JET V - Legacy

by Blake, Russell

  “The implications of the explosion are not good. Already questions are being raised about where the device could have come from. I don’t need to remind everyone of the possible consequences, do I?”

  “No. Which is why this has always been a concern. It does not take a genius to figure out that whoever got their hands on the devices did not do so because they wanted to collect hazardous waste. We have followed up on every lead to surface since the invasion, but they have all turned into dead ends,” Grigorovich said. “There were rumors that the Iraqi regime had acquired them from the black market, but this was pure speculation. I think it is safe to say that if there were any WMDs in Iraq, we would have heard about it by now. God knows the Americans turned over every cursed rock in the place.”

  “May I point out that there is nothing implicating the Army in any wrongdoing here?” General Esina interrupted. “It’s not as if we sold suitcase nukes to anybody.”

  “Nobody is pointing fingers. We are trying to understand how two nuclear weapons can disappear without a trace, so we know what we are up against. Because make no mistake – if the Somali detonation was one of ours, it will eventually come out. And, heaven forbid, if it was a Russian-manufactured device, and there is another one floating around to be used in some sort of a terrorist attack, it will ultimately be traced back to us, and then, regardless of what explanation we offer, there will be a backlash like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Sureyev warned with a scowl.

  “Are we sure about how many are…unaccounted for?” Malerov asked.

  “Two. There can be no doubt,” Sureyev snapped.

  The GRU man nodded assent. “We hoped that by now they wouldn’t be usable. The devices needed to be kept under power, and the components used and the battery backups were…primitive. All our experts assured us that at this point they were no longer a threat. I think it is safe to say, based on yesterday’s detonation, that assessment was, mmm, overly optimistic, at best.”

  “Just how long have we known about this?” Esina asked.

  “We have been aware of the missing units for two decades. But that is not the issue at this point. What matters is that we are finally sure – after the Army, the GRU, and the FSB wasted massive amounts of time pointing fingers and stating categorically that the danger was long past – that one of the devices was used, albeit for unknown purposes,” Sureyev said, glaring at all four men. “But now that one has exploded, there can be no higher priority than locating the final missing device. We can run for cover and insist that we are not behind this, and considering the strange detonation site, that point is plausible; but further denials will not be accepted if the other one is used on a populated target. All that anyone will care about is that the bomb originally came from Russia. Which makes it your problem. All of you. Let us not forget that we are still living down the Litvinenko poisoning. The world does not trust us, and this would give it every reason to justify that stance.”

  “My people tell me that all of the units have been inoperable for years. The batteries dead, beyond salvaging, and many of the parts degraded to the point of obsolescence,” Grigorovich said.

  “True,” Tomkin said, speaking for the first time. “But with the right kind of expertise, alternatives have obviously been found. Technology has come a long way since the mid-eighties. In light of yesterday’s event, we have to assume that someone was able to fashion a workaround.”

  “How difficult would it be to retrofit one?” Esina asked.

  “That is debatable,” Tomkin said. “Let’s just say that it is more than achievable. I think we can agree that this isn’t theoretical any longer. A skilled technician with the right equipment and expertise could arm one. Fundamentally, the technology is not really so complicated. It is a relatively straightforward device.”

  “But limited, correct? Five kilotons?” Malerov asked.

  “A third of the size of Hiroshima,” Tomkin said.

  “Not so large, then,” Esina observed. “More effective to achieve shock and awe than total destruction.”

  “Depends on who you ask, I would say,” Sureyev remarked, his tone icy. “Imagine one being detonated in Vatican City. Or downtown London. Or Moscow. Never mind the initial fireball and blast damage – consider the radiation and psychological effect as well. Does anyone want to argue that would not be an unparalleled disaster?”

  “No question it would be…problematic,” General Esina conceded.

  Everyone fell silent.

  Eventually, Tomkin shook his head. “It would be big enough,” the GRU man said quietly.

  Sureyev shifted and then leaned forward, glaring across the desk. “We need to track it down. You are here to tell me where and how we must begin. It is not as though we can just shrug our shoulders and wait for the other one to go off. What steps can be implemented, immediately, to locate it?” he demanded.

  Twenty minutes later the only thing the gathering had agreed on was that the situation was potentially catastrophic, and could not only bring down the regime, but cause global chaos.

  Suitcase nukes – portable tactical nuclear weapons – had been dismissed by the western media as a non-issue, a red herring, the stuff of overactive imaginations, largely due to a sustained public relations campaign by the Russian government stemming from the discovery of the missing devices in the early nineties. But now that one had exploded, all that expensive spin would quickly count for nothing, and the first country everyone would suspect would be Russia – for very good reason.

  During the Cold War, the Soviet Union had built dozens of the portable nuclear devices and shipped them into the field, so-called “suitcase nukes” because they were compact and weighed only sixty pounds. The instructions had been clear – if war broke out, the devices were to be detonated near strategic targets, the obliteration of which would materially disrupt the U.S.’s ability to fight. The same had been done with a variety of biological warfare agents, to be dumped into the nation’s rivers and reservoirs.

