Certain Jeopardy

by Jeff Struecker

  “There are four hundred and thirty-nine nuclear power plants in the world, with another thirty under construction and two hundred more on the drawing board. Those numbers will increase, as they should. My technique will allow the world to make use of the spent fuel from these and future plants.”

  Another man stood. He was tall, wore a tweed jacket, sported a thin mustache, and looked a few years beyond sixty. He spoke with a heavy Italian accent. “Dr. Cenobio, as I understand it, your process is similar to those used by the United Kingdom and France in which you—and forgive me for being so basic—extract and enrich the plutonium in used fuel.”

  “The end result is the same, but my process is different, more efficient and cost effective.”

  The man grinned. “Of course it is, Doctor. Your reputation precedes you. My question centers on the unintended use of such plutonium. Isn’t it true that plutonium is relatively easy to handle and is thus a target for terrorists?”

  Hector had been expecting this. “It is true that the current state of spent fuel is too dangerous for terrorists to transport. Too many harmful gamma rays. It is also true that plutonium is less dangerous, but that doesn’t mean that it can be easily stolen or—”

  “Forgive me, Doctor, but over the last decade plutonium— enough to make several nuclear bombs—has been reported missing from Los Alamos in the United States and Sellafield in the UK—”

  “It is my understanding the Sellafield was an error in auditing.”

  “So we are asked to believe. My question is this: Why should a process such as yours be allowed when it leads to the creation of a material that can be stolen, illicitly sold, or otherwise find its way into the hands of terrorists?”

  Hector stepped back from the lectern for a moment. He had been answering questions like this for the last five years. He stepped to the microphone again. “Such a thing is highly unlikely. We can control who has access to such technology. I cannot imagine any sane country making this new technique available to a government that supports or harbors terrorists. Security measures will be in place.”

  “India, 1974.”

  “What about India?” Someone in the group called out.

  Hector fielded the question. “I believe he’s referring to India’s efforts to separate plutonium from fuel used in a nuclear power plant.”

  “A nuclear plant with technology provided by the United States. India made a bomb and joined the world’s superpowers with a nuclear arsenal.”

  “We’ve learned a lot since 1974,” Hector said.

  “Have we?”

  CHAPTER 21

  MOYER WAS GLAD TO see the sunrise. Another couple hours and Jose Medina and Martin Caraway would spell them. Medina would be bored stiff, but Caraway would enjoy it. Anything that involved electronics was candy to him.

  J.J. sat on a metal folding chair reading a pocket Bible by penlight.

  “Found anything interesting?” Moyer asked in low tones.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been reading that Bible for a couple of hours now. Have you found anything interesting?”

  “It’s all interesting. Cover-to-cover interesting.”

  “Can’t say I’ve spent much time in the book. Don’t see muchrelevance for the twenty-first-century warrior.”

  J.J. tilted his head to the side. “The Bible is the most relevant book ever.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe. It doesn’t seem to have done you any harm.”

  “Any shortcomings in me came from someplace other than the Bible.”

  “Caraway doesn’t seem to care much for your Bible reading.” Moyer turned his eyes back to the two monitors. The most exciting thing they’d seen so far had been a stray dog sniffing the gutters for food.

  J.J. lowered the Bible. “You’ve noticed that, have you?”

  “I notice everything that goes on in my team. It’s my job. So what’s his beef with you?” Moyer didn’t look away from the monitors. The remote video setup was working as planned. They were parked five miles from the site but still received a strong signal from both LVRSs.

  “It might be better if you ask him.”

  “I’m asking you, J.J.”

  J.J. shrugged. “He blames me for his wife’s desertion.”

  That got Moyer’s attention. He turned in his chair. “You’re responsible for Caraway’s wife leaving him? Do I want to know why that is?”

  J.J. shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. The only time I met her was at the barbecue you threw for us when we returned from Afghanistan. Even then I didn’t spend more than fifteen or twenty minutes talking to her. Martin was there the whole time. Nothing happened—I want to be clear about that.”

  “That’s good to hear, but I still don’t understand the problem.”

  “He doesn’t like my faith.”

  Moyer raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

  “He told me so. Not long after Afghanistan. That night backat the airfield the guys were blowing off some energy talking about the men we killed. I didn’t feel like joining in, and Caraway noticed. I guess he also saw me looking at the shepherds we killed and put two and two together.”

  “You mean your regret about killing the civilians.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, he began razzing me pretty bad. He told me his wife won’t come back to him because she’s a Christian. I still haven’t figured that out.”

  Moyer hesitated. How much should he say? “Caraway is a man who likes women—likes them a lot. Apparently marriage didn’t quench his thirst. His wife decided not to stay after she learned of his most recent affair. He was fine with that until his new girlfriend left him. No wife, no mistress. The guy’s alone. He doesn’t do alone well.”

  “Should you be telling me this?”

  “I’m telling you enough so I can also tell you to give the man a little space. You don’t have to like him, and he doesn’t have to like you. But on this team we work as a unit. I don’t care what my men do in their off time as long as they don’t disgrace the Army.”

