“They forgot the kitchen sink.”
“Figures. What about the incidentals?”
“Side arms, field knives, M4s, and enough surveillance equipment to make Caraway slobber all over himself. There’s even some stuff to make things go boom.”
“You know what they say: ‘There is no situation in the human condition that cannot be solved through a properly sized, shaped, packed, placed, timed, and detonated charge of high explosive.’ It’s a motto we can all live by. Electronics?”
“Yup. Digital Soldiers-R-Us. Looks like we’re set for anything. This truck is a rolling weapons locker.” Moyer nodded. “All we need is the small stuff. Can’t walk around with M4s slung over our shoulders.”
J.J. lifted a 9mm pistol. “I can see how that might get noticed.”
“Let the others know the rendezvous is on. Time to earn our pay.”
* * *
LUCY MEDINA SETTLED INTO her husband’s easy chair. She did so for two reasons. First, the chair reminded her of him; it carried his smell, and sitting in it made him seem close even when he was far away— wherever far away might be. She wore one of his T-shirts that she slept in for the same reason. The second reason was physical. She had been busy getting three children ready for school and driving them to the campus. Fortunately all three went to the same school. Matteo and Jose Jr. would be in school until nearly three, but Maria would need to be picked up at noon when her half-day kindergarten class ended. Still, that left her a couple of hours to rest her body and mind. Taking care of three children under the age of nine was difficult with help; alone was an impossible task. She wondered how she would manage once the baby was born. She could handle days all right as long as Jose was there to help in the evening—which he wasn’t today and might not be for weeks.
She closed her eyes and tried to nap.
The baby moved, then kicked. Lucy rubbed her belly.
Another kick, then a sharp pain. She winced.
Lucy took a deep breath and released it slowly. The pain eased. “What are you doing in there, little Niña?” Again, Lucy tried to relax in the chair. Being pregnant was hard work. She could grow tired just sitting around. This was her time to rest. With the children at school these quiet hours were her sanctuary.
She moved her hands over her basketball-size belly. In another three months “baby within,” as Jose called his daughter, would become “baby out and about.” Lucy took rest when she could get it—there would be precious little of it soon.
Another kick, this one to Lucy’s bladder.
Another pain … and another. Something within her tightened. A small moan escaped her lips. Her skin oozed perspiration.
“Oh, God,” Lucy prayed.
CHAPTER 18
THE U.S. EMBASSY IN Venezuela would have been a perfect place to meet if it weren’t under constant surveillance. The 100,000-square-foot building sat on the side of one of the Andean foothills. The five-story brown building contained a room encased in steel walls that could be used for meeting and planning, but Moyer didn’t have that luxury. His mission was as covert as they come. If captured, the State Department would deny any connection with his team.
Instead, he and the others found a rundown bar near the center of the city. The place was large, dingy, and had colored film pasted to the windows like a poor man’s stained glass. The pub catered to unsuspecting foreigners. The price of beer was a third higher than what he and J.J. paid in the upscale hotel bar the previous night.
“Nice tourist trap.” Shaq took a seat at a long table near the back.
“More like a roach trap.” Caraway wrinkled his nose.
“I didn’t know you were such a sensitive spirit.” Moyer sat at the middle of his team, allowing him to keep his voice down and still be heard.
“Sensitive? Me?” Caraway laughed. “I just like my beer and food to be free of insects.”
“Protein is protein,” J.J. said.
“Put a sock in it, guys.” Moyer paused long enough to make eye contact with each man. “We’re here for a reason and we’re going to drink beer and eat chicken wings and act like we’re enjoying every moment of it. Clear?”
The others nodded.
“Good.” Moyer looked at Caraway. “You comfortable?”
Caraway pulled a small, black electronic device from his shirt pocket and gave it a glance. The small device looked very much like an MP3 player but could detect hidden microphones in the 1 MHz to 6.5 GHz range. “Can’t do a full sweep, of course. That’d be a tad obvious. But the mini-sweeper says we’re good.” He dropped the device back into his pocket.
