Blood Covenent, page 11
The medic shrugged and broke a capsule under Hassan’s nose.
“That scum won’t tell you anything,” declared Buford.
Larry turned to Eddie. He was starting to tire of Buford’s act. “Mind if I borrow your flashlight?”
Eddie flipped the light out of his web belt and handed it to Larry. “Thanks.”
Larry turned back to Hassan and said, “Hassan, wake up.” The terrorist’s eyes fluttered to a painful consciousness. “Hassan, I’m going to ask this one time. You answer me, okay?”
Hassan smiled and spat out a broken tooth, “A policeman. You’ve come to read me my rights.” He laughed and coughed. The painkillers had not yet taken a firm grip.
Larry shook his head. “No, I don’t read rights. They’ve got other people for that. I just want one answer. What kind of bomb is that thing?” He slammed the MAG-Lite hard across Hassan’s shin.
Hassan sucked in his breath.
The medic stared in horror. “You can’t do that—”
“Shut up!” snapped Eddie. He clamped the cigar between his lips again.
A smile emerged on the terrorist’s lips. “The very best kind, policeman. The very best.”
“And what might that be?” growled Eddie.
He coughed more blood and said quietly, “A Hiroshima bomb. Big boom.” His eyes crossed as the painkillers drove him further away from reality.
Eddie looked from the doped up terrorist to the stainless steel capsule and whispered, “Oh, no.”
Larry jabbed Hassan in the ribs with the light, “How do you disarm it?”
The head wagged back and forth, “Only know how to start it. They didn’t trust us…” He drifted off into dreamland.
“Did he say we got a nuke?” demanded Buford.
Larry stood and turned to the capsule, which read 2:39:52. The numbers continued to count down. His mouth was very dry as he tried to consider the implications of detonating the bomb on the forty-eighth floor anywhere in New York City. How many would die from the fallout?
“Did he?” spluttered Buford.
Larry nodded dumbly and turned to Eddie. “Any ideas?”
“Can’t say I ever took one of these things apart,” replied Eddie.
The medic ran past them towards the outer room. Buford reacted first and yelled, “Stop that man!”
There was a scuffle and someone tackled the medic before he made it to the elevators.
“This just became a Federal crime scene,” explained Larry, realizing how stupid it sounded after he quit talking.
Buford turned back to Larry. “Well, you’re certainly welcome to this mess, but there is just one little detail. We got twelve million people out there and in two and half hours we’d probably kill more trying to get them out, than just letting this thing go off. So unless you come with some magic bullet, your federal crime scene is gonna be one big hole.”
Larry agreed with Buford as the man turned back to the paramedic laying spread eagle on the floor. “I need to call this in to my people. This is way beyond my scope.”
Eddie smirked. “You do that, but you come back real fast because it’s gonna be up to you and me to stop this thing. Once you tell the suits we’ve got a live nuclear bomb, they won’t get their sorry butts any closer. Most likely they’ll be the first ones leaving Manhattan.”
“You sound like someone I used to work with.”
“A malcontent?”
“You could say that.”
Larry walked into the adjoining master bathroom and closed the door. He felt oddly calm considering a nuclear bomb was ticking to some sort of conclusion in the other room. Perhaps he did not want to believe Hassan Jamal’s confession, but it made sense. It felt like the right conclusion in his gut, and Harvey had taught him to trust his gut.
He dialed the JEH Building and settled himself on the marble vanity. “Feldman here.”
“Wheeler calling in,” he started.
“What have you been doing? It’s been over forty minutes!” demanded Bill Harris.
Larry closed his eyes and promised himself to make the effort to be polite. “Gee, Bill, it’s been kind of busy. Let’s see, we took out half a dozen bad guys. At least three NYPD cops bought the farm on this little adventure. And Lou, that bomb you were worried about—”
“Yes,” came an irritated grunt.
“It’s ticking away in the master bedroom right now. And in about two and half hours its gonna leave a great big Hiroshima like crater where Trump Tower is standing,” he ended sarcastically and mentally chided himself.
