Peacekeepers (1988) (33 page)

"Should be wedged in under here," Kelly whispered, dropping to her knees for a better look.

Pavel knelt beside her. "Is that it?"

A metal box the size of a very large suitcase. It had been painted the same shade of blue as the generator channel, but Hazard recognized the shape.

"That's it," he hissed.

He and Pavel flattened themselves on the floor and tugged the case loose while Kelly stood guard over them.

Then she used the electronics gear she carried to open the locks.

Hazard swung the lid back and played his penlight across the panel. "Bingo," he said.

"First thing we do is deactivate it," Kelly said.

It took nearly half an hour, but finally she said, "Okay. It's on safe now. Won't go off even if you chomp it up in an ore grinder." She grinned at Hazard.

He smiled back at her.

Then he heard himself say, "There's one more thing we've got to do."

"What?"

"Remove the fissionable material."

Kelly's eyes glinted with sudden terror in the shadowy lighting. Even Pavel looked shocked.

"I'm not turning this device over to your father or anybody else," Hazard said, "in a condition where it could be used."

Pavel nodded vigorously. "I agree."

They both turned to Kelly.

She hesitated, biting her lip. Finally she said, "It's too dangerous. You're talking about plutonium. The risks . . ."

He cupped her chin in his hand. "I have to do it, Kelly. Nobody should have a live nuclear bomb to play with. Not even your father."

"I know," she whispered bleakly.

"Then I'll have to take the fissionable material out of it."

"But it's so dangerous."

"Not if you know how. I've worked with warheads before. The plutonium's always protected by plenty of shielding." As he spoke, Hazard realized that this is what had been making him jumpy, earlier. Not the fusion plant.

He had known, in his subconscious, that he was going to try to disarm the bomb. He had been carrying the tools for the task ever since they had left the seaplane at Gibraltar.

"What do we do?" Pavel asked.

"Get out of my way," Hazard replied. "This is a one-man job."

"There's nothing . . .?"

"Go back to the doors that connect with the office building and make sure nobody disturbs me." Silently he added. And that'll keep you far enough away so that if I do spill the Plutonium, you'll have a chance to get away.

Plutonium is not only fiercely radioactive; it is a deadly chemical poison as well.

Kelly was almost gasping with fear. "I won't leave you!" she insisted. "I can watch the doors from here. I won't leave you alone!"

But Pavel took her gently by the arm and raised her to her feet. "Do as he says," the Russian whispered.

Hazard nodded to him. He understands the risks.

"Go with Pavel," he said to her. "I'll call you when I'm finished here."

The Russian had to drag her away. Kelly stared after Hazard as she was hauled to a safe distance.

It was actually almost easy. Almost. Hazard had to turn the heavy suitcase over, carefully unscrew six bolts and then lift the thick lead-lined oblong that held the plutonium.

It was about a third of the volume of the entire case; the rest of the device was electronic fusing and safeguard systems.

The bomb was not booby-trapped. He pulled up the handle that folded flush against the case's top. The lead=lined case slid out smoothly. Still, Hazard's hands were slippery with sweat, and perspiration stung his eyes.

Damned thing feels awfully light, he thought. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was empty.

He took the hand-sized radiation meter from his pocket and ran it across the oblong box. Hot, but not dangerously so, he told himself. Not if I don't hold on to it for hours on end.

Getting to his feet. Hazard waved Kelly and Pavel back to him.

"Guard patrol's due in another thirty . . ." Kelly saw the look on his face. "What's wrong?"

Lifting the steel case by its handle. Hazard told them, "This thing is lined with lead, so it's heavier than it looks. But it feels a lot lighter than it ought to be."

"You shouldn't be holding it," Kelly said.

Pavel picked up on Hazard's meaning. "Lighter than it should be? You mean that it might be empty?"

Hazard nodded wordlessly.

"Empty? No plutonium in it?" Kelly asked.

"It should be heavier."

"We must check it," said Pavel.

"Before we get back to the plane," Hazard added.

Kelly glanced at her wristwatch. "Rendezvous in one hour and forty-eight minutes."

"We're going to miss the rendezvous," Hazard said.

