by Dale Brown
Johnny barely heard. He knew he should prepare himself for the worst, but there was no way to do that. There was no way to prepare, period.
So he just walked.
Two National Guardsmen were standing near the back of what had been the van. It was open, burned-out, empty. Johnny walked to the front cab and peered in. The van had turned over as it exploded and landed on its roof. The driver, burned to a skeleton, hung from the seat belt, bits of fabric glued to the bones and skull.
“Where are the other bodies?” Johnny asked, staring.
“Other bodies?” One of the soldiers walked over to him. “Sir?”
“The woman. The hostage.”
“There were no other bodies,” said the man.
“None?”
“Just this bastard.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty damn sure. Look—he’s burned to shit, but he’s the only one here.”
110
Cambridge—about the same time
Chelsea tried to move her arms but it was no use; she was strapped into a restraining jacket like a 1960s mental patient. She looked down into the clear water, peering at the top of the nuclear reactor. The water was bubbling, and given the heat in the room, she was sure it was boiling. The place smelled of steam, like an iron ready to press a wrinkled dress.
It’s not boiling. It’s my imagination.
The water bath doesn’t boil. I’ve been here. I’ve seen this.
It looks like it’s boiling.
Mind tricks.
I need to clear my head and figure a way out.
There were voices. Chelsea lifted her head, straining to hear.
Someone moved through the fog.
Massina.
I’m hallucinating.
Massina stopped at the railing.
Ghadab came toward him, trailed by the pair of “students”—clearly his own people, whom he’d managed to substitute at some point over the past several days . . . or maybe weeks, even years.
The computer geeks he’d gathered in the Syria bunker had obviously been working on a plan to make the reactor go critical while fooling the monitoring devices into thinking nothing was wrong. He’d managed to get his own people onto the reactor team—maybe they were all deep-planted agents, or maybe he’d brought them over when he decided on his target.
It was all moot now. The reactor core must be in breach: an unstoppable chain reaction spewing radiation.
This was not a nuclear bomb; Cambridge and Boston and Massachusetts would remain intact. But people would die—at least a few hundred in the blocks close to the reactor. Thousands more might succumb over the succeeding years to radiation-caused cancer or some other disease that took advantage of their compromised immune systems.
As horrible as it was, as unthinkable, the loss of life was not the worst thing that would happen. The center of the city would be abandoned, perhaps for a century. The university would be permanently damaged, shunned.
That would pale next to the longer-term consequences. People would want, would demand, revenge on a scale beyond anything before.
Unleash a nuke on us, we will unleash one on you.
It was not inconceivable that Mecca would be leveled in retaliation. And then?
Once used, nuclear weapons would be “thinkable” again. North Korea, Iran—who would use them first, and what would the consequences be?
Massina took a step along the railing, backing away from Ghadab. The kid with the gun waved it in Massina’s direction.
Three against one was bad enough, even if he’d been thirty years younger, but the gun made the situation impossible.
The knife wouldn’t be much fun either.
Massina jerked his head upward and saw that a bundle had been tied to a rope dangling from the block-and-chain mechanism over the cooling pool.
Old clothes?
A doll . . .
Chelsea!
“Yes, that’s your woman,” said Ghadab. “How does it feel to see your people dying?”
“Let her go,” said Massina. “It’s me you want. Right? You left enough clues that I would come and see this.”
“I expected you sooner,” bragged Ghadab.
“My life for hers.”
Ghadab pointed the knife upward. “Would you trade her life for the city’s? You can save her, or save the city.”
The terrorist was implying that the reactor could reach its final critical meltdown in moments—that there was only a short amount of time to stop it.
Maybe he was right—maybe there was still hope. But if so, what would he do? What could he do?
“Let her go,” said Massina.
“I can drop her in the water.” Ghadab pulled a smartphone from his pocket. “Then she’ll die instantly. And you won’t have a choice—your city will burn. And your puppet will, too.”
“That’s not what Allah wants,” said Massina.
“What do you know of God’s will?”
“I know he doesn’t want slaughter.”
“You know nothing of religion.” Ghadab’s tone was adamant, angry—he’d been taken by surprise by the argument, clearly, but it was one he couldn’t ignore; it touched him to the core.
“Everyone who follows you,” said Massina, “dies because of your crazy beliefs. You’ve turned your religion into something perverse. God doesn’t ask for destruction.”
“Silence, blasphemer! You dishonor the one true God.”
“You’re not even a true believer.”
“I know you, Satan. I know you’ve pulled all of these strings, like some master manipulating his puppets.”
“I’m not Satan. I have no puppets.”
“Look at her!” Ghadab shouted, pointing to Chelsea twisting above the pool. “She’s already sick from the radiation.”
