Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  “You weren’t here then, Tupy, All the people left after the great fire. Nineteen eighty-six. I was much younger then…” Alexi ran his tongue over the gums where his teeth had been. They’d all fallen out in the years since the accident. Then, as now, he lived with his mother, raising vegetables on the half-acre plot behind their tiny clapboard house on the edge of the village.

  “Almost everyone back then worked at the plant. But not me. I was perfectly content with the life of a farmer.” He spit on the ground. “Ech. No, you wouldn’t have gotten me to work at the reactor, even though the pay was better. I’d much rather live with manure under my fingernails than with the rotten stink of Chernobyl.”

  The sound of a klaxon drifted through the empty pines, echoing off the abandoned and derelict homes that made up the village. Alexi grimaced at the sound. “Fifteen minutes, Tupy. That’s all they work now. Before, they only changed shift four times a day. Now, it’s every fifteen minutes. Did I tell you the story before?”

  If the horse had heard it before, he didn’t complain about hearing it again.

  “I remember the night it happened. It was springtime—I had a cow that was going to give birth. I was sleeping in the shed with her when the siren went off in the middle of the night. It woke me up.” He waved the flask at the bright afternoon sky, his hoarse voice growing quieter. “I looked out—and there was a light, as if from a fire, only blue. It was shining from beyond the trees, back there.” He motioned with his pipe.

  The horse stopped walking, which caused Alexi to look up. They’d come to the church. “Ah, good boy.” He stepped off the cart and moved toward a large unkempt rose bush filled with blossoms. “The soldiers came the following morning,” he continued, speaking louder so the horse could hear. “Told us to pack up and get on buses. I told them I had to go back to get Mother first…”

  He stopped and stared for a moment, watching the memory replay in his mind. When he continued, his voice had grown quiet. “But they wouldn’t let me. They promised they’d bring her on the next bus.” He spat again.

  “The city is a horrible place, Tupy, I tell you, the months I spent there were the worst days of my life. I went out every day from dawn until dusk looking for Mother. I wanted to go back home, but the thought of Mother by herself in Kyiv made me stay. But I couldn’t find her. Finally, when I could have no more of it, I used every kopeck in my survivor’s allowance to buy a ticket on a train to Chernihiv. From there I walked home. It took two days.”

  Alexi cut two of the largest roses with his pocketknife. “My father gave me this knife the year before he died, when I was seventeen.” He pointed with the open blade of the knife. “That’s his grave over there. He was a good man, Tupy. You would have liked him.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Tupy’s tail swatted flies. Alexi stood for a moment, saying nothing, looking at his father’s grave. He sighed and bent to light his pipe. It had also belonged to his father. He turned back to the horse. Yes, at least he had Tupy. And Mother.

  “We’d better get home before it rains.” He climbed aboard the cart. “Anyway, when I arrived back in Parishev, everything was overgrown like it is now. Nobody else came back. But Mother was here. She’d never left.”

  A little laugh escaped his lips. “Heh! She tricked them, she did. She’s a clever woman. And stubborn too. We had regulators show up once from the government—they told us it wasn’t safe and that we should leave.” He gave a disgusted puff and pointed the stem of his pipe at the horse. “I told them if they thought Parishev was dangerous, they should see Kyiv. They’ve never been back.” Alexi’s laugh turned into a wheezing cough. The air was getting thick.

  He turned the cart around, and as he did, he noticed a rusty silver sedan parked behind the church. Which was odd, since there had never been a car parked there before.

  “Stop, Tupy. What’s this?” The horse stopped, and Alexi climbed down from the cart once again. “Wait here, friend. I’m going to see what this is about.”

  Vandals! Will they never give up?

  Alexi muttered under his breath as he marched up the stairs to the church. Looters had long since stripped the building of anything of value—but that didn’t stop others from coming now and then, hoping to find something that had been missed.

