by Wes Lowe
Davy took a deep thoughtful breath before continuing. “And we got to bring someone else onboard. We need Willie to focus on building a number of custom dirty bombs, which will take up a lot of his time.”
Carter argued, “It shouldn’t be that hard.”
“Yes, it will, because I want them to be shielded with lead and I’m thinking we need some specialized explosives.”
“We have the ingredients for TATP that Willie got,” said Carter.
“Yeah, we might use that, but Willie doesn’t know how to take apart the devices and extract the radioactive material from them. I’ll dig up someone. How about you? We still need cash.”
Carter smiled deviously. “We are going to get the money through my father. I am going to humiliate him and he won’t know what hit him.”
14
Hirees
Three days later, Davy called Carter back for a video chat. “I’ve studied everything at CNP and come up with a plan. We are going to target two areas at CNP with our bombs. Both can potentially cause cataclysmic releases of radiation.”
“I’ve got something too,” said Carter eagerly to Davy’s image on his cell phone. “But you first.”
Davy explained thoughtfully. “The first is the waste pools where the spent fuel rods are stored. In most places, the pools are stored below ground under forty feet of water, but at CNP the pools are above ground. This makes our job a hell of a lot easier, and spent fuel rods can deliver a very high dose of radiation. We’ll plant one bomb that will crack the pool and drain away the water. Once the water is gone, another bomb that we will have placed directly in the pool will detonate and start the fission chain reaction.”
“That’s one,” said Carter. “How about the other?”
“The second option has a higher potential for damage but is more dangerous. Because they are in the decommissioning process, there isn’t much water around the nuclear reactor. Someone will have to climb down at least a hundred feet with bombs that will weigh a hundred or more pounds each. However, if we can do this, we can achieve a core meltdown once the bombs explode.”
Core meltdown. Even though it had been years since he and Davy visited Chernobyl, the effects of the catastrophic core meltdown were indelibly etched into his brain. Explosion, nuclear fuel released into the atmosphere, and even today, areas thousands of miles away were still affected.,
“So what do we do?” asked Carter.
“We are going to build a number of suitcase style bombs, but we have to improvise as we will combine a number of different sources of radioactive material along with conventional explosives. Also, they are going to be on the heavier side—a hundred and fifty pounds or so, as I want there to be lead shielding so we won’t get fried to a crisp. Depending on how much fissile material we get, we will build four bombs; two will be placed at the spent fuel pools, two at the nuclear reactor.”
“Let’s do it,” said Carter. “When can we start?”
Davy gave a slow shake of his head. “Not so fast. The chances of us getting a radiology equipment repair technician who is capable of dismantling medical or engineering radiological equipment on short notice to work for us are slim to none. It’s not the cost—these guys can be had for $50,000 a year. But finding someone who will do what we need to do isn’t easy. With employment growing in healthcare service and a greater demand for those who can maintain and repair this complex equipment, these guys have no problem staying legit.”
“Let me deal with it. Scumbags are my specialty. You’ll have someone who can do the job by the weekend.”
On Saturday, Carter called back. “Will this do? Sonny Hawkins is a crackerjack with televisions.”
“Are you crazy? A TV repairman is not a radiology equipment repair man,” argued Davy.
“No, he’s not, but listen to me. He can take apart and fix anything electronic. The only reason he’s out of work is that he’s fifty and it’s now cheaper for manufacturers to replace defective sets with new ones instead of repairing them.”
“Taking apart an X-Ray machine is not the same as dismantling an ancient Sony Trinitron tv.”
Carter argued, “He’s a fast learner, he’s cheap, and he has no substance abuse issues. Plus there’s a bonus—the dude is as strong as a mule. I can keep looking, but I think Sonny will do just fine,”
Davy realized that they didn’t have any choice if they wanted to get started quickly. “Hire him.”
There was a second person Carter brought onboard that he didn’t tell Davy about. That was because he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to fit in just yet. But Carter was positive that he would need the parrot-nosed Diego Gonzalez, and knew that Davy would appreciate Diego’s talents.
Money alone could not buy Diego. Nor could threats of force.
But revenge could. In the privacy of his Mercedes S 500, he made a private call to the Tier One assassin.
“Hello,” growled a man with a Mexican accent.
“It’s Carter, Diego. I’m sorry to hear about your loss.”
There was a thirty-second rant that was a Spanish lexicon of the foulest vulgarity imaginable. Diego was speaking so quickly Carter didn’t understand most of what he was saying, but he caught the essence. He was cussing a blue streak bout Manuel Rodríguez, leader of the Los Temidos, the “Feared Ones” Cartel.
Originally from Mexico City, Diego was a smaller but important player in the importation of drugs into the United States. Diego, like his brother, José , had worked for Manuel. Diego was the cartel’s enforcer, responsible for keeping the others in line. José was Manuel’s ambitious right hand man.
