Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  Olenka grimaced. “I’m very sorry about that. I should have insisted that we meet somewhere private. But I didn’t want to blow Dimitri’s cover and lose our scientist. I’m just glad Dimitri got away safely.”

  Mary shrugged. “Obviously those goons were following the scientist. I don’t think it would have mattered much where we scheduled the meet.” She shuddered as the ghastly image of the gore-covered Grigor Lychenko flashed again in her mind, as it had almost constantly since they’d escaped the casino.

  Olenka shook her head. “The mafia in Kiev is very powerful. It was a good decision to leave the city, I think. Oh, here’s the place now.” She pulled over, the headlights illuminating a flimsy gate made of barbed wire strung between two wooden poles.

  “I’ll get the gate,” Mary said, opening her door.

  The cool night air felt good against her legs as she wrestled the floppy gate out of the way. Olenka pulled through, and Mary closed the gate before jumping back into the car. When she slammed the door, she noticed that all three commandos in the backseat were stretching and rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  “Where’s here?” Sweeney asked.

  “The village is called Stescyna,” Olenka said.

  “Chechnya,” Sweeney repeated.

  Olenka stifled a giggle.

  Situated well back from the road, the house was made of brick and had a small detached shed. Olenka threw the vehicle in park.

  Mary turned to her passengers. “Let’s get inside, and I will brief you on what Olenka and I discussed on the ride up.”

  “Roger that,” John said, unfolding his tall frame from the backseat.

  Rip stepped out of the SUV, put both hands in the small of his back, and groaned. Mary stepped out too and was crossing in front of the vehicle when a large red mutt bounded up, barking savagely. Adrenaline surged through her already-shot nervous system and she yelped, jumping onto the hood of Olenka’s car. Rip dove back into the vehicle.

  Then Sweeney appeared from her left. Facing the dog, he held out one hand. “Whoa, there, big guy. What’s your name, huh?”

  The dog exchanged his bark for a growl, baring its teeth at Bobby Sweeney, the muscular sergeant from Alabama.

  “Hey, now,” Sweeney said, “that’s all right. Yeah…it’s okay. We’re friends, see?”

  The dog licked its lips, then looked from Sweeney to Mary.

  “Come on, boy.” Sweeney’s voice had a friendly, singsong quality to it.

  It worked. The dog’s tail dropped, and it tentatively sniffed the soldier’s hand.

  Mary forgot her fear and gaped at Sweeney. “That was amazing!”

  “Nah,” Sweeney said. “You just surprised him. He was probably sleeping.” He looked up at Olenka. “What’s his name?”

  She shrugged. “He came with the house. I don’t think he has a name.”

  Sweeney scratched the dog behind the ears. “A dog’s gotta have a name. Let’s call him Big A.”

  “Big Al?” Rip said, venturing back outside the vehicle. “That’s a dumb name.”

  Sweeney straightened. “Big Al happens to be the name of the Crimson Tide mascot, bud. So watch your lip or I’ll have Big Al bite it off.”

  Rip eyed the dog and gave it a wide berth as he moved toward the house. Mary climbed down from the hood of the car. “Thanks, Bobby.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They waited while Olenka unlocked the front door, then left them to get some equipment from the car while they entered.

  The old wooden floors in the entryway creaked under their weight. To the left was what Mary would have described as a sitting room, though the furniture was draped with sheets and dust covered everything else.

  “Nobody’s been here in a while,” Rip said.

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Sweeney joked.

  At the end of the short hall was a dining area with a table and six chairs. “Let’s go in here, and I’ll brief you on our plan,” Mary said.

  Rip handed out energy bars from his personal stash while they took their seats. “I’ve got a couple of bottles of water too,” he said, handing one to Sweeney.

  Sweeney looked up at him. “Thanks, bro. I guess I’ll forgive you for making fun of Big Al.”

  “Okay,” Mary said, “while Olenka gets the map, let’s go over what we know. Our late Ukrainian scientist confirmed that the ITEB came from a lab inside the exclusionary zone around Chernobyl. So we’re back to the original plan: find the lab. Olenka says she knows the lab’s approximate location. The plan I worked out on the sat-phone with higher is to make a quick reconnaissance into the area to find the lab and see if there is any ITEB remaining there.

  “The mission is simple,” Mary continued. “We’re going to bypass the town of Chernobyl proper and head straight for the site of the underground lab. If the lab is empty, we’ll leave immediately. If not, we’ll set timed charges to blow whatever remains and then leave-making sure to bring back a sample for our forensics people. Either way, we want to get out of the dead zone as soon as possible. I estimate the entire trip will take five to six hours.”

  “That guy ain’t going to be selling any more of the stuff anyway,” Sweeney said. “Why not take his word for it?”

  Mary folded her hands, trying not to be offended at how casually Sweeney was handling this. “Because if the chemical is still there, someone else could steal the rest of it and this whole nightmare will start all over again.”

  John nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Olenka bustled in, toting a black duffel bag and a rolled-up map. She set the bag on the floor while Mary unrolled the map on the table. John grabbed Sweeney’s half-empty water bottle and used it to hold the map down.