"There's an American consulate here in Barcelona. Should have X-ray equipment."

"There is also a Soviet consulate," said Pavel.

Kelly planted her fists on her hips. "And while you guys are re-inventing the Cold War, tell me what good an X-ray machine will be with a lead-lined box."

So they hauled the oversized suitcase up to the roof.

Pavel clambering up the dangling nylon rope first. Kelly followed the bomb and Hazard went up last, with the box hanging from a length of rope attached to his waist and the radiation meter in his pocket clicking away.

They drove along the docks to the pier where the fishing boats came in and found the wholesalers already at work in the pre-dawn darkness. The place was a madhouse of furiously busy people, with the bustle and smell of cranes swinging cargo nets loaded with fish, men and women shouting prices at each other, diesel trucks waiting with their motors clattering and fumes fouling the air.

Kelly found a friendly dealer who let her weigh the case on a scale used for weighing fish. Then she went to the phone-booth at the end of the pier and plugged her portable computer into its access port. A few taps on her keyboard and she came back to Hazard and Pavel at the car with a worried frown on her face.

"You're right, Jay," she said as she got into the car. "The case is almost exactly ten kilograms lighter than it should be if it were loaded with fissionable material."

Hazard clenched both hands on the steering wheel.

"Then there's no plutonium in it. The bomb's a fake."

"Or someone else has already disarmed it," Pavel suggested.

"It's a fake," Hazard insisted. "Shamar has the plutonium back at his base."

"The plutonium from all of the bombs?" Kelly wondered.

Hazard revved the car to life and started through the pre-dawn darkness to their rendezvous point.

"Your father's going to piss himself when he finds this out," Hazard said.

Kelly said, "Maybe we should bring Sleeping Beauty here along with us, to see how much he knows about this."

"Julio won't know a damned thing," Hazard shot back.

"He's just the guy who stashed the bomb in the power plant, a guy who took a wad of money to do his employer dirt. He didn't even know it was a nuke."

Pavel said nothing. But his mind was racing with the possibilities that this new twist had opened up. None of the possibilities looked good to him. Not one of them.

Two days later, one of our ferret satellites

picked up this series of electromagnetic

vibrations as it cruised slightly to the south

and west of Moscow. The voices were

identified by computerized voice-print

matching.

Pavel Zhakarov: There is no plutonium

in the bomb. We conclude that Shamar has

the plutonium with him, and all the bombs

that have been discovered so far are duds.

Gregor Volynov (KGB operations

director): So we have heard through the IPF.

The bomb in Moscow is likewise empty.

Zhakarov: The operation against

Shamar becomes even more important,

then.

Volynov: Yes. And more diflScult.

Zhakarov: I am confident that we can

make a success of it.

Volynov: Good. Once it is finished,

Alexander will be too dangerous to be

permitted to continue.

Zhakarov (after a pause of nine

seconds): You wish me to eliminate him?

Volynov: You are ordered to do so,

comrade. At the earliest possible moment.

THE jet seaplane was moored once again in the Cesar River, but this time at a spot well above the city of Valledupar, in a branch of the river that cut through thick tropical growth as it curved around the base of the steep granite mountains.

While Chris Barker worried loudly about ripping out the hull against the shallow rocky river bottom, Alexander urged him to nose the seaplane as close to shore as possible.

Once anchored, the whole crew spent the rest of the day covering the broad wings and graceful fuselage with foliage to hide it from prying eyes.

That evening after dinner they convened in the wardroom.

To an outsider, it might have looked like half a dozen men and women taking their ease in casual conversation.

To Alexander, the dynamics of who sat where were not only interesting, but important.

Barker picked the lounge chair closest to the forward bulkhead and the flight deck, the braces on his lower legs bulging beneath his slacks. Alma Steiner, the logistics expert, wore a faded gray jumpsuit cinched at the waist with an old U.S. Army belt, tight enough to show off her neatly curved figure. She sat close to Alexander himself. Jay Hazard took a seat near the map table; Kelly automatically picked the seat beside his. Pavel was off in the comer by the rear bulkhead, looking alone and unhappy.

