Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  Michael turned the volume up a little as he jogged. Grainy images of what looked to be an office building backlit by a leaping pyre of flame flashed across the small screen.

  “Santa Clara County fire investigators told reporters that the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation was sending a team to determine the validity of the claim. As yet, no injuries have been reported. In other news…”

  Michael stabbed the Mute button on the television and kept running, his mind now outpacing the treadmill. He’d known for years that this day would arrive—that another terrorist attack on U.S. soil was only a matter of when, not if. He’d talked about it with congressmen, senators, anybody who would listen. It was time for America to stop believing that the ridiculous Department of Homeland Security could protect it from the barbarians.

  As much as he hated the spotlight, he knew it was time to go looking for it. The perfect sound bite was already rolling around in his head.

  America is burning, and it’s time to hold our politicians’ feet to the fire.

  Sweeney wrapped his arms around Mary’s waist and held on for dear life. The flat Ukrainian countryside flew by in dark greens and blacks as she piloted the Polaris MV700 all-terrain vehicle down a disused back road an hour before sunrise.

  “I can’t believe you jumped out the window of the casino!” Mary yelled through the closed face shield on her motorcycle helmet.

  Behind her, Sweeney yelled back, “I can’t decide which I like less…that we’re driving into a nuclear wasteland or that I’m being driven there by a girl!”

  “Keep running your mouth and the radiation will be the least of your worries,” Mary shot back.

  Sweeney chuckled. “Remind me to teach you how to really drive one of these things sometime.”

  In response, Mary gunned the big ATV even harder as they climbed out of a small washout, catching air momentarily at the top. Sweeney grunted and held on tighter to the ATV’s reinforced frame with one hand and the shortened AK-74 assault rifle with the other. He found he was smiling. Despite the banter, or maybe because of it, he couldn’t help but like the feisty CIA officer.

  Up ahead, John Cooper turned his ATV left to follow the muddy track. It ran beside a dense row of pines separating one dormant farmer’s field from another. Rip Rubio was doing his best to stay on behind John while clutching a bolt-action Soviet Dragunov sniper rifle.

  They’d left Olenka’s country safe house well before dawn, following the route she’d programmed into their handlebar-mounted GPS units. The team made their way past dark farmhouses and quiet dachas—the quarter-acre gardens each family used for food.

  The back roads had eventually narrowed to a rutted two-track, what their Ukrainian agent had called “the worst kept secret of the dead zone.”

  When Olenka had explained that looters still scoured the dead zone for anything they could haul away—from scrap metal to furniture—Sweeney had been incredulous. He imagined whoever was buying the looted goods was either unsuspecting or unconcerned that the products were still saturated with radiation.

  As the light grew, the rain of the previous night combined with the brisk morning air to spawn a low-lying ground fog that made Sweeney shiver, despite his black Gore-Tex jacket. At least the fog obscured their passage from anyone more than a hundred yards away, though that probably didn’t matter. The two structures they’d passed in the last couple kilometers had been in ruins—the roofs collapsed in on the houses, whose crooked window frames now stared vacantly at the overgrown landscape.

  John pulled his four-wheeler up short and waited for Mary and Sweeney to catch up. Mary braked to a halt beside him.

  Sweeney flipped the face shield up on his helmet. “What’s up, Coop?”

  John pointed up ahead. “I’m guessing that’s where the dead zone begins.”

  Sweeney leaned to look around Mary. Barely visible through the fog ahead, the trail ended at a shiny new barbed-wire fence. Beyond it, several large trees had been felled across the road.

  Rip piped in from where he sat behind John. “Man, it looks like the government has been out plugging holes, you know? How are we gonna get through that?”

  “Can we go around it?” Mary asked.

  John reached up and shut off the Polaris. “Let me go check it out on foot. Sweeney, come with me.”

  Mary killed her motor and hopped off the cycle. “I’m coming too.”

  Sweeney swung his foot over the seat. “Whoa, little lady. John’s calling the shots here.”

