He thought it unlikely that the deckhand would pick the prince’s suite to hide, but he called out in English, “Is anyone there? Please help me.” He smiled. “The Russians are murdering everyone onboard.”
There was no reply.
Petrov stood and entered the sitting room of the suite, which was dimly lit by a few lamps. He went quickly through the sitting room, the bedroom and dressing room, then the large bathroom, finding only more gilded extravagance, and also some photographs of the prince’s many children, though none of his wife—or wives.
It occurred to Petrov that there might be some people, including Americans and Saudis, who could not bring themselves to believe that Prince Ali Faisel, who loved life and all it had to offer, had become a suicide bomber. On the other hand, the Americans did not think that deeply when it came to ascribing evil intentions to those who followed Islam; all Muslims were capable of all things.
And the prince’s own coreligionists were equally unthinking, and they would believe what they wanted to believe; that every Muslim—even a decadent royal, and especially such a sinner—could be touched by the light of God and become a martyr for Islam.
Yes, there could be some speculation and doubts about Ali Faisel ending his life in a nuclear holocaust. But that line of thought would go nowhere in the hysterical aftermath of the attack.
Petrov turned off the lights in the prince’s suite and descended the spiral staircase to the lower deck.
He began first in the quarters of the three officers whose doors were unlocked. Again, he didn’t think that the deckhand would choose a dead-end room in which to hide, so he moved quickly through the officers’ rooms.
As he went through the staterooms, his thoughts returned to the Americans. If they were looking for a ship at sea at night, they would rely more on radar and infrared scanning than on a visual sighting. They loved their technology. And on that subject, they had very sophisticated radiation detectors that were effective at great distances. And The Hana was now emitting radiation, though not for long.
But then he had another thought… a thought that he had been pushing to the back of his mind. Arkady Urmanov. Known to the Americans as Pavel Fradkov, the Russian Federation’s U.N. delegate for Human Rights. It was possible, he conceded, that the American State Department—or the FBI or CIA—had identified Pavel Fradkov as Arkady Urmanov, a nuclear physicist, whose specialty was miniature nuclear weapons.
But if they had made that identification, why had they allowed Urmanov into the country? Or allowed him to stay? Obviously, the Americans wanted to see why he was here—and if they knew why, then the mission was compromised. And if it was compromised, then Moscow would blame Colonel Petrov for insisting that Urmanov be sent to New York under an alias with diplomatic cover. And if that was true, then he, Colonel Vasily Petrov, had no future in Moscow.
It also occurred to him that if the FBI had questioned Tamorov, then it was possible that the rich oligarch may have been cooperative, to protect his money and his American visa. It was also possible that Tamorov had recalled that Petrov wanted to be introduced to Prince Ali Faisel. But would Tamorov make the connection between the prince and the prince’s yacht, and the amphibious craft that had taken them from the beach? Possibly.
Petrov stopped in the passageway to collect his thoughts. He still had the option of scuttling The Hana and returning to Moscow via the fishing trawler. But what awaited him in Moscow? Not a promotion to general. Not his father’s congratulations. The future of Russia has been placed in your hands, Vasily. And if this mission failed because of him, what awaited him in Moscow was possibly a firing squad.
He leaned his back against the wall and drew a long breath. There was really only one option left. Complete the mission—at any cost.
Petrov continued through the passageway between the guest staterooms, finding most doors locked, which he opened by firing one or two rounds from his Makarov.
He then proceeded toward the ornate doors at the end of the passageway that led to the flooded tender garage, noticing the blood on the wall as he passed by.
Yes, there was only one option left for him. And the two things that he needed to complete his mission had just arrived. Captain Gleb and the bomb.
Come home in glory. Or do not come home.
Vasily Petrov was no longer sure that he was coming home. But if he did not, his father would know how his son met a glorious end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Vasily Petrov entered the garage, which was dimly illuminated by indirect lighting and by the underwater lights on the flooded deck.
Tied to the opposite dock was the amphibious craft that would take him, Gorsky, and Gleb from The Hana to the pier on the Brooklyn waterfront—though if he eliminated Gleb, he was sure he could operate the craft himself. As for finding the pier, he had been there twice, once by car and once by boat, and he had flown over it in a helicopter, so he knew he could find it even at night because of the large boathouse that covered the pier. That was the plan. But the plan might have to change.
Tied to the dock in front of him was the lifeboat from the fishing trawler, and sitting in the center of the boat’s deck was a black trunk.
Petrov motioned for Gorsky and Urmanov to stay in the lifeboat, and he walked along the dock to the catwalk, out of earshot of the two men, and used the intercom to call the bridge.
Gleb answered, “Captain.”
“Vasily. Report.”
“Well, we are underway, as you see. I have plotted a course twenty nautical miles from shore, close to the shipping lane. It will take us a few more minutes to get up to speed, and if I can get twenty-five knots out of the engines, we will be approaching the entrance to New York Harbor at the Verrazano Bridge in less than two hours—depending on tides and currents.”
Petrov checked his watch. That would put them outside the harbor at about midnight. Perhaps earlier if the currents were with them. And if the Americans were waiting for him, he would proceed at full speed straight into the harbor, and as The Hana got within a hundred meters of Manhattan Island, he could manually detonate the device.