  “Take it away, Agent Orange,” Sweeney said.

  John snickered. “Maybe we should rethink that call sign.”

  “Be serious, you two,” Mary said. Orange One was a perfectly good call sign. These jokers would figure out a way to twist anything into a gag.

  Olenka was oblivious to the “Agent Orange” connection. “Right,” she said, “let me see…The reactor is here.” She set a dusty saltshaker in the center of the map. “Pripyat is here, about a kilometer away. It was once a large town, very modern. I went there once about six months ago. It’s very strange to see. Everything was left when the people were evacuated. Some of the apartments still have dishes on the tables and family photos on the shelf. It’s as if the town was frozen in time.”

  “Where is the lab?” John asked.

  “We believe it was about halfway between the reactor and Pripyat, along this road.” She traced the route with her finger.

  Rip raised his hand. “Am I the only one that isn’t real excited about going into a highly radioactive area?”

  No, you are definitely not the only one, Mary thought, though she wouldn’t say so out loud.

  Olenka nodded. “That’s understandable. But you shouldn’t be too worried as long as you get in and out quickly. Radiation exposure is measured in units called millisieverts. We all absorb radiation every year—somewhere around one-point-five to two millisieverts. This comes from the air, from the ground, from flying on airplanes, getting x-rayed when we visit the doctor, and many other things.

  “People who work in Chernobyl are receiving approximately ten millisieverts per year. This may heighten their risk of some kinds of sickness, but most of them stay very healthy.”

  “So spending a half a day inside the dead zone isn’t going to kill us,” Sweeney said, looking relieved.

  “Don’t worry, bro,” Rip said, patting Sweeney on the shoulder. “God will get us through.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Rubio!”

  “Focus, gentlemen.” Mary was having a hard time not being peeved. She couldn’t see why Sweeney was giving Rip such a hard time. Sure, he’d gotten religion in Panama. But from everything she could see, the change was mostly good.

  Olenka raised an eyebrow. “The
biggest danger is that you could ingest radioactive particles and therefore continue to be exposed once you leave. This is why we must plan for you to wash and change clothing as soon as possible after you leave the zone. Also, while you are inside, you must take great care not to inhale or swallow any radioactive particles. Also, most of the radiation has been washed from the roads by the rains. But if you travel cross country you will be exposing yourselves to much higher levels of contamination.”

  “So stick to the roads whenever possible,” Mary said. “Got it?”

  Olenka reached into her duffel bag and produced several electronic devices, which she laid on the table. “I have some items here that will be useful for you. First, we have two global positioning units. I’ve already programmed waypoints that will help you on your journey into the exclusion zone and out again.”

  John slid one of the GPS units to Rip. “Rubio, geekery is your department. See if you have any questions. Bobby, you take the other one.”

  Olenka picked up another device, this one made of dark gray plastic. “This device will help me keep track of you while you are on the mission.”

  “Looks like a GPS without the screen,” Rip noted. “What is it?”

  Olenka set it on the table. “It’s a personal locator beacon. It plots its position in real time and broadcasts that signal. I can receive it and track you on my computer.”

  “Like the Blue Force Tracker,” Rip said.

  “Yes,” Mary said with a nod. “Only much smaller.”

  “What is a Blue Tracker?” Olenka asked.

  John answered. “Something U.S. forces have been using for years to help us keep track of one another. Keeps us from shooting good guys.”

  Sweeney picked up the unit. “Frank was talking about these the other day. Climbers and hikers are using them as emergency transponders in case they get lost or have a problem.”

  Olenka nodded. “Same technology here, only this one is more powerful than consumer models. I should be able to watch your progress in real time, which will allow me to help you if there are any problems.”

  John’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve got to like that. What’s our security situation?”

  “I can answer that one,” Mary said. “The Ukrainian army has a detachment of soldiers stationed around the reactor itself. They are known to run infrequent patrols in the surrounding area. As you know, we’re not going in with the consent of their government, so it’s imperative that we not attract attention.”

  “Are we carrying weapons?” Sweeney asked, mouth half full of power bar.

  Mary nodded. “We are. Olenka has some Russian paratrooper AK-74s for us. But they are only to be used as a last resort for personal protection. Got that?”

  “Wait, how exactly are we supposed to sneak into the dead zone without anyone seeing us?” Rip’s brow was knotted with concern.

  Olenka answered. “There are many entrances to the dead zone that are, you would say, unauthorized. Even now, many people enter the area looking for anything of value. Since the paved roads going into Chernobyl are all guarded, the looters simply use these old farm roads. That’s how you’ll get in.”

  “With what? Are we taking your car?”

  Olenka shook her head. “We have something much better. Please follow me and I will show you.” She turned and marched out of the room.

  Task Force Valor followed her outside and over to the small shed. The blond Ukrainian agent removed a bright new padlock from the door, then slid it open and clicked on an overhead light, revealing two brand new Polaris all-terrain vehicles.

  “Four-wheelers!” Sweeney exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve been driving these things since I was five years old!”

  Mary sauntered up next to him with a devious smile. “That’s great, Bobby. But on this mission, I’m driving.”