“You expect Armageddon,” said Massina. “I know from your notes in the bunker. But that’s not going to happen. The West will simply crush you. If there were ever an Armageddon, it would be Islam that would be eliminated, not the West.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Explain it to me, then. If you are what and who you say you are, enlighten me. Or are you just a psychotic, as even the Saudis claim you are?”
Ghadab felt his anger rising beyond the breaking point. He struggled to control himself—there was still so much to be accomplished.
But he couldn’t. He drew back the knife and aimed his body at Massina.
He saw the American’s shoulders start to droop. The man was a coward!
Disappointment mixed with triumph.
Then, in a flash too quick to record, surprise.
Massina launched himself arm-first into Ghadab, slamming his arm into the terrorist’s windpipe like a baseball bat. Ghadab gasped as he fell backward, rolling over the railing and into the containment pool.
Light flashed in the room, then the overloud echo of rifle shots—the security guard who had reluctantly followed him down had appeared at the doorway, only to be chased back by gunfire from two thugs who’d been with Ghadab. But the guard’s tardiness had been for a good cause—he’d brought reinforcements. The room lit with a white flash, instantly followed with a boom that hollowed out Massina’s ears—a flash-bang grenade thrown by a member of the local SWAT team, assigned as backup security for the campus.
Massina climbed to his knees. He couldn’t hear—the explosions had rendered him temporarily deaf.
Two bodies lay on the platform nearby—the “students” who’d been with Ghadab.
Massina got to his feet and went to the control panel. The emergency shutoff was a simple lever; remove the guard and pull it, and the reactor would automatically begin shutdown.
Except, knowing Ghadab, things wouldn’t be that simple.
Massina took his hand off the panel.
“Chelsea.” She was suspended from a rope tied through a hoist in the ceiling; the end was secured on the railing. But before Massina could get to it, he
felt himself pushed hard to the floor. One of the SWAT team members appeared at his side, screaming something.
“I can’t hear you!” Massina shouted back. “The grenade. I’m Louis Massina. We need to shut the reactor down! I need Chelsea! My employee!”
The guard from upstairs ran over, yelling to let him be. Massina was pulled to his feet. He rubbed his ears and the side of his face. His senses were returning, but he felt as if he were underwater.
The guard took hold of the rope Chelsea was suspended from. Tugging, he swung her toward the rail, where one of the SWAT team grabbed her. He quickly cut her loose.
“Chelsea?” asked Massina. “Do you know what they did to the controls? Are they sabotaged?”
She blinked, then shook her head—but was she answering him or saying she didn’t know?
There were footsteps in the hall. Two of the SWAT team members moved into a blocking position.
“It’s us!” yelled Boone. Beams of light danced near the doorway. “The power’s been turned off upstairs.”
“Let them through,” said Massina.
Boone and a half-dozen guardsmen came into the control room. Johansen followed.
“We need to shut the plant down,” said Massina. “But I’m sure the controls have been sabotaged.”
“A crew from the Department of Energy is on their way.”
“Good,” said Massina, taking out his phone. “In the meantime, I have another plan.”
By the time the Department of Energy specialists arrived, Massina had already started dismantling the plant’s nuclear rods. Or rather, Peter had. Working with data provided by Telakus back at Smart Metal, Massina had sent the bot into the containment pool with instructions on how to remove and stockpile the rods. It was a good thing—a close inspection of the control panel revealed two charges that would have blown up the entire room had a controlled shutdown been attempted. And the control program itself had been sabotaged, making it impossible to shut down the plant from the panel.
“Your bot is doing a great job,” said the lead DOE expert. A Virginia native, the nuclear scientist’s faint accent carried through his containment helmet and suit. “We’ll be done inside the hour.”
“Mmmm,” said Massina, staring over the rail.
“Dr. Massina, you really should go upstairs with the others,” said the DOE expert. “The radiation is well beyond normal.”
“Two chest X-rays an hour,” said Massina.
“A little more than that, actually. To be precise—”
“That’s all right. I was joking.”
Upstairs in the guardroom, Massina found Johansen talking on his secure sat phone. Boone was frowning nearby. Chelsea, wrapped in a blanket, sat on a metal chair. A paramedic was taking her blood pressure. She looked tired, but more angry than hurt.
“Are you all right?” Massina asked her.
“Yeah.” She was hoarse.
“You should get combat pay,” suggested Massina.
“Talk to my boss.”
“I will.”
“You put Peter back to work?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You trust him?”
“Enough. He rescued me.”
“What?”
“They were running diagnostics. He knew I was in trouble, and he came to help. Our learning program—he’s learning better than we thought.”
“You know why he froze?”
“I think he’s trying to figure out who he is.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Johansen had finished his call and walked over. “How did Ghadab get out?” he asked.
“He didn’t,” said Massina. “I pushed him in.”
Johansen shook his head, then pointed to the nearby security console. “He’s not in the pool.”
“Sure he is.”
“Screen 12.”