  When the Soviet Union had started coming apart in the late 1980s, the units were recalled from not only Europe and the U.S., but also the satellite countries where they had been deployed for use against the civilian populations in the case of widespread rebellion. But two had failed to materialize – the pair that had been in the Ukraine. The base where they had been stored had been presumed impenetrable, but as the regime lost its grip on the region, larceny had resulted in a security breach the likes of which had never been encountered before.

  When the smoke cleared, the devices were deemed missing without a trace, leaving the deteriorating Soviet administration without a clue as to who might have taken them. Originally, it was suspected that the new Ukrainian government had secreted them away to be used as a bargaining chip; but after a multi-year investigation, that was deemed a dead end. For Russia, it was every nuclear-equipped government’s worst-case scenario, but one that had faded over time as the usable life expectancy had expired. Until now.

  Esina and Malerov exited the meeting with considerably less spring in their steps than when they’d entered, and as they stalked from the minister’s offices, both men had scowls on their faces that would have been enough to send their subordinates running for cover. One thing was obvious as they emerged into the cold gray light of late morning, pausing on the steps of the Kremlin, eyeing the soldiers in the light snow standing rigid as statues in their dress uniforms.

  Their lives had just changed dramatically, and they’d now devote every waking moment of their existence to locating the missing bomb – or die trying.

  Chapter 9

  Present day, Tucson, Arizona

  The freeway exit resembled countless others Jet and Matt had passed during their marathon drive from Washington, D.C., but the Explorer needed gas and they were near enough to their stopping point in Tucson to justify pulling off the road and finding a hotel for the night. Tomorrow would have them crossing into Mexico, and then, with any luck at all, driving to the first airport and catchi
ng a flight to Mexico City, from where they could get to Uruguay so Jet could finally reunite with Hannah and put the entire ordeal of the last weeks behind her.

  It was already dark, the sky clear as only the high desert night can be, the twinkling tapestry of stars breathtaking and immediate. They filled the SUV with gas and drove down the frontage road that paralleled the freeway until they came to a two-story strip motel that looked no worse than anything else they’d passed.

  “This’ll do. How are you feeling? Up for some dinner?” Matt asked, eyeing the dreary stucco façade and anonymous styling as they pulled into a parking slot near the office.

  “Sure. I’ll tell you what, being cooped up in this rattlebox is already getting old. Let’s get a couple of rooms and then see if there’s a downtown where we can stretch our legs a little while we find a restaurant,” she said.

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll go book the digs. Be back in a second.”

  Jet watched as Matt strode to the office, which she could see through its picture window was filled with glossy brochures and factory-manufactured art exuding plastic cheer. She closed her eyes. Only another day or two and she’d be back with her daughter Hannah, finally able to begin her new life. But one completely different than the one she’d envisioned a week ago, when Alan had been alive and everything had seemed possible. How quickly things could change, she mused – in the blink of an eye she’d lost him. And then Matt, whom she’d believed dead, had suddenly reappeared…

  She’d spent much of the last forty-eight hours thinking about that abrupt reversal in her fortunes. There had always been a powerful attraction between herself and Matt, but she’d presumed him dead in Thailand; and then Alan had entered her life and everything had gotten complicated.

  A few minutes later Matt swung the glass office door open and stepped outside. She studied his face as he approached – strong jaw, definitely handsome, but shopworn in an interesting way – the face of a man who had lived, who had spent time outdoors, and who had seen joy as well as horror. But most of all, right now, a man who looked tired, with several days’ growth of stubble and a preoccupied air, the sort of daze usually seen on passengers disembarking from transatlantic flights. They could definitely use a little rest. Neither had slept much the night before, and their driving day had begun at dawn.

  “Voilà. You have the honeymoon suite. Hot tub in the bedroom, pink champagne on ice…” He opened the door and handed her a room key. “Ground floor. Number eighteen. I’m in twenty-two.”

  “Champagne? More like one of those vibrating bed things that costs a quarter, by the looks of this place,” Jet said.

  “Don’t knock those. I once went through five dollars before I figured out it wasn’t a slot machine. My teeth are still loose from the experience.”

  She smiled and peered past him at the motel. “How long do you need before we go for dinner?”

  “Maybe half an hour? I really want to take a shower,” Matt said, moving to the rear of the truck and opening the cargo door. “That work for you?”

  “You bet,” Jet said, and hopped out of the passenger seat to join him. She grabbed her overnight bag and shouldered it. “Which way?”

  “Down at the far end, looks like.”

  “Did you get any dining recommendations?”

  “There’s an area downtown that has a bunch of southwestern places. That seems to be the draw here.”

  “Southwestern?”

  “Expensive Mexican.”

  “Ah. Enchiladas with attitude.”

  “Exactly. Twenty-dollar mango margaritas with almost no tequila in them.”

  “Sounds heavenly…”

  They found their rooms, and Jet collapsed onto the bed before forcing herself back upright and into the bathroom. After a long hot shower she felt more human, and she took her time, enjoying not being in a headlong rush for once. Washington and all the killing seemed a million miles away now, and even though they’d only left two days earlier it could have been an eternity – part of another life, a chapter thankfully closed for good.