Like an Arab suicide bomber.
But that might not be necessary. He needed more information.
Gleb said, “I saw another helicopter heading east. Also two high-speed craft on the radar.” He pointed out, “If I see them, they see us.”
“They don’t know what they are looking for.”
Gleb didn’t reply to that, but said, “The fishing trawler will remain on station for five more minutes. If he doesn’t get a radio signal from me, he will head back to Saint Petersburg.”
“I hope he has had good fishing.”
“Well then, the die is cast.”
“It was cast a long time ago in Moscow.” Petrov changed the subject and asked, “Why did you close the bridge door?”
“So I don’t get a bullet in my back.”
“I assume you are referring to the deckhand.”
Gleb did not reply.
“Have you locked the door?”
“That is the procedure if there is a danger onboard.”
Petrov knew that the bridge door could be locked from the inside without a code, but it could not be opened from the outside without entering the code. So Gleb had effectively locked Petrov out, and he had a reasonable excuse to do so. Petrov said, “I will have full access to the bridge.”
“When you come up, bring me some coffee.”
Petrov didn’t reply to that and said, “You can communicate with me through the ship’s speakers. I am in the tender garage.”
“I see you on the monitor, and if that thing you’re working on starts to smoke, I’ll be in the water.” He laughed.
Petrov shut off the intercom and walked quickly along the dock to the lifeboat and jumped in.
Gorsky stood and said, “I assume you have not found the deckhand.”
Petrov shook his head, then put his hand on the black trunk. “This now deserves our full attent
ion.” He looked at Gorsky and Urmanov. “Are we ready?”
Gorsky nodded. Urmanov did not.
Petrov said to Gorsky, “Unlock the trunk.”
Gorsky knelt before the trunk, which had a conventional hasp and padlock securing the lid, as though it was actually a steamer trunk, though the combination lock and hasp were made of titanium alloy, as was the trunk itself.
Gorsky, from memory, entered the six-digit combination. He heard a soft click and pulled the lock open.
Petrov said to Urmanov, “The honor is yours, Doctor.”
Urmanov stared at the black trunk, then stood and put his hands on the sides of the watertight lid. He lifted the heavy, lead-lined lid until the two steel arms locked into place.
Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov looked down at the device, which filled the entire trunk. Engraved in the lower right-hand corner of the cast aluminum face was RA–115, followed by –01, which designated this device as submersible.
Petrov and Gorsky exchanged glances and nodded. Yes, this was exactly like the device they had trained on, except this one had a plutonium core, about the size and shape of an American football.
The size of the fissionable core never failed to impress Petrov. It was difficult to imagine how anything that small could produce a fireball the size of six sports stadiums, rising over five hundred meters into the air and generating temperatures of over ten million degrees Celsius, consuming everything within the firestorm, and igniting anything combustible within another half kilometer, melting steel, glass, and flesh.
And then there was the shock wave that would travel at the speed of sound, tearing apart buildings and throwing people and vehicles into the air like leaves in a storm.
And what followed would be much worse: a radioactive plume, riding on the prevailing winds, sickening everyone it came into contact with. Petrov remembered the Chernobyl nuclear reactor meltdown. People were still dying from the effects of radiation poisoning almost two decades later.
Petrov stared at the aluminum face of the device. Its four corners were secured by sunken screws whose heads needed a special tool, which Urmanov had in his tool kit to unloosen them if necessary. Also in the tool kit were instruments that Urmanov would need if there was a problem with the device. Petrov and Gorsky could arm the device without Urmanov, but they were not authorized to remove the face and expose the inner workings of the miniature nuclear bomb.
Ironically, Petrov knew, it was not the plutonium core or even the electronics that presented a problem; it was the two detonator caps and the conventional high explosive charges packed around the plutonium—to compress it and give it the critical mass it needed to achieve fission—that could explode if improperly handled. Thus the age of gunpowder met the nuclear age in this trunk. And Dr. Urmanov, nuclear physicist, had an understanding of both, plus an understanding of advanced electronics if a problem arose.
Mission control had told Petrov that the device had less than a five percent chance of malfunctioning. Urmanov was needed to lower that to zero percent.
If, however, Dr. Urmanov could not seem to solve the problem, then there were ways to help him remember the intricacies of the device he invented.
Petrov again looked at the aluminum face of the device. It had no knobs or dials, no switches or meters, only small, color-coded ports into which electronic leads could be inserted.
The timer clock was internal and not shown in a display window, but would be shown on the handheld arming device that lay in plastic wrap on the surface of the aluminum face.
Petrov picked up the arming device and unwrapped it, letting the four color-coded wires fall free. Except for the dangling wires, this arming device looked like a large satellite phone. And in fact, signals could be sent to Moscow, and also to the nuclear device. He asked Urmanov, “Did you remember to bring your arming device?”
Urmanov reached into his bag and retrieved the backup arming device.
Petrov said, “We will use the one that came with the package.”
