by Ted Halstead
The White House, Washington DC
President Hernandez sat down at the head of the table in the Situation Room and waved everyone else in the packed room to their seats. He thought, yet again, that he hated being in this room. It always meant bad news.
Hernandez had been able to avoid dealing with another overseas crisis long enough to get an infrastructure bill passed, which would finally start work on repairing and replacing the nation’s crumbling roads, bridges, and airports. He had been looking forward to dealing with education next, but it looked like that would have to wait.
“OK, I’m going to summarize the briefer I read, and you all tell me if I’ve misunderstood something. The Taliban tried to steal eight Pakistani nuclear weapons and got away with three. That’s probably down to two because it looks like one exploded at Risalpur, though it was only a partial detonation. The Pakistanis are trying to pass it off as an industrial accident, but Space Command’s report shows it was nuclear. We think the Taliban’s targets are Bagram Airfield and Kabul’s Green Zone. The Russians have offered to help track down both weapons. So far, the Pakistanis have been able to sell the story that the Taliban stole a couple of conventional missiles. They’re using that fiction as cover for their continued search. That sum it up?”
General Robinson, the Air Force Chief of Staff, nodded. “Yes, sir, that sums up the situation at this time.”
Hernandez shook his head. “OK, I have a lot of questions. First, why should the Russians want to help us?”
“We can only speculate, sir, but I think the best guess is that the Russians don’t love the Taliban any more than we do. A successful attack on us that left the Taliban in charge in Afghanistan would destabilize neighboring Tajikistan, where they have a military base. It might also encourage Muslim radicals in Russia, particularly in Chechnya,” Robinson replied.
Hernandez could see that Secretary of State Fred Popel had something to add. “Yes, Fred?”
“Well, sir, the Russians may finally be ready to improve relations with us. When we walked away from the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty in 2019, Russia looked like it wanted to start another nuclear arms race. But they’ve had one failure after another with their Skyfall cruise missile program, and the price tag for nuclear domination is beginning to look too high. If they help us with this crisis, maybe they think we’d come back to the negotiating table in a more cooperative mood.”
Hernandez grunted. “Well, if they really do help us find these weapons, I might indeed be more inclined to trust them. A little, anyway.”
After the expected dutiful chuckle died down, Hernandez said, “I’m not sure, though if I’m ready to take on those treaty negotiations until after the next election.”
Then Hernandez asked, “What do the Russians want from us in return for the help?”
Robinson looked up from his notes. “Sir, I got this from the Defense Attaché at the Russian Embassy just before the meeting. They’re asking for clearance for one of their drones to overfly Afghanistan, and for three of their agents. They say their only purpose will be to help us locate the stolen Pakistani nuclear weapons, and that they will withdraw the drone and the agents as soon as that is accomplished.”
Hernandez shrugged. “Three agents and one drone? Not exactly a reoccupation. But to have any hope of making a difference, they must have some information we don’t.”
Robinson nodded. “Our thinking exactly, sir. I asked the Defense Attaché directly if they knew something we didn’t, and he denied it immediately. As I think he’d been told to do.”
Hernandez smiled. “That sounds more like the Russia I know. It’s almost comforting in a way. So, if they find one of the weapons they’ll tell us?”
Robinson frowned. “Yes, sir. Three agents obviously won’t be able to take on the Taliban alone. I think the best approach is to have them work with one of our special forces teams since I believe they may prove useful. In particular, the Russians are saying that if we recapture one of the weapons, one of their agents could help defuse it.”
Hernandez’s eyebrows flew upwards. “Really? Is he a nuclear specialist?”
Now Robinson looked uncomfortable. “In fact, sir, they say she’s a woman. An Iranian nuclear scientist, the one formerly married to the head of their nuclear program.”
Hernandez frowned. “The one who defected to the Russians? Well, they don’t let any asset go to waste, do they? Do we have anybody on the ground in Afghanistan who could do a better job?”
Robinson shook his head. “No, sir, I checked. As you know, we’ve drawn down our forces steadily, but even at their peak, I doubt we had a nuclear specialist there. Not a threat we anticipated, sir.”
Hernandez shrugged. “I certainly didn’t think it was possible. Haven’t the Pakistanis assured us for years that a stolen weapon couldn’t be used without its arming code?”
Popel said, “I just received a cable from our Embassy in Islamabad that may have the answer. We’ve been given a full readout on the stolen missile type by a Pakistani nuclear technician. He also says a different Pakistani nuclear technician has gone missing, and he thinks that technician knows enough to rig the stolen weapons to explode without the arming code. In return for giving us that information, he asks that we not target their nuclear weapons production facilities.”
The room was quiet for the next several seconds.
Hernandez’s voice cut through the silence. “So, the threat is real. We’ll work with the Russians. Until these weapons are found, this is the top priority for our forces in Afghanistan. Do we tell the Afghans?”
Both Robinson and Popel shook their heads simultaneously.
Robinson said quickly, “Sir, Taliban sympathizers have infiltrated almost every level of the Afghan government and military. All we’d do is tip them off, and maybe even spark a panicked exodus from Kabul. That could be as effective in bringing down the Afghan government as a nuclear attack.”
