Cloudburst

Seventeen NEUTRONS

Joe was scribbling calculations and verifying them with his calculator. The noise of the engines was finally relegating itself to background status in his ears. Those who frequently were passengers in Starlifters and other large-cargo aircraft soon became used to the continual buzzing that resonated through the fuselage. It was the same reaction that workers in machine shops experienced.

Joe could only wish. Someplace benign like a machine shop would suit him just fine…if only there wasn’t a nuclear whatever-it-was on that plane. That was his job, and it occupied his thoughts almost completely.

The calculations so far, and all the information — hard information — proved nothing more than that he shouldn’t have to be here. For all he knew the Libyans had mustard gas, or some other chemical weapon on the plane; they had plenty of those. It would be a hell of a lot more reliable and the terror factor involved was equal to, if not greater than, any threat from a nuclear weapon, especially one that might fizzle. He knew what gas could do, and the thought of his lungs being on fire was infinitely less appealing than being vaporized instantly. Most people would feel the same, he believed, but then he had lived and breathed everything radioactive for a long time now and had become somewhat desensitized to its real power. He had not, however, lost any respect for, as he called it, ‘the dance of the neutrons.’

There were other things. The diagram, for starters. Aside from being truly rough, it was anything but a nuclear weapon. Definitely not one of Vishkov’s designs because it had no chance of exploding. There was no core. There was no compression system. It resembled a semi sphere, flat side down, with four short cylindrical plugs rising from its top at mild angles. No dimensions were given, and no materials identified.

What is it? he asked himself, over and over. Joe couldn’t figure it out, not without more information. The world of nuclear weaponry did not work in an atmosphere of unknowns and variables. Guesses weren’t his area of expertise.

A buzzer sounded in the cabin, causing Joe to look up. Nothing caught his attention, so he returned to his thoughts, examining the diagram in detail, not with his eyes, but in his mind. His eyes were shut, and the paper’s edge was pressed between his fingers. One comer was bunched up already, worn and crumpled as if soon to be discarded. It might soon be, Joe thought, as it was worthless as far as he could tell.

“Anderson.” Joe hadn’t seen the major approach. “You’re wanted in the com suite. Up forward.”

There was a look in the major’s eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Joe knew he had been a bastard, but that was his way and he never apologized for being himself. If the look was more of distaste it would not have surprised him, but it was not. It was one of single-mindedness, like the man he was looking through didn’t matter. “Where again?” Joe stood.

“Forward. Back of the flight deck.”

Joe worked his way past the Humvees and the gear, then up the ladder like stairs.

The communications officer handed him a bulky headset, which he wiggled into more than put on. “This is Anderson.”

“Anderson, this is Bud DiContino.” The transmission was nearly static-free. “We just received some further information you can probably use. Ready to copy?”

“Go ahead.”

The pause before the words brought static. “We’ve just confirmed that the Libyans took delivery of four hundred and twenty pounds of eighty-one-percent-enriched U235 just over three years ago. This is confirmed and very hot.”

“Where?”

“Osirak. Some salvage company was hired by the Libyans to haul away scrap from the reactor complex. Another source inside the terrorist network gave us the numbers. That came directly from Sadr, but you are the only one to know that. Both of these things put together lead to only one thing: The Libyans bought the fuel and arranged for it to be shipped under cover back home.”

“The fuel cells weren’t supposed to be at the complex,” Joe said. “That’s the only reason the Israelis hit it, because it was cold. They wouldn’t have risked irradiating Baghdad. Are you sure of this?”

“Positive. We confirmed the source of the transfer, and where the money came from.” And a lot more.

“I still don’t believe it’s a bomb, DiContino.”

“You’re right.”

What? “You lost me.”

“We were able to get good answers to your questions. Each of those crates contains a thermal reactor. Make sense?”

All at once it did. “Dammit and dear God. They don’t have to build a bomb out of the stuff — they just have to bring it to critical mass.” Joe did some simple and quick calculations in his head. “Four hundred pounds is enough for twelve critical masses, three per device…”

Bud had cut the number in a third, intentionally. It was a security issue, one that he hoped they would deal with right for once. “Device?”