“Come again?” snapped Feldman.
“Did he say we have a nuke?” muttered Harris.
“Yeah. I got a nuke and it looks like it’s armed and counting down,” replied Larry.
“How do you know it’s a nuke?” queried Feldman.
Larry sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s in this stainless steel capsule with a keypad and an LED display counting down. The capsule is completely sealed—like it was machined that way. We haven’t taken a radiation scan yet, but it certainly doesn’t look like any biological dispersal system I’ve been briefed on.”
“Are you absolutely sure it’s a nuke?” asked a slightly less combative Feldman.
Larry pulled open the door of the bathroom and said, “No. You want me to walk over there, kick it, and see if a chunk of Manhattan disappears? Look, I need some help. I need an expert on the phone.”
“We’re declaring a NEST incident,” Feldman declared. The Nuclear Emergency Search Teams (NEST) under the auspices of the Department of Energy was tasked with findinglost weapons and materiel. They were also part of the counter-terrorist network. Nuclear bombs in the middle of Manhattan were their job.
“That’s great, Lou, but how are they going to be effective in time? NEST is based in Nevada, and we just don’t have time for them to ride in on their white horses. I’ve got someone who seems to know his stuff. What I need is an expert to tell us what to look for.”
Pritchard looked up from where he was standing. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead as he ran his finger along the side of the capsule. Larry hoped he had made the right assessment of Pritchard’s skills.
“And if he makes a mistake?” asked Harris.
“I guess we’ll know about it before you, Bill.”
“Okay Larry, you’ve made your point. You’re the man on the scene. We’ll get you the best we got. Call me back in ten on a land line, preferably with a speaker phone,” instructed Feldman.
Larry clicked off without answering and looked over to Pritchard. “Suits?” he asked without looking up from the bomb.
“Yeah,” replied Larry, staring at the steel death lying quietly in its padded box.
“You told them I could take this thing apart.”
“If you can’t, I think it will reflect poorly in my next fitness report.”
Pritchard grunted. “It still might.” He looked up at Larry and said, “You don’t have to stay. You look like you might have a wife and kids.”
Larry nodded.
“A man should take care of his wife and kids.”
Larry shook his head. “My last partner—Harvey—he had the same philosophy. So he’s checking on grizzly droppings in West Yellowstone and I’m watching a nuke countdown. We either walk out together, or we meet Jesus. I gather you’ve told your men they’re all off site.”
Pritchard nodded, “Just as soon as they have everything I asked for up here.” He straightened up and pointed to the bathroom. “We need to move this thing in there. We’re going to use an UV light and goggles to open this thing up, in case there is some sort of light trap waiting for us. I just hope whoever they find to talk us through this knows their stuff.”
“Booby-traps?” A shiver of fear ran through his chest.
“If I were building a bomb that’s what I’d do.” He cocked his head sideways and continued, “That’s what I do. I build bombs and think of every nasty thing I can come up with to booby-trap them. Then I try to disarm them.”
“Is that why you’re still a sergeant?” asked Larry.
“Yeah. They threatened to make me a suit, and I told them I’d blow City Hall up. Couldn’t take a joke, so they left me alone, and I think some of them are hopingI blow it someday.” He paused. “Bomb squad humor.”
Larry came along side to help him move the weapon into the bathroom.
* * * *
Fifteen minutes later, they were wearing special night-vision goggles tuned to ultra-violet light. A black light, invisible to the naked eye, bathed the bathroom in an eerie bluish-purple glow. The door had been sealed with towels and duct tape, leaving room for a single coaxial video cable and a flat phone wire to snake under the door.
Eddie had created a set of monitoring tools to broadcast in black light to a remote transmitter and link up to a receiver within a thousand-yard perimeter. If things went badly, the receiver would probably evaporate in the firestorm. The phone line was connected to a conference room at the JEH Building and to a second conference room at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada where NEST is based.