Moyer gave an approving nod. The device wasn’t foolproof but provided enough reassurance for Moyer to continue. “We begin tonight. We stay low-vis on this, so we’ll be keeping hardware to a minimum.” His team nodded. The quickest way to attract attention was to shoulder an M4 automatic rifle. “Martin, bring what you need for the job. We’re going to need eyes and ears. I surveyed the equipment and it’s all nonmilitary issue.”
“Nothing to tie us to our origins,” Caraway said.
“Exactly.” Moyer stopped as a waitress cleared empty mugs of cerveza from the table and replaced them. J.J.’s mug was still full. When the waitress left, Moyer continued. “We go in full team tonight. Once we have the lay of the land, we’ll split into teams for round-the-clock recon. We stay in the same teams we arrived in country with. I know I don’t need to say this, but I will: This is an urban recon, so the odds of someone spotting us are much higher than parachuting into some desolate backwater and hiking in.”
“That’s been bugging me,” J.J. said. “These camps—places— are usually away from population centers unless they’re in a friendly country. There’s miles of jungle around here; why set up in the industrial area of a major city?”
Moyer pursed his lips. He didn’t have an answer for that one. “It doesn’t matter. Intel said that’s where they are and so that’s where we go. My best guess is they’re getting co-op from the government.”
“Still seems odd.”
Moyer ended the discussion by ignoring the comment. “Be ready at 2200. Mess up your beds before leaving. I don’t want the maids wondering why someone pays big bucks to stay in a hotel then sleeps elsewhere.”
They stayed another hour, drinking and eating like businessmen off the home leash. The group broke up over the next thirty minutes until only Moyer and J.J. were left. Moyer planned to finish his beer then make his way back to the panel truck. J.J. would drive the rental car back to the hotel.
“What’s the matter, J.J.? You look bothered.”
“Something doesn’t feel right, and I can’t put my finger on it.”
“We don’t operate on feelings, J.J. We operate on intel and gut instinct.”
“It’s my gut that’s bothering me. The M.O. just doesn’t seem right.” J.J. lowered his voice. “How can a terrorist group train in a downtown industrial park?”
“Not all training has to do with guns and explosives. Maybe they’re teaching them something else. Maybe they have other sites in the country. That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t listen to my gut so much.”
“Well, my gut has plenty to say, and I prefer it says it back at the hotel. I’m less likely to catch a disease there.”
* * *
JULIA CENOBIO WAS ON her knees, her elbows resting on the edge of the bed, her head bowed and eyes closed. She held her hands out to each side. In each hand rested a smaller hand.
“Thank you, Jesus, for the fun day we had today.” Nestor had been praying for several minutes, and Julia wished he’d find his way to the end. He was this way every night. At bedtime Julia would kneel with the children, hold their hands, and lead them in prayer, allowing each child to pray as they saw fit. Nestor and Lina were competitive even for twins. At times one would try to eat faster than the other or read more books or do more cartwheels—they even tried to out-pray one another.
�
�And thank you for breakfast and lunch and dinner and the snakes. And thank you for the man who drove us around the city. And thank you for this room and this bed …”
If only Hector were with them. He had a way of controlling the children’s enthusiasm, or at least directing it. “Never squash a child’s enthusiasm,” he often said. “The word enthusiasm means ‘God within.’ It is a holy thing.”
She tried not to smile. Right now it was an endurance thing.
“And bless Mamá and Papa and the people we saw at the museum and the waiter who brought our food and—” Julia squeezed Nestor’s hand. He got the hint. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”
“Amen,” Julia and Lina said in unison.
Lina was first on her feet. “God won’t answer your prayers, Nestor.”
“Yes, he will. Why not?”
Lina’s grinned morphed into a smirk. “Because your prayers are so long they put him to sleep.”
“Do not. Shut up!”