“That sketch is a simple catastrophic thermal reactor. Each of those four cylinders on top of each half sphere is a chute. If the division of fissile material is even and uniform among the sixteen chutes — four per device— then about twenty-five and a half pounds of U235, three fourths of a critical mass, would be in each one. It’s so simple.” Joe squeezed the coiled headset cord tight in his fist. “Any one of the chutes dropping its contents into the reactor core would create nothing. But two, or three, or all of them dropping would be enough for a self sustaining chain reaction. If all four of them drop into the core there will be so many neutrons releasing that the pile will heat up and melt down in less than three minutes. And if it starts fissioning, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

The communications officer was staring up at Joe. He couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but this side was scary enough. Joe rotated his body away from the crewman.

“What happens if these things go critical while the aircraft is still at altitude?”

“Did you ever hear of the nuclear bomber project?” Joe asked.

“Seventies, right?”

“No, that was the earlier concept. In the early eighties there was talk of using nuclear power for long-endurance aircraft. It was supposed to use reactor power for cruising at altitude and regular jets for takeoff and penetration.”

“SUMMIT,” Bud said, remembering the project that eventually ended up in the concept scrap heap.

“Right. We did some studies for the Air Force on the effects of a catastrophic reactor failure in flight, fairly similar to what you’re asking about. If one of those things goes critical and melts down, this is what will happen: The core of U235 will melt through the core liner first, then the cargo-hold floor, and finally the outer skin of the plane. In itself that’s going to release a hell of a lot of nucleides into the atmosphere. Those are the isotopes of the different metals that will be liberated when it melts. As soon as the piles melt through and hit the air, any moisture is going to turn to steam, because all we have are four lumps of molten uranium. Anything that contacts them is instantly vaporized or reduced to its own molten state. Then we have the good news/bad news syndrome: Because the piles would be beyond red-hot they wouldn’t be very cohesive as a structure, so on the way to the ground they’d break into several pieces, which would each start to cool rapidly. Without a proper mass structure the chain reaction will stop — no reaction, no heat. The fuel source may have been enriched only in a powdered form, then compressed; that’s what Osirak was supposed to be fueled with, and it’s a higher concentration than Tajoura’s fuel. Once that stuff melts, cools, hits the ground, and is cooled further, you’ll have a gravelly, metallic consistency with some ash like by-products. Depending on the altitude of release the area of contamination could be as large as, say, six hundred square miles. There would be several very hot spots and a whole lot of widespread hot spots that would pose severe health risks. Some of the hotter areas would be putting out on the order of four hundred rems, enough to kill half the people who come in contact with the area. All in all, DiContino, it would be a major mess, way off the scale of anything we, or anyone else, have ever had to deal with.”

“Well, that’s precisely what the terrorists plan to do — right above Washington.”

“You’re crazy!”

“No, but they may be. We’ve pretty much confirmed it. You’re the fireman on this one, just like before.”

Joe had hoped never to repeat anything like that. “It was in a little different setting.”

“True, but I’m certain of your adaptability,” Bud said. It was a statement of fact, and a challenge.

Sure. “The hijackers are just going to lay down their guns — you’ve confirmed that, right? Look, that aircraft cannot be allowed over any populated area.”

“Delta will take car—”

“No!” Joe was uncomfortable with this one. He usually dealt only with benign threats, or those caused by some mechanical glitch, but there was a madman behind this radioactive nightmare. “We don’t know if this is going to work, and even if I can get at those things I can’t guarantee that I can stop them from going critical.”

“You have to try.”

“Dammit, I will, but if I can’t do anything you’ll have to—”

“Mr. Anderson. We couldn’t send those men up there with the knowledge that a partial failure, or even a total success on their part, might still mean death. There has to be some hope. So this stays with you: Arrangements have been made.”

The inference was obvious. “That’s as shitty as it gets. It’s nice to have this on my shoulders.” Joe pulled the headset off roughly. The com officer was facing his instruments but looked up when his phones were tossed onto the console desk. “They’re all yours, junior.”