  The CIA officer yanked off her helmet, exposing a very red face. “I am in charge of this operation, Sergeant Sweeney. And don’t ever call me ‘little lady.’”

  Before he could respond, John stepped between them. “Hang on, Mary. I’m not trying to take over here. We just need to stay with a buddy in case anything happens. Tell you what, Sweeney and Rip will stay here and you and I can go check it out.”

  Sweeney would have objected, but he knew he’d look like an idiot contradicting John after he’d just asserted his authority. Mary, however, seemed placated by the offer.

  “All right,” she said. “Sure, John. Let’s go.”

  With only a nod at Sweeney and Rip, John unslung his AK-74 and stalked off to inspect the roadblock.

  Sweeney watched Mary’s slender frame hurrying to catch up with John, then turned away, fuming.

  Rip blew into his hands to warm them. “You don’t like women much, do you, bro?”

  Sweeney was surprised by the question. “What, because I don’t want some chick with no combat experience getting us killed?”

  Rip pursed his lips. “It’s not just her, you know. You almost did cheetah flips when we were in Lebanon and Coop brought Liz out of that refugee camp. And you weren’t happy when I showed up with Fernanda in Panama. Is it all women that bother you, or just women who you happen to come in contact with?”

  Cheetah flips? Sweeney wasn’t having this conversation. “I ain’t some kind of sugarpants, if that’s what you mean. I don’t like taking orders from a woman. That’s all.”

  Rip nodded. “I can see that, bro.”

  Sweeney busied himself checking his ammo magazines for the third time that morning.

  After a moment, Rip spoke up again. “Let me ask you another question.”

  Sweeney rolled his eyes. “Oh goody.”

  “I’ve been wondering about this for a while. When we were in that bunker in Panama, you said, ‘It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.’”

  “So?” Did I really say that?

  “So I was reading my Bible on the plane, and I found that exact quote. That’s a Bible verse, bro.”

  “So?” Guess some of that sixth-grade Sunday school stuff is still in there.

  “So where’d you learn it? I didn’t know you read the Bible.”

  Sweeney was indignant. “That’s what you get for assuming.”

  “Maybe so. I always thought you were an atheist since you never go to church.”

  Sweeney spun on Rip. “I’m no atheist.”

  Rip’s hands shot up. “Dude, chill out. I’m not accusing you. Just wondering. How long did you go to church and stuff?”

  Sweeney turned away, eyes clamped shut and wishing he were somewhere else. “Every Sunday morning. Every Sunday night. Visitation on Tuesdays. Prayer meeting on Wednesdays. Awana. Vacation Bible school. You name it.” Just saying it brought back the dread he’d felt as a kid every time he’d been stuffed into the car to go to church. For a rambunctious kid like him, the services had been about as much fun as a spanking and a nap. Sit still. No running in the Lord’s house. No shouting in the Lord’s house.

  “Wow,” Rip said. “I had no idea. So why’d you quit going?”

  Sweeney let out a humph. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not very good at following rules.”

  Rip furrowed his brow. “Faith is not supposed to be about rules, bro.”

  “Try telling that to my mother.”

  “Ah.�
�� Rip tapped the side of his head and pointed at Sweeney. “Maybe that’s why you have a problem with women in authority.”

  If Sweeney had been able to think of a snappy comeback, this would have been a good time to use it. Unfortunately, Rip was kind of making sense.

  Rip continued. “Look, man, I understand. My mother hauled me off to church too. I didn’t mind, though, because there were lots of pretty girls there. But I don’t blame her for trying. You shouldn’t blame your mom either.”

  “I don’t blame my momma,” Sweeney said quietly, without looking up. There is more to it than that, isn’t there?

  John came up on the radio. “Good news, gentlemen. Bring our rides up and I’ll show you what we found.”

  Sweeney exhaled. Saved. He wasn’t about to admit that Rip might be on to something. “Thank you, Dr. Phil. Now can we get back to the mission?”

  Rip winked at him before pulling on his helmet. “Don’t worry, bro. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I’m gonna punch you.”