  A peal of thunder shook the heavy wooden door as he pulled it open. Inside, he could smell the musty air of the building where he himself had been christened. Dust swirled in a pale shaft of sunlight that pierced the room from a broken window high above. Before long, the storm clouds would block the sun entirely.

  But the church wasn’t empty, as it had been for years. Now there were three wooden crates piled in one corner. He couldn’t make out the stenciled writing on them, but their flat green color made them appear military in origin.

  Something isn’t right. Alexi took a step into the church to get a closer look at the crates. As he did, a black blur came from his left and struck him in the side of the head. He cried out as he fell to his knees, dropping the pipe.

  Alexi clutched his throbbing head and turned to look at his attacker. It was a skinny boy, a wide-eyed teenager with a mop of greasy black hair, clutching a wicked-looking rifle like the ones the guards at the plant used to carry. The boy was breathing hard, hands shaking as he clutched the weapon.

  “Now why would you hit an old man?” Alexi asked.

  The boy looked past him, toward the rear door near the vestry. “Maxim! Giarga’oexu!”

  Alexi’s head was sticky with blood. He had never heard the language this boy was speaking. “Listen,” he pleaded, “there is nothing here worth taking. Everything was stolen long ago.”

  “Toé!” the boy shouted. He raised the rifle again, and this time when the butt came down, Alexi’s world went black.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Mary arranged her notes and tried not to look as impatient as she felt as the team took their seats around the conference table. She had a plane to catch in a few hours and hadn’t packed so much as a toothbrush yet. Less than three hours had passed since they’d been declared a failure by the secretary of defense.

  To their credit, all the joking was gone. Task Force Valor was all business. “What’s the plan, Phoenix?” John Cooper asked.

  Mary was still stinging from the SecDef’s rebuke. She consulted her notes. “Okay. The markings on the large metal cylinders you photographed in the lab in Panama show that the original chemical was of Soviet origin. That gives us a starting point. We have a very good network of agents in some of the former Soviet republics, and they’ve been gathering intel on the subject for the last couple weeks.”

  She hit a button on her laptop, and a map flashed on to the screen at the far end of the table. The team pivoted in their chairs to take a better look.

  “We’ve learned that the Soviets were at one time experimenting with ITEB as an additive for rocket fuel. The lab was in Ukraine. Our agents there have been tracking down leads, and they believe they have something of interest. Remember that Ukraine was a major manufacturer of military hardware during the Soviet era. After the Communist government imploded, much of that hardware went up for sale on the black market. We believe someone got hold of the stockpile of Russian ITEB and is peddling it to arms dealers around the globe.”

  “Can’t have that, now,” Sweeney said.

  “No, we can’t,” Mary said. “John, Rubio, and Sweeney—you are going to Ukraine to do reconnaissance and try to find the lab where the chemical was being produced. You’re to see if any more exists there.”

  “Hey, what about the rest of us?” Doc Kelly asked. “Why are we getting cut out of the deal?”

  Mary’s voice dropped a notch. “Let me explain something, men. This mission is not a military one. We won’t need the kind of firepower that’s been required in the past. Ukraine is on good terms with the U.S. government. But, due to the urgency of the situation, we will be going in without their consent. Every extra person only increases the likelihood
that the mission will be compromised.”

  “Not only that,” Major Williams said, “but we want to have at least some of the team available in case ITEB shows up anyplace else.”

  Rip raised his hand. “Uh, if the Ukrainians are friendly, why not just ask them to check this stuff out? Why go over there at all?”

  Mary nodded. “Good question. The short answer is time. In any former Soviet republic, bureaucracy is an art form. The remaining ITEB, if it exists in or around this lab, would likely be long gone by the time the Ukrainian military agreed to help. Not only that, but there is a very high likelihood of corruption at high levels in their government.”

  “So you’re saying the people we would ask for help might be the very people making money by selling ITEB?” John asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “So who will be our point of contact in country?” Rip asked.

  Mary fiddled with her laptop. “Here…just a sec.” A moment later, a passport photo of a young woman appeared on the screen. “This is Olenka Mankovska. She is a Ukrainian who works as a secretary in Kiev. She became a CIA asset during the Orange Revolution in 2004.”