“That’s enough, children. I’m sure God heard every word. He listens very closely to everyone who calls on him. Now it’s time for you to crawl into bed.”
* * *
IN THE ADJOINING ROOM the man who served as their chauffeur listened to every word carried through the headphones he wore. No one was more thankful to hear the children were going to bed than he. He had tolerated their unending chatter and bickering all day and then through the early evening. Now his ears would have a rest.
He made a note in a computer: Children said their prayers then started arguing. It wasn’t much of a note, but at least his report would be accurate. Now all he had to do was wait for his replacement, who was due in two hours.
He knew what came next. The children would chatter in bed. The woman would tell them to be quiet at least four times before they surrendered to slumber. Julia Cenobio would watch television for two or three more hours then go to bed. This part of the job was tedious, not that he would ever complain.
To pass the time, the man removed a pistol and a handkerchief and began wiping down the weapon. He handled the gun tenderly as if it would respond better to a caress than rough handling.
The gun felt good in his hand. He pointed the barrel at the wall that separated his room from where the children slept and closed an eye, taking aim.
“Boom,” he whispered.
CHAPTER 19
THE 2:00 A.M. MOON hung high in a cloudless obsidian sky. Moyer lay on his belly peering over the short parapet of a two-story truck supply a half block from the suspected row of concrete tilt-up structures. He held a monocular NVG unit to his right eye. Similar to the Army-issue PVS-14 night vision scope, the device allowed him a near daylight view of the north and west sides of the target buildings.
“One guard smoking a cigarette near the north street-side corner. Looks bored.” Moyer studied the man for a moment.
“Standing alone during the wee hours can do that,” J.J. said.
“He’s the only signature I have on the FLIR.” Caraway kept a low profile while moving the handheld forward-looking infrared device. “He seems to be the only one on duty. Maybe the others are sleeping in the building, but there’s no way I’m gonna get a reading through concrete walls.”
“Here,” Moyer said, handing the NVG to Caraway. “See what you can tell me about the fence.”
Caraway raised the monocular to his eye. “Full-perimeter chain link, six feet high, no razor wire. Of course, you already know that.” Moyer gave the man time to study the situation. “I don’t see anything to indicate the fence is electrified. Checking for motion sensors.” Caraway could be a pain, but he was thorough. “I don’t see ground sensors or anything to indicate a passive detection system. Of course, I wouldn’t expect one. Having a guard walking the grounds would set off motion sensors and any other intruder alert system. I think we have one guy and a fence.”
J.J. eyed Moyer. “Those buildings could house several hundred hostiles.”
“No doubt, but I don’t think they do,” Moyer said. “If you had that many men, then why only one guard? I doubt there’s more than a handful of people inside.” Moyer retrieved the night vision device from Caraway and studied the situation again. “It’s not right. They’re too casual about their security. Why?”
“No idea, Boss.”
Moyer rolled over on his back, removed his encrypted cell phone, and made a call. A second later he said, “Whatcha got?” Rich, Medina, and Pete had taken position on the roof of a furniture manufacturer.
“We have a good view of the south and east quadrants. Nothing happening.”
“Okay, set up the LVRS. We’ll do the same. We’ll monitor at distance.”
“Understood.” The line went dead.
Moyer faced Caraway. “Set her up.”
J.J. helped Caraway erect a small aluminum tripod supporting a video camera and transmitter. The lightweight video reconnaissance system allowed surveillance at a distance of six miles. The panel truck would serve as a base station. Live surveillance from the rooftops would be impossible during the day when the streets came to life. This way, at worst, someone might discover the equipment on the roof and the government would be out some pricey toys. Better than having a team member observed or even arrested and tipping off the targets.
Thirty minutes later Moyer and J.J. sat in the panel truck. The others returned to their hotels. There was nothing to do now but watch nothing happen on two LCD monitors.
