device, designated as a RA-115-01, was built in the late Seventies. It's one of almost a hundred that fell into private hands when the Soviet Union dissolved and the Cold War ended. No one knows how many of these bombs have survived. Many assume they are no longer operational. Of course officially they don't exist."

  Abdullah hesitated to touch the black box. "Are we exposed to radiation?"

  Perplexed, Kassar said, "Of course, but only a low dose, no more than you would experience from several X-rays." He lifted the lid of the black box and displayed the internal workings of the bomb. "Plutonium 239 is the neutron acceptor in this bomb. The construction of this bomb is quite simple." he pointed to various parts. "This is a long life battery. The system will fail if the electric charge is lost." With admiration in his voice he stated, "Alexander Kosloff has, shall we say, nurtured this device for many years so it remains in working order."

  The Russian withdrew a charger out of his briefcase and attached wires to the battery. He handed the plug to Bashir.

  Kassar continued. "This is a pure fission weapon using a gun-type assembly. Upon detonation a high explosive charge forces a bullet of Pu-239 down a tube and into a Plutonium target. You will note two neutron generators astride the tube. They serve as linear particle accelerators. The space between the bullet and the target is filled with gases that, when electrically charged, create hydrogen ions, which result in critical mass when the atoms of Pu-239 collide. This in turn causes nuclear fission–an explosion."

  Struggling with the technical jargon, Rashid translated Kassar’s explanation. Abdullah nodded his head to show he understood. The Russian appeared bored.

  Abdullah found the technical description academic, and not useful. His interest lay in how to blow the damn thing up in a controlled way. "How do you trigger the bomb?"

  "Yes, of course," responded Kassar. "Setting the bomb off is a two-step process. First arm it, then detonate it. You will notice this switch." He pointed to a red button on top of a stainless steel box in the corner of the unit. "Pressing this will arm the bomb," he said as he pushed down on the button. Abdullah, Rashid and Bashir uttered a sound of surprised shock and pulled back. A red light blinked next to the button. Amused by their reaction, Kassar grinned with satisfaction. "Don’t be frightened. As I said a detonator must be added before the device will fire."

  After a few moments, Abdullah lashed out at Kassar. “This demonstration is not entertaining. This is serious business, and is not a matter for theatrics."

  "Forgive me, I didn't mean to frighten you," lied Kassar, still entertained by Abdullah's concerned expression. "The detonator is missing. A simple and effective precaution against a nuclear accident."

  Rashid hastily translated as he, Abdullah and Bashir composed themselves. Bashir asked the obvious question, "Where is the detonator?"

  The Russian stood. "I have it." He reached into his briefcase and took out two pieces of equipment, both slightly larger than a man's fist. He placed them side by side on the table.

  Kassar thanked him. "If this bomb should fall into the hands of the enemy, it would be useless to them without these accessories." He positioned the detonators in front of him, then cleared his throat and straightened himself. "So far we have talked only of the mechanics of this weapon. We have not explored the effects the explosion will produce." He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “Explosive blast, ionized radiation, thermal radiation, and radioactive fallout are the four significant results from a detonation. Anyone living in this nuclear age should be familiar with these effects. I will not go into details." He checked the room, but no one asked questions. "The intensity of these effects are influenced by the manner in which detonation is delivered." He stopped and looked intently at Abdullah. "I must stress it is highly influenced by where detonation takes place."

  Everyone turned to Abdullah, who felt he had become the center of attention, but didn't know why. He glanced from face-to-face and then responded to Kassar. "Are you making a point of some kind?"

  Kasloff, the Russian, stood and addressed Abdullah. Rashid quickly translated between pauses. "You have told your handlers in Rome that you intend to attack a crowd of spectators in a small stadium not far from here in Mexico." Rashid corrected the Russian by saying New Mexico. "Yes, I mean New Mexico. You have estimated in your reports the maximum damage to life would not exceed thirty thousand Americans, and could be far fewer. Your plan," he continued, "is to hide this weapon somewhere in the stadium at ground level and explode it remotely when you are at a safe distance." The Russian stressed the words ‘safe distance.’ Rashid repeated what he said word for word.