Anderson made his way off the flight deck and headed back toward his seat. At the forward part of the hold he stopped, seeing the added lighting farther back where the Delta troopers were. It was a little eerie, the way the light and contents of the aircraft bounced together in the turbulence. Some thought about a ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ popped into his head, but he quickly dismissed it for the bullshit he knew it was.

The wheels of the old 707 had stopped rolling a minute before. Already Secretary of State James Coventry, his interpreter, and the Air Force officer with the designs were farther back in the aircraft, in the conference room. Against one side of the cabin chairs were set in place, the rest of the space being used by the real oak table and the twelve chairs around it. The secretary sat at one end, near the door that led into what used to be the airborne presidential bedroom, and on his right was the interpreter, a Cuban exile for over thirty years and a twenty-five-year man at State. He seemed pensive, Coventry noticed, but then he had a right to. In this country — his homeland — he was considered a criminal. In one of the seats along the wall the captain sat. The portfolio containing Vishkov’s design rested atop his lap, with one of his hands holding each short side.

There was a knock at the forward door. “Visitors, sir,” the Secret Service agent said, then closed the door. His post was just aft of the cockpit, and he returned there immediately. Only he and another agent were aboard this flight, and their orders were to stay ‘removed’ from any happenings. Officially, this meeting was not taking place.

They could not refrain from exchanging glances when ‘the visitor’ walked through the forward cabin door. He hesitated, eyeing them up and down, before following two of his entourage toward the back of the jet. Five men in all came aboard. Both agents decided quietly that they had not seen them, a move that would have pleased their boss to no end.

It was the captain who saw him first. He thought he looked huge, much larger than television seemed to portray him. And where were the olive drab fatigues?

Secretary Coventry stood. He was in shirtsleeves, partly because he felt it would make him look like he meant business, and partly due to the inadequate air-conditioning in the old executive jet. His counterpart — at least on this aircraft — wore a sand-colored military-style jacket with a modest plate of ribbons and medals over his left breast. There was no fatigue cap, once a trademark of the man, only a headful of thick gray hair. Even the beard was graying, its short, curly hairs trimmed neatly so his mouth was clearly visible. The man, after all, was a performer of sorts, and the way he said his words was sometimes as important as their meaning.

The men did not shake hands. President Fidel Castro took a seat at the opposite end of the conference table. He dismissed all but his interpreter, who sat next to him.

Castro looked around the room and smiled. “A present, perhaps, from your president?”

Coventry returned the smile for a second. “I will ask, Mr. President.”

“So, it is early in the morning — why now does your government desire such a high level of contact?” He gestured grandly. “It has been many, many years.”

Poker face and no bluffing, Coventry reminded himself. “Sir, we have a very big problem, one that your government has unknowingly allowed to happen. You obviously are aware of the hijacked American civilian airliner. It is on its way to Havana to refuel.”

“Yes. Yes. It will come, we will refuel it, and it will go. We have no desire to endanger innocent lives. And your comment did not go unnoticed.” A wagging finger pointed across the table. “Your charges are old and tired, my good Mr. Secretary. Never has your government been able to prove any of its accusations. Why would a small country, a poor country, such as mine sponsor such terrorist acts? How could we?”

A master. No wonder he’s still in power. Coventry nodded to the captain, who opened the case and set the drawings before Castro. “President Castro, I’m certain that you are very familiar with a Mr. Anatoly Vishkov.” The Cuban leader looked up from the pages as he leafed through them, folding them back toward the table’s center. “That is one of his designs — a nuclear weapon. Our Central Intelligence Agency purchased it at an auction of sorts in the Netherlands. Unfortunately, another of the designs got past us and was obtained by Colonel Qaddafi. It’s of similar dimensions and capabilities. We believe that it is on the aircraft, and that the hijackers plan to detonate it over Washington.”

Castro closed the case. His face was without emotion while his lips twisted in thought.

