Dead or Alive

by Grant Blackwood

  “Freedom from fear. The people need to know they are safe in their homes and places of work. They need to know that their government is alert, looking for those who would wish to hurt our country, and ready to bring justice to those who attack Americans in America or anywhere else in the world.

  “Freedom to live their lives without interference from people who live in Washington and seek to enforce their will on everyone else, whether they live in Richmond, Virginia, or Cody, Wyoming. Freedom is the common birthright of every American, and that birthright is something I will protect to the best of my ability.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is not the job of government to be the national nanny. The average citizen can look after his or her own needs without assistance from somebody who works here in Washington. America was founded because our citizens two-hundred-plus years ago didn’t want to live under the distant rule of people who didn’t know and didn’t especially care for their welfare. America is about freedom. Freedom to make your own decisions, freedom to live in peace with your neighbors. Freedom to take our kids to Disney World in Florida, or a trout stream in Colorado. Freedom means deciding what you want to do with your life. Freedom is the natural state of nature. That’s how God wanted us to live. The job of the President of the United States is to preserve, protect, and defend our country. When the President does that job, the citizens can live any way they wish. That is the objective of the President: to protect the people and then to leave them alone.

  “That is what I propose to do. I will rebuild the military, allow it to train its uniformed members, give it proper support, and turn it loose to deal with our enemies. I will rebuild our intelligence community so that we can identify and counter those who want to hurt our country and our citizens before they can begin to take destructive action against us. I will reestablish a rational tax system that takes from the people only the money which the country needs to fulfill its proper functions, not suck the life out of its citizens while it tells them how they must live.

  “One other thing recently came to my attention. President Kealty has turned the full weight of the United States Department of Justice loose on a distinguished soldier of the United States Army. That soldier was in Afghanistan looking for the Emir, Saif Rahman Yasin. The mission to apprehend him failed, probably due to poor intelligence, but in carrying out that mission, this soldier killed several enemy combatants. Now the Department of Justice is investigating him for murder. I’ve looked in to this particular incident. This soldier did exactly what soldiers have been doing since the beginning of time: He killed enemies of our country. Clearly President Kealty and I have very different ideas about what the armed forces of our country are supposed to do. This prosecution is a gross injustice. The government is supposed to serve the citizens, and a soldier in the United States Army is, in fact, a uniformed citizen. I call upon President Kealty to put an end to this outrage immediately.

  “So thanks for coming. My campaign starts here and now. It will be a long one and probably a hard one, certainly harder than my first. But I am in the race, and we’ll see what the American people decide in November. Again, thanks for coming.”

  Ryan stepped back from the lectern and took a deep breath. He needed a sip of water. This he got from a glass on the lectern. He looked over at Arnie and Callie, and got thumbs-up from both. Okay, that was done. The race was on. God help him.

  Motherfucker!” Edward Kealty snarled at the TV. “Goddamned Dudley Do-Right riding to the rescue of a beleaguered nation! The worst part is, millions of sheep out there are buying his shit.”

  McMullen and his staff had known Ryan’s announcement was coming and had been prepping Kealty for it; clearly, their efforts had failed. Kealty’s reaction was mostly anger, McMullen knew, but there was genuine worry there, too. Much of the American public was still uneasy with Kealty, due in large part to the way the election played out. The phrase “victory by forfeiture” had been common fodder on the political shows for a month following Kealty’s election, and while the polling numbers couldn’t quite encapsulate the country’s mood, McMullen suspected most people felt as though the election had been missing an essential ingredient-namely, a long and hard-fought contest between two candidates who’d bared their souls for the voters. Kealty had done this, or mostly done this, but his opponent hadn’t had the chance.

  “How the hell did he find out about this thing with the Ranger?” Kealty demanded. “I want to know.”

  “Impossible to know, sir.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Wes! Find out.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re going to have to drop the prosecution.”

  “Of the grunt? Yeah, I know, dammit. Dump it into Friday’s news cycle. Get rid of it. Where are we on opposition research?”

  “Still working on it. Nothing we can sink our teeth into; the problem is Langley. A lot of stuff Ryan did there is still compartmentalized.”

  “Get Kilborn-”

  “There’ll be leaks. If the press finds out we’re digging into Ryan’s CIA past, it’ll backfire on us. We’ll have to find another way.”

  “Whatever you need to do. This dickhead wants back in, fine, but I want it to hurt.”

  Holy shit,” Sam Driscoll said from his hospital bed. “Here’s a face from the past. What the hell’re you doing here?”

  John Clark smiled. “Heard through the grapevine you fucked up your shoulder playing badminton.”

  “I wish. Sit down, man.”

  “I come bearing gifts,” Clark said, then set his briefcase on the bed and opened it. Inside were two bottles of Sam Adams beer. He handed one to Driscoll, then opened his own.

  Driscoll took a gulp and sighed. “How’d you know? The beer, I mean.”

  “Remembered you talking about it after Somalia.”

  “Some memory you got there. Got a little more gray, too, I see.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Driscoll took another long pull. “So what’s the real reason?”