  “Can I ask how you know all this?”

  “My wife bumped into his just before she left. Word got back to me. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Caraway. I’ll talk to him at the right time. Understood?”

  “Understood.” A moment later J.J. said, “Can I ask a question and not lose my head?”

  “Depends.”

  J.J. took a deep breath. “How bad is it?”

  Moyer stiffened. “How bad is what?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me to mind my own business, but

  I think you’re sick.” Moyer studied the video monitors, but their images didn’t register. “I’m fine. Feel great. Never better.”

  J.J. chuckled. “You know my brother is a chaplain, right? He once told me that if someone makes three statements when one would do, they’re concealing something.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  J.J. took several moments to answer. He closed his Bible and set it on the equipment console. He licked his lips. “Yes.” The word was soft and carried no animosity.

  “That’s either an incredibly gutsy thing to say to your Master Sergeant, or incredibly foolish.” “I know.” J.J. looked at his hands. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” “I told you I’m fine.”

  J.J. leaned back in the metal chair and let slip a near silent sigh. “You know what my dad taught me to do? When we traveled and stayed in a hotel, he would always bring the luggage in, set it on the bed, then go to the restroom and toss a little toilet paper into the commode, then flush it. He used to tell us that one thing both cheap and ritzy hotels had in common was plumbing problems. He’s an executive with an envelope-manufacturing firm. He travels a lot and has stayed in more hotels than any ten men combined.”

  “And your point is …” “When I came to your room today, I slipped into the head. The toilet didn’t flush well when you last used it.” Moyer licked his lips. His stomach dropped like an untethered elevator
.

  J.J. leaned forward again and rested his elbows on his knees. “My father had colon cancer. He used to pass blood.”

  There it was. He had been found out by a faulty valve-flush toilet. “So now you think I’m unfit to lead.”

  J.J. shook his head. “If you say you’re good to go, then I believe you.”

  “Then why bring it up?”

  “Because a man shouldn’t go through such things alone. The diagnosis scared my father to death. It was the only time I saw him weep. The thing is, he went through the surgery and treatment and is alive today.”

  “I don’t know that I have cancer. The doc says it could be other things.”

  “So you’ve seen the doctors.”

  Moyer tore his eyes away from the monitor. “I was in the office when I got the call.”

  J.J. straightened. “You were at the infirmary when the call came down?”

  Moyer didn’t answer. “We were setting up tests.”

  “I’m surprised the Army docs let you respond.”

  “Look …” He took a breath. “I went to a civilian doctor.”

  “Why would you … oh. You were afraid they’d take you off mission status. Makes sense. I would be too.”

  “Wasn’t much time to think about alternatives. I did what I had to do. Now let me be clear about this: You will say nothing to the team. Once this mission is completed, I’ll get the doctors to do what they need to do, but right now my focus—and that means your focus—is on this mission. We’re done talking about it, and you are not to bring it up again. Got that?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  CHAPTER 22

  HECTOR CENOBIO PREFERRED TO travel light. If his wife were with him, he would be carting several large rolling bags. Traveling alone, while not his preference, was easier on his back. One green, mediumsized wheeled suitcase and his computer bag were all he needed. He checked the suitcase at the airport in Rome, leaving him only the computer bag to carry. The computer was loaded with everything he needed: work files, speeches, downloaded magazine and journal articles, and several audio books. The flight to Caracas was long. He hoped to sleep as much as possible, but snoozing in the air wasn’t something he did well. Most likely he would spend his time reading or daydreaming about how soon he would be holding his wife in his arms and teasing his children.

  Traveling first class was a treat for him. His professor’s salary didn’t afford him such luxuries. Usually he had to wedge his generous frame into the narrow seats of economy class. This trip, however, was courtesy of the conference coordinators in Caracas. They had made all the arrangements, and he was happy to let them do so.

  After clearing security, Hector strolled down the long corridor, avoiding the surging waves of people moving in different directions. Hundreds of people with scores of different gates and destinations in mind—a classic case study for chaos theorists. If a passenger from Rome bumps into a passenger from London outside the duty free shop, will it set in motion a series of events that will ultimately cause a downpour in Toronto? He had never accepted chaos theory, seeing instead more plan in the universe than randomness.

  He had arrived at the airport early and found the first-class lounge nearly empty. A dark-skinned man sat in the far corner flipping through a magazine. Hector caught his eye and nodded. The man returned the gesture. Taking a seat in one of the padded leather chairs, Hector pulled his computer from the bag and turned it on. As the device booted, he glanced at the man with the magazine. Something about him seemed familiar. Another scientist? If so, he had not attended any of the colloquia or seminars. The press conference? He shifted his gaze to his computer screen then back to the man. He didn’t want to appear to be staring. There were close to a hundred and fifty reporters at the conference; the man certainly could have been among their number. Hector decided it didn’t matter. Clearly the stranger wasn’t interested in him, and truth be told, Hector wasn’t interested in the stranger either.