"It's been confirmed," Alexander said without preamble.

"Each one of those goddamned bombs is empty. Duds, all of 'em."

"But why?" Barker asked. "Why go to the risk . . .?"

"Shamar's smart," Alexander interrupted with a grim smile. "He gets local crazies to plant fake bombs in Washington, Moscow, Paris and Barcelona, then he makes sure that the IPF finds out about it. We spin our wheels trying to neutralize the bombs and find out what he's up to . . ."

"While he remains here in these mountains, constructing new bombs from the plutonium," Steiner concluded.

"Is that possible?" asked Barker.

"It isn't too difficult," Kelly replied. "It's mainly an electronics job, and he should have access to plenty of people who can do the work."

"College kids have made nuclear bombs," Hazard pointed out. "They just didn't have the fissionable material to make them go boom."

"Shamar does," Alexander said.

"Enough to make five one-hundred-kiloton bombs,"

Kelly murmured.

"Which makes the task of nailing him even more important," said Alexander.

Steiner took a deep breath, something she did quite well, as far as Alexander was concerned. "The mercenary troops will arrive over the next four days. Two separate groups, each of them coming in two contingents, for a total of seventy-eight men."

Alexander added, "They'll disperse their camps along the river. Cold camps, no fires, so they run the minimum risk of being detected."

"Don't you think Shamar has the river under surveillance?"

Hazard asked, his handsome face looking slightly worried.

"And spies in the city?"

With a shrug, Alexander replied, "We do the best we can."

Pavel finally spoke up. "We strike in four days, then?"

"Six," corrected Alexander. "Got to give the meres a couple days to get settled and learn the tactical plan." With a sardonic smile, he added, "You can tell Moscow we'll hit Shamar six days from now."

Pavel did not smile back.

The meeting broke up. The three youngsters headed for their bunks. Alexander watched his daughter, she lingered near Hazard and ignored Pavel, who watched them with dark liquid eyes. Young love, Alexander said to himself.

What a pain.

Barker got to his feet and headed forward, muttering about an engine overall that was long overdue.

"After this job is finished," Alexander said, starting forward toward his own quarters.

When he got to the door to his quarters, the passageway was empty of everyone else except Steiner. She was at her own door, but she looked over her shoulder at Alexander and smiled charmingly.

"Want a drink?" he stage-whispered.

She nodded eagerly.

Motioning her to him, Alexander opened the door and stepped into his bedroom. Unlike the built-in bunks of the smaller sleeping compartments, his quarters contained a real double bed, a couch, and even a low bookcase that covered the entire forward bulkhead. The shelves were encased in glass; all except one section that was fronted by a polished teak door.

A plastic worktable, its top painted to resemble teak, extended the length of the inner wall, from the door to the rear bulkhead of the room. It was covered with photographs and strange artifacts.

"Satellites can't see much of Shamar's base," Alexander said, gesturing to the photos. "Too much foliage. Locals call it Montesol; say it's an old Inca city. They claim it's haunted."

Steiner picked up an exquisite quartz carving of a panther, no more than six inches long, but beautifully detailed. "Did this come from there?"

"All this junk did," Alexander said. "The carvings, the silver medallions, the glass knives and all."

"
Someone
is not afraid of ghosts," she murmured, fingering the smooth back of the panther, "Oh, I think the old grave robbers spread the story about the place being haunted to keep everybody else away."

"Someone should tell the university about this. The anthropologists would be ecstatic over a lost Inca city."

Alexander gave her a crooked grin. "Shamar wouldn't be too happy with them."

"Yes. Of course."

"First we clean out the rats. Then we can tell the anthropologists about Montesol."

He pulled down the teak door of the cabinet to form a miniature desktop. Inside was a small bar, complete with a row of tumblers fitted snugly into wooden racks.

Steiner sat on the couch while Hazard poured two brandies. She was a tall woman, almost Alexander's own height, with long legs and a lithe figure that her faded fatigues accented rather than concealed. Her face was strong, a good jaw and clear blue eyes. Hair the color of straw, always tied up neatly. A young Brunhilde, visiting in the twenty-first century.