“I agree, sir,” Popel said. “We’ve got to keep this as quiet as we can.”
Hernandez nodded dubiously. “I understand and agree to a point. But you know how this is going to look if we can’t stop one of the weapons, and it comes out we knew about the threat?”
Robinson replied automatically with a phrase Hernandez knew he had used before.
“Sir, failure is not an option.”
Hernandez nodded. He knew he was supposed to be reassured, but he wasn’t.
Not even a little.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
Captain John Rogoff looked across the conference table at the three Russians with frank curiosity. Though the woman didn’t look Russian. The file he had said she was probably Iranian.
“My orders say that this Ranger unit is to coordinate with you in recovering stolen Pakistani nuclear warheads. I intend to follow those orders. However, I do have some questions,” Rogoff added pointedly.
Alexei Vasilyev nodded and glanced to both sides. To his right sat Anatoly Grishkov, and on his left Neda Rhahbar.
“Perhaps it would help if I first provided some information that was not already given to you by my government,” Vasilyev said.
Rogoff nodded and waited expectantly.
“We were authorized to tell you this just before we boarded the helicopter to come here. We have already provided your government information on the likely location of both targets. For one target, we have obtained a map showing the routes the attackers may use. That target is this base,” Vasilyev said, as he slid a map across the conference table to Rogoff.
“OK, well first, thanks,” Rogoff said, opening the map and glancing at it briefly.
Vasilyev nodded, knowing what would come next.
“But you know this raises more questions. Where did this map come from? How reliable is it? Do the Taliban know you have it?” Rogoff asked.
Vasilyev nodded again. “We found this map in the trunk of an SUV used by Taliban fighters involved in the theft of
the weapons, so we have no reason to doubt its reliability. By the time we took possession of the SUV no Taliban present were left alive, so I doubt the Taliban know we specifically have it.”
Vasilyev paused. “But if anyone not involved in the assault knew that a Taliban fighter had this map with him after that fighter failed to return, he could conclude it was now in unfriendly hands. And then decide not to use any of the routes on that map.”
Rogoff frowned. “Or the map could have been a plant.”
Vasilyev shrugged and nodded.
Rogoff spent a few more seconds studying the map and then shook his head. “Not their style. It’s not that they’re stupid, far from it. They just consider games like planting maps to be a waste of time.”
Vasilyev smiled. “Agreed. I have also been told to tell you all sources available to my government are being used to obtain information on the present whereabouts of the stolen weapons. Any such information will be immediately relayed to me, and I will then pass it to you.”
Rogoff smiled back. “I understand. We each have a chain of command. I won’t waste your time asking about your sources. I couldn’t tell you our sources either. But, we do have the same goal, right?”
Vasilyev nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. My country does not wish to see the Taliban in control of Afghanistan. Some might say we fought a long war to try to stop that from happening in the 1980s.”
Seeing Rogoff’s eyebrows rise, Vasilyev smiled. “Others might see that history differently. In any case, we certainly don’t want to see either the American soldiers here or innocent Afghan civilians in Kabul’s Green Zone killed in a nuclear explosion. Not to mention our citizens there at the Russian Embassy.”
Rogoff nodded thoughtfully. “But you aren’t evacuating your personnel there?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “No more than you are. Mass panic must be avoided.”
Rogoff looked at his notes. “Ms. Rhahbar is your nuclear expert. May I ask her a few questions?”
Vasilyev nodded to Neda, who said, “Please ask your questions. And please call me Neda.”
Rogoff looked again at his notes. “Where did you receive your training in nuclear physics, Neda?”
“The University of Tehran,” Neda replied.
“That’s where the head of Iran’s nuclear weapons program used to teach, right?” Rogoff asked.
With a thin smile, Neda replied, “Yes, and he was first my teacher and later my husband. I’m sure all that is in your file. I hope the fact that I reported him and his cursed weapons to the first foreign government I could find is there too.”
Rogoff nodded. “We had reports, but nothing certain until you told me just now. I’ve been told to pass on my government’s thanks to you for your role in minimizing the casualties caused by your husband’s creations.”
Neda said, “I’m glad I could help,” in a voice as neutral as her expression.
Looking across the table at Vasilyev and Grishkov, Rogoff continued, “We’ve heard reports that two Russian agents also played a role in keeping the impact from those three Iranian nuclear weapons relatively low. I’m not going to ask if I’m looking at them, because I’m sure you can’t say. I’ll add that, if the reports are correct, my government’s appreciation would extend to them too.”
Vasilyev and Grishkov both looked at each other. Grishkov shrugged, and Vasilyev smiled. Neither said anything.
Rogoff looked at all three agents thoughtfully and then turned back to Neda.
“Neda, how confident are you that you’ll be able to disarm one of these nuclear weapons, assuming we’re able to secure it?”
Neda’s answering laugh was sharp and short and carried a bitter edge.
“I wish I knew the answer to that question, particularly since my survival will depend on it. I’ve looked over the Pakistani nuclear warhead design documents provided by your government. I can think of many ways I could try to detonate them independent of their original triggering mechanism. Each has advantages and disadvantages.”