  The computer finished its warm-up exercises, and Hector called up a downloaded article from Physics and Power Engineering, an obscure but respected journal. Hector had decided in graduate school that the hardest work of science was not experimentation or even scrambling for grants; it was keeping up with the literature. Reading journals was practically a part-time job.

  An hour passed and more first-class passengers entered the exclusive lounge. A uniformed man in his twenties appeared and offered snacks and drinks to the waiting passengers. At the appropriate time the steward reminded the passengers it was time to board the plane. Hector shut down the computer and slipped it into the bag. He glanced at the dark-skinned man, who folded his magazine and replaced it on the coffee table, rose, and walked past Hector.

  Passengers boarded the aircraft in a long, slow-moving line that started and stopped with each passenger who struggled to lift a bag into the overhead compartments. A stewardess who looked too young to hold the job brought Hector orange juice. Across the aisle sat Magazine Man, sipping a mixed drink.

  Thirty minutes later, the stewardess closed the door and the Alitalia Boeing 757 pushed back from the gate. On to London, then to Caracas, then home. He longed most for the final destination.

  Just before the hatch had been closed and latched, Hector saw the familiar man place a short phone call. The moment he ended the call, he looked at Hector and smiled.

  Hector found this unsettling.

  * * *

  PETE RASOR AND RICH Harbison sat at a small table near the side wall of the restaurant. Pete set his chopsticks down and leaned back.

  “That was the best lo mein I’ve ever had.”

  “I assumed that, since you’ve done everything but lick the plate.”

  “That may happen yet.”

  Rich chortled. “Where did you learn to wield chopsticks like that? If I had to use those things, I’d starve.”

  “I’ve seen you eat—you’d manage.”

  “You sayin’ I’m fat?”

  Pete wasted no time answering. “I’d never do that. You’re a perfect specimen of manhood. Every girl’s dream, every man’s idol, every—”

  “You can stop right there. I’m not paying for your lunch.”

  Pete shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying.” He decided to change subjects. “It seems odd to be an American in Venezuela eating Chinese food.”

  “Not really. I was in a mall in Southern California and had lunch in the food court. I ordered Japanese food from a Chinese woman who gave the order to a Hispanic cook who passed my plate to an Anglo worker while an African-American girl poured my soda. Not all that weird.”

  “It was weird enough for you to take notice.”

  “Let’s get back to the hotel. I want to snag a few hours of shuteye before starting the swing shift.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Pete paid for the meal and followed Rich from the small restaurant. “We should come back here tomorrow. I want to try their kung pao shrimp.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. I think we have a tour of the jungle coming up.”

  Part of the mission was reconnoitering the Santi mansion. Moyer’s plan would split the team into two three-man teams. Now that remote surveillance was up and operating, the secondary recon could be done—assuming some handyman didn’t find one of the two LVRSs and take it home to show the kids.

  They moved down the sidewalk and stopped at the corner. The hotel was only three blocks away, a pleasant walk on a lovely day. Still, they had driven in case Moyer needed them in a hurry. “Mind if I drive?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks,” Rich said. “Not enough to satisfy your wanderlust.”

  “I can turn a three-block drive into a three-hour tour.”

  “I believe that. You never were very good at navigation.”

  Pete feigned shock. “You wound me. I was at the top of my class.”

  “Was it a class of one?”

  “C’mon, let’s take the long way back. We need to check other routes.”
By “other routes” he meant paths of evasion should escape become necessary.

  “All right.” Rich tossed him the keys.

  They walked another half block to their car, which was parked next to the downtown curb. Pete pushed the unlock button on the key bob and stepped between their car and the one parked in front of it. Rich slipped into the passenger seat. Pete reached for the handle on the driver’s side door.

  He heard it first. Then he saw it.

  The roar of a car engine. The screech of tires on pavement. The flash of blue to his right. Reflex made him jump, but no ordinary man could have gained the height necessary to clear the sedan, which struck him mid-thigh. Pete landed on the metal surface, rolled over the windshield, and tumbled down the back of the vehicle. It took a full five seconds for him to realize that he was lying on asphalt. It took another five seconds for Rich’s voice to penetrate the shock and confusion.

  “Pete! Don’t move, buddy. Just stay there.”

  “What? Where …” He looked up to Shaq’s face. He had seen the big man angry, happy, drunk, even bewildered. This was the first time he had seen him afraid.

  “Take it easy, buddy.”

  Pete could hear the roar of a car racing away. He wondered who was in such a hurry. Something was wrong—he knew that much. His hearing was good, but off. A single sharp tone ran in one ear and out the other.

  Then the pain arrived. Pete tried to rise.

  “No you don’t, buddy. You’re staying down.”

  “Okay. My leg hurts.” The dull ache soon became white-hot needles jabbing his legs, back, and neck. As the shock faded, the pain grew. “What happened?”

  “A car hit you. Stay still.” Rich turned to the gathering crowd. “I need an ambulance. Ambulancia!” He returned his attention to Pete and whispered, “Tell me you’re not packin’.” He leaned over Pete and gently patted the area around his belt, looking for what wasn’t there—a 9mm handgun.