  “Mostly just wanted to check in, but I heard about the CID bullshit, too. Where’s that stand?”

  “No idea. They’ve interviewed me three times. Best my lawyer can figure is some dickhead behind some desk is trying to figure out what to charge me with. It’s a cluster-fuck, John.”

  “You got that right. Damned if you do the job, damned if you fail. What do the docs say about your shoulder?”

  “Need one more surgery. The rock missed the big vessels in there but fucked up the tendons and ligaments. Figure three months’ recovery, then another three for rehab. They’re pretty confident, but I don’t think I’ll be swinging from the monkey bars again.”

  “What about a humping rucksack?”

  “Probably not that, either. The doc that cut on me guesses I won’t be able to lift by elbow much above my ear.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Gonna miss it. Gonna miss the guys.”

  “You got your twenty, right?”

  “And then some, but with this CID shit… Who knows?”

  Clark nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you went out with a bang. Got some good intel from that cave. Hell, you could have glided down the mountain on that sand table.”

  Driscoll laughed, then: “Wait a second. How do you know about that? Oh, yeah, scratch that. You’re still in, aren’t you?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘in.’”

  A nurse walked into the room carrying a clipboard. Driscoll slipped his beer beneath the sheet; Clark lowered his out of sight. “Afternoon, Sergeant Driscoll. I’m Veronica. I’ll be with you until midnight. How’re we feeling?”

  “Just fine, ma’am, and you?”

  Veronica dutifully checked boxes on her clipboard and scribbled a few notes. “Can I get you anything? How’s your pain level, on a scale of one to-”

  “Six-ish and holding steady,” Driscoll shot back with a smile. “Maybe a little ice cream with dinner?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

>   Veronica flashed a smile, then turned and headed for the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “Just make sure those bottles disappear when you’re done with them, gentlemen.”

  After Clark and Driscoll got done laughing, Driscoll asked, “What I mean by ‘in’ is government.”

  “Then no. I came to offer you a job, Sam.” Here Clark knew he was overstepping his bounds a tad, but he doubted he’d have any trouble selling Driscoll’s qualifications.

  “Doing what?”

  “Sort of what you’ve been doing, but no rucksack and better wages.”

  “You getting me into something illegal, John?”

  “Nothing you won’t be comfortable with. Nothing you haven’t done before. Plus, it comes with a get-out-of-jail-free card. You’d have to relocate, though. Winters are colder than Georgia.”

  “Washington?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  Driscoll nodded slowly, chewing on Clark’s offer. Then: “What’s this?” He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and unmuted the wall-mounted TV.

  “… Kealty has turned the full weight of the United States Department of Justice loose on a distinguished soldier of the United States Army. That soldier was in Afghanistan looking for the Emir, Saif Rahman Yasin. The mission to apprehend him failed, probably due to poor intelligence, but in carrying out that mission, this soldier killed several enemy combatants. Now the Department of Justice is investigating him for murder. I’ve looked in to this particular incident. This soldier did exactly what soldiers have been doing since the beginning of time: He killed enemies of our country…”

  Driscoll muted the TV. “What the fuck… How the hell?” Clark was smiling. “What?” Driscoll said. “You did that?”

  “Shit, no. That’s all General Marion Diggs and Jack Ryan.”

  “Your timing is damned incredible, John.”

  “Dumb coincidence. I had a hunch he was going to do something like that, but beyond that…” Clark shrugged. “I’d say that about takes care of your CID problem, wouldn’t you?”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Ryan’s running for President, Sam, and he just bitch-slapped Kealty on national television. He can either let this bullshit prosecution eat up a few weeks of news cycle or he can dump it and hope people forget about it. As of right now, Kealty’s shit pile of worry just got a lot bigger, and you’ve become small potatoes.”

  “I’ll be damned. Thanks, John.”

  “Didn’t do anything.”

  “My chances of getting Jack Ryan or General Diggs on the phone are pretty slim, so you’ll have to do.”

  “I’ll pass it along. Think about my offer. We’ll keep it open till you’re back on your feet, then bring you up for a meet and greet. What do you say?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Forty-three hours after Adnan opened the seacocks on Salychev’s Halmadic trawler and sunk it along with his three comrades beneath the surface of the Barents Sea 700 feet below, the second package arrived at the Dubai warehouse.

  Since Musa’s arrival, the engineer had been hard at work, setting up the lead-lined containment tent on the warehouse’s floor and checking his inventory list of component parts. Like the tent itself, which had been manufactured in Malaysia based on specifications stolen from the online curriculum for Fort Leonard Wood’s Operational Radiation Safety (OPRAD) course, the component parts had been laser-milled and lathed in Morocco-based Ukrainian schematics.

  The beauty of simplicity, Musa thought.

  Each of the device’s components was born either from benign dual-use technology or from plans that had long ago been discontinued, considered obsolete according to modern standards.

  The component he and his team had recovered existed only because of what most environmental groups considered Russia’s lax attitude toward nuclear material, but Musa knew that was only part of the equation, the others being the Russian government’s love affair with innovative nuclear-power programs and its tendency toward circumspection when it came to telling the world about those programs.

