by Wes Lowe
“Wait a sec. You’re the nuclear guy. You’ve worked with the stuff for years. You should be able to get us something.”
Davy snorted. “That’s how I know how hard it’s going to be. Natural uranium 238 is plentiful but useless for building a bomb. And I’m an end user… or was an end user. I didn’t have the infrastructure, background or the resources to go through the processing of extracting and processing the .7% of U235 that was in the ore. And even if we were somehow able to steal what we needed from a nuclear energy plant, their concentrations of U-235 was less than 5 percent. Ninety percent, or weapons grade, was required to set off the chain reaction leading to a nuclear explosion.
“What do you suggest?” Carter knew the answer. He just needed Davy to confirm it.
“I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t know. There’s enough nuclear material around to build more than twenty thousand bombs like the one used on Hiroshima in good old Mother Russia. And we don’t need something with the power of fifteen kilotons of TNT. Something a whole lot less powerful can still do serious damage. The ex-Soviet Union has thousands of tons of fissile material left over from the old days when they made nuclear airplanes, rocket-ships, you name it. But the guys that control it are dangerous. Foreign Intelligence Service. Security Service. Generals. Anyone wanting to pad their pockets. And these guys are unscrupulous. Damn careless about storage. Old warehouses. Graveyards. Even ripping off nuclear labs.”
Davy rubbed his hands. He wasn’t keen on this direction but it seemed their hands were being forced.
Even though Russia had a thousand troops patrolling the sliver of land on the border between Moldova and Ukraine, brokers from the Ukraine or former Soviet Union always seemed to have weapons grade uranium available for a price. Along the “nuclear highway” in Georgia, poorly guarded facilities were an easy source of nuclear fuel to black market traders.
But getting the stuff was just the beginning. Appraising potential complications, Carter pondered out loud, “Even if we got what we want, how the hell are we going to get it in? There are sensors everywhere, in every airport and cargo terminal, and customs agents have hand-held detectors.”
“We can get some Mafia or Russian mob types to bring it in.”
“You’re joking, right? You want us to do business with dirty Russian military types as well as some of the most brutal mobsters to walk the face of the earth. A dirty bomb would be a whole lot less hassle and a whole lot cheaper.”
Carter clenched his fists tightly. He knew a barrage of invective was about to fly at him. The dirty bomb was a radiological dispersal device that combined conventional explosives like dynamite with radioactive material. The explosion of the conventional explosive would spread radioactive material throughout an area, creating a radiation threat and causing mass panic. But it definitely was not as sexy as a real nuke nor would it make as grand a statement.”
He didn’t have to wait long.
Davy suddenly screamed, “You’re not catching the vision. This isn’t about killing a bunch of people and humiliating your old man. This is about shoving up his anus what he shoved up mine and showing everybody that clean energy is not clean. Only a nuke can nuke. Capiche? And of course, we can get it in. For the right price, someone will pack it in along with their bottles of olive oil, boxes of caviar, exotic hardwood flooring, or conceal it with their fresh dates.”
That part was true.
“We don’t have the dough,” argued Carter.
“What? You’re a partner in a mega-law firm that the government and nuclear energy companies throw money at. Don’t give me that.”
“Remember my expenses?” Carter pulled out his cell phone, flipped to a secret page, placed the mobile’s screen in front of Davy, then began scrolling through the images—there were at least two hundred gorgeous women, including actresses and models that Davy recognized. More than half of them were Asian. Japanese. Chinese. Filipino. Thai.
“That’s where my money goes. Minimum five grand a pop. Once, sometimes twice a week.”
Davy drummed his fingers for a few seconds on the rustic wooden picnic table, then uttered wistfully, “I can’t remember the last time I got laid.”
“That sucks… How much dough do we need? I’ve got maybe half a mill.”
“I’ve got a bit more,” replied Carter, no longer quite so animated.
“You know I don’t have long,” said Davy. “Maybe two years. If I’m lucky, might go to ten.”
