generators. In his opinion, someone wanted to shut down or steal as many computers as possible to create confusion.
“It’s got to be someone who doesn’t want us to set off that bomb,” he’d said. “What other motive could there be?”
Elizabeth wasn’t convinced, if only because she found it almost impossible to believe any of the scientists at the center would go to such lengths. And even if they had, most of them, Jacobs included, had expressed serious doubts about setting off a nuclear bomb underground. So who was it?
She repeated Thompson’s comments to Jacobs, who kept staring through her. It was creepy. As if she weren’t there.
Finally, he seemed to snap out of it. But when he spoke, it wasn’t about what she’d just told him.
“We can’t do it,” he said, fixing his deep-set eyes on her. “We can’t set off a nuclear bomb near an active fault.”
AMARILLO, TEXAS
JANUARY 19
12:20 P.M.
IT TOOK BOOKER NEARLY THREE HOURS TO complete the delicate task of affixing the bonded outer layer of high explosives and detonators to the MK/B-61’s nuclear package. Working alone in the “operating room” cell deep in one of the Pantex plant’s Gravel Gerties, he was halfway through the procedure when Atkins told him by telephone hookup that they’d decided to go for a one-megaton shot.
“Consider it done,” the physicist said.
Compared with layering the high explosives, setting the yield was a simple procedure. By injecting a sufficient quantity of tritium-deuterium gas into the plutonium pit, Booker was able to boost the bomb’s yield from 500 kilotons to just over one megaton. The implosion process would heat the gas to the point where its atoms underwent fusion. The result was a jolt of high energy neutrons that produced the extra bang.
Booker finished up by using an overhead hoist to slip the nuclear package back into the missile’s center subassembly, its “hard case.” The unit contained an array of timers, electronic fusing, and firing circuitry. Weighing less than four “hundred pounds, the bomb resembled an elongated, slimmed-down trash can made of gleaming stainless steel.
Booker was drenched with sweat when he took off the lead apron and stepped into the hallway. The steel blast door clicked shut behind him. Atkins told him that Guy Thompson and other seismologists back in Memphis had recommended detonating the bomb in an abandoned coalmine.
“How deep?” Booker asked.
“About two thousand feet. I’ve been there. It’s a vertical shaft mine with two air vents.”
“Good. I can work with that,” Booker said. “But we’ll have to worry about venting.”
Atkins knew that was one of the main risks of an underground explosion, the possibility that radioactive debris and gases would escape into the atmosphere, venting from cracks that blew open in the ground.
It had happened before—sometimes with disastrous consequences. Massive amounts of “hot” dust, soot, and gas had contaminated the earth’s atmosphere.
One of the worst accidents, Booker explained, happened during a test code-named “Baneberry.” The device was detonated in December 1970 at the Nevada Test Site sixty-five miles northwest of Las Vegas. Booker had been there.
It was a relatively small shot—ten kilotons. At zero hour, the moment they fired the weapon, Booker had been sitting in the “red shack,” the control room three miles from the test site.
“The hole was too shallow. Only about five hundred feet deep. We’d stemmed it with sand and gravel after wiring the bomb. When it went off, I was watching the television monitors. You could see the ground ripple up and down as the shock wave moved toward us. It pitched us up in our chairs. Then all hell broke loose.”
The explosion ripped a gaping hole in the desert floor and sent a cloud of radioactive gas eight thousand feet into the sky. The cloud drifted as far as North Dakota.
“We’ll have to figure out how to collapse those air tunnels and the elevator shaft,” Booker said. “We won’t have time to backfill them.” He looked at Atkins. “This is going to be tricky.”
“How will you detonate the bomb?” Atkins asked.
“We used cable with all of our underground shots at the NTS,” Booker said. “That’s out of the question. The ground’s too active. One good earthquake, and the cable could snap.” He considered the options. “We might try a radio signal, but I’d worry about all the deflection—bouncing the microwave beam down a mine shaft.” He thought some more. “I’d opt for a timed charge.”
“Where would you set it?”
“As deep in the mine as I could go. I’d use a capacitor bank to produce the electrical charge that would start the firing sequence.”
“What happens after you set the timer?”
“You get the hell out of there as fast as you can,” Booker said. He didn’t smile. “The advantage of a timer is that it’s virtually foolproof. The disadvantage is that once it’s set and the bomb is armed, you can’t easily stop the process.”
Their immediate job finished, Booker and Atkins took the elevator up from the lower cell to the bunker’s main level. Carson, the plant manager, was waiting for them.
Atkins knew something was wrong as soon as he saw him. The man was holding several sheets of yellow paper with shaking hands. He looked like he’d just been given terrible news. He nervously pushed his reading glasses higher up on his nose.
“The president’s national security chief just called,” he said, his voice faltering. “Fighting has broken out between units of the Kentucky National Guard and the regular Army.”
“What!” Booker said.
Atkins felt like sitting down. He was numb. To his knowledge nothing like that had happened since the Civil War, American troops fighting other American soldiers. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend the horror of what that meant.
Looking at his scribbled notes, Carson said, “The governor of Kentucky has ordered National Guard units to oppose any attempt to explode a nuclear device in his state. They’ve been instructed to use deadly force if necessary. There’s been shooting in western Kentucky between guardsmen and units of the 101st Airborne. The fighting is continuing sporadically.”
“Any casualties?” Atkins asked.
The plant manager nodded. “On both sides. I don’t have any numbers.”
All this meant a drastic change in plans. Instead of waiting until morning to leave, Booker and Atkins had been ordered to depart immediately. Originally, they’d planned to fly. Now they were going to ride back with the bomb in a tractor trailer.
“Why don’t we fly?” Atkins asked. “It’ll take another half day to drive back to Kentucky.”
“They’re worried about a rocket attack when the plane lands,” Carson said. “There aren’t that many landing places and they’re probably under surveillance. Apparently some of the guard units in Kentucky are equipped with shoulder-fired SAM rockets. The fear is a plane would be too good a target. They’ll know what it’s carrying, and they’ll be watching for it.”
“When do we leave?” Booker asked.
“In fifteen minutes,” the plant manager said. “We’ve already sent out two decoy convoys. I’d suggest you get something to eat.”
The gray eighteen-wheeler was already waiting for them outside the Gravel Gertie, its engine running. Guards in military fatigues were lined on both sides of the vehicle, weapons at the ready. The big rig looked as though it had logged a lot of miles. The fenders were coated with red, Texas dust.
“The truck is armored,” Carson said. “Its communication system allows it to be tracked continuously by satellite.” The convoy would also include two vans. “These vehicles will be operated by DOE couriers who have