Larry hit the speaker button and turned up the volume. The speaker squeaked and Lou Feldman asked nervously, “Is everyone on line?”
Eddie ignored the chatter as they all checked in, and pulled out a drill. He took a 3/8 inch diamond bit and secured it inside the chuck. “I’m going to drill a hole from the top of the case,” he announced.
“Eh, Clayton Morris here,” came a far off voice. “I’m the expert from NEST.”
Eddie wiped the sweat from his forehead. “That’s real nice, but I got a countdown clock that shows a little over two hours here.”
“Yes, that’s my point sergeant. You need to cover the display. The lights will activate any light trap in the bomb case.”
Eddie sucked in some breath and stood up. He turned to the video camera and said, “You’re right—thank you.”
Larry grabbed a big roll of duct tape and taped over the LED display.
“Yes,” Clayton continued. “Now let’s see what’s behind the keypad.”
“You think we might have a hole or something?” asked Eddie.
“There has to be a way for the keypad to communicate with the internal computer. Generally, keyboards are cable connected, and this thing, from what I can see of it, looks like it was manufactured somewhere.”
Eddie chuckled. “Oh, it was manufactured. There isn’t a seam visible on the outside. This thing was put together by people who know their stuff.” He handed the drill over to Larry and set both hands on the keypad. With a simple twist it came loose, revealing a unique gold plated connector.
“Gee, I haven’t seen anything that big for years,” commented Janet.
Eddie handed the keypad to Larry and stared at the connector. Somewhere below the skin was a computer running towards Armageddon.
Larry held the keypad up to the camera lens and waited as it refocused on the component. “What do you mean, Janet?”
“Oh, for several years now PC components have gotten smaller and thinner. That connector looks really big by today’s standards, like something you’d find on an old XT.”
“You’re saying we got a PC getting ready to blow a hole in the middle of New York?” demanded Harris.
“No or yes, I’m not sure. All I’m saying is the component he’s holding is really old looking.”
“I’m going to set it on the floor,” said Larry.
Eddie fished the drill back into his hands. “I’m going to drill a hole away from the keypad holder,” he tapped the area with his finger. Larry knelt down to brace the case as Eddie leaned forward to set the diamond-tipped drill bit. He pulled back on the trigger and hit the lock. Twice the bit spun away from the convex casing leaving only faint marks.
He reset himself so as to place his weight in line with the drill’s axis. Seconds drifted into minutes and the case-hardened steel stubbornly resisted the attack. Precious shavings were spun away from the surface and a shallow dimple emerged. The muscles around Eddie’s neck and shoulder bulged into cords as he bore down on the case. Great drops of sweat splattered across the capsule. Stubbornly, single tendrils pirouetted away from the drill bit. The diamond-tipped bit steadily worked its way through the hardened stainless steel.
Twenty minutes later the drill shot through a hole and Eddie managed to pull back before the diamond bit touched anything else inside. He flipped the direction to reverse and spun the bit backward out of the hole. He sat back, feeling the ache and strain across his shoulders and upper arms. His tunic was drenched in sweat, as he long ago had abandoned the protective bomb shield regulations that specified what he should wear. Department regulations never envisioned anyone would be working on a ticking nuke.
“You know,” he rasped to no one in particular, “if this were a simple fragmentation bomb, we would have been through the case in a few seconds.” He shook his head and stared at the capsule in the suffused glow in his night vision goggles. “This thing was designed to never be serviced.”
“Who besides us has the capability of building something like this?” demanded Feldman.
“Lots of people, sir,” replied Clayton. “But let’s get this thing shut down first, then we can pursue those questions.”
Eddie nodded and took the fiber optic lens from a hook. Integrated into a quarter-inch-diameter cable was a loop burner similar to those used by surgeons to remove tumors and polyps accessible without invasive surgery. “Okay. We can’t turn the monitor on in here, so Clayton, you’re going to be my eyes and ears. The video feed will display on your systems. I suspect there’s some sort of light trap inside.”
“Agreed,” echoed Clayton.