Carter balled his fists. He wanted to wait but Davy was right; he could go anytime. “We need a place to build it.”
7
Gunpoint Medicine
Present Day
* * *
Fifteen minutes after Steve’s call to Giorgio, the staff of the Casa Mia started cramming tins of food, condensed milk, water, propane, a portable stove, and more onto the Jeep. When Rodrigo, the resort’s owner-manager, found out the two were going on a humanitarian mission, he did not charge them for the foodstuffs or their brief hotel stay.
Jeep packed, it was time to go. Rodrigo came up to Rayna and pressed a small gun into her hand. “You will need protection where you’re going. Do you know how to use something like this? It’s not very hard to learn.”
Rayna smiled gratefully, albeit inwardly amused. This handgun was a toy compared to the firepower she was used to. “Thank you. I hope I don’t have to use it.”
The manager’s eyes shot her a sobering stare. “Haiti is very dangerous. Not just guns and knives but… “ Rodrigo’s face darkened. “Voodoo.”
Rayna shuddered silently as her pulse quickened. She had seen her pastor father, sweat beading over his whole body, pray for hours over her anguished, shrieking, possessed cousin. She had seen the black tarantula-like holographic creatures exiting from his mouth at the end. “Thank you for the warning.”
Rayna climbed into the Jeep and the all-wheel drive vehicle gingerly navigated through the inches of water and out of the hotel compound.
By then it was 9:30 am, and the rains had started to subside. Rayna could see shafts of welcome sunlight poking through the canopy of trees. Ophelia had rendered conditions so treacherous that the crammed-to-the-gills Jeep literally had to inch through potholes, waterlogged sections of road, fallen or uprooted trees, branches, and debris at a blistering… fifteen miles an hour. The boredom was only alleviated by the constant peril of the jeep crashing or getting stuck in one of the many road hazards.
It was almost three o’clock and it had taken nearly six hours to travel the sixty miles to Jimani. The rains had stopped, and Rayna and Steve saw the town of twenty thousand preparing for life. Vendors were starting to set up their produce stands, kids played in the mud puddles, and waiters from an open-air restaurant pulled out chairs and tables back onto the sidewalk.
Over the sound of random gunfire and the sense of palpable danger, it cost Steve twenty-five bucks to cross the barely controlled border into Malpasse.
The first thing he and Rayna saw were over a hundred Haitian refugees being harassed by Haitian border officials after Dominican soldiers shoved them across. It was hard to believe that there could be such a difference between the two border towns. Even though Jimani was one of the poorest places in the Dominican Republic, everyone had enough food to eat, access to potable drinking water, electricity… and a spark of life.
Definitely not so in Malpasse.
Squalid tents were mixed with a scattering of ramshackle shacks fashioned with tarp and rusty sheets of metal.
Aimless random young men wandered about in military camouflage uniforms carrying M-16s.
Scavengers ignored the probability of disease as they cut the flesh off dead livestock. Begging mothers and children hoping for any kind of handout completed the dismal panorama.
Reaching the end of the village, Steve saw only a dirt road. “I guess that’s where we’re going.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t seem there are any other choices,” replied Rayna with a critical grunt.
Steve navigated slowly down an uninhabited two-mile stretch of thick sludge, swerving around giant puddles, trash, and potholes. With comms still not working, there was no way to verify with Giorgio how far away they were.
They were just on the verge of turning around when Rayna’s keen ears heard a soft anguished bleating. Scouring the surroundings, she saw an emaciated goat being toted by a young girl, its weight almost dragging her to the ground.
“Follow her,” commanded Rayna, and the Jeep traversed maybe another quarter mile when they found their destination—a squalid nameless camp of two hundred shell-shocked mud-caked Haitians, sickly, starved and scared. All were wearing filthy shorts or jeans, and T-shirts that had more holes than fabric.
Her stomach churned.
