by Ted Halstead
Abdul remembered thinking that this approach seemed entirely reasonable.
But now, the two warheads were side by side, with the nitrogen cylinder obtained at the cost of Khaksar Wasiq’s life between them. Why?
The only other difference Abdul saw was that the warheads seemed more…disassembled…than last time. Certainly, more bare wires were on display. Abdul also noticed that the wires had all been carefully sorted and tied together. However, the order seemed to have nothing to do with the color of the wires.
Abdul shook his head. It was good he had an expert to make sense of all this.
Ibrahim spotted him first and waved him over to the worktables, where four large men were clustered around him. Each of the men was wearing padded gloves.
Now Abdul noticed that next to each worktable, there was a small wooden crate, with styrofoam packing material at the bottom.
“Excellent! You’re right on time!” Ibrahim exclaimed, with a degree of cheerfulness that sounded a bit forced to Abdul.
What was wrong here?
“Now, this will be simple. I’m going to apply the liquid nitrogen to prevent the sensors from detecting that the wires have been cut. Then I will cut the wires, and these men will lift out the nuclear cores, put them in the boxes, and take them to the trucks. Carefully, right?”
This last comment was clearly directed to the four men, who nodded in a resigned fashion that told Abdul they had heard this warning from Ibrahim many times before.
“OK, once the cores are secured in the trucks, you will go with one truck, and I will go with the other. We’ll meet at the workshop where we’ve agreed I’ll build the weapons.”
Abdul nodded but said nothing. Yes, this was what they’d planned. It would be foolish to remain in this location any longer.
Now that he thought about it, though, he wondered why Ibrahim had been so easy to convince. Surely moving everything again would make his work harder?
No, this was simply another symptom of age, Abdul thought. He insisted on seeing problems where there were none.
Ibrahim looked at the four men, now waiting two by two next to each weapon. “You are ready?” he asked.
All four men silently nodded.
“Then here we go,” Ibrahim announced, reaching for the dispensing wand attached to the liquid nitrogen cylinder. He then began applying liquid nitrogen to multiple points in both weapons.
A few minutes later, Ibrahim stood back and examined his work. Apparently satisfied, he took a large pair of wire cutters and began to slice through all the wires connecting the nuclear cores to the warheads.
It didn’t take long. Less than a minute later, both nuclear cores were free of any connection to the warheads. The minute after that, they were each placed in one of the small wooden crates. Next, they were on their way out of the building to the waiting trucks.
Ibrahim had insisted that the building’s air conditioning be set to a temperature Abdul found uncomfortably cool. But he had not argued with Ibrahim, thinking it was probably best to have low temperatures when handling explosives. Of course, it made even more sense once the liquid nitrogen cylinder arrived.
So why was Ibrahim sweating?
Before Abdul could ask, Ibrahim said calmly, “Once those men get the crates in the trucks, we need to follow immediately. I have no idea how long my fix with the liquid nitrogen will work.”
Abdul’s eyes widened, and he turned to look at the four men, who he could see through the open loading bay doors had almost reached the trucks.
“And why didn’t you tell anyone?” Abdul asked in a low, furious voice.
Ibrahim’s voice was still calm. “Because I needed those men to move those crates carefully. If they had any idea the anti-tamper explosives in these casings could detonate, they could have hurried and risked dropping the nuclear cores.”
Abdul did his best to rein in his fury. Ibrahim’s explanation made sense.
“How long do we have?” Abdul asked through gritted teeth.
At the same moment he asked that question, Ibrahim and Abdul could both see the crates had been secured, and the men were entering the trucks.
“Run,” Ibrahim answered.
Each of them reached the cab of their truck in a matter of seconds. Since each truck’s engine had already been started, they were underway immediately.
As one block away became two and then three Abdul began to breathe more regularly, to the evident amusement of the driver, he saw.
He didn’t care. It seemed Ibrahim had underestimated the effectiveness of the liquid nitrogen he had applied.
An ear-splitting roar behind them disagreed with that conclusion. Abdul looked in the truck’s rearview window and saw a huge plume of smoke rising behind them.
A second explosion followed almost immediately. And then a third, smaller explosion.
At first, Abdul was puzzled. A third?
Then he realized the answer. The liquid nitrogen cylinder.
Well, at least this solved one problem. He had been planning to have several men go to the building to remove any evidence they’d been there. That was no longer necessary.
Of course, the explosion would be investigated. But this was hardly the first time an explosion had leveled a building in Lahore. They would be well away before anyone could connect the explosion to the nuclear weapons theft.
No, the real problem was that this was all taking too long. The enemy knew what they had, and it wouldn’t take a genius to guess where they planned to use the weapons.
Abdul had counted on being able to strike before the Americans could organize to stop them. Now he could feel that time slipping away.
No, he told himself sternly. God would not let them come this far and then deny them victory.
Yes, Abdul said to himself, nodding as the truck ground forward.
He just had to have faith.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Afghan-Pakistan Border Post
Anatoly Grishkov squinted as, through the harsh glare of the mid-afternoon sun, he saw a DShK-1938/46 heavy machine gun covering the approach to the Afghan government border crossing. The post was manned by a dozen well-armed Afghan soldiers, who were thoroughly searching every vehicle.