  8

  Great Falls, Virginia

  A SOFTLY TICKING grandfather clock outside Michael Lafontaine’s study was the only sound in the mammoth house at this hour of the night. The housekeeper had left hours ago, and the quiet made this the most productive time of his day.

  Lafontaine, a former Army colonel, sat in his small office at an antique cedar desk, clad only in a pair of running shorts and a tank top. His attire might have appeared out of place in the luxurious setting had anyone been there to see it. The desk was bare except for a brass lamp and the yellow pad upon which he was scribbling.

  If there was one thing Michael’s father had taught him, it was the importance of removing distractions, something the desk, the spartan office, and even the fact that there was no wife and family cluttering up his house, attested to. Michael had taken his father’s no-nonsense philosophy to heart at a young age, and it had enabled him to succeed where others had failed, creating several fortunes of his own since then.

  But now there was a major distraction in his life, and there was no possible way to ignore it. So he had to figure out a solution that would be tenable for a man who had always kept himself free of relational entanglements.

  But for a brief time twenty years earlier.

  She had been absolutely ravishing, with cocoa-colored skin and striking eyes as blue as his own—a distinguishing feature of the Costa Ricans whose grandparents had emigrated from Italy some thirty years earlier. Her jet black hair had hung in light curls down to the small of her back, and she’d had a mischievous smile that had captivated him from the first time he’d seen it.

  More intriguing than her looks, however, had been her brain. She had a very linear way of thinking—something he’d not found before or since in a woman—and it had enabled them to spend countless hours, over cups of aromatic café con leche, discussing the Nicaraguan mess, the Contras he was there to train, and the merits of stopping the Communists before they obtained a foothold in the region.

  She had challenged him to step outside his gringo way of thinking, to see America as more than the United States, and to work within the local culture instead of trying to superimpose his own onto it. That process had since allowed him to succeed, where others had not, in motivating men who were not Americans to fight for America. And he owed that success to her.

  Then, they had become lovers, and it had ruined everything. The intellectual side of their relationship had been drowned out by the heavy drums of passion. Not long after that, she had simply disappeared. Not even the great sums of money he had spent trying to find her had picked up the slightest trace. It was as if she had been nothing but a dream.

  Now he knew why she had left. And the answer ignited an inferno deep within him, a rage that threatened to consume him.

  But Michael Lafontaine was more disciplined than that. He would not allow a betrayal to ruin him. Instead, he had made a decision that would make up for all the lost years. But it would be costly. Yes, very costly.

  Money, however, was the least of his concerns. He’d long ago come to understand that striving after money was a life-sapping, meaningless exercise in passivity. And Michael was anything but passive.

  He turned and removed a thick book from the shelf behind the desk. Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand. He had read the story for the first time as a Firstie at West Point, and the author’s objectivist philosophy had changed his life.

  The story was prescient, written in the 1950s about a United States of America where hard work and personal initiative were punished. A place where those who supported the economy by their industry and wit were slapped with punitive taxes as if they, the “evil rich,” were to blame for society’s ills. In the end, all the moguls of industry simply disappeared, taking their initiative and hard work with them.

  The longer he lived, the better that idea sounded.

  He flipped to a well-worn passage near the middle of the book. One of his favorite quotes was highlighted in yellow:

  Americans were the first to understand that wealth has to be created. The words “to make money” hold the essence of human morality.…

  Until and unless you discover th
at money is the root of all good, you ask for your own destruction. When money ceases to be the tool by which men deal with one another, then men become the tools of men. Blood, whips and guns—or dollars. Take your choice—there is no other—and your time is running out.

  Michael closed the book and sighed. Money was a tool that allowed one to build, create, and shape one’s world. And it was only in building and shaping that a man could feel truly alive. Collecting tools for the sake of owning them was foolish. Using those tools to construct a meaningful existence was as close to godhood as he ever hoped to get in this life.

  Lafontaine was no pantheist, however. He believed strongly in the merits of religion. He made a point of attending the Catholic church near his home whenever his schedule allowed. It helped remind him of the things that were truly important—keeping a sense of one’s own smallness in the scope of the universe, helping one’s fellow man, and making a difference in the world for good.

  These were the things that motivated Michael Lafontaine. They were the tenets that made him so driven. And he had no doubt that if there was a God, He would ultimately be pleased with Michael Lafontaine, if He bothered to care. For his part, Michael didn’t spend much energy thinking about it.

  The clock in the hall chimed once. Time for his workout. Michael rose and exited the study, padding silently through the marble entryway and down the stairs to his basement workout room. There, he stepped onto the Landice L9 treadmill and hit the Quick Start button. The integrated flat-panel LCD came to life at the touch of another button, tuned perpetually to the BBC.

  The polished announcer was reporting on the Russian president’s recent visit to Cuba. Lafontaine started jogging as the treadmill initiated his thirty-minute program.

  The announcer moved to a new story. “A large fire this morning in downtown San Jose, California, has caused a major disruption in Internet traffic around the country. The fire is being scrutinized by federal investigators after an anonymous phone call linked the suspected arson to a radical Islamic group.”