  Abdullah, his heart pounding, stood and faced the Russian, an aging hulk that he regarded with less respect than a pile of camel dung. "May Allah the Bringer of Death, damn you for your impudence!" Abdullah advanced on the Russian. "My plan is not made in haste. I have created a plan to uphold the values of my faith and the moral codes of Islam. Something a nonbeliever such as yourself cannot grasp–much less respect."

  Rashid softened the translation to avoid further confrontation, almost to the point of misrepresentation. Bashir regarded Rashid with disapproval.

  Kosloff pulled back, surprised at the ferocity of this verbal counterattack. Then he fired back, "I speak the truth as I have learned from your masters, who do not agree with you." With a curled lip he leaned forward, "Explain the merits of your strategy."

  Abdullah, his hands still trembling with rage, moved away from his opponent. "I do not answer to you, but for the benefit of the others, I will put to rest your accusations." He turned to Kassar, Rashid and Bashir. "I have studied this opportunity to punish the Americans for their meddling in our affairs. I have determined I must get their attention without forcing them to bloody Islam with their great military power, which is known to be vast and invincible. Their stockpile of nuclear weapons would easily annihilate the Muslim world. No, this must be a measured attack. I have selected a target that not only reduces the possibility of killing Muslims who live in America, but avoids the slaughter of children within the age of innocence. My target includes Americans of ethnic diversity, mostly the young and the able bodied. This fool," pointing to the Russian, "would relish a holy war of worldwide proportions. He would become richer for it." The translation in both Russian and Urdu took several minutes. No one spoke when Rashid finished. The Russian shrugged his shoulders, turned away and sat down.

  Looks were exchanged around the table. Finally, Kassar resumed the briefing. "If I understand this discussion, we have two scenarios to consider: limited impact versus maximum impact. Fortunately, detonators exist for either choice. In my right hand I hold a detonator that incorporates a radar altimeter to measure the height of an aircraft above ground. This altimeter is programmed in a special way. First the plane must arrive at an altitude greater than one thousand feet to activate it. When the aircraft descends below 500 feet the bomb will detonate. Five hundred feet is the correct distance above ground if the greatest effect is to be achieved. Once armed, it cannot be disarmed." Kassar paused a moment. "In my left hand, I hold a detonator that may be activated at any chosen time by a remote signal, produced by a cell phone. Entering a coded sequence of numbers is all it takes. Obviously this would be used for a ground-level explosion." He summed up. "In both cases, arming the bomb must be done manually, that is to say, by a human being."

  No one spoke after the translation.

  The Russian closed his oversized bri
efcase and placed in on the floor. "I will leave these accessories. How you use them is not my decision. I have met my obligations to the deal." He folded his hands behind his back.

  Abdullah demanded further training in the proper procedures for attaching the detonators. He took notes, as Kassar explained the fine points. When the briefing ended and Rashid no longer needed to translate, he asked to be excused, explaining he needed a trip to the bathroom. Abdullah waved him off.

  RASHID PUSHED HIS chair back and left the dining room. He climbed the stairs and headed for the bathroom that served both second floor bedrooms. He shut the door and quickly reached down and pulled his pant leg up, retrieving a compact phone. He quickly tapped in a number, and then a short text message. As he finished he heard someone stumping up the stairs. Bashir knocked on the door. "Don't you know there is a bathroom downstairs?" He asked in a loud voice. Rashid lifted the toilet tank top and dropped his phone in the water, then carefully replaced the top and flushed the toilet.

  "Of course I know," he answered opening the door, "but what if someone else needs the facilities? We can't all fit in the same bathroom, now can we?" Bashir, wearing a pair of binoculars around his neck, peeked over his shoulder into the bathroom. "If you need to go, Bashir, help yourself. I'm done."