Futility engulfed this shanty town. Lifeless eyes, nauseating stench of pus, not a sign of any health professional or aid worker…
But what overwhelmed Rayna’s heart was the sight of a teenage mother, cradling her bloated, starving baby… and there was nothing she could do. The child was close to death and Ophelia had likely slammed the coffin lid on any possibility of survival.
She lowered her gaze, pinched her eyes shut, and murmured a silent prayer. Over the years, seeing hopeless lives without a future was something Rayna had become inured to. It was the only way anyone could exist in Afghanistan or Syria. Survival of the fittest was more than a Darwinian cliche, psychologically, physically and emotionally.
Feeling the Jeep shuddering slightly, Rayna opened her eyes and saw a man, more skeletal than scrawny, feebly trying to break into the vehicle. Jumping down from her seat, she effortlessly pulled one would-be thief off the door handle by his soaking T-shirt.
The shirt ripped, exposing the man’s upper body. It was not sweat that caused it to be wet. It was pus that had leaked from his chest.
Steve’s diagnosis was instantaneous when he saw blackened flesh. “I’ve got to cut the dead flesh out, scrub out the pus and then give him antibiotics. He’s got to go to the hospital too.”
Swallowing a bitter taste of bile, Rayna closed her eyes, pressing her palm against her forehead. The truth slammed her hard.
“And what about the rest, Steve? If I drive them back to Malpasse and somehow make it across the border to Jimani, all I’m going to do is bring them to a different place to die. If they stay here, at least they will be with people who love them.”
She stifled another gag when she saw an eight-year-old boy with a crushed left leg covered in dried blood. Rayna had seen injuries like this in Afghanistan. Because the bone was broken, the muscles would contract and the pointed edges of the bone ends might cut muscle and maybe the femoral artery. She had to make a traction splint. Who knew when help might be available but if the kid was lucky, the splint would provide stability and help reduce the pain until help came. Rayna looked around but there were no boards or anything that would work.
She handed him a couple of painkillers and forced them down his throat.
Next.
A young girl who had a deep laceration held out her arm to Rayna. Even though the wound was open and unbandaged, there was no pus. This was an easy job. Clean, antibiotics and bandage.
Suddenly, two gunshots cracked out. Instinctively, Rayna dropped to the ground like a meteor as the rounds snapped by. Swiveling around to the source of the deadly cacophony, she saw the barrels of two old assault rifles directed at her and Steve. They were gripped tightly by a pair of young men with coal-black skin, their sparse frames covered with wiry muscle. The old jagged scars on their faces and arms showed that they were used to violence and not to be taken lightly.
As she reached for the gun given to her by Rodrigo, one of the boys stepped up and frisked her. Discovering the pistol, he took it and stuck it between his body and his jeans. He spat on the ground, then aimed at Rayna and shot at her head.
The bullet missed her right ear by six inches. The teenager taunted, “Next time, I won’t miss.”
“What do you want from us?” Steve barked.
The eyes of the other boy seared into him. “You are a doctor. We have a patient for you. The son of our leader. And if you don’t come, we will shoot you now.”
8
The Shantytown
Steve and Rayna had seen thousands of men and women like their two captors.
For Steve, it was when he was with the medical relief team in Cite Soleil. The reputation for the “City of the Sun” in Haiti’s capital Port au Prince was well deserving of its reputation as one of the most dangerous places on earth. Gun-waving, doped-up young men formed violent street gangs, getting their jollies by engaging in drug trafficking, robbery, murder, and kidnapping. Promiscuous violence accompanying criminal activity was common as the thugs shocked, threatened and intimidated the slum’s denizens.
For Rayna, it was in more than fifty cities, towns, and villages in the Middle East when she was part of the Canadian military and witnessed the horrors of Islamic terrorists. Torture, gruesome butchering of men, women and children, stoning to death, beheading… all justified by a violent ideology that claimed religious authority over all Muslims.
For both of them, the authorities were not only ineffective, often they were complicit in crime and became an illicit power structure on their own. International assistance was just another source of graft.
