Days of Rage (29 page)

T
he sun crested the horizon and began to burn off the early morning mist, exposing the cracked cinder blocks and broken windows in the old Communist warehouse, the building a metaphor for what Russia had become.

Yuri’s cell chirped with a text that Akinbo was ten minutes out. Ten minutes to decide what he was going to do.

He’d expected to find a fault in the system, the device unable to reach critical mass, leaving the explosive charge to simply spread the plutonium into a giant, deadly radiation cloud, but now he had a real nuclear weapon. Something he couldn’t give to Akinbo, as it would point the finger back at Russia.

Velcroed to the top of the hood was a sleeve. He peeled it off and opened it. Inside were two keys and a slip of paper with Cyrillic writing, both bringing back memories of his training on the device and a potential solution.

How could I forget the failsafe?

Each key was two inches long with a square end a half-inch wide, looking like a miniature paddle. At the start of the neck the key grew very thin, with notches on both sides. Farther down, it expanded into a complex laser cut. The keys were designed to be inserted then broken off at the notches, preventing anyone from reversing the procedure.

There were two, not because the designers intended for two people to utilize them in order to arm the device. That was already taken care of by the PAL. The key slots were right next to each other and could be worked out of sequence. No, the number was to determine how the device would react once armed. Two was for nuclear detonation. One was for self-destruction.

The Vympel had trained for the deep penetration of Western Europe, with each team having a selection of targets in various cities. He had no idea where this Hammer was destined to go, but it was probably the German Chancellery in Bonn. Given the distances that had to be infiltrated, there was a great chance for discovery of a Vympel team. A chance for the RA-115s to fall into enemy hands. Because of this, there was a built-in method for destroying the device. Do everything as required, but only use one key.

An Implosion bomb—like the Hammer—was created by surrounding the plutonium pit with high explosives, which, when detonated, compressed the pit, causing a chain reaction. Simple in theory, but very, very technical in execution because the compression had to happen with mathematical precision. If any of the explosive failed to fire, or fired out of sequence, it would not produce critical mass. It would simply explode with the force of the conventional munitions.

The use of one key did the latter. It caused the explosives to fire out of sequence, which destroyed the device, preventing it from falling into enemy hands. At least that was the intended use. In this case, it also created a dirty bomb, flinging out a large cloud of poisonous radiation that contaminated everything it touched.

He bounced the keys in his hand, considering. With one key inserted, once the PAL was initiated there was nothing anyone could do to alter the device’s destiny. It would be on the path to self-destruction. On the other hand, he
would
be giving a live nuclear weapon to Akinbo. A weapon that would be out of Russian control.

But the African knows none of this. He has no reason to suspect.

He heard tires crunch on the torn concrete outside and saw Kristov wave from the door. He said, “Get his passport photos first. Then send him to me.”

Five minutes later Akinbo shook his hand, saying, “Jarilo? Is that right?”

“Yes. I’m here to help you with your mission. There are several critical things, so I need you to pay attention for the next few minutes.”

Akinbo nodded and pointed at the box. “What’s this?”

“It will replace the chemical weapon the Syrian was bringing. It’s a radiological dispersion device. Basically, a hunk of plutonium material surrounded by explosives. You understand what that means?”

“Yes. I have read about it. The radiation is poisonous. They call it a dirty bomb.”

Yuri smiled, thinking that maybe the savage would work out after all. He said, “Yes. Exactly.”

He knelt down and opened the box, showing Akinbo the PAL and the key slots. He said, “The screen there has two windows. The bomb was designed to be initiated by two people as a safeguard. Both key codes have to be worked in under five seconds, and each code has a sequence of two keys being pressed at the same time. The numbers on the pad itself and the one in the corner, which works like a ‘shift’ key on a computer. You’ll notice the ‘shift’ key is out of reach of a single hand. In other words, it prevents one man from typing on both keyboards simultaneously.”

“Wait, wait,” Akinbo said, “I don’t have a partner. I only have myself.”

Yuri smiled, “I know, which is why I’m teaching you. I trained on these for a great deal of time, and on my team we never liked the two-man rule. There may only be one man left for the mission. We learned a trick or two, and I’m going to show them to you.”

Akinbo said, “What mission? I understood the weapon was created for me, but now you’re talking about teams and two-man rules. What is this thing, really?”

Yuri wanted to knock him off of that line of questioning immediately. “It is what I said. I built it from other parts I used to train with. That’s all.”

Akinbo nodded slowly with his eyes squinted and Yuri hesitated, a tendril of concern coiling at the back of his brain. Not dread or fear. Only concern, but it was there nonetheless.

Yuri began to work through the procedures, starting with the permissive action link dual pads. He showed Akinbo the codes passed to him by Vlad, then showed him the tricks of manipulating the keyboards. He taped a tongue depressor to the heel of his palm, wrapping the tape completely around his wrist, the wood sticking out like a deformed finger. Using that, he pressed the “shift” key while inputting the code with his fingers. After Akinbo understood the concept, Yuri outfitted his hands with the tongue depressors.

