Tomas continued to hold the projectile up, away from his body, as Yakov steadied the tube of the gun’s barrel with his gloved hands.
At the moment, the two-foot-long barrel of the gun’s tube was swung out on a hinged device of heavy forged steel. Once the projectile was loaded in the tube, the barrel would be swung back and locked into position so that the muzzle was directly aligned with and nearly touching the open cup of the target. The slight gap between the two would be filled with a three-inch disk of uranium- 238, a neutron deflector that was nonfissionable and reflected neutrons back to their source. The disk would keep the two portions of highly enriched uranium separated and corral their neutrons even if the projectile accidentally slid down the barrel. It was the final safety mechanism that Yakov would have to remove before the bomb could be detonated. But the safety disk couldn’t be inserted until the projectile was properly loaded and the barrel was swung back into position and locked.
Nitikin checked the clock. They were closing in on nineteen minutes.
“Ready?”
Tomas nodded.
“Go ahead.”
The Colombian reached over with the tongs and aligned the base end of the projectile with the muzzle of the gun’s barrel. It passed through the opening until the neoprene gasket reached the muzzle. Tomas tried to force it. The tongs slipped on the slick, soft uranium.
“Don’t. Stop,” said Yakov.
Tomas eased off.
“Do you have it? Can you hold it?”
“
The neoprene on the brass rings was designed to compress against the inside of the barrel. But as Yakov looked at it he realized that the first ring, toward the base of the projectile, was jammed in the muzzle at a slight angle.
“Do you think you can ease it out?” said Nitikin. He took hold of the tube of the barrel with both hands as Tomas tried to lift the projectile out. The tongs began to slip.
“Stop.” Nitikin was afraid that if Tomas lost his grip with the tongs, the projectile might come loose from its own weight and topple onto the anvil and the uranium target.
“Don’t push it, just hold it steady,” said Yakov. “Give me a moment to get the tool.”
The tool was a two-foot-long steel ramrod with a conically shaped concave tip. It was formed precisely to fit the bullet tip on the projectile.
As soon as Nitikin could grab the ramrod, he would be able to grasp the uranium bullet by its pointed end. Then he could use the leverage of the ramrod to line it up and push it with uniform pressure down the barrel. After that, he and Tomas could button up in less than thirty seconds, slip in the safety disk, and close the entire gun assembly inside its lead-lined bomb case. The case was designed to shield the radiation in the gun from the outer electronic components, including the detonator. Once the lead case was sealed, you could safely approach the bomb without protective gear.
Yakov scanned the hut quickly, turning his head and peering through the fogged lens of his hood searching for the ramrod. He didn’t see it. Then he remembered. He had handed it to one of Alim’s men that morning when they were setting up. He’d asked the interpreter to tell the man to carry it to the hut. The idiot hadn’t done it.
Nitikin looked through the window. He could see Alim down on one knee, the technician, the interpreter, and Alim’s cronies all huddled around him under the trees a hundred meters away. He grabbed the walkie-talkie, turned it on, and shouted into the mouthpiece, “The ramrod I handed to your man this morning. Where is it? We need it now!”
He watched through the window as the message was translated for Alim and his men. Afundi got to his feet, turned, and looked at one of them. The man turned up his palms, shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head. Then he suddenly turned his head to the right and pointed. Nitikin followed the trajectory of the man’s outstretched arm and finger to a tree perhaps thirty yards away. There against the trunk of the tree, propped up, was the two-foot- long steel ramrod.
“Get it now! Bring it here!” Yakov screamed into the walkie-talkie. He watched as Alim looked at the man and pointed toward the tree. The man shook his head. He took two steps backward, his hands held out, palms open. He was refusing to take the ramrod to the hut, afraid of the radiation.
“Hurry,” said Tomas. “I cannot hold it much longer.”
Nitikin watched in stark silence as Alim pulled something from his belt. There was a spray of red from the man’s head, followed a second later by the report of the shot as the man’s legs turned to rubber and he collapsed to the ground. Alim quickly turned the gun on one of his other followers. This time the man ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the tree, grabbed the ramrod, and raced toward the hut as if he were running an Olympic trial.
Yakov turned to Tomas. “Try and hold on. One moment. It’s coming.”
“Hurry!” cried Tomas.
Nitikin opened the door, struggled to run in the heavy lead suit and meet the man with the ramrod partway. He was maybe thirty feet from the hut when a loud hum and a brilliant cobalt flare enveloped him from behind. The man running toward him tried to shield his eyes from the flash with his free hand, but it was too late. Nitikin knew instantly that both Tomas and the man with the ramrod were dead. It was but a matter of time. He wondered if the lead suit and the distance he had put between himself and the device in the seconds before the dragon whipped its tail might have saved his own life.
THIRTY-NINE
Just before seven in the evening, Herman and I meet for dinner in the covered patio downstairs at the Sportsmens Lodge.
Herman has checked the public hallway outside our rooms. There was nothing emitting a signal, no listening devices or micro-cams installed, though Herman’s room was bugged and his phone tapped.
Herman brought with him the encrypted cellular phone. He’s found a place to hide it inside the wall behind an air-conditioning register over the bed in his room.
I spend a few minutes in a crowded section of the bar with one ear covered by my hand, the other pressed to the phone talking to Harry back in San Diego.
Harry tells me that he stopped in to see Katia at the hospital in the early afternoon. The sedation had worn off and, according to Harry, she seemed more alert. But still she did not communicate. Harry has found a local neurologist to examine her and perform the duties as treating physician. According to the doctor, Katia is suffering from severe depression in addition to the physical trauma. He explained that this was not unusual given all that she has been through. Harry tells me the doctor is treating her with antidepressant medication and that the marshal’s service is examining every pill and keeping a close eye on her through the hospital staff.
“Considering the fact that Templeton thinks you helped her plunge the knife into Pike, I suppose you can’t blame them,” says Harry.
“I know the phone is encrypted, but maybe we can find something a little less titillating for the government for you and me to talk about.”