  “Is she trustworthy?” John asked.

  Mary shrugged. “The Eastern European desk at Langley says she’s one of the most efficient and capable people they’ve ever seen. Apparently in 2002, she secured a job in the Kiev office of Russian billionaire Boris Berezovsky. That gained her access to information which proved that the Russians were trying to influence the Ukrainian political process. Apparently they went so far as to have the opposition candidate poisoned.”

  “So she’s proven her worth,” John concluded.

  Mary nodded. “I’ve been corresponding with her off and on since the start of this investigation, and she seems to have a good handle on things over there.”

  “Hold up,” Sweeney said, sitting forward in his seat. “I understand your reasoning for splitting up the team, but in Ranger school we learned never to go anywhere without a Ranger buddy. With only three of us, we’ll need one more man in case we have to split up.”

  Mary gave him a sly grin. “Make that one more woman. I’ll be your buddy on this trip, Ranger.”

  All eyes turned to Sweeney. Mary expected him to object. But for once he didn’t get angry or even look perturbed at the idea.

  Major Williams grinned. “Did Phoenix mention that she speaks fluent Russian?”

  John nodded. “Good deal. How are we getting in?”

  “Commercial.” Mary looked at her watch. “I’ve got a flight leaving in a few hours. You all will follow tomorrow.” She picked up a stack of manila envelopes labeled Cooper, Rubio, and Sweeney, and passed them around the table. “These contain Ukrainian cash and some pocket litter that will make you appear Canadian. Library cards, et cetera. Tomorrow morning, Major Williams will go and pick up your Canadian passports with your real first names and assumed last names. You’re traveling as tourists, so bring only a couple changes of clothes, and don’t check any bags. Your gear will be sent separately, and we’ll pick up weapons once we arrive.”

  Rip looked like he’d just eaten a bug. “Oh man, you mean I have to be a Canadian?”

  Sweeney smirked at him. “Just be extra nice and nobody will know the difference, eh?”

  Truth be told, it was the best Mary had been able to do with three hours’ notice. She hoped it would be good enough.

  JFK International Airport, New York, New York

  Five hours later, Mary made her way through security at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The international concourse at JFK was always crowded, but Mary had seen worse. She got in line at the Starbucks kiosk, watching the people go by. It had become second nature—scan the crowd for threats.

  She marveled at the diversity surrounding her. New York sure attracts all kinds. Two Goth teens with more body piercings than fingers sat head-bobbing to their iPods between a businessman in a pinstriped Brioni suit and an Indian woman in a red and green sari. She’d been trained to blend with the local population, but here that meant she probably could have substituted the jeans, T-shirt, and Under Armour baseball cap she was wearing for a silver spandex unitard and nobody would have looked twice.

  A harried soccer mom rushed past, struggling to catch up to her son, a blond-headed tornado in tennis shoes that reminded Mary of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon. When he picked up a souvenir snow globe from a kiosk, his mother cried, “David! Put that down!” A pair of lithe flight attendants who probably knew every airport on two continents chatted on their mobile phones as they waited in line ahead of her.

  A gaggle of high schoolers in matching T-shirts went streaming by, herded along by a grim-faced older woman who looked like an experienced chaperone. Probably heading to Europe for their senior trip.

  Mary smiled, remembering a similar excursion she’d joined as a teenager. The tour of Rome had opened her eyes to the wonders of adventure and fascinating history. She’d run her hands along the rough stone of ancient churches at the Vatican in silent awe. Someone’s hands carved this block…five hundred years ago! That trip had played a big part in her decision to apply for a job at the CIA after college. She’d wanted to be where the action was—building history like those who’d carved the magnificent stones of the Sistine Chapel.

  After all, women can build empires as well as men.