  They climbed onto their respective ATVs and fired the engines. Sweeney kicked his into gear and sprayed Rip with mud as he hit the throttle.

  His angry voice came over his headset. “Aw, man! Come on!”

  Sweeney grinned. Finally, something to smile about.

  John and Mary had taken a knee near a large pine tree whose branches almost overhung the new fence. As the four-wheelers pulled up to them, Sweeney saw that the trail turned hard left along the fence. Mary had gone to inspect the gap and was thirty yards away, trudging back toward them and carrying her AK-74 at the ready. Though it looked too big for her slender hands, Sweeney had no doubt she could use it. He’d seen her disassemble the firearm back at the safe house, and she clearly knew what she was doing.

  John nodded toward a spot fifty yards down the fence line, where the tracks indicated another breach. “That barrier didn’t stop them for long. They just went around it.”

  “Looters must be pretty determined, huh?” Sweeney said.

  “Yep. Listen, Bobby, I want you to go easy on Phoenix. She and I talked about it, and I think she understands why I ought to make the tactical decisions out here. But it doesn’t make it easier if you two are fighting like an old married couple.”

  I’d never enter that noose. Sweeney swallowed a snide retort and nodded. “You got it, boss. I’ll play nice.”

  John slapped his helmet. “Attaboy. Let’s go.”

  Mary was putting on her helmet as she covered the last fifteen feet to where the ATVs sat idling. “Bobby, why don’t you drive for a while?” Apparently she wasn’t still mad.

  “Roger that.” Sweeney revved the engine as she unslung her weapon and climbed on behind him. Now this is more like it.

  As they edged through the gap in the fence, the sun crested the horizon and bathed the landscape in brilliant shades of coral. The fog immediately started to burn away, revealing immense pastures separated by stands of mixed hardwood and pine. Whatever Sweeney had imagined the dead zone would look like, this wasn’t it. Except for the complete lack of civilization, he could have imagined he was trail riding around Grandpa’s farm.

  The readout on the radiation meter said 613. As Olenka had explained it, one thousand on the meter equaled one milli-whatever they weren’t supposed to get too much of. He stole a look at his watch: 0653. With any luck, they’d be out of the dead zone by noon. He pushed the ATV as fast as he dared, noticing that John was hanging back a bit.

  Eventually the trail turned to a heavily deteriorated paved road, which actually made their progress slower as the team had to dodge man-eating potholes. At one point Mary tapped his shoulder and pointed off to their right. A herd of what looked to be Shetland ponies was grazing on the far side of the field they were skirting. Several of the horses eyed the two four-wheelers intently as they passed, but other than that showed no interest in their presence.

  Half an hour later, a lone fox darted across the road in front of them. Contrary to what his imagination had been expecting, none of the animals they saw had three heads or looked abnormal. The sun came out and warmed him as they rode along.

  Sweeney had almost forgotten about the radiation when John’s voice came over his headset. “The GPS shows we’re within three miles of the reactor. Better slow up so nobody hears us.”

  Sweeney tapped his mike button twice to confirm the message and backed off the throttle.

  He glanced down at the radiation meter on the handlebar and immediately wished he hadn’t. The level was up to 1,100.

  He pushed the ATV a little faster and wondered what radiation poisoning felt like.

  9

  SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN Alexi’s back, soaking his shirt and jacket. It had been a long time since he’d exerted himself like this, and he was far too old to be doing so now.

  But there was little choice. He had to help Mother.

  He straightened up and listened, willing his breathing back to normal. There had been a flurry of activity outside the vestry, his cell, but sometime in the last hour the scuffling, scraping, and muffled commands had ceased. Now, over the sound of his own heartbeat, Alexi could discern no sound from beyond the door. Whether his captors had left temporarily or for good, he did not know.

  What he did know was that they had no intention of ever allowing him to leave. Since being locked in the vestry, he’d been given neither food nor water, and though the stink emanating from the closet filled him with shame, it reminded him that these were merciless men.

