Castle Bravo

by Karna Small Bodman

  “Andrei Sakharov?” Pete asked, moving aside to make room for an old man and woman, walking hand in hand.

  “Yes. They bring Sakharov to watch test of hydrogen bomb. He then go back to Moscow. Treat him like hero. But later he got radiation sickness too.”

  “I never knew that. But I did know about hydrogen bombs. It was one of those bombs that my government,” he paused and muttered, “bastards,” and then continued, “it was the American Navy that set off that kind of bomb on Bikini Atoll but then the radiation floated over onto Rongelap where my grandparents lived.”

  “Same bomb?” Nurlan asked. “As you say, small world. But now with marches, we get attention of world.” He looked around and pointed to several cameramen lined up along the side of the street. “See? Maybe CNN comes today. You think?”

  “Sure, why not?” Pete answered. “Actually, this is a huge crowd but very well organized, I have to say. The signs are good. Most look homemade so they can’t say it was some orchestrated thing. I mean, it looks grass roots.”

  “Grass roots?” Nurlan asked, raising his eyebrows. “What means grass roots?”

  “It’s just a term we use to mean that the people all believe in this. They’re all involved. It’s not phony. They’re not paid to come here or anything like that.”

  Nurlan shook his head and chuckled. “Nobody paid to come here. Costs us all money to come here. It is money we want from Russians to help us get better medicine. Things like that.”

  “They didn’t pay anything?” Pete asked.

  “No. Nothing. Oh, Kazakhstan finally pay a little to some people who live right by tests. But it only about sixty dollars a month.”

  “That won’t buy anything today, would it?”

  “No. So we arrange protests. You saw how we do this at meeting this morning.”

  “I know. I was really impressed with the way your group communicates. I already sent a bunch of emails to our guys back in the states. We already use Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and all of that. But there are a bunch of new sites your guys have. We’ll get on those too. You were right about comparing notes. I think we may be able to get some big protests going. Maybe not as big as yours, but the pictures here are incredible. And the kids. My God. The kids. It’s so sad. You said we could share pictures and show some of these in the States. That would shock a lot of folks. Not sure if it would be enough to shock the White House, or upset enough members of Congress to vote for more reparations for us, but I could send some pictures and add some threats that we talked about.”

  “You talk about threats. We must see what we can learn when we get to Atyrau tomorrow and my job at nuclear place.” Nurlan pointed to a side street. “Let’s stop here. My legs hurt from marching. There’s place here called Coffeedelia.”

  “A coffee house?”

  “Sure. Has American coffee. We go there. Then later we go to Da Freak.”

  “Da Freak?” Pete asked. “Sounds weird. What kind of place is that?”

  “It’s club. Play good music. But we change clothes. Get dressed nice.”

  “Why? You don’t like my SAINTS tee-shirt?”

  “Not that. But here people dress up.” He pointed to two men watching the protesters from the sidewalk. One looked like he was in his late 30’s, about 6′1″ tall with dark hair, wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. The other one was in his sixties, a bit rougher looking, but also wearing a coat and tie. “See those guys?”

  “Yeah, looks like they just came from a business meeting or something,” Pete said.

  “Maybe. Here people look better than in states. Women in clubs wear nice dresses like for what you call cocktail parties.”

  “Cocktail dresses? I haven’t seen one of those since I watched an old movie on TCM.”

  “You will see. Maybe first we go Central Public Baths. Then we go to Club. And tomorrow we fly to Atyrau and begin new jobs.”

  Pete took one last look at the marchers and said, “This protest is your revenge on the Russians. Pretty soon, I’ll plan mine on the White House.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Samantha scanned the list of emails on her computer screen and scrolled down to the one she waited for each day.