“Your government has allowed Vishkov to live without fear of accountability for—”

“Mr. Secretary, you—”

“No, President Castro! This will not drag out into an exchange of ideologies; there is no time. We have ample corroboration of our beliefs, and that is that. What must happen now is an agreement between our governments to cooperate in ending this matter. Our Delta Force has devised a plan to secure the aircraft, but they must stage it from this airfield.”

“Attack an aircraft with a nuclear weapon on board? On Cuban soil? American military forces?” Castro let out a grunting laugh which ended in a series of coughs. “And we are responsible? Hah! I suggest you take up the question of responsible with those you have oppressed for so long. Now they have the upper hand. And you,” Castro spit the words out, “you, a representative of the American government, come here to beg for my help, for the help of the Cuban people! I have heard all that can be heard! How soon we forget your country’s aggression against mine.”

The secretary laid out his hand before his interpreter. The man smiled ever so slightly as he drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“President Castro.” Coventry waited for the interpreter to slide the envelope across the table. “That is a list of targets in your country. Yes, targets. If our rescue forces are not allowed to do their job, your country, by way of its sheltering of a known peddler of nuclear terror, will be held responsible with others for this act, and the military forces of the United States will completely dismantle your military forces…all of them. Right now we have massive air forces positioning themselves in the Southern states. It will be massive, President Castro. And devastating.”

“You are out of your mind,” the Cuban interpreter said without prompting.

“No.” Coventry stood and walked to the row of windows on the starboard cabin wall. There were several military vehicles around the blue-and-white 707. “Not in the least. We’ve had experience with this, as you are fully aware of. When the American people learn of what your refusal to allow our forces to stage from here has caused, you will be lucky to escape this affair with your life. I think I can be honest if I say that any action will not stop with air strikes; it may become necessary to invade and occupy your country. Similar to what happened in Iraq, and in Panama. You do remember Panama?”

The verbal jab was effective, as evidenced by Castro’s trembling cheeks. “Your threats are just that! Our forces are not the weak peasants you think they are. They are committed! They will stop you!” He slammed a fist down hard. His eyes met those of the American interpreter, and they were his match. The man had a cold stare, one of hate. Yes, he had seen that before. That look. But he would never understand the reasoning.

“They will not,” the secretary retorted, in his laid-back Midwest monotone. “Your words are very similar to a Middle Eastern dictator of the past, one whom we dispatched of in a fashion similar to what you are facing. So don’t consider it a threat, President Castro — consider it an ultimatum. Your General Ontiveros has locked you into this position.” Coventry had to congratulate himself for adding that.

Castro fumed within himself. Ontiveros, you have been a sore in my leadership for too long.

It was time to offer an out. “We can solve this problem, and begin an era of new and better relations. My government does not wish to take any action against the Cuban people. We do, however, want the chance to save our people — that is all.” Now, the fly. “I am certain that you can deal with Mr. Vishkov in your own way. We have no claim to him; only the Russians do, I believe. The decision is yours.”

Secretary Coventry took his seat again. He thought his words sounded scripted, as official exchanges often did. He was fitting in just fine, he realized, which, in a way, was a bit disappointing.

Castro fidgeted back in the chair, rising up against its back, then standing. His surprised interpreter, a ranking member of Cuban Intelligence, followed the lead. “Of course, Mr. Secretary, you will remain until your Delta Force completes its mission.”

The secretary did not want to disclose the somewhat unorthodox plan, but there would need to be some exchange of information. “Yes, I will. Our forces should land shortly before the hijacked plane does, and then, I presume, they will set up. The force commander can discuss specific details with your officers via radio.”

“That would be best.” Castro casually saluted the American. He was a crafty player, somewhat blunt, but then he had the muscle to back up the threats. Alone, the ultimatum would not have swayed him; his forces could have dealt the Americans a serious, if small defeat, and the Americans seemed to neglect the fact that Cuban MiGs could also reach the Gulf Coast of the United States. Ontiveros, on the other hand, was a problem. No matter what would have come from an American assault, Castro was sure the arrogant general would seize the opportunity to advance his position in the government. Well, he would be in for a surprise, a very unpleasant surprise, as would Anatoly Vishkov. The physicist and his protector would no longer be a bother to the Cuban leader. As soon as the sun rose, a man would fall.