  He had to find a way out. After finding the door barricaded from the outside, as he’d suspected, he’d searched the room for another way. There was none, except for the tiny window high up the wall, through which Pasha had entered. Alexi was certainly no cat, but he was a farmer. He’d learned that there was always a way around a problem. A plan had hatched in his mind. Bozhevillia—crazy, perhaps—but not for a man who was desperate.

  He put his shoulder to the wardrobe once again and shoved. His joints cracked and his neck bulged, but little by little, the heavy piece of furniture slid along the wall, every inch requiring more strength than Alexi thought he had. But finally it stood beneath the window.

  Alexi collapsed on the floor, coughing the ancient dust from his lungs. If they’ve hurt Mother…

  He stood on shaky legs and shuffled to the opposite corner of the vestry, where the two drawers had been tossed. They were built solid, which made them heavy. His back protested as he lifted the first one, then carried it across the small room. He took a deep breath and hefted the drawer over his head, pushing it up onto the top of the wardrobe. He rested a moment, and after another fit of coughing, he did the same with the second drawer, lifting it atop the wardrobe with shaky arms.

  Satisfied to be doing something, he pulled open the wardrobe and found the two wire hangers that still dangled from the rod inside. These he carried over to the high-backed wooden chair. One of its back legs was missing, but he had a plan to make it usable.

  He sat down next to it on the floor and pulled the hangers apart with some effort, then twisted the hook ends together like a chain. He created a loop in one of the other ends. Standing, he connected the remaining end around the back of the chair on the side that was missing its leg, twisting it around several times to make sure it was fastened securely.

  He carried the chair to the wardrobe, trailing the length of stiff wire. He pulled open the wardrobe’s door and then fished the wire through the gap, where it caught on the protruding hinge. When the door closed, the wire made it bounce back open. No matter.

  Alexi tested the chair by sitting gingerly on it. The door pulled open more but stopped against the seat back. It held him.

  Now for the hard part. Alexi placed a foot in the center of the seat. He stood, sucking in his breath as the old wood protested under his weight. This brought him to eye level with the top of the wardrobe, and he noticed that it was covered with a thick layer of dust. He blew the dust away and immediately regretted it, as the re
sulting cloud caused another fit of coughing.

  He reached his left foot up and placed it on the back of the chair, then crossed himself and murmured, “Blessed Mother, give me the strength to do what I must, and the same for this old chair.”

  He grasped the top of the wardrobe and pushed. He couldn’t see if it was his leg that was shaking or the chair, or both, but he slowly rose up so the top of the wardrobe was at his navel. He strained for the other side, lying over the top and pulling with his arms. He lost his footing on the chair. Another bout of hacking almost made him lose his grip, but with one last effort, he pulled himself onto the dusty top.

  Panting, he turned over and sat trying to catch his breath. Thank you, Blessed Mother.

  The window was still at least seven feet higher than Alexi’s precarious perch. He stood carefully and stacked the two drawers atop each other, but this only brought him chin high to the opening. It was overcast outside, and the cool air coming in the window smelled wonderful. He tugged at the broken pane, and it came out easily. By wrapping his coat around his fist, he was able to push the rest of the window out, sending shards of glass skittering down the wooden shingles outside. Once he had the opening large enough to fit through, he stepped off the drawers and sat on the edge of the wardrobe.

  With one foot, he hooked the wire made from the hangers and brought it within reach of his bony hands. Then, he pulled carefully, ignoring the pain as the wire bit deep into his flesh. With much difficulty, the chair scraped up the side of the wardrobe until he could get hold of it. Once he’d pulled it up onto his lap, he had to rest again.

  When he’d caught his breath, Alexi pushed the chair onto the stacked drawers, leaning it carefully against the wall. This was quite precarious, but he saw no other way.

  It occurred to him that he would have loved this when he was a boy. He and his best friend, Andrei, had climbed every tree in Parishev. Andrei was always getting him in trouble—like the time they had started the Drosnys’ barn on fire trying to smoke a pipe like they’d seen their fathers do. They’d been caught and punished severely, but Andrei just grinned once they were allowed to play together again, as if that was part of the fun.