“Such as?” Rogoff asked softly.
Neda frowned, obviously not appreciating the interruption. Then she sighed and visibly decided this was a point worth explaining further.
“I’m going to grossly oversimplify and say that there are two ways to approach the detonation problem. The first is to concentrate on making sure detonation is successful in achieving the weapon’s full designed yield. That means avoiding either a complete failure to reach fission of the warhead’s nuclear material or a partial failure where some of the nuclear material is ejected rather than being consumed by the fission event.”
Neda stopped and looked at Rogoff, who nodded his understanding.
“Good,” Neda said. “Now, the other approach is to focus on avoiding premature detonation. Obviously, the weapon’s explosion at a location other than the intended target would be suboptimal. However, there is a tension between the two goals. There are several detonation designs I could imagine that would be excellent for achieving one or the other. So far, I’ve only been able to come up with two designs that might do both.”
Rogoff smiled and said, “Well, that sounds promising. Do you think you could disarm those two designs?”
Neda looked at him soberly. “One, yes. The other, no.”
From the way Vasilyev and Grishkov were looking at each other, Rogoff could see this was news to them too.
Neda saw their reactions and shook her head. “Sorry, that’s not accurate. At this moment, I know I could disarm one possible design. The other, I have some ideas, but I’m not sure they would work. And I have to be honest. They might come up with a design I failed to anticipate.”
Rogoff smiled. “Honesty between us is what we need most of all if we’re going to succeed in our mission. I understand that there are no guarantees. But it’s good to know that we have a fighting chance.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ghulam Ishaq Khan (GIK) Institute of Engineering Sciences and Technology, Topi, Pakistan
As the leader of the largest faction of the Pakistani Taliban, there was a long list of reasons why Khaksar Wasiq should not be leading this raid to obtain liquid nitrogen. Heading that list was that Khaksar was too old to be toting an automatic weapon into a firefight, and would slow down the rest of the squad he had hastily assembled.
Khaksar had dismissed this worry by pointing derisively at their target, which everyone had to agree was far from the most challenging they had ever assaulted.
Next was that it would be disastrous for the Taliban if someone of Khaksar’s rank were to be captured. Khaksar dealt with that objection by promising he would never be taken alive.
From the dubious looks that earned him, Khaksar knew more than one Taliban fighter wanted to point out anyone could be wounded and captured while unconscious. Bravery had nothing to do with it.
But, Khaksar knew any response other than accepting his promise would be seen as a charge of cowardice.
So, here he was just after midnight with his squad outside the building housing the GIK’s supercomputer. Khaksar had been told the building was always guarded and had researchers using it at all hours.
It turned out “guarded” meant a single unarmed security guard sitting at a desk in the building’s lobby, reading a magazine. Which he dropped quickly when a short burst of automatic weapons fire shattered the sliding glass door entrance, admitting Khaksar and his heavily armed squad.
Khaksar yelled, “Hands up!”
The guard didn’t listen and instead pressed a button on the desk. In spite of his annoyance Khaksar silently approved of the guard’s courage. He had to expect he would now be shot.
Luckily for the guard, Khaksar still needed him and had already told the squad he was not to be harmed.
Khaksar glowered at the guard, who looked back defiantly.
“Come with us, and show us to the supercomputer!” Khaksar demanded.
As Khaksar could see an obstinate look appear on the guard’s face, he added, “We
are not here to harm you, the researchers or the supercomputer. We only want the liquid nitrogen used to cool it. Once we have it, we will go.”
A look of confusion replaced the obstinacy that had been there a second before. The guard was clearly struggling to understand what Khaksar had just said.
Khaksar added, “It would be faster if you used your pass and fingerprints to get us in right now. But if we have to drag your body to the supercomputer door, we will.”
The guard shrugged and started walking down the hallway behind his desk, followed by Khaksar and his squad of silent gunmen.
Khaksar smiled grimly at the guard’s back. It had been a smart decision. After all, the guard knew help was on the way, and truthfully, what was in this building worth dying to protect?
The guard stopped in front of an unmarked door with a white plastic and metal compartment built into the wall that reminded Khaksar of the ATMs he had seen many times in Pakistan’s city centers. Next, the guard swiped his pass in a reader, and then placed his right hand on a flat piece of glass.
A line of light passed from the bottom to the top of the glass. Next, the image of the guard’s hand was compared with a database of authorized users. Advanced software used by the reader would have been able to detect that an image was from a hand that had no blood flowing through it, a fact unknown to the guard.
It was just as well since the door would have never stood up to sustained automatic weapons fire.
There was a soft “click” as the door’s lock disengaged.
Khaksar pushed the guard through the door in front of them.
Sharp words of annoyance from the two researchers hunched over consoles in front of the supercomputer died in their throat as Khaksar and the other Taliban fighters entered behind the guard.
Both researchers froze.
Khaksar looked them over. They were both a shade of pale that said they rarely ventured outdoors. Khaksar was sure both would be nearly blind without their glasses. He also doubted either man could lift anything heavier than a sack of potatoes.
However, right now, they had information Khaksar needed.