  ABDULLAH REVIEWED HIS notes. The Russian left the dining room and stepped out on the front porch stretched his body and faced the overcast sky–his eyes closed and his expression blank. Rashid checked to see if anyone needed his services, but Abdullah again waved him off. Rashid flopped down on the sofa, picked out a six-month-old magazine and thumbed through it.

  Bashir, after leaving the upstairs bathroom, deposited the binoculars on the dining room table, and joined the group. He eyed his watch, then started for the kitchen to prepare dinner. Everyone agreed they would stay a second night and make arrangements for morning flights out of El Paso.

  The Team of Deliverance had met, talked, exchanged views and trained Abdullah in the use of his suitcase nuke. Except for dinner, packing up, and the flight home tomorrow, the day was over. Or was it?

  FIFTY

  IN THE EARLY HOURS OF Friday morning Ashley grabbed her backpack from her cubicle on the first floor of the Field Office, and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. She saw a dim light at the end of the hall in Kent’s office and found Walter lying on the office sofa with his eyes closed and a phone on his chest. She sat on an adjacent chair two feet from the sofa, and made only enough noise to test how deep his sleep might be. His eyes opened.

  In a soft voice she said, "Its one a. m. officially morning. Any word from DC?" Walter touched the phone on his chest with his right hand and took her hand with his left.

  "Nothing new. The task force is in position. No word from Cebeck.” He swung his legs around and sat up, dropped the phone next to him and ran his hand through his hair. "Johansson can't contact Cebeck."

  Ashley nodded. "He's probably asleep. He put in a long day.” She paused, then pulled at his hand to get his attention. "I've done everything I can do here. I feel the need to be down there, near the action."

  "You're not alone. Johansson wants me down there, too. It's not that he doesn't trust his task force, he feels we should be in on the kill since we–that's you and I–opened this case."

  "It's a long drive." She was pleased Walter included her.

  "No. About ten minutes."

  She looked at him and raised both eyebrows. "It's over 250 miles."

  "More like five," he said with a sly grin, "to Kirkland Air Force Base across town." She didn't speak, but her expression asked–what? "Leo Adornetto has a long reach. He called the Secretary of Defense. That opens many doors. We have a Beechcraft Turboprop at our disposal."

  "I trained in a Beechcraft years ago during my college days when I learned to fly and became a flight instructor.”

  “Are you still current?”

  “Yes, but just barely.”

  Walter let go of her hand. "Time to move out." He stood, then walked to his desk and centered the phone on the seat of his chair. "Your old buddy Mark Ramirez will be here to take over communication in a few minutes. He'll find the phone because I know he'll sit in my chair."

  KIRKLAND AFB OPERATES out of the Albuquerque International Sunport, a joint civilian and military airfield. Lieutenant Colonel F. Avery met them in the main lobby of the airport. "Special Agent in Charge Walter Kent?"

  "Yes, Colonel Avery, this is Agent Kohen," he replied, reading the Colonel's nametag. "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I don’t control the timing.”

  The colonel nodded. "No problem, sir. Follow me. The aircraft is standing by." The twin engine King Air sat positioned on the tarmac. Major R. Henderson, the copilot, stood by the aircraft, its door dropped to allow entrance. After brief introductions, they climbed aboard. Twelve minutes later, at 1:45 a.m., they were cleared for takeoff

  With the cockpit door closed, Ashley moved next to Walter. He took her hand. "Better get some sleep, it will be a long day," She nodded and snuggled against his shoulder.

  About an hour after takeoff, the King Air touched down on runway 12/30 at the Artesia Municipal Airport. Colonel Avery taxied to the general aviation building, and idled the aircraft. Major Henderson unlatched the portside door and dropped the stairs. "We radioed ahead," he yelled, over the engine noise. "There will be a ride waiting for you around in front of this building at three hundred hours–about now. Have a safe trip."