“Where are we going?” asked Steve. “What patients are you talking about?”
There were only two seats available in the Jeep. Steve motioned for Rayna to get in.
“No!” said the teen who had shot at Rayna. “You walk. If she dies, no one cares. But you must stay alive and have energy.”
The other teen hissed a curse, and then motioned with his rifle for Steve to get into the driver’s seat. He kept the gun’s sights fixed on the physician as he climbed into the passenger’s seat.
The other gang member aimed his weapon directly at Rayna. “You walk in front. I tell you where to go.”
As she jerked her head around to face the mucky path, Rayna was struck by the thought. He’s just a kid.
With every footstep into the inches of quagmire, Rayna stifled the rising sense of dread that threatened to explode her heart. Not for herself; the chance of violent death was always lurking in her occupation.
But Steve? He was a compassionate doctor, used to the controlled environment of a well-equipped emergency room. Yes, there was the grim reality of death, but it was not his own and he would be given every opportunity to prevent it in his patients.
Knowing the futility of trying to escape, Rayna focused on two things, one military, one spiritual.
Throughout her army and special ops training, SERE was drilled into her. Survival. Evasion. Resistance. Escape.
She could easily have escaped in the early moments of their abduction. Their young captors had no knowledge of her special ops skills. A quick attack would have shocked them. They would never expect a slight Asian woman to be a tiger.
But she decided that she had to stay being their prisoner. Much as complying with the enemy was not in her nature, she felt that she had no choice. Steve didn’t have her skills, and she was inexperienced at jungle stalking in adverse weather.
As they stepped through the muck, Rayna forced herself to concentrate on a Bible verse she had memorized when she was two-years old. The words from Psalm 23 had carried her through the darkest times in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria… Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For Thou are with me.
As if psychic, the young goon angrily shoved the rifle’s barrel in harder into the top of her thoracic spine. Ignoring the threat, Rayna’s calculating mind centered on how she might try to distract him. If she were successful, she could swivel around and snatch the long-barreled firearm, and with two quick shots, main or kill both captors.
She asked innocently, “What are your names?”
The young man barked, “Emil. The driver is Jean. Why do you want to know?”
; “Because I want to know who it is I’m killing,” snarled Rayna whipping around. However, Emil had kept the weapon steady so she had no chance to snatch it from him. She scowled, returning the anger in Emil’s gaze.
“Shut up and keep walking. I am the one who will be doing the killing,” said Emil, firming up his grip on the weapon.
So much for that plan; Emil was unfazed by her threat.
As they continued, Rayna made a mental map, taking special note of guideposts. A tattered red tent, five stones placed in the bed of a rivulet to walk over, a dead mangy dog by the skeleton of a tree…
Not that it mattered much. There was only one muddy path to travel on but habits die hard.
Then, Rayna’s mouth went dry. She wasn’t sure whether this was genuine or psychosomatic but she felt her face, neck and torso heating up. Her mosquito repellant had worn off and she had gotten at least five mosquito bites. The aerial buzzing of more malaria-causing insects made her dizzy, and she had to force herself to stay mentally alert as they continued.
After half an hour they were out of the shanty town, out of the mud and out of the pebbled road. Now they traveled on a steaming mucky trail by a series of small hills. The deforestation that had raped so much of Haiti’s natural beauty had disappeared. Light shrubbery poked through the mud and soon they were walking among a Haitian rarity—a small area of verdant trees, full of foliage.
Rayna glanced behind. The narrow, rough path was barely wide enough for the Jeep to squeeze through as it gamely followed. However, tree roots wreaked havoc with the ride. The wheels in Rayna’s brain were rolling as she tried to figure out a plan of action. She was sure that the vehicle’s transmission wouldn’t hold up for much longer, especially if conditions worsened.
Without warning, Emil barked, “We are almost there.” He hoisted his rifle from Rayna’s backside and shot into the air.