  A stream of people emerged from the Jetway across the hall. They were, according to the digital sign above the door, passengers from flight 6619 arriving from Cartagena, Colombia. She watched them disembark in ones and twos, noting that most looked like businessmen, with a few intrepid gringo tourists sprinkled in between. Most turned right toward baggage claim, but a few made directly for the coffee line.

  A voice sounded beside her. “Man! Eight dollars for a cup of coffee. Can you believe it?”

  Mary turned to see a balding man in slacks and a floral print shirt, grinning at her. She put on her most disarming smile. “Crazy, aren’t we?”

  Why was the hair standing up on the back of her neck?

  The man shrugged. “Maybe. Can’t arrest a guy for being addicted to caffeine, though.”

  “I…er…guess not.”

  “Burt Poole,” the man said, extending a fleshy hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mary said. “You must be from the Great Lakes area.”

  Burt’s eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know that? I’m from Green Bay.”

  “Your accent, of course.”

  The man laughed much too loud. “I guess you got me there. Where are you from, uh…?”

  “Oh, all over.” She pretended to be oblivious to his name fishing and wished the Starbucks line would move faster. Unfortunately, the flight attendants hadn’t moved.

  “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m going to Kiev for some sightseeing. You?” No harm in his knowing your destination. Just turn the questions around…keep him talking about himself and he won’t be able to ask about you.

  “Hey, me too! Only I’m going to, er…” He looked sheepish. “I’m going to meet my wife.”

  “Oh? Is she there on business?”

  “No, well, you see…we sort of met on the Internet.”

  The line had finally started to move. “Really? I’ve heard a lot about Internet dating.” Even joined one of those sites recently myself. Just out of curiosity, of course. Not that I’d admit that to this guy. “So what do you do for a living?”

  Burt seemed to brighten. “Oh, I’m in insurance.”

  “Sounds important,” Mary lied. “So then, you sell different kinds?” She was glad to see the line dwindling in front of her.

  “Life insurance, mostly. Whole life, universal life, variable life. Annuities are the big…”

  Burt was still talking, but it was Mary’s turn to order, so she tried to look like she was still listening while she ordered a tall soy mocha, no whipped cream. She kept nodding at Burt as she handed over a ten-dollar bill.

  Finally Burt popped t
he question. “What kind of life insurance do you have?”

  I had a feeling that was coming. “Mine is through work.”

  “You know, that’s never enough. I could get you a good deal. You have a card or something?”

  She tried to look disappointed. “Just gave away my last one. Sorry.”

  “No problem. Here’s mine.” He produced a card from his breast pocket. “Call me if you need anything. I mean, er…wait two weeks. I’ll be on my honeymoon.” He winked.

  Oh, good grief. “Sure, Burt. Thanks!” She picked up her coffee and turned to go.

  “My pleasure. And think about that insurance. You never know when you might need it. The world’s a dangerous place!”

  “Okay then, have a good one.” On that happy note… Mary headed for the Internet kiosks to cancel her profile on that dating site.

  After meeting Burt, her curiosity had been cured.

  The last time he’d arrived in this city, it had been to kill a man.

  Samael Berg purchased a copy of a local newspaper and donned his Serengeti titanium sunglasses before scanning the throng in the terminal. Uniformed security personnel were everywhere, but they had no reason to be concerned with him. He felt calm, secure in his meticulous planning.

  Two decades of operating in the shadows had given him both the skill to pull this off and a healthy dose of skepticism about the readiness of America’s bloated “Homeland Security Administration.” He had cleared customs on his Israeli passport, which was in his real name. He had learned long ago that it was easiest to hide in plain sight.

  He waited for a crowd of giggling teenage girls to pass and then moved across the large hallway to stand in line for coffee.

  He studied the striking woman with the short red hair standing toward the front of the line ahead of him. She was obviously very athletic—he’d rarely seen a simple pair of blue jeans look so good. He would have described the man she was chatting with as an overweight American, but to Samael, whose fifty-two-year-old frame was still taut and muscular from regular exercise, putting overweight and American in the same sentence was redundant.