  Walter dipped his head, "Give my regards to the Colonel. Smooth ride."

  They walked around the darkened terminal building and spotted a Humvee with running lights on. It came equipped with a burly man in army fatigues who appeared half awake. "Are you Walter Kent?”

  "Yes."

  "Very good, sir. Hop in. Assault Leader Davis is expecting you."

  They drove thirty-two miles east on Highway 82, then turned south on a dirt road. The Humvee bumped along for two miles then stopped at the temporary field center for Red Dog Unit–the western half of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. In the vehicle's headlights they saw a straight walled tent. When the driver killed his lights, a glow inside the tent became visible. A man stepped out of the tent as they exited the Humvee. "Good morning, Mr. Kent. I've been expecting you. Who is that with you?"

  "Lead Investigator Ashley Kohen."

  "Come inside, please. I'll brief you on current conditions."

  Unlike the old canvas field tents, this one was made of polyester and could be erected in five minutes. Assault Leader Davis stood lean and tall with a touch of gray in his hair. He offered them folding chairs. On a plastic storage box, he rolled out a mapped layout of the target house and the JTTF positions. "The subjects of interest are less than two miles from our position. We are well out of their sight. Both my unit and Alpha Unit, east of here, have forward observers with eyes on the two-story dwelling. Your man, Agent Cebeck, has the closest vantage point. So far he hasn't reported anything since midnight." Davis tapped his iPad. "These are infrared images of the house. Our drone took them. As you can see lights-out about one hundred hours."

  Ashley and Walter studied the images and the drawing. She asked, "What's your plan?"

  "Our orders are to report any movement or overt actions. We know there are four men inside and assume one or more people were already in place before their arrival Thursday night, a few hours ago. If they leave, we will close in on them when ordered."

  Walter asked, "Any chance of approaching tonight and mounting a listening device?"

  "We thought of that, but DC said no. Director Johansson doesn't want any chance of discovery until we know more about what's going on in there. I understand we have a man on the inside."

  "Yes," Ashley confirmed, "An experienced man from headquarters."

  Davis nodded. "It's a wait-and-see game right now. I don't expect any change until after sun up." He noticed dark circles under their eyes. "Sorry about the accommodations. Best I can do is a couple of sleeping bags. You're
welcome to catch a few hours in the back of the Humvee parked outside."

  Ashley gave Davis a tentative smile.

  The clear night sky allowed the moon to cast faint shadows on the desert landscape. Bright pinpoints of starlight pierced the upper atmosphere like tiny snowflakes on a black canvas, their contrast sharpened by the clear dry air of the desert.

  The choice between sleeping in the Humvee or on the ground was an easy one to make. The ground offered a flat surface and space for unrestricted movement, something the military designers failed to stress in their modern version of the Jeep. What the ground didn't offer was protection from the elements. Ashley scrunched her face into the sleeping bag to avoid the desert insects and debris.

  With the sunrise came a low-pressure system that stirred the winds and brought scattered clouds that soon thickened into a gloomy overcast blanket, allowing temperatures to moderate. Ashley checked the time: seven o'clock. Walter lay asleep a few feet away. She took a long look at this man who held a strange attraction for her. Strange because she had never had this kind of warm feeling for any man.

  Assault Leader Davis interrupted her contemplation. "Good morning Agent Kohen. I trust you slept well?"

  From the ground she answered, "Like a baby."

  "Must be the desert air."

  Walter rolled over and squinted up at the tall lanky form of the leader. He immediately wriggled out of his sleeping bag and stood facing Davis. "Any new developments?"

  "All's quiet on the eastern front," he answered with fake seriousness. "Agent Cebeck checked in a few minutes ago. No visible movement in or around the house. Our observers report the same." He offered Ashley a hand up. "I have some hot coffee in the tent. Doughnuts are on the way."