But that ambition was not seen as an asset to the Los Temidos leader, especially when José pushed for a more aggressive infiltration into Texas because of the growing Hispanic community, and offered to head the operation.
Manuel, the dictator, brooked no input from underlings and saw José’s suggestion as a threat to his own power. He ordered Diego to execute his brother. Diego proved his loyalty and shot his brother in the head without complaint. It was a lesson that put fear into everyone that worked for the cartel boss.
It was a decision that Diego had been boxed into. Had he not fulfilled Manuel’s order, both he and his brother would be dead.
“Whoa, Diego. Chill. I have a job for you that is outside of the firm.”
“You know I no can accept outside contract,” blustered Diego, doubly cautious because of what happened to his brother.
On occasion, Sommers Dawson Archer had engaged Diego to remove certain ‘problem persons.’ In exchange for his hefty fees, Diego agreed to be absolutely discreet and not hire out his services to other law firms. When Carter was lower on the firm’s pecking order, he had been selected to be the go-between for SDA and Diego. This was a symbiotic relationship—in exchange for Diego’s services, Los Temidos had occasional need for discreet legal expertise.
“This is not about money. This is about honor and payback against Manuel,” said Carter undaunted, doing his best to hide his frazzled nerves while trying to do a deal with a ruthless killer with over five hundred assassinations to his credit.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Carter knew that Diego was trying to assess whether he was being genuine or setting him up. Finally, the Mexican said, “I’m not stupid. That is how I stay alive.”
Carter was relieved. At least the conversation would continue. “I completely understand, but like you, this situation is not about money, but family.”
“I am listening,” said Diego cautiously.
“Manuel has been in touch with my father-in-law Enrique Lopez, the CEO of Gulf Oil & Gas, hoping that he will launder some of his money. My father-in-law wants nothing to do with it and asked me to help with handling Manuel.”
Handling Manuel. In other words, kill him. That was a death sentence. Much as he wanted personal revenge for his brother, he valued his own life even more. “Impossible,” said Diego.
“No, it’s not. Let me tell you
my plan.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Carter outlined a huge fabrication of intrigue.
Diego agreed immediately, again proving what Hitler wrote in Mein Kempf. ”In the big lie there is always a certain force of credibility.”
Carter’s story of his father-in-law doing a deal with Manuel was the big lie. No such arrangements between Enrique and Manuel were under discussion, but Carter knew that Diego had no way of finding out.
With the reptilian Diego onboard, Carter breathed an audible sigh of relief. In any of the dealings he had with the Mexican assassin, he always felt he was just a gunshot away from being killed. Thankfully, with his plan—and a promised fee of $50,000 dollars, those shots would be taken at someone else.
Now, to nail down the CNP insider…
15
The Insider
One Month Ago
* * *
Becky’s throat parched with fear. At her last glowing appraisal only two weeks ago, the probationary maintenance worker was unofficially told that she was a shoo-in to get hired on a permanent fulltime basis.
And then she got the letter, one that she had read a hundred times since walking out to her mailbox this morning.
* * *
February 17, 2019
* * *
James Howard
Manager of Human Resources
Connorville Nuclear Power
14 Amherst Ave.
Stamford, CT 06907
* * *
Dear REBECCA STEWART:
I regret to inform you that your employment with Connorville Nuclear Power will be terminated. As required by law, this notice will take place in four weeks. Your last day of employment will be on March 3, 2019.
We recognize and appreciate the effort you invested in your position during your probationary period. Unfortunately, your work performance has been substandard and not met Connorville Nuclear Power’s expectations.
* * *
We will process your Record of Employment and your outstanding wages on the next scheduled pay period. These documents will be mailed to your home.
* * *
We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
* * *
Yours truly,
James Howard
Connorville Nuclear Power
* * *
Becky’s gut twisted into a tight knot. Hopelessly balling up her fists, she screamed in despair. “That’s total bullshit. I was a star and did everything they wanted to. That bastard, James. He told me himself that I was the best new hire he ever had. He lied to me. He lied to me.”
Pounding the aged floral wallpaper of her house with a balled fist, almost punching a hole in the wall, she vowed to no one in particular, “If I’m going down, I’m going to take the bastards with me.” Striding the dozen steps to her kitchen table, she plopped herself in front of her computer. After fifteen minutes she had written two hundred words of invective-filled prose to post on social media.
Do you know what those bastards at CNP did to me?
After finishing, she posted the article anonymously on every single social media platform that she could think of, and then sent it to newspapers, blogs and news media.
And then she started her next post.
CNP are the scum of the earth.