He said, “Work each hand individually, then we’ll start working them together. It’s critical that you input the codes correctly. If you make a mistake on either hand, it will force you to start over. Three such mistakes and the pads are locked. It’s a safety procedure to prevent unauthorized access. You will be unable to unlock them.”

They continued for forty-five minutes, until Yuri was confident Akinbo could manipulate the keypads under pressure. He said, “Okay, you know the codes for each pad, but that’s not the entire sequence. Getting the weapon to detonate is a three-step process.”

He pulled a key from the vinyl sleeve in his pocket and said, “First, you input the PAL code. Once that’s done correctly, you’ll get three flashes on the screen. When you see the flashes, insert this key.” He pushed and twisted. “Once it’s rotated, you’ll see this light. After that is complete, the screen will show zeros across both displays. When you see the zeros, you know you are set.”

He pointed at a small cover with a single tab projecting out. “That is the detonation button.”

He flipped up the cover, exposing a red button. “You get the zeros, indicating successful arming, and you press this button.”

Akinbo nodded, telling him he understood. Yuri inwardly smiled at the deception. He wanted Akinbo obliterated—along with any evidence of Russian involvement—so he’d made a little omission about the arming sequence during the weapon deployment. The zeros weren’t there to indicate successful arming. They were there as a timing capability. With the timer set to zero, the weapon was set for instant detonation, but there was no reason for Akinbo to know that.

Yuri said, “You see how the key is shaped?”

Another nod.

“It’s designed to be reusable if the operator wants it to be, like we’re doing now, but also designed to be permanent. If you rotate the key to the ‘on’ position, then give the paddle a sharp blow, it will break off, leaving the key imbedded. From there, nothing will stop detonation.”

“What is the other key for?”

“What other key?”

“There are two keyholes. What is the second hole?”

Yuri fumbled his words, then managed to get out, “Nothing. It’s a backup.”

Akinbo said not a word, but his expression told Yuri he didn’t believe him. Yuri said, “Walk me through the sequence in real time, but do not turn the key.”

Akinbo did as he asked, using the tongue depressors, placing in the key, then flipped open the cover for the detonation button. Yuri was satisfied.

“The same man who brought you here will take you home. Tomorrow, we will take you to the overseas freight company DHL. Using the passport we will provide, you will ship the weapon to this address.”

He passed a slip of paper.

“The man will then take you to the airport, where you’ll board a flight to meet the weapon. From there, it will be up to you.”

“What is the target?”

“You will find out tomorrow. Have you made a martyr tape?”

Akinbo said, “I have no target. How can I proclaim the target was struck in the name of the Prophet when I don’t know what it is?”

Yuri pulled the key and placed it back in the sleeve. He said, “You’ll get the target tomorrow. And you
will
mail the box to the address. I will want to see a receipt before I pass you the key.”

Akinbo said, “What’s the other key for?”

“I already answered that.”

He pointed at the sleeve Yuri was putting in his pocket. “You said the second key slot was just a backup, but there are two keys in that case.”

“It’s a backup as well.”

“That makes no sense.”

Yuri slammed the lid of the Hammer closed and said, “We’re done. Get the fuck out of here. We’ll pick you up tomorrow. Be prepared to fly.”

He watched Akinbo leave and felt the little sniggle of warning raise its head like a foul odor seeping from under the floor. Once again, nothing concrete. Nothing specific. Just a faint wisp of something decayed that was gone before he latched on to it.

He got back to the hotel and accessed his computer, checking his NYM account on TOR. He rubbed his eyes as the TOR network went through its handshake, shifting his ISP to a hundred different computers in an endless stream, protecting his anonymity.

He leaned back into the cheap hotel office chair, the weight of sleep pressing down on him. He’d been awake for close to twenty-four hours and felt every minute of it.

A small jolt went through him when he saw he had a message, and the urge for sleep melted away when he read it.

It was from the sleeper agent in the United States, handing him the American team on a platter.

L
amar Redinsky stepped out of his hotel in Berlin, barely able to contain his excitement. Finally, after years of mundane work, he was going to execute a mission.

Well, not
execute
, per se, but at least facilitate the mission. At least brush up against the tip of the spear. The thought alone put a spring in his step.

Fifteen years ago, he’d started out as a logistician in the CIA. A number cruncher. A guy that kept track of where the weapons were dropped. Actually, kept track of anything that was given away to the myriad of people the CIA dealt with. Medical supplies, radios, explosives, you name it, it was his job to track, because sooner or later some congressman would come looking. And he wouldn’t be asking the questions because of his love of the CIA. He’d be looking because he wanted to put someone’s scalp on a wall so that he could get reelected.

Lamar had knocked around the CIA for over a decade before being recruited to a new supersecret high-speed organization. A counterterrorist command that was going to
really
take the war on terror global.

After the many read-ons and signing the myriad of nondisclosure agreements, he’d been told about his job: maintaining caches around the world.