Grishkov smiled grimly. It was remarkable how his feelings about the Dushka had changed, now that he knew it would be pointed at their enemies.
Neda Rhahbar followed his gaze and shook her head.
“I know you like the idea of firing this weapon at the Taliban, but we have to keep the fire from this and all other heavy weapons away from any truck we think might be carrying one of the stolen nuclear weapons,” Neda said.
Grishkov shrugged. “You remember the rocket I fired at the missile launch vehicle that was carrying four nuclear weapons. None of those went off, or I think I’d remember.”
Neda smiled, shook her head again, and said a word in Farsi that Grishkov remembered translated roughly to “idiot.” Or maybe something a little stronger.
“Those were weapons assembled by professionals with all the resources of a government behind them. Since they were mounted on vehicles, the weapons were designed to stand up to the possibility of a highway accident, including falling into a ravine,” Neda said, with what Grishkov could see was a bit of impatience.
So he interrupted.
“But what will come to one of these border posts is going to be the work of a single Pakistani nuclear technician we were told went missing. And he’s going to slap together whatever he can quickly that will work, without any real safeguards,” Grishkov said, looking at Neda for her reaction.
Grishkov was pleased to see that this time, Neda’s smile was much more genuine.
“Precisely. We should use as little violence as possible to stop the vehicle holding the weapon,” Neda said.
Grishkov nodded. “But we also have to prevent them from setting it off, which I expect they would do if it appeared they couldn’t escape. Could they detonate it instantly?”
&n
bsp; Neda frowned. “It’s impossible to be certain, but from what I’ve seen of the warhead’s design, I would say no. Remember, the warhead was incorporated into a missile. It was only supposed to detonate at the end of its flight. In effect, there is an activation delay built into the warhead’s design, even once it is armed. In fact, delay even appears to feature in the design of the nuclear core itself. The delay might be possible to overcome, but from what I’ve seen, I’m not sure how.”
“So, there will likely be a delay to detonation after arming. How long?” Grishkov asked.
Neda grimaced and answered, “I wish I knew for sure. These nuclear warheads were attached to tactical missiles designed to fly a short distance at high speed, so not long. Probably a matter of minutes. At a minimum, long enough for the missile to be out of range of the firing vehicle if something went wrong.”
Grishkov grunted. “Yes, I’m sure the soldiers at the launch vehicle would have appreciated that much consideration from the weapon’s designers. But even if we could talk to the original designers, we still wouldn’t be sure, would we?”
Neda shook her head emphatically. “No, because the technician working for the Taliban has more experience with these warheads than I do. He may be able to bypass the delay somehow. But, there’s another factor working in our favor.”
Grishkov’s eyebrows rose. “Something working for us? Please, let’s hear it!”
With a smile, Neda said, “Whoever is going to rig new detonation mechanisms for the warheads must account for the transport of the weapons to their targets. We think the new weapon detonation mechanism is going to be built in Pakistan, and the targets will be in Afghanistan. Say we’re right. The Taliban doesn’t have access to planes, trains, or boats that can do the job. That leaves trucks, over some pretty bad roads.”
Grishkov nodded thoughtfully. “And whatever detonation mechanism that Pakistani technician cooks up for the Taliban might not take too kindly to rough handling.”
Neda shrugged. “All I know is that if it were me in the truck and hitting a pothole could start the countdown, I’d want at least a few minutes to try to stop it. Why go to all this trouble only to make a big hole somewhere in the Afghan desert?”
“So, you think that the technician will be in one of the trucks. And someone he’s trained in the other one?” Grishkov asked.
“That’s my guess, and I’ll be honest. These are all guesses. But I do think if we can stop the trucks, we’ll have at least a few minutes to disarm the weapons,” Neda replied.
Grishkov smiled. “Well, I like your guesses, since they mean we have a chance of living through this mission. A chance is all I ask for.”
Landi Kotal, Pakistan
Mullah Abdul Zahed frowned as he looked at what was plainly a cell phone. Yes, it was attached to a tripod, but it was jarring to see it pointed at him instead of the bulky video recorder he’d been expecting.
Abdul’s nephew, Afan Malik, grinned at his uncle’s reaction. “Uncle, I know you’re used to much larger contraptions to record your broadcasts. But believe me, this device will do higher quality video and sound than any you’ve had before.”
Abdul nodded doubtfully. The Taliban had technical experts who he would typically have used for such a recording.
But for this, it had to be family. His wife had died long ago, and he had no children. His brothers had all been killed in Afghanistan’s endless fighting.
Afan was the only family he had left. He had just graduated from the University of the Punjab in Lahore with honors. Since it was difficult even to be accepted there as a student, Abdul was sure Afan was capable of performing this task. But…
“Maybe. But that thing is also a phone. How can I be sure that what I’m recording won’t be transmitted until I’m ready?”