  “Hi Hon. Almaty is a neat city, pretty warm—90 today. Met with oil guys. Finalized the contract—had to give up some % but we can live with it. City is crowded though. Stood by and watched a huge protest march. Poor people were victims of Soviet nuclear tests years ago. I feel for them. Heading over to Atyrau tomorrow. That’s the city on the Caspian where we’ll be operating. Already have explorations south of there that Jake will check out. Then we’ll head home. Keep in touch. Miss ou, T.”

  She smiled as she read it again. Tripp had been true to his word and emailed her every single day. She really missed him and was finding herself day dreaming about when he and Jake would arrive back at Dulles. She planned to go out and surprise them both. She wondered how many more days it would be. It sounded like it could be at least three or four in the field and then a day or two to travel back to that city with the strange name and then another day to fly home through Frankfurt. Maybe it would be a week or a little more.

  She glanced down at her schedule and realized she’d be chock-a-block with work all week anyway. Besides the meetings, she had a bunch of invitations. The most impressive one was for the State dinner the president was giving for the president of Poland. That was a must-go. The others were for charities, dinners, receptions, and embassy events. She sifted through the stack and wondered if she would find the time to make a drop-by at any of them this week or next. She knew that she wasn’t being invited because the host or hostess was that fond of her personally. In fact, she hardly knew any of them. No. They were inviting titles, especially White House titles. Those and members of Congress along with the usual sprinkling of cave-dwellers—members of Washington’s old guard, the elite who had lived here for generations. They owned the newspapers, the top law firms, the best real estate. They often had an initial before their name or a III or IV after it. All were listed in The Green Book, the “Social List of Washington,” and their wives were chairmen of all the charity balls. They usually lived in Georgetown, Kalorama, McLean, or maybe Potomac, and Samantha didn’t know any of them, except for Tripp. She figured he fit right in since his family had been fixtures in this town for years, although now they split their time between D.C. and Naples.

  It seemed that whatever subject was at hand, whether a meeting or an invitation, her thoughts always seemed to turn back to Tripp. She was really falling for this guy. Fast and hard. But with their crazy schedules, she wondered whether they could find a way to be together. Really together. She was falling in love with him, and when he was away like this, it just made her all the more determined to make what time they did have together all the more precious. As soon as he got back, she promised herself that she’d get him to talk about it. Somehow.

  She pushed the thought from her mind, checked her watch and realized she’d better leave for her meeting with the NSC advisor. She had requested a few minutes with Ken Cosgrove to brief him on the latest EMP intel with the hope of soliciting an ally. With all that he had on his plate, though, she worried that her chances were pretty slim.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ATYRAU, KAZAKHSTAN

  Pete was astounded! “I thought this was some sort of back-water jerk town.”

  “What you mean ‘back-water jerk town?” Nurlan asked as they gathered their bags and back packs.

  “When we flew in here, I thought it was just going to be a little town on the edge of that big lake with a few refineries and some run-down hotels or something. But they’ve got big buildings, roads everywhere, churches, those things with the onion domes on the top, and a ton of water.”

  “So not so back-water? Yes?” Nurlan said, flinging his backpack over his shoulder and pointing to the exit door. “I told you check internet.”

  “I never got the time. I just
figured you’d tell me about it. But I never thought it would be this big, this modern, this … I don’t know … just this much of a place. This could be fun.”

  They pushed through the swinging doors to the vast airport lobby where a throng of men and women, children clutching their mother’s hands, and a bevy of taxi drivers had gathered to welcome the flight. Nurlan scanned the crowd and shouted, “There she is.”

  Pete craned his neck and spotted a very pretty young girl with long, straight black hair and huge round eyes waving at Nurlan. “That’s your sister?”

  “Yes, that’s Zhanar. She say she meet us.”

  The young woman clad in black slacks and a light blue shirt tied at the waist rushed forward and threw her arms around Nurlan. “Welcome home!” she exclaimed with a wide smile. When she pulled away, she extended her hand to Pete. “And you are Pete Kalani. Nurlan has told me all about his friend. So glad you could come to our city. You will like it here. I promise. I have a car outside. Come. We go to the apartment.”