At first, he thought he was being misled. The job description was like a Hollywood movie that depicted the “truth” of the intelligence world, but failed to take into account the reality of budget limitations. In films, money was no object to the spook world, with intricate safe houses and entire wings of aircraft sitting around just waiting to be used.

Working with the CIA, he knew better. There was always someone counting the beans, and rarely was anything purchased in advance because it
might
be needed. There just wasn’t that much leeway in the CIA. Far from building a Hollywood secret infrastructure, more often than not, missions were put in jeopardy by recycling something from a previous operation. That’s the way it was in the CIA, but not in Project Prometheus. Here, money
was
no object.

His entire job was to travel to various caches emplaced around the European continent and maintain them. Replace batteries out of date, rotate ammunition in magazines, occasionally replace communications gear with newer versions. Basically, ensure the equipment was ready for instant use. In truth, it wasn’t unlike the giant armor packages kept in Germany during the Cold War, ready to be pulled out when the Soviet Union exploded through the Fulda Gap.

The job was a dream one for him. A bachelor, he literally traveled all over Europe doing nothing more than checking on storage facilities. Like the guy who painted the Golden Gate Bridge for a living, when he reached the end it was time to start again at the beginning.

With the government paying him for travel and per diem, it was the perfect life. No stress and no danger. But it had ultimately grown old. He’d maintained the caches and felt a sense of self-worth because he knew they’d eventually be used to protect America. But they never were. Ever.

He’d become a little jaded about the job, growing bored and beginning to think the entire effort was just a waste of government money. Maybe the CIA had a point about fiscal restraint. Then, yesterday, he’d received the request for bona fides for a team in Berlin.

He’d almost been unable to contain his excitement. Finally, a linkup for recovery. He’d sent back the instructions and made his way to Berlin via rail.

After arriving, he’d checked the cache one more time, even though he knew it was complete, then found a hotel near the linkup location, waiting in the room in anticipation. At seven
P
.
M
.
, he exited the hotel, walking nonchalantly to the beer garden at the end of the street in the warm summer air.

He entered and asked for a booth in the corner, afraid he wouldn’t be able to get one with the gorgeous weather. He was in luck. The hostess, wearing a cartoonish alpine costume that caused her breasts to explode out of the top, led him to a spot situated deep in the foliage of the garden.

Nothing more than a picnic table, it was the perfect place for a meeting. Off the beaten path, outside of view of the street, and away from anyone else in the restaurant.

He pulled a newspaper from his bag and laid it out on the table, then placed a Houston Astros ball cap on his head. It was a signal for the man who entered that, one, he was the contact waiting to meet him and, two, that the meeting site was secure.

He ordered a beer from Miss Titsalot and waited, knowing exactly when the contact window would open. At fourteen minutes after nine
P
.
M
.
, a man appeared carrying an umbrella in his left hand. There were, in fact, a few clouds in the air, but that wasn’t why he had it.

He advanced on the table and Lamar saw he looked like a vampire. Very pale skin and jet-black hair. The man said, “Do they serve wine here?”

Nervously, Lamar replied, “No, but they have a very good selection of local beer.”

Lamar relaxed when the vampire smiled, pleased at his success on the verbal bona fides. They shook hands and Lamar said, “You’re the first operator I’ve ever met.”

A waitress approached, silencing the conversation. The man ordered a beer to match Lamar’s and waited. When the barmaid was gone he said, “I don’t want to screw around. Give me the instructions.”

Lamar was a little disappointed, wanting to learn a little bit of the world he was only allowed to skate around. Wanting to be appreciated. He passed across a key and an envelope. “The location is a mini–storage facility. Full security and climate controlled.”

Vampire said, “You keep your weapons and communications in a rental lot? Seriously?”

Insulted, Lamar said, “Yes, it’s the best place. The equipment is camouflaged in crates. It’s not like we have it lying on the floor, and the building has built-in security. There’s no chance of compromise, and people are coming and going all the time to service the place. Of course, I suppose you’d know better.”

He finished his little statement of indignation, knowing—as a support guy—he was on the edge of upsetting an operator. He no longer gave a shit. Dracula could get as pissed as he wanted. He’d been traveling all over the continent for years just to facilitate this asshole’s mission. Dracula could take his indignation and stick it.

Lamar never realized the risk. Never saw the death floating in the wind. He wanted to be a part of a real-world mission, but not in the way his future would play out.

The pale man placed the envelope and key into a bag without saying a word. Then he pulled out something large. For as long as Lamar had worked for the CIA, and then the Taskforce, he had never seen a pistol with a suppressor attached for real. Like most of the world, he’d only watched them in action movies. Because of this, when Dracula leveled the weapon at him his brain refused to assimilate that it was genuine. Refused to believe that someone from Project Prometheus would ever be a risk. Didn’t understand that the man in front of him wasn’t a part of his trusted brotherhood.

He was still working to process the situation when his brain was split open by a subsonic hollow-point round, the bullet expanding in the tissue, creating an enormous wound channel, and failing to exit the rigid wall of his skull.