Now Afan’s grin disappeared. “That is an excellent question that should always be asked when using a cell phone. I have placed this one in the ‘aircraft mode’ used to prevent it from transmitting any signals that might interfere with the operation of a plane. That means it won’t transmit wirelessly through a Wi-Fi network, Bluetooth, or a cellular network.”
Afan’s grin now returned. “Uncle, nothing you record is going anywhere until you want it to.”
Abdul nodded, satisfied. “Very well. Now, I am going to be recording three messages. Before I do so, I have to explain to you what we are going to do. You must understand because you are the only one I trust to choose the right message to broadcast.”
Afan cocked his head, clearly puzzled, but nodded.
“We have stolen two nuclear weapons from the Pakistanis, and will use them to strike a blow against the Americans that will force them to leave Afghanistan forever. One will explode in the center of the Green Zone in Kabul, wiping out both the American presence there as well as the Afghan traitors who work with them most closely. The other will destroy Bagram Airfield.”
Abdul paused, knowing that his nephew would have questions.
It turned out, though, that he had just one.
“Are you going with the weapons, uncle?” Afan asked in a near whisper.
Abdul nodded. “Yes, with the weapon that will be used against Bagram Airfield.”
Afan stood stock still, clearly overwhelmed with emotion.
After a moment, he said, “Uncle, I am honored to be a part of this historic fight for our country’s freedom. Please, tell me what you need me to do.”
Abdul smiled. “Your part will be straightforward. Three outcomes are possible, and so I will make three recordings. One will be for a successful strike against Kabul’s Green Zone, a second for one against Bagram Airfield, and the third against both.”
Abdul paused. “We will try hard to make the strikes simultaneous, since obviously once one weapon is used security across the country will be increased. But we may fail in this, and one will follow the other after some delay. I can only tell you to listen to news you can get from any source, and to use your best judgment as to which recording to release.”
Afan nodded. “I will. But I can say now that I think you are right. If one weapon explodes on target, if the other one doesn’t within a few hours, I don’t think it will.”
Abdul shrugged. “Agreed. Now, let’s get this started. We don’t have much time.”
Afan’s eyebrows rose, as he saw Abdul’s hands were empty. “Uncle, didn’t you forget your script?”
His answer from Abdul was a grim smile. “Script? No. I have been practicing these messages in my mind since you were an infant.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Afghan-Pakistan Border Post
It was only their second day at the Afghan government border post, but Neda Rhahbar felt as though they had been there much longer. She would freely admit that in part, this was due to her lack of enthusiasm for dwelling in a tent, without the entertainment options she was used to during a life lived in cities.
In part, it was a bit stressful to be the only woman not just at this border post, but she was sure for a considerable radius outside it. Indeed, neither her eyes nor her map gave any hint of dwellings nearby.
Neda would have never complained about the blazing hot sun, the blowing dust in her teeth and eyes, or the endless supply of buzzing and biting insects. After all, it’s not as though they didn’t exist in Iran.
No, the real problem was the constant, nail-biting tension. Neda knew that nearly any truck or van rolling up for inspection could be carrying one of the weapons they sought.
The tension was increased by the fact that they knew none of the Afghan troops could be trusted. Many could be bought for the price of a good meal in a Tehran restaurant. Some were loyal to the Taliban and were waiting in place for the best opportunity to prove it, even though they knew that proof would almost certainly cost them their lives.
Two factors helped to keep the tension bearable. It was comforting to know that the American special forces soldiers were out there somewhere, with every vehicle that entered the border post firmly
within their scopes.
On the other hand, Neda wasn’t sure whether to trust the American drone she knew was out of sight far overhead. For so many years, she had associated them with merely killing Muslims who had no chance to fight back. It was more than odd to think of an American drone as on “her side.”
She had also seen many pictures of the devastation those drones left behind. If it fired, Neda doubted she would survive the explosion.
Vasilyev’s occasional voice coming over her earpiece, though, that was another matter. That was simply and unambiguously…good. It wasn’t just that she trusted and admired Vasilyev. Without understanding how Neda knew that her feelings towards him had become much more personal.
She also knew that under no circumstances was she going to give Vasilyev any hint of how she felt towards him. First, to avoid distractions that could cost both of them their lives, lead to mission failure or both.
Second to avoid embarrassment. Neda was conscious of her age and in Iranian society, a woman marrying a man so many years her junior would never happen. Or if it had, she had certainly never heard of it.
Neda unconsciously fingered the scar on her cheek and sighed. She still remembered Vasilyev’s offhand comment about her looks at the start of the mission. Well, that beauty was gone now.
The positions occupied by Vasilyev and Grishkov were only known to Neda because she had helped select them. Like hers, they all offered excellent concealment but were still within comfortable rifle range of the vehicle inspection point even without a scope.
Vasilyev’s position was the only one within earshot of the inspection point. That choice was logical since he was the only agent with training in each of the several languages that might be spoken here.
Neda stiffened as she could hear raised voices coming from the soldiers inspecting a large truck. At almost the same moment, Vasilyev’s voice came over her earpiece, saying, “An officer is telling his soldiers their inspection is finished, but one of his troops is saying they’re not done checking the back of the truck.”