  Pete followed behind the brother and sister team and couldn’t take his eyes off Zhanar. What a knock-out, he thought. And those eyes. Looks like a fawn or something. If Nurlan had shown me a picture I would have signed up for this gig from the get-go.

  They drove through the city, past a Renaissance Hotel with an impressive curved entrance, another high-rise hotel called AK ZHAIK and a stone monument of what looked like two warriors on horseback. Instead of a weapon, one was carrying an instrument like a banjo or something.

  Zhanar kept up a running commentary as they passed a stadium and then drove closer to the water. “First this place was a fortress. Then it was a city called Giuryev. But a while ago, they changed it to Atyrau. That means the place where the river flows into the sea.”

  “Cool!” Pete said, staring out the window of the back seat.

  They drove through an industrial area where Zhanar pointed to a fish cannery and a meat-packing plant. “And over there, see? Those are the ship-repair yards. I have a job on a boat, you know.”

  “That’s what Nurlan told me. He said you did something with the tourists. Do you have a lot of them here?”

  “Oh sure. They come in the summer. We give them boat rides. I’m like a tour guide. And I have good news,” she stopped at a street light and turned around to face Pete. “I know of a job for you. On our boat. The captain needs a helper. I told him you were coming and when he heard that you speak English, he said okay, he could use you.”

  Pete broke into a big grin. It seemed that where Zhanar was concerned, all he was doing was grinning. “Hey, that’s great. So a lot of people speak English here.”

  “Yes, all the educated people do, and you can help with the boat and with the tourists and we can take the bus together from the apartment to go there. The money isn’t a lot, but it’s enough,” she added.

  They arrived at the modest apartment building, and Pete was happy to find that their sub-let had two small bedrooms, a decent if tiny kitchen with a table and several chairs, and a bathroom with a shower. Not much of a view, but when he thought of it, he didn’t intend to spend much time in the place. When he wasn’t working and saving his money and communicating with his SAINTS group, he wanted to spend as much time as he could with Zhanar. He had no idea if she had a boyfriend. She wasn’t wearing a ring. He figured Nurlan would fill him in on her life once they settled in. He’d have to take it easy, though. Wouldn’t want to get the brother riled up by making a pass at the sister too quickly. But what the heck, he had the whole summer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Samantha opened the door to Ken Cosgrove’s corner office on the first floor of the West Wing just as he was closing the door to his safe in the white bookcase and spinning the dial. He stood up and motioned to the oval table in the other corner. “Hello, Samantha. Have a seat. You know Hunt Daniels, of course. Since he deals with nuclear proliferation issues here, I thought it would be good to bring him up to speed on your new issue.”

  “Sure. Hi Hunt,” she said, nodding to the lanky guy with sandy hair and brilliant blue eyes. She knew he was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force and was detailed from the Pentagon to the NSC staff. In this job he didn’t wear a uniform. He was a neat looking guy. Pretty tall. Very fit. But he was just a colleague, not someone she’d be attracted to. She wasn’t attracted to anyone but Tripp. Seems like he occupied her entire space-available in the warm feeling department. She refocused on Hunt and the task at hand. “Glad you’re here. There’s a lot we can talk about.”

  “That’s what Ken said.”

  The NSC advisor joined them at the table, opened his ever-present leather notebook and grabbed a pen. “Now then, Samantha, I hear you’ve been riling up a few people on the political side these days.”

  “Well, uh, yes. I guess you could call it that,” she said somewhat defensively. “But, Ken, you’ve seen the intel about those Iranian missile tests, the new ones along with the others using the Shahab-III. Then there are the notes on Russia and North Korea. I mean if any of those countries developed some sort of EMP weapon, we could be toast.”

  “I’ve read the reports,” Ken said, “but what makes you think that there’s an imminent threat? I agreed to this meeting because you’ve been sounding like there’s an urgent need here.”