After finishing that post, she started another, then another…
As one of the lawyers on the CNP file, Carter thought it was pure irony that he was getting paid to research and assist with a company that in short order he was going to annihilate. As part of ‘client relations,’ he was charged with trying to appease some of the company’s attackers.
While there were a few stupid souls that revealed their identities, the greater number consisted of anonymous persons with handles that included #madashellCNP, #CNPisisthedevil, and #CNPlies, who were lighting up social media and other online distribution portals with a variety of posts ranting about this evil company who lied to and betrayed their employees.
* * *
CNP is a two-faced fraudster.
* * *
CNP lies to its employees.
* * *
The bastards at CNP couldn’t care less about their workers.
* * *
CNP are the scum of the earth.
* * *
CNP. They are just wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
* * *
CNP. Rats in the office. And I don’t mean the furry ones.
* * *
CNP. A pack of liars.
* * *
CNP. Nuke ‘em Danno.
* * *
CNP. BS coming out of the front and back end.
* * *
How much do you hate CNP? I would kill every last one of the bastards if I could. Kill them dead.
* * *
Carter compiled a list of the posts, complete with their handles and IP addresses. While he could have gotten one of the firm’s IT staff to handle the job, he wanted no one at the firm to know anything about his plans. Things were dangerous enough. He sent the small document on one of his untraceable phones to another untraceable phone, along with a text.
Can you track these people down see what else they’ve written, and whether any of them are candidates to be our insider at CNP.
He made a call.
James Howard, CNP’s Human Resources manager, his assistant, Bernie Patterson, and Caitlyn Blake from communications sat in a CNP conference room, perusing the blast of negative publicity and trying to figure out how to deal with the PR nightmare of negative social media.
“This is a PR disaster. How many people are involved? Who have we pissed off?” asked Caitlyn.
“The second question is easier than the first,” answered Bernie. “Probably every employee, including myself, is pissed. Hell, I don’t want to move a thousand miles to get a job in another plant. My kids love their school, my wife’s in the middle of her contract, and with CNP closing, who in his right mind would want to buy our house in a town with our biggest employer shutting down? I feel like blasting the bastards too.”
“Hey, we gotta deal with it. I’m mad as hell too but we gotta smile and put up. If we don’t and get fired for cause, you get nada,” reminded Caitlyn. “James, do you know have any idea on who or how many are involved. Bernie’s tracked hundreds of tweets and posts.”
“How should I know?” replied James. “I’m no technical genius. I’m just an HR guy.”
“Exactly. But it’s your job to know what’s going on in people’s brains. Go through all those performance reports. Maybe there’s a clue there somewhere.”
The telephone rang.
James picked up and answered, “Katie, we’re in a meeting.”
A young woman’s voice replied, “Yes, I know, but Carter Johnson said to put him through.”
The HR Manager growled, “At eight hundred and fifty an hour, I better take it now.”
He punched the speakerphone option and Carter came online. “Hey, you guys have a problem. Social media is killing you.”
James was in a foul mood and had no qualms of letting it show. “Tell me something I don’t know. Why’d you call?”
“Well, I thought I would give you some freebie advice,” said the smooth talking lawyer.
“Free is not a word I’ve ever had associated with Sommers Dawson Archer,” coughed the HR manager.
“Yeah, well, I’m feeling generous. The best way to counter the negative publicity is to loosen up; let the public come in and take a look around to see that there are still a ton of employees at CNP.”
James cleared his throat and spoke with a reluctant low voice. “That’s not what I’m worried about… We’ve been a little lax on the safety side.”
“Do you think the anti-nuke crazies can tell the difference? Of course not. You gotta get PR on your side.”
“Yeah, sounds good, Carter. I’ll run it up the flagpole and see who salutes,” replied James unconvincingly.
“Do that,” said Carter quietly. “But don
’t let anyone at SDA know the idea came from me. They’ll kill me if they knew I had just given away a few free hours researching this and calling you.”
“No worries about that.”
Carter eased back in his office chair. The main reason he didn’t want it showing up as a billable hour is that he didn’t want to take even the smallest chance that anyone might trace the impending disaster back to him.
Three hours later, his private cell rang.
“Looks like CNP has a fan club,” chuckled Davy at the other end of the line. “I had a look at all of them and more than ninety percent came from the same person, even though she tried to disguise herself by using different social media handles.”
“She?”
“Yup. Rebecca or ‘Becky’ Stewart was CNP’s first job casualty. She was hired three months ago as one of half a dozen probationary “maintenance technicians.” That’s a fancy way of saying ‘entry level maintenance job’ that requires her to do a whole bunch of shit including painting, plumbing, fumigating, collecting and sorting radiological waste, and so forth” expounded Davy.
Carter clicked his tongue. “So if she worked everywhere, she’s probably got a good idea of CNP’s layout and the functions of each room.”