  Spread along Russia’s northern shipping routes were some 380 RTG-radioisotope thermoelectric generator-lighthouses, the vast majority of which were powered by strontium 90 cores, a low-level, heat-producing radioisotope with a half-life of twenty-nine years and an output capacity ranging from a few watts to eighty watts. Distributed among the four RTG models- Beta-M, Efir-MA, Gorn, and Gong-were a handful designed to use a core of a wholly different sort: plutonium-238, a material that, unlike strontium, which could at worst be used in the construction of a dirty bomb, was of fissionable quality. However, the amount of salvageable core material alone would not be sufficient for their purposes. A second source was required. This had been Adnan’s task. One for which he and his men had given their lives. The prize they’d recovered from the abandoned icebreaking ship on that godforsaken island had been the final piece of the puzzle: an OK-900A pressurized water reactor core containing 150 kilograms, or some 330 pounds, of enriched uranium-235.

  Both elements free for the taking, Musa thought. Nominal security and virtually nonexistent record-keeping. Would the fools even notice the loss, and if so, how long would it take them? he wondered. In any case, it would be too late.

  However complex the processes and theories behind the device’s actual function, the construction of it was no more complex than building a four-cylinder automobile engine from scratch, the engineer had told him. The fittings had to, of course, be of exacting standards, down to the micrometer scale, which made the assembly process painstaking, but Musa’s choice of the Dubai warehouse would assure them of privacy and anonymity. The Emir’s timetable would assure them ample time to allow proper assembly.

  The engineer emerged from the zippered door of the tent’s work area, stripped off his protective gear in the change room, then stepped out into the warehouse. “Both assemblies were packed correctly,” he announced, accepting a bottle of water from Musa. “Aside from trace residual radiation on the exterior of the containers, there are no leaks. After lunch I will extract the contents. My biggest worry is the second package.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The fittings where the control-rod drive actuators enter the vessel could be problematic. They were likely sealed off during the original rescue operation, but by what method and how well is the question. Until I see them, there’s no way of telling if they’ve maintained their integrity.”

  Musa thought about this, then nodded. “And the yield?”

  “Again, once I’ve dismantled them.”

  “You understand the minimum output we require, yes?”

  “I do, and I suspect we’ll have no trouble reaching that, but I cannot promise anything. This is important: You are certain neither of them came from military platforms, correct?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It matters a great deal. It is everything, my friend. We are, in essence, reverse-engineering the device. To complicate matters, we’re dealing with very different sources, used for very different purposes. How we go about disassembly is almost as important as how we go about assembly. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. They were obtained just as we told you. The schematics you have are for these two devices.”

  “Good, that’s good. Then I don’t foresee any insurmountable problems.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Disassembly another day. Assembly… two to three days. Say, four days until it is ready for departure.”

  62

  THE CONSULATE GENERAL of the Republic of Indonesia sat on Columbus Avenue, a few blocks south of the Embarcadero, flanked by Telegraph Hill and Lombard Street and within sight of Alcatraz Island. Clark found a parking spot on Jones Street, one block south of the consulate, and parked their rented Fort Taurus.

  “Ever been to Frisco, Jack?” Chavez asked from the backseat.

  “When I was a little kid. All I remember is Fisherman’s Wharf, that museum submarine-”

&nb
sp; “USS Pampanito,” Clark said.

  “Right. And Treasure Island. As my dad tells it, I cried when he told me it wasn’t the same Treasure Island from the book.”

  Clark laughed. “Was that before he broke the news about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus?”

  Jack laughed in return. “Same day, I think.”

  Clark pulled out his cell phone, one of three sanitized pay-as-you-go push-to-talk models they’d picked up at the airport. He dialed a number and said after a moment, “Yes, good morning, is Mr. Nayoan in this morning? Yes, thanks.” Clark hung up. “He’s in. Let’s take a walk, get a lay of the land.”

  “What’re we looking for?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing and everything,” Clark responded. “The map isn’t the territory, Jack. You’re acclimatizing. Find out where the coffee shops are. ATMs, alleys and side streets, newspaper vendors, pay phones. Where’re the best places to catch taxis or hop a cable car? Learn to feel like you live here.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  Chavez answered that one. “No. How do the people move, how do they interact? Do they wait for Walk lights, or do they jaywalk? Do they meet one another’s eyes on the sidewalks or exchange pleasantries? How many cop cars do you see? Check for parking. Is it metered or free? Nail down the BART entrances.”

  “Bay Area Rapid Transit,” Clark added before Jack could ask. “Their subway.”

  “That’s a lot of shit to absorb.”

  “That’s the job,” Clark replied. “Wanna go home?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “It’s a mind-set, Jack. Change the way you see the landscape. Soldiers look for cover and ambush spots; spooks look for dead drops and surveillance boxes. Two questions you should always be asking: How would I follow somebody here, and how would I lose somebody here?”

  “Okay.”

  Clark checked his watch. “We’ll take an hour, then meet back at the car and see if Nayoan’s ready for lunch. Jack, you head south; Ding and me will take northeast and northwest.”

  “Why that coverage?” Jack asked.