He inserted the lead from his black wire into the hole that had a black circle around it. He looked at the electronic display screen on his handheld device and said, “Battery is fully charged and all electronics are reading normal.”
He turned the device toward Urmanov and Gorsky and they both nodded, and both repeated, “Normal.”
He then plugged the green wire into the green port and looked at his display. “Radiation level is within normal range,” meaning there was no radiation leak and no depletion of the plutonium, which was critical if they were to achieve a ten-kiloton yield.
He turned the remote device toward Urmanov. “Correct?”
Urmanov nodded.
The public address speaker crackled and Gleb’s voice filled the garage. “Helicopter across the bow at three hundred meters distance and four hundred meters altitude, proceeding south.” He added, “He has a searchlight, and the beam passed briefly over us.”
Petrov glanced at Gorsky, then said, “If they are looking for the amphibious craft”—he nodded toward the amphibious craft five meters away on the opposite dock—“they would need X-ray vision, like Superman.”
Gorsky smiled, but he was concerned.
Petrov looked at the open trunk. It was now emitting enough radiation to be detected, but it would emit less when the lid was closed, and almost none when it was submerged. But now they were exposed and needed to hurry through the arming sequence. Petrov still did not think that the Americans were thinking the unthinkable. But they might discover this radiation source by accident if they had their detectors turned on and if someone in a helicopter or boat noticed the detector’s flashing red light or somehow heard its audible alert over the sound of their engines.
He said, “We will continue.”
He plugged the yellow wire into the yellow port and a digital calendar appeared on the screen. He set the date for September 12, then switched to clock mode. He pushed the hour button on his control and stopped at 08. He then advanced the minutes to 46.
September 12—08:46. He pressed the Set button and said, “That will be about the time we are over the Atlantic, enjoying our coffee.”
Gorsky nodded, though he was no longer sure they would be on that private jet. But Colonel Petrov seemed sure, as though there were no helicopters flying overhead and no high-speed craft on the sea. Gorsky glanced at Urmanov. Now that this was a minute away from becoming real, Urmanov had become almost catatonic.
Petrov plugged the last wire—the red one—into the last port and said, “We will recite the arming code.” He put his finger on the electronic display that now showed numbers from zero to nine and said, “Seven.”
Gorsky repeated, “Seven.”
Urmanov said, “Seven.”
Petrov pushed seven on the screen, then said, “Three.”
“Three.”
“Three.”
Petrov pressed three, then said, “Nine.”
They went through the eight-digit arming code, until the last number, which was known only to Petrov. He pushed the number, which was zero, and the displayed code disappeared, replaced by the word ARMED.
And, Petrov thought, that was all there was to it. He held up the arming device so that Gorsky and Urmanov could read it, and he said to Urmanov, “So, Doctor, there were no problems and we did not need you after all.”
Urmanov did not reply.
Petrov continued, “You designed a very reliable weapon. I congratulate you.”
Again, Urmanov had no reply.
Petrov unplugged his four lead wires, then took Urmanov’s backup arming device and ran through the procedure again, then said, “I am satisfied.” He looked at Urmanov. “And you?”
Urmanov nodded.
“Good. So we have a hundred percent certainty that nuclear fission will occur tomorrow at zero eight forty-six hours.” He looked at Urmanov. “Correct?”
Urmanov replied, “Nothing is one hundred percent certain.”
“Some things are.” H
e glanced at Gorsky, who nodded.
Petrov removed the four wires from the nuclear device. Clipped to the underside of the upraised lid was a long coil of copper wire, which Petrov removed. On one end of the wire was a long copper needle, and on the other end was a black rubber ball. Petrov stuck the long needle into a waterproof port on the right side of the trunk, then tossed the ball overboard into the water. This was the external radio antenna, necessary if Petrov needed to send a signal from his arming device to the submerged nuclear device. There were only two signals he might have to send: a shutdown of the timer clock, which he had no intention of sending; or a signal to advance the time of detonation. And that might be a signal he would need to send.
He put his handheld arming device into remote mode and tested the signals sent through the radio antenna. His display screen showed all the data—battery and electronics, radiation, detonation time, and status: ARMED.
Satisfied that he had control of the timer clock, he said to Gorsky, “You may lower the lid.”
“No!”
Petrov and Gorsky turned toward Urmanov, who was standing near the helm of the boat, a gun in his hand. Petrov noticed he was shaking almost uncontrollably.
Gorsky said to Urmanov, “You told me your gun was in your bag. I don’t like people who lie to me.”
Urmanov waved his gun and said in a quavering voice, “Move… away from the trunk.”
Petrov and Gorsky exchanged glances, nodded, and moved toward opposite sides of the lifeboat.
Urmanov took a step forward, pointed his 9mm Makarov at the aluminum face of the nuclear device, and pulled the trigger.
There was a dull thud as the hammer hit the firing pin block.
Urmanov again pulled the trigger.
Gorsky suggested, “You need to re-cock it. Pull back on the slide.” He stepped toward Urmanov. “Here, let me show you.” He snatched the gun out of Urmanov’s trembling hand, cocked it, and put the muzzle to Urmanov’s forehead. He pulled the trigger, and again the hammer made a dull thud.
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