Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (5 page)

He saw the plastic explosive.
 
Words had been scrawled on its side with a black magic marker.
 
FOR VICTORY AND FREEDOM ON OCTOBER 24!

Craig had less than a minute remaining, perhaps only a few seconds.
 
If the EOD people didn’t prevent the detonator signal, this explosive and the others linked to it would blow up.
 

He didn’t have time to call the other EOD man.
 
He didn’t have time even to get out of the way.
 
Craig gritted his teeth, swallowed hard.
 
Simple plastic explosives didn’t have complex machinery.
 
He just needed to remove the initiator.
 
If he disconnected the detonator, it would not trigger the bomb.
 
Probably not.

Sure, it would be simple.

He reached out to grab the wires.
 
The first lead came out with a
pop
, severing the electrical connections thrust into the soft explosive.
 
He tugged on the other wire, pulling the connections from the next block at the second power-transmission tower.
 
The others were just part of a series circuit.
 

Craig stood looking at the detonator in his fist, his heart pounding.
 
Then he tossed it away from him as if it had turned into a snake — even the detonator cap would take off his hand if he was holding it when it went off.

Finally, slumping, he saw Jackson and Goldfarb hurrying up to the cliff wall, calling to see if he was all right.
 

The EOD men emerged from the generator room removing their helmets, beaming.
 
“A minute to spare,” the first one called.
 
“We could have done it twice.”

“These are the other explosives,” Craig said, slumping down, suddenly weak.
 
Now he finally had a chance to reconsider the words written on the soft substance.
 

FOR VICTORY AND FREEDOM ON OCTOBER 24!

It had been standard practice for military men to paint names or messages on their bombs before dropping them on an enemy, whether it be Saddam Hussein or Adolph Hitler.
 
In
Dr. Strangelove
the two atomic bombs had been named “Hi There!” and “Dear John.”

But for all the planning the violent members of the Eagle’s Claw had intended, Craig couldn’t believe they had made such a stupid mistake as to get the date wrong.
 
He glanced at the calendar function on his watch, checking just to be sure, then he shook his head.
 

October 24th was still four days away.

CHAPTER 4

Tuesday, October 21

8:30 A.M.

Device Assembly Facility

Nevada Test Site

Paige spotted Mike Waterloo waiting for her outside the barbed-wire gates of the Device Assembly Facility.
 
Dirt berms rose on either side of the thick concrete walls.
 
Two security observation towers, like turrets on a castle, stood out at prime vantage points.

Uncle Mike looked grim-faced as she pulled up in her white Ford pickup, identical to most other government vehicles at the DAF, except for the pine-tree air freshener dangling from her rear-view mirror.
 
Three green NTS security cars had parked beside the barricaded entrance; a Nye County ambulance from the post hospital in nearby Indian Springs AFB had backed up to the glass front door, leaving its red emergency flashers shut off.
 

Mike Waterloo unfolded his arms and left the shade of the cargo doors.
 
Wearing a threadbare short-sleeve yellow shirt and worn blue pants, the lanky man looked tired . . . and
old
.
 
His thin arms stuck out from his body like two sticks.
 
“Thanks for coming so fast, Paige.”

She gave him a quick hug.
 
During the glory days of the Cold War, Uncle Mike had regularly flown out to Nevada with Paige’s own father, where they worked together on nuclear test explosions.
 
Mike’s wife Genny had died four years ago, not long before Gordon Mitchell had succumbed to cancer.
 
Since then, Mike had drifted away, but Paige felt delighted to work with him and the Russian inspectors, getting in touch with him again.
 
It had seemed a wonderful assignment.
 
Until now.

As she reached across the seat to grab her day planner, Uncle Mike set his jaw.
 
“I don’t know what we’re going to do when the news media gets hold of this.
 
There’s so much riding on this international inspection.”

“Has the word gotten out?”
 
Paige remembered when she had been blindsided back at Livermore after a controversial virtual reality scientist had been found dead in his laboratory — and half the free world had found out before anyone could exercise media damage control.

He shook his head, then led her toward the guard gate.
 
“I thought it should come from you.
 
I’ve got our security folks watching the scene to keep it secure and untouched.”

“Good work.”
 
She tucked the day planner under her arm, took a deep breath to calm herself, then set about getting the facts.
 
“I last saw Ambassador Nevsky just before the rest of us left to go back to Las Vegas, but you and he went to the cafeteria instead.
 
Explain to me again why he needed to come back to the DAF after working hours.”

Uncle Mike held open the glass door to the security portal.
 
Paige unclipped her laminated NTS badge and temporary DAF Access badge, handing both to the guard through an opening in the thick window.
 
She walked through the metal detector, then waited for him on the other side.
 

Mike’s shoulders were drawn forward in a stoop.
 
“Nevsky had taken extensive notes earlier in the day, and he said something didn’t seem quite right to him.
 
But I think it may have been a ploy to snoop around in the DAF, judging from where he was found.”

“Snooping around?”
 
She arched her eyebrows.
 
“
Spying
, you mean?”

Uncle Mike shrugged.
 
“You tell me.”

A mirror set in the wall revealed a security camera; radiation and particulate detectors hung from the ceiling.
 
Paige and Uncle Mike walked past the guards and headed through the vast high-bay facility.
 
The cavernous interior of the DAF gaped three stories high.
 
Stacked concrete blocks formed a maze of temporary barricades.
 

“Nevsky and I got back here around eight o’clock,” Uncle Mike said.
 
“PK Dirks was working the late shift, and he agreed to watch the ambassador in the Pit Assembly Area — but I guess he wasn’t watching very closely.”
 