  As she towel-dried her hair, her thoughts lingered on Matt. He’d just naturally accompanied her. It had never even really been an option to go their separate ways again after the assault on Arthur’s compound…and Alan’s death. Ostensibly, he was going with her to recover his diamonds, but they both knew that there was more to it than that. At least they had time, now, with no deadlines or pressure. Time to explore the energy that crackled between them whenever they were close…

  She knocked on his door, her hair still damp, and he greeted her, barefoot, wearing jeans and a dark blue button-up silk shirt with a stylized martini glass and brand name boldly embroidered on the back. Very American, she thought fleetingly as he welcomed her in.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” he said, gesturing to the two chairs by the window.

  “No problem. So…do they pay you to advertise stuff on your clothes?”

  He laughed, his face lighting up at the unexpected question. “No, but now that you mention it, they should. These things actually cost more because of the design…”

  “The American consumer is never short of things to spend his money on, is he?”

  “More the global consumer, nowadays. But yes, it’s amusing that we’ve had to invent ways to spend a hundred fifty bucks on a ten-dollar shirt. I’m told it’s good for the economy, though,” Matt said, sliding his shoes on.

  She noted he had shaved, and again remarked to herself that he was a good-looking man. “Then why does the economy suck?”

  “I haven’t bought enough shirts, I guess.”

  “Selfish bastard, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t know the half of it. This is a knockoff I got in Thailand.”

  Jet held his gaze and they both smiled at the same time. “What’s for dinner? You going to keep starving me?” she asked.

  “After the mastodon steak in Dallas, I’d have thought you’d sworn off food for a month.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just getting started. Got to keep my strength up.”

  “Excellent. I figured we could head downtown, park, and walk around till we see something promising.”

  “Lead the way. I’ve got all my stuff locked in the room safe. You have money?”

  Matt patted his pants. “Big wad of green so I can show the lady a good time.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  They spent twenty minutes strolling along the sidewalks with the other evening pedestrians, ambling with no particular destination in the balmy night air, the temperature perfect. Eventually Jet took Matt’s arm and pulled him toward an upscale restaurant with a Mexican courtyard theme, and in moments they were at a cozy table near one of the oversized windows, surrounded by well-heeled diners. Music seeped softly from hidden speakers, a sultry melody with a crooning male singer just loud enough to embellish the backdrop of chatting patrons. After studying the menu for a few minutes, they made their selections and settled back into their seats.

  “So mañana, huh? We’re headed down Mexico way? Kind of exciting, don’t you think?” Matt asked.

  “I’ll never be happier than when we’re across the border. Let’s just say I don’t have particularly fond memories of the U.S.”

  “No, I don’t expect you would after the last week. Frankly, I’ve been away for so long that it seems more of a foreign country to me than Thailand. I guess you acclimate to whatever you’re around, and that becomes your norm…”

  “That has to be weird for you. I mean, this place is so…big. Everything’s big. Big roads, big cars, big malls, big portions, and big people. Almost the polar opposite of Thailand.”

  “Yes, and everything is clean, have you noticed? We’re obsessed with hygiene. Most everywhere we’ve stopped has been spotless by Thai standards.”

  “By Mexican standards, too. Wait till you cross the border. Have you ever been?” Jet asked.

  The waitress arrived with their drinks and deposited them before turning to ta
ke another order at one of the tables across from them.

  “Years ago. At least twenty.”

  “Wow.”

  “You probably hadn’t been born yet.”

  “Tell me what it was like back then. Did they have electricity? Did everyone ride horses? Were you raised in a mud hut?” Jet teased, taking a sip of her drink – something red with a fruity name.

  “It was primitive. People listened to music on these disks called CDs, and the former vice president still hadn’t invented the internet, so people still talked to each other. And cell phones were becoming a big deal – but they didn’t do anything but call other phones. It was like living in caves,” Matt explained.

  “Wow. Had they invented Viagra yet?”

  “They were dark times, young lady,” he intoned solemnly, taking a pull on his artisanal beer. “No joking matter. There was no reality TV, and it could take hours to get a message to someone. You would actually have to write something and put it on a scanner and then send it across phone lines using a primitive device called a fax machine.”

  “I think I saw one of those in a museum, next to the stone axes.”

  They were interrupted by an elaborately coiffed server carrying their meals, which he placed on the table with a flourish before automatically asking whether they would like anything else. Jet shook her head and the young man threw her a wan smile and then sashayed away to care for other diners.

  “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? I mean no matter where we are in the world now, technology is there. Even in the jungles of Laos or Myanmar, you’ll see a smuggler with an iPod,” Matt said, taking a taste of his chicken. “Wow. This is pretty good.”

  “And there’s a lot of it, I see. Do they make the chickens here lift weights or something? That looks like a turkey breast in cheese sauce. It’s the size of your head,” Jet said, then took a bite of her soft taco.

  Dinner passed with agreeable banter, Jet and Matt enjoying each other’s company, already easy together, as if he hadn’t just reappeared from the dead after many months of absence. When the bill came, he paid it and then they strolled down the street, Jet clasping his arm, as naturally as if they’d been an item for years.