* * *
LUCY MEDINA COULDN’T SLEEP. What had been a sharp pain in her uterus this morning had evolved into a dull, persistent throbbing. Not enough to make her double over but enough to keep her from sleeping more than a few minutes at a time. She rose from bed, made her way to the living room of their small home, and tried to find a comfortable position on the couch. She turned on the television but kept the sound low. The children didn’t need to be awake at 4:00 a.m. Neither did she. Finding nothing of interest, she stopped on a program that promised to make her rich through real estate.
Lucy closed her eyes. Why did everything inside her seem to burn?
* * *
STACY BOLTED UPRIGHT IN bed. The cool air touched her damp skin, chilling her. She took a breath, then another. Her heart ricocheted against her ribs. She raised a hand and touched her sternum. The dream had been so real, so startling, so horrible. As the nightmare drained from her mind, it left a residue of pain, like boiling water over tender flesh. She moved from the bed, bent over the toilet, and emptied her stomach.
When the retching ended, Stacy tossed cool water on her face. Compared to the heat of the night terror, the cold water was refreshing. Pushing back the drapes that covered the bathroom window, Stacy gazed at the moon and wondered if Eric could see it from wherever he was.
CHAPTER 20
HECTOR CENOBIO PREFERRED THE privacy of his office and lab. He was comfortable lecturing to the few upperclassmen and graduate students that attended his classes, but standing before fifty scientists and journalists made him uneasy. Of course, only a handful of these were journalists. The rest were researchers from the various disciplines that orbited the world of nuclear physics.
Hector had become something of a celebrity in the science community. Yet outside of those whose research touched on nuclear power generation, he was largely unknown, and he liked it that way. What he didn’t like was answering questions from the media. Most reporters didn’t know enough about the subject to make insightful queries. A few science writers had a fair grasp of the concepts at hand, but he still felt the need to dumb things down.
He had already made his opening remarks, methodically laying out the principles of reprocessing spent nuclear fuel. His reasoned explanation fell on deaf ears. Apparently reporters could only ingest information preceded by a question.
A squat man in a rumpled coat stood. He held an MP3 recorder in his hand. “Dr. Cenobio, isn’t it true that the recycling process is more expensive than you’ve let on, and that the end result is fuel that costs more to ma
ke than the fuel is worth?”
Hector had just covered this but managed to hold back a frown. “As I mentioned a few moments ago, the world is changing at unexpected speeds. The costs of oil and natural gas have reached new levels and will continue to climb. While most people worry about the increase of fuel at the pumps, there is a greater concern: power generation. The population is not decreasing. Third-world nations are not walking into the high-tech world; they’re skipping in, leaping over the stepping stones first-world countries had to traverse. There are countries whose citizens have never used a phone attached to a phone line. They have graduated straight to cellular. The up-and-coming countries are going to need more and more power. Nuclear is the only way to provide consistent power that isn’t dependent upon oil from other countries.”
“But the process is still expensive, right?”
“Every power source is expensive. Yet my new techniques have brought the price of reprocessing down and will continue to do so in the decades ahead. Besides, expense is not the only concern. There are other matters in play.”
“Such as?”
Whatever happened to one question per reporter? “Storage. Fuel used in reactors is not eternal. It has a limited lifespan. Spent fuel must be replaced. Unfortunately spent fuel is still radioactive and requires special care. This spent fuel is stored in cooling pools, but we have reached the limits of what such pools can hold. Many companies have begun storing spent fuel in dry casks, concrete and steel canisters, but this is an expensive proposition. Each cask holds about ten tons of waste. A one-thousand-megawatt reactor generates enough spent fuel to fill two casks a year, and each cask costs approximately one million dollars.”
The reporter started to ask another question, but Hector stopped him with an upraised hand. “It was generally thought that spent fuel would be sequestered in underground facilities like Yucca Mountain, Nevada, in the United States. Yucca Mountain was to begin taking deposits in 1998. We are over two decades past that date. The best estimates state the facility will open in 2017. In the meantime, more and more spent fuel is accumulating in what remains of cooling pools and dry casks.
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