He clamped his jaws together in annoyance.

Paige nodded, remembering Dirks, a good-natured, laid-back technician manager who coasted along in his position, not terribly devoted to his job.

“Nevsky was verifying serial numbers on pits from decommissioned devices.
 
That’s when our friendly Russian apparently stepped out to go to the bathroom — but instead of going to the head, Nevsky decided to go exploring in the DAF.
 
PK didn’t even see him, wasn’t watching.”

“Dirks left the ambassador alone in the area?”
 
Paige frowned.
 
“That’s totally out of line.”

“Technically yes, but the DAF has guards, and that hallway is completely sealed.
 
You said yourself, why worry about the Russians seeing anything?
 
We’re showing it all to them in the first place.
 
We got careless.”

“The media’s going to have a field day,” Paige said with a groan, running a hand through her long hair, adjusting her barrette.

Uncle Mike looked sickened.
 
“What can I say?
 
PK screwed up.
 
It was late at night, the Pit Assembly Area was empty in the off-shift, and Nevsky must have taken a wrong turn.
 
It can be a maze in here sometimes.”

“But how was he killed?” Paige asked.

“One of our forklift drivers, Carl Jorgenson, was stacking crates on the second tier when one fell.
 
This is a warehouse, and that type of thing happens — not often, but cutbacks affect everything.
 
Jorgenson was rushed, trying to do two jobs — he’s a contract worker and wanted to make sure he didn’t get laid off in the next reduction in force.”
 
Mike shrugged.
 
“Nevsky was just unlucky to be standing in the wrong place when it happened.”
 

He stopped by a door set into a concrete wall, ran his badge through the card reader, and punched in a series of numbers.
 
The door swung open, showing a shadowy alley sectioned off by wooden crates.
 
Paige could smell a musty odor from stored material that had sat around for years.

A team of medical workers huddled together where a large crate lay splintered on its side.
 
Paige drew in a breath, searching for calm as the medical techs looked up.
 
One squatted by a pool of dark liquid spilled on the floor.
 
Blood.

Paige’s heart raced as she stepped back from the mangled corpse.
 
The Russian’s arm was crumpled over his head as if he had tried to ward off the falling object at the last moment.
 
His skin looked battered, his face grotesquely rearranged like a sagging rubber mask with the facial bones pulverized underneath.
 
Pools of dark blood had soaked into the wooden sideboards of the crate.

“I guess he won’t be going home with the rest of the team on Saturday,” she said.

Uncle Mike slid an arm around her shoulder and nudged her from the grisly sight.
 
He seemed even more sickened than she did, self-conscious about offering Paige his comfort.
 
His face had a sad, hangdog look.
 
She could smell his Brut aftershave, a scent that reminded her of her childhood.

As DAF Manager, Uncle Mike would consider himself ultimately responsible for the death, and the accident investigation just might cost him his job.
 
He now wore the same expression she had seen when Aunt Genny had died — a vacant, stricken look that had lost all hope.

Mike and Genny Waterloo had been frequent visitors to the Mitchell home back in Livermore, alternating visits at Christmas, coming out for the Napa Valley balloon festival.
 
Their families had lived next to each other in small suburban homes in the early days of the Livermore Radiation Lab, when most of the town had been employed in nuclear weapons work.
 
Since Genny’s death, Uncle Mike had buried himself in his job, first as a member of a U.S. inspection team traveling in Russia, then appointed to manage the DAF, with all the responsibilities — and headaches — that entailed.

Including the death of a high-profile Russian disarmament inspector.

Hearing the security door open behind her, Paige turned to see a red-faced man in a brown Russian military uniform charging ahead of an NTS security escort.
 
The guard huffed to keep up with the big-shouldered man.

Paige braced herself as General Gregori Ursov pushed his way into the crowded warehouse area.
 
Silver-haired Ursov was slightly shorter than Paige, but held himself erect.
 
His weathered face looked as if it had been chiseled out of hard stone with a blunt instrument.

“Explain this to me!
 
I have been able to get no information from DAF personnel.
 
Is Ambassador Nevsky truly dead?
 
I intend to file a protest because of this brick-walling!”

Paige moved to meet him, already trying to choose the best path as peacemaker.
 
“No one is trying to, uh, stone-wall you, General.
 
We are still trying to determine —”

His glance seizing on the fallen crate, Ursov brushed past her and strode to the squashed body.
 
Ursov stood stoically, staring down at the pool of blood, then knelt in front of his comrade.
 
He reached out to touch Nevsky’s arm.
 
“
Idiot
,” he muttered, as if the ambassador could hear him.
 
The Russian word was the same as English.

Uncle Mike looked helplessly at Paige, and she stepped forward.
 
“Sorry, General, but you’ll have to step back.
 
Please don’t touch anything.”

Ursov remained squatting, studying, but did not touch the body.
 
He spoke without turning.
 
“I demand full reports, full investigations.”

Paige spoke quietly.
 
“These people are trying their best to determine exactly what happened, General.
 
It appears to be a tragic accident.”

Ursov turned to glare at Paige.
 
“How could this happen?
 
This place is supposed to be the most secure facility in all of Test Site.
 
You insist we have escorts every time we take a piss or blow our noses, and yet Ambassador Nevsky is allowed to wander until a
crate
falls on his head?
 
Unbelievable!”

“The ambassador’s escort left him alone for only a moment, General,” said Uncle Mike.
 
To Paige, he sounded more forceful than he had in years.
 
“We don’t know what Ambassador Nevsky was doing over here or what he was looking for.
 
This is a restricted area, clearly marked, and he should not have trespassed.”