The TV screen was the second from last in the bottom row; it showed the video feed from a camera at the bottom of the containment pool. The image was a little blurry, but clear enough for Massina to see Peter pulling the last fuel rod from the reactor.
There was no body in the water anywhere, just the bot and the rods.
“I don’t understand,” said Massina. “I hit him hard enough to kill him.”
“Maybe not,” said Johansen.
“Where did he go? How did he get out?”
Johansen’s pursed lips made it clear he didn’t know.
Done Deal
111
Grace Sisters Hospital, Boston—two hours later
Johnny leaped off the helicopter and ran into the hospital, barely slowing when the security people tried to flag him down. He waved his wallet at them, not even bothering to open it and show his ID. He made the elevator just as the doors were closing.
The two nurses in the car exchanged a glance.
“I’m sorry, I know I smell a bit,” he said apologetically. “It’s been a long day.”
“Amen to that,” said one.
Johnny found Chelsea sitting up in bed. Massina, Johansen, and Sister Rose Marie, the hospital administrator, were by her bedside, talking about the Red Sox game due to start in a few hours—Boston being Boston, no one was shutting down Fenway.
Especially when the Yankees were in town.
“You’re OK?” said Johnny. “You’re OK.”
“Of course I’m OK,” insisted Chelsea.
Then she burst into tears. Johnny folded her against his chest.
“We should give them some privacy, maybe,” said Massina, leading the others out of the room.
“You let him think she was dead?” asked Sister Rose. She had known Massina all his life and was, in many ways, one of his closest friends, despite the difference in their ages and outlook. “That was very cruel.”
“No, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure about the reactor, not until I was inside.”
“I thought you were dead wrong,” admitted Johansen. “The reactor is so small.”
“Ghadab’s attacks were always more psychological. He wanted to make it seem that anything could happen anywhere. And, frankly, a lot of people would have died had the core actually melted down. Everyone in the building, for starters.”
“Most were his people,” said Johansen. Daesh had managed to infiltrate the student cadre at the plant over a year before; once he targeted it, Ghadab replaced all of the control-room people and the guards with his own recruits. They’d been there for days, proceeding slowly so as not to attract attention. If Massina hadn’t figured out the plot, it was very possible they would still be there, blocking the doors as the reactor finally went critical.
“The question now is, where is he?” said Massina. “He got out of the building.”
“I doubt that,” said Johansen. “We’ve only done a preliminary search. We’ll get him. He won’t get away.”
I could have, should have, killed him, thought Massina.
He’d wanted to. He’d have felt no remorse.
Yet, he wouldn’t have felt joy either, and maybe not even satisfaction. He knew that now, from what he had felt in the room when he thought Ghadab was dead.
Revenge wasn’t enough. He’d thought he had it, but it hadn’t made him feel any better.
Wiping Ghadab and Daesh off the face of the earth—it had to be done, but it wouldn’t necessarily bring joy. It might not even bring closure.
What would?
“I really should be getting back over to the command center,” said Johansen, glancing at his watch. “We’ll set up a full debrief for tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”
“OK,” answered Massina.
“The Director will want to formalize a relationship going forward. There are . . . legal things to work on.”
“I’m sure we can do that. I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“Were we only supposed to be a scapegoat if things went wrong, or did you really want our help?”
“I always wanted
your help.”
“The rest of the Agency?”
“The world is complicated, Louis.” Johansen nodded at the nun, then walked away.
“So what do you say, Sister?” asked Massina. “Think the Red Sox will play tonight?”
“Absolutely. It’s important that we play. We have to prove that we can’t be messed with. These bastards can’t win.”
Massina felt a sudden pain in his chest: he had never in his life heard the nun use that word before.
“And besides,” she added. “It’s the Yankees.”
“Did you just say ‘bastards’?”
“Get over it.” Sister Rose took a step, but then stopped and turned back to him. “Louis, tell me the truth. Did you push him into the vat of water?”
“I did,” admitted Massina.
“You know it may be a sin to try to drown him.”
“Maybe. But he didn’t. And that’s the real sin. Isn’t it?”
She tightened her lips into a frown. He expected she would give him a lecture about God’s mercy.
“Come on,” said the nun instead. “I don’t want to be late. I hate missing any part of the Sox kicking the Yankees’ butts.”
About the Authors
DALE BROWN is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, from Flight of the Old Dog (1987) to, most recently, Price of Duty (2017). A former U.S. Air Force captain, he can often be found flying his own plane over the skies of the United States.
JIM DeFELICE is the author of the #1 bestselling American Sniper, Code Name Johnny Walker, and thirteen other New York Times best sellers.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author Dale Brown
“Dale Brown is a superb storyteller.”
—W.E.B. Griffin
“A master at creating a sweeping epic and making it seem real.”
—Clive Cussler
“A master of mixing technology and action. He puts readers right into the middle of the inferno.”