“You did good,” Coventry told his interpreter when the door closed behind the visitors.

“I would rather have shot him,” came the reply. The man remembered the Cuban jails of the sixties.

The secretary thought he understood the man’s commitment to some ideological, nationalist cause, but he didn’t. He truly would have shot him.

Several minutes later the 707 taxied behind a guide vehicle to a darkened section of Jose Marti airport where maintenance was normally performed. For the next few hours no maintenance would be occurring, and no flights would be arriving. To the contrary, before Air Force Three stopped rolling, the word had gone out for all the commercial aircraft to leave the airport. Though it had not yet been agreed upon, many of them, including several Aeroflot jumbo jets, would disperse to airfields in south Florida, much to the surprise of American controllers. Also before the jet stopped its move, a call was made to the White House from a quietly gloating secretary of state.

By the time the call made its way to Dr. Ralph Cooper it had passed through several high-ranking officers of the Louisiana Air National Guard, and was subsequently relayed to him by his wing commander. Driving through the gate he flashed his ID at the guard and mentally shed his hospital greens. Soon he would change nameplates, step into his dark green flight suit, and become Major Ralph ‘Snoopy’ Cooper, weekend aerial warrior.

It had been a while since he had been pulled out of bed for a deployment exercise, but it was something he prepared himself for. It was better than his old Air Force days in Korea, where it was way too dangerous and too damn cold.

Flight ops was all lit up, and several security guards stood solidly outside, gauging Cooper’s maroon Volvo as it approached. Colonel Brown, the fighter squadron’s commander, was with them.

“Major, glad you could make it. C’mon.” The colonel led off around the flight ops building.

Major? Cooper noticed the serious formality. Weekend flyers usually had a somewhat relaxed hierarchical rank structure, one that was ruled by first names or pilot call signs. “Hold on, don’t I get to change?”

Brown halted. “Sorry, not today. You can change over by the bird. We’ve got a van there.”

This was different Something was up. Hell, usually he would show up for a two-day activation, shoot the bull with the guys, and fly for as long as they’d let him. He made all the money he’d ever need working four days a week teaching internal medicine at the university, so getting to ‘play’ in an F-15C was sometimes hard to believe. They let him have fun in a multimillion-dollar jet.

“So what is going on, Colonel?” Cooper asked.

“I’ll fill you in while you suit up.”

They were at the aircraft in under ten minutes. It sat outside one of the old metal hangars, not the concrete blast boxes that housed the twin-engine Eagle. Cooper knew instantly that different was not an adequate description of the statement. The bird was not a sleek F-15C Eagle — before him was a relic from his past.

“What the…” Cooper said aloud as he walked, hands on his chute webbing, toward the delta wing, sky-gray fighter. It was nosed toward the hangar. “An F-106? What gives?” he asked, stopping to eye the aircraft from nose to tail.

“You flew these a few years back.”

“A few years? More like twenty. Christ, I haven’t even seen one of these babies in…must be ten years.”

“It’s mission-capable,” the colonel commented. He was right. It looked to be in almost perfect condition. The nearly forty-year-old aircraft’s skin was smooth under the glow of the outside lights, no wrinkles or mars being visible. Every detail was crisp. Lettering and the old squadron flash were impeccably done.

“For what mission?”

“Look,” Colonel Brown answered, pointing to the underside of the Delta Dart.

And there it was, just like Major Cooper remembered, except for one important difference. He had flown with the Air-2A Genie nuclear-tipped air-to-air missile long before in Korea, and had participated in ‘live’ practice-fire exercises using inert warheads in the deserts of the west. It hung from the center bay hoist like a stubby cartoon bomb, ready to be pulled fully into the weapons bay. This one didn’t have the distinctive blue-colored warhead section in the missile’s center, which would have identified it as an inert practice round. This missile was entirely white.