  Samantha glanced down at her notes. She never came into any sort of meeting without notes. “It isn’t that I’ve seen actionable intelligence that an operation is underway. No. Nothing like that. But these latest reports look like a great big wake-up call to me. And that’s our job. Trying to look ahead.”

  “She’s got a point,” Hunt said. “Wasn’t it Wayne Gretsky who said something to the effect that you don’t skate to the puck, you have to learn to skate to where you think the puck is going to be?”

  “Okay, you two. Let’s review the bidding here. We know that Iran has been testing missiles capable of carrying a nuclear warhead into space. We don’t know if they’ve perfected that warhead yet, and even if they did, there’s no consensus that they’d aim it at us,” Ken said. “Israel would be the most likely target.”

  “Right,” Samantha agreed. “But if they develop such a weapon, and maybe they already have, they could easily sell it to God knows who, and we already know that the Russians, the Chinese and the North Koreas do have the capability.” She shuffled her papers and added, “Ever since Congress disbanded the EMP Commission …”

  “Lack of funds. The usual excuse,” Ken said.

  “Yes, the funding issue,” Samantha continued. “But ever since they did that, nobody, and I mean nobody has paid any attention at all to preparing for any sort of EMP attack. I went back and read their last report, and it was positively chilling. If some country or some group were able to set off a pretty big nuclear explosion in the atmosphere over, say, Kansas, it could destroy the infrastructure of much of our economy since we’re so dependent on electronic systems. You know it could destroy all electronics in its light of sight. Millions would die of starvation. There would be no medical care except rudimentary first-aid and then we’d have no refrigeration for drugs. Think about it, Ken, a dirty bomb in New York would kill thousands. Maybe more. A chemical or biological attack would hit thousands as well. But an electro-magnetic pulse would absolutely wipe us out. No electricity, no water filtration, no food, no transportation. There would be a complete breakdown of society. I mean, talk about gun control. There wouldn’t be any. Guys with the weapons would be protecting their families, scavenging for what food was available. The cities would go first. The average city has about a five-day supply of food before trucks and trains bring in the next shipment. Well, there wouldn’t be any trucks or trains.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

  “She’s right about all of that,” Hunt said. “Trouble is, in order to harden our grid and protect the internet and phone lines and all the rest, well, can you imagine what that would cost?”

  “At least our military has harden
ed some of their communications facilities,” Ken said.

  “Not enough, if you ask me,” Hunt said.

  “And you are proposing what, Samantha?”

  She had her answers prepared. Samantha knew that you never presented your boss with a problem. You presented him with solutions, preferably a list of solutions. He could agree or pick and choose or take nothing, but at least you had done your job. She handed Ken a memo with a copy for Hunt. It was a list of options. At the bottom were the lines AGREE ______ and DISAGREE _______ along with a place for his signature. “Okay, here’s the way I see it now. First, we go for an appropriation to work with the utilities at least to protect our electricity grid. We need to harden what we’ve got and get replacements ordered. You know the big turbines, generators, high-voltage transformers, even the switching systems for the phone companies, all of that, and have them in a protected area. If we did need that stuff in an emergency, and we didn’t have it stored somewhere, it could take years to get it. Sure, it’ll take bucks. Sure. We all know that, but at a minimum, we start there. Point two. Call in the major banks and ask them to review their own back-up systems.”

  “We’re already doing that for cyber-attacks,” Ken volunteered.

  “I know that. But a cyber-attack wouldn’t fry all of their components. We need more protection.” She referred to the memo and went on. Then we go to the House Armed Services Committee …”

  “Betty Barton’s committee,” Ken said. “She’s the toughest beancounter on the Hill. You both know that.”

  “Yes, I realize that,” Samantha said. “But I think that with enough facts we can go up there and paint a pretty scary scenario for her, and maybe we can get her to protect the grid and then maybe restore funds for an expanded missile defense system.”

  “You mean the funds she knocked out of the last budget in order to pay for those new tankers and Marine One helicopters?” Hunt said.