Larry realized he was holding his breath waiting for something to go boom. His breath came out with awhoosh. Eddie glanced up from the hole and said, “Relax kid. We got through the skin—all we’ve got to do is unplug its brain.” The older man chuckled and fed the fiber optic camera into the hole. “Can you put your finger just so?” he indicated on the cable laying on the capsule’s surface.
“I’m panning the camera lens. Let me know when you see something interesting.”
“Are those rails?” queried Feldman.
Eddie stopped moving the lens.
“Yeah, see right here. They slid this thing in like some sort of assembly. That looks like a locking slide. Once it’s in, you can’t get it out,” explained Harris.
“So what happens if you need to fix something?” asked Feldman.
“Maybe that’s how they wanted it built,” suggested Clayton. “Perhaps this bomb was never meant for disarming or maintenance.”
They were silent for a moment, considering the implications.
Eddie started panning again.
“Say, what’s a soccer ball doing in there?” asked Janet.
Fear crept around the edges of Clayton’s voice as he replied, “Ma’am, that’s the explosive trigger around a plutonium weapon.”
Larry shivered involuntary. His entire torso vibrated from tension. “You’re sure?”
Eddie did not feel too good himself. He sucked air in between his teeth. A plutonium leak could kill more people than the explosion itself. He wondered if he were already dead. They had no radiation badges to indicate their exposure level, but he remembered the lecture delivered by an Army Major regarding weapons of mass destruction. Successful disarmament did not necessarily mean you made it home that night.
“Sergeant,” came the calming voice from Nevada, “I think I see your light trap. There seems to be a photo electric sensor directly between your hole and the bomb.”
“Any idea how far we are from the bomb itself?” He stared hard at the top of the capsule, willing himself to see through the surface and into its guts.
“Maybe a foot, maybe less,” replied Clayton.
Eddie glanced up from the capsule to Larry and asked, “You still with me kid?”
Larry nodded dumbly.
Eddie smelled the fear rather than saw it in Larry’s eyes. It was one thing to theorize about this thing being a nuke; it became different matter when the expert a continent away calmly explained what they had nestled between their knees. He shrugged.
“Okay. You play the cable into the hole. I’ll work the joystick and Clayton is going to tell us what to do. We’ll take it slow. Oh, and Clayton, if there’s anything else I might trip across give me a holler.”
They began the tedious task of blindly moving the fiber optic cable and cutter towards the photo sensor. It occurred to Eddie that maybe he should have gone to church more. Somehow, he understood there was no such thing as making deals with God. In the gloom, he said a quick prayer about living through the next two hours.
* * * *
The angry red LED readout froze at 0:14:29. The terrible rush to ignition ended quietly in a sweat-filled master bathroom on Trump Tower’s forty-eighth floor. New York and America were spared a nuclear explosion in Lower Manhattan. The sun never seemed so beautiful as Larry and Eddie emerged from the bathroom.
Feldman, safely ensconced in the JEH Building a few blocks down from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, leaned back in his chair, drained emotionally. They had watched the step-by-step approach to disarm the weapon. It would be hard to disarm the bomb any faster than the one hundred twelve minutes they had just gone through. Deep in his gut, he knew this was one of many, not a single weapon manufactured by a terrorist in a desert lab. Offensive nuclear weapons on American soil—they certainly had crossed another barrier.
* * * *
Michael Rehazi—the Terror of Tehran—looked up from the email screen to the television running CNN. His masters wanted to know the reason for the failure. He balanced the Compaq laptop on his knees. Michael Rehazi flipped off the CNN report. He wrote a quick message indicating this was just a temporary setback. He sighed. Instead of a jagged, melted stump and a blacked ash spreading across lower Manhattan, Trump Tower continued to stand as a mocking reminder of his failure.
Sometimes these things did not come easily. He needed to determine who had survived the assault. He reminded his masters this was not the end, but simply the beginning. They were operating in enemy territory, an enemy of incredible resources, but still an enemy capable of being hurt. There wereother bombs.
