round in their pickup truck. Seconds later, Ferguson saw the vehicle’s headlamps swinging in their direction.
“No place to hide around here,” said Rankin.
“Into the mine shaft.”
“There’s radioactive waste in there,” said Rankin.
“There’s radioactive waste all over the place here, Skippy. Better to glow than get shot.”
Actually, the waste was stored far below, in containers and compartments that prevented contamination. The entrance looked like a train tunnel or a very large mine shaft. The roof and walls were tiled with large cement blocks, reinforced at intervals by triangular-shaped steel pillars and crossbeams. The train tracks ran along the floor, bending to the right as the shaft turned and disappeared from sight.
Ferguson stopped at the first set of pillars, watching as a four-door pickup circled in front of the shaft opening, then darted away.
“Gone?” Rankin asked.
“Gone,” said Ferguson, stepping out. “The radiation is all contained, Rankin. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“You remember that from the briefing, right?”
Rankin shrugged.
“You don’t believe them?” Ferguson asked.
“Who the hell knows what to believe?”
They trotted across fifty yards of open ground to a pair of railroad flatcars and a small diesel shunting engine. They could see the truck in the distance as it returned to the administration building, the patrol over.
“You should have at least thirty minutes before the next security run,” said Guns. The irregular intervals was intentional, designed to make it difficult for anyone who might try to time them. “Maybe as much as an hour.”
“You get the three on that side,” Ferguson told Rankin, pointing to the left of the operations station. “One’s in the rail there, another is over by that little power transformer set, and then there’s the one in the siding of the building.”
“I remember, Ferg. Jeez.”
“You got one camera on the corner of that building there.” He pointed to it. “Go.”
Rankin nudged forward, moving in a half crawl to the shadows on the other side of the railroad track. He got down on his hands and knees and began groping for the tiny sensor.
Ferguson, meanwhile, trotted in the opposite direction, running through a dark shadow toward the fence guarding the recyclable reactor rods. It was the hardest tag to get, because it was within view of the recycling area’s guard post. Ferguson reached the fence and threw himself on the ground. As he did, he saw the pant leg and boot of a man in the round glow of light ahead. Fearing he’d been seen, he reached for his pepper spray; there would be enough trouble if they were caught without killing the guards.
But the sentry continued without noticing him, walking across the macadam toward the administration building. Ferguson watched his boots disappear into the shadows, then snuck to the corner. Thera had stuck the sensor into the metal loop connecting the fence to the pillar; he retrieved it and retreated back toward the reception area for the other tags.
“Truck comin’ down toward the plant,” warned Guns. “Going to the front gate.”
“What, are you kiddin’?” said Rankin. “It’s way after closing time.”
“No shit, man. Really.”
“Where are you, Rankin?” said Ferguson.
“Other side of the reception building, near the little power cabinet.”
“Truck is at the gate. Going in,” said Guns.
“Rankin, stay where you are until the truck goes through.”
Ferguson hunkered down as headlights swept in front of him. The truck was a six-wheeler, a bit stubby looking, the type used by small firms in the States for local deliveries. It headed in the direction of the low-level waste disposal area, bumping over the tracks close to the railcars where he was supposed to meet Rankin.
“Guns, they question these guys at the front gate?”
“Just let them through, Ferg. The patrol should be starting in another five minutes or so. Any time after that, I mean. It’s been twenty-five minutes.”
Ferguson retrieved the second tag from the side of the reception building and then began looking for the last, which Thera had planted on top of a barrel opposite the corner of the building.
The problem was, he didn’t see a barrel.
Thinking Thera had gotten the corner wrong when she drew her map, Ferguson got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the side of the building. He was about midway when he heard voices coming from the direction of the administration station. Cursing, he jumped up and got back to the reception building as the men crossed toward the recycling area.
“They’re going for the truck,” warned Guns.
Ferguson was now trapped. He couldn’t stay where he was because he’d be easily visible once the truck started in his direction. Two of the other sides of the building were visible from the administration station itself; the front, with its large doors, was covered by cameras.
He considered running across the open lot to his left but decided that was too risky. Instead he backed against the building, hoping to hide in the shadows. The metal ribs extended out nearly a foot, but he didn’t think they were quite big enough to hide him. As he examined them, he thought it might be possible to climb up between them, leaning against one rib with his feet and the other with his hands. He gave it a quick try, pulling upright a few feet off the ground.
The sound of the pickup approaching convinced him this was going to have to be the solution. Ferguson reached the metal overhang of the building and pulled himself on top as the patrol truck swung in his direction.
As soon as the truck passed, Ferguson took out his night-vision glasses and used them to scout the nearby yard. The barrel was about ten yards from the corner of the building; he’d gone by it earlier without realizing it was where Thera had put the bug. Obviously her map hadn’t been drawn to scale.
Meanwhile, the truck that had come through the gate had disappeared into the entrance to the low-level waste storage area. Ferguson could see the top of the opening but not inside.
“Ferg, where are you?” asked Rankin over the radio.
“On top of the situation.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“On the reception building. Where are you?”
“Over near the back of the administration building. I got one more to get.”
“Hang tight. Guards are coming back.”
The pickup swung around the reception building, slowed near the entrance to the recyclable waste area, and then returned to the administration building.
“Clear,” said Ferguson. He was about to jump down when he saw the headlights from the truck that had come in earlier heading in his direction. “Hold it,” he told Rankin, and he leaned down against the metal roof.
Blessed Peak was a state-run facility; the users weren’t charged. Why would they need to bypass the standard procedures by bringing a single truck in late at night, skipping around the classifying and tracking station?
Ferguson reached into his pocket and grabbed three small wireless bugs, then crawled to the edge of the roof. When the truck passed the building, he tossed the bugs onto the top of the truck body. One bounced onto the ground, but the others stayed.
“Guns, see if you can follow that truck,” Ferguson said. “I dumped a couple of bugs on top.”
“On it, Ferg.”
Though not as good as dedicated tracking devices, the bugs could be used as primitive range finders with roughly a three-mile range.
“Ferguson, where are you?” asked Rankin.
“About to break my legs getting off the reception building roof,” said Ferguson, looking over the side and realizing there was no easy way down.
