the thick canvas straps that secured the N case to the lightening holes in the frame of the chopper. He dumped the contents on the floor and told the pilot to go back in. Then he keyed his mic to the guys in the refinery. “Sergeant, send two guys out to the LZ and have them bring the N locker to you.”
Back in the room, the count was concluded. Twenty-three suitcase nukes, two damaged by blast. When the N trunk arrived, the first damaged bomb was gingerly laid into the case. The N case had minimal nuclear shielding to protect the instruments and monitor within from ambient or slightly elevated radiation. That same shielding would temporarily contain the brunt of the radiation until help arrived. They were about to lower the second damaged case into the locker alongside the first when the one of them had a thought.
“Sir, lets get the other N case in here. These two bad boys may interact if we keep them in a tight shielded case.”
“Good thinking, Marks. You may have just saved this godforsaken patch of desert for future generations.”
The two helicopters traded positions and the second ship’s N case found its way into what the men were now calling the “nursery.” Once
“Jack, we are under FE engagement!” the co-pilot said.
“I know; but what if those are just some camel jockeys down there?”
“And what if they put a shoulder-fired up our exhaust?”
“These guys are walking, not running. I don’t want to kill some poor bastard just for taking a walk.”
“Okay. How about, we lay down a line of red lead in the sand and see if they change their direction. I’ll stay locked on them and if they so much as hiccup, I’ll cream ‘em.” The co-pilot lined up the life forms on his reticule.
“Mini-gun, kick up some sand and let them know we want them to turn around.”
“Roger” preceded the shuttering as the chain gun let go.
Through his infrared display, the pilot saw the people run in the other direction. “Okay, good. Let’s get our guys out of here.”
“Had that gone the other way and they tagged us, you could have been brought up on charges posthumously,” the co-pilot said.
“Don’t dwell on it,” the pilot advised.
“Captain, have that soldier pan back right again, to that table,” Hiccock requested as the Captain relayed the request.
“What is that? Tell him to go in closer.”
“Looks like my wife’s vanity,” the Captain blurted out.
“Captain, warn the men. Those jars could contain a lethal dose of a viral flu strain.”
Hiccock didn’t know it but his voice was now patched directly to the headset of the troopers in the nursery.
“Negative on that. We opened a few. All they contained were these things.” The camera walked in to get a close-up of the thing in the soldier’s hand. The focus was momentarily soft, then the operator adjusted and the device came into critical focus.
“What do you make of that?” Reynolds asked.
“Sir, I think that’s a Thyristor,” Hiccock said.
“In a cold cream jar?”
“I’ve seen terrorists use these jars before. But for bio-agents.”
“So what does a Thyristor do and why do they need them?”
“Those old suitcase nukes either aren’t armed or the arming mech is past its freshness date. Those Thyristors are the main triggering units to start the fission process.”
Then Hiccock had a chilling thought. “Trooper, is there a box that the cold cream came in anywhere in the room?”
The camera jiggled and swept over the floor and up again until it landed on a cardboard box. “Princess Briana — 24 Count.”
“Captain, confirm for me the number of suitcase nukes and cold cream jars you have there.”
It took a few seconds. “Twenty-three nukes, 23 jars. Confirmed. Can we get out of here, now?”
“General, I’m done as long as they take everything out of that room with them.”
“Delta Foxtrots you are go for extraction. Good work and Godspeed.”
“What’s on your mind, Bill?” The President asked.
“Sir, we may have a loose nuke.”
Designated Desert Tango 1, it was a hastily thrown together decontamination and quartermaster camp. The tough desert floor supported the 25 C-130 and C-17 transports that landed here after having been scrambled from Germany, Diego Garcia, and Saudi Arabia. It was the military equivalent of a NEST team. Only this Nuclear Emergency Search Team was looking for serial numbers. The Russians, who for some unfathomable reason thought a nuclear bomb in a suitcase was somehow a good thing, were very cooperative. In fact, a Tupolov 24 airliner landed amongst the U.S. transports with three Russian nukers on board. It took almost a day, but Hiccock’s theory proved correct. The serial numbers were consecutive except for one missing one.
As for the troopers who went to hell and back twice, two had succumbed to the effects of radiation and six were critical. Bridgestone and Ross were the luckiest, having missed the initial blast and then wearing nuke suits for the remainder of the mission. The rest would have the specter of an immediate and severe breakout of cancer with them for the rest of their lives. Not to mention a possible inability to procreate. The ambassador was one of those in critical condition due to his age and health. He was termed fifty-fifty for survival. They all would have been toast if it were not for the minimal shielding afforded by the N lockers. A directive went out to The Army to increase the shielding even more for exactly this type of containment scenario reoccurring in the future.
For its part, the Egyptian government cursed the terrorists for bringing nuclear poison onto their soil. But somehow, as with all Arab denouncements of terrorism, there was an unspoken caveat that seemed to imply, “instead of just conventional weapons by which to kill Americans.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Administration decided that trying to keep the suitcase nuke a secret only invited conspiracy theories to get in the way of public information and allowed the terrorist to have their “scoop” on Al Jazeera. The Departments of Defense and State held a rare joint press conference to announce that a nuclear device was soon coming to a baggage carousel near you. The world, and the U.S. population, went apeshit. Eventually, when the size of the suitcase was leaked over the Internet, air travelers themselves started detaining and harassing any poor Arab- looking fellow with a large suitcase. The U.S. Department of Transportation rose to meet the new threat level by taking out of line, and doing extensive body searches of, even more little old gray-haired ladies en route to Omaha than before, while managing not to insult any bearded followers of Allah or al-Qaeda. The TV networks responded with night after night of “investigating” which presidential administration was to blame for suitcase nukes.
Overnight, the most popular site on the Internet became www. WhatsMyCEP.com, which allowed visitors to enter their street address and then virtually plant the suitcase bomb anywhere within 100 miles of that location. It told you how much damage you could expect, how much radiation, if you would survive, and if your pets would live to lick your glowing remains. The irony was that the engine for these calculations was hacked from the Department of Defense study done at Purdue University to determine the effects of nuclear detonations on cities and small towns. It calculated the Circular Error Probable of a detonation at various kilo- and mega-tonnage and then, using
