Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  Just as his head cleared the landing and he could see onto the roof, a loud pop accompanied by a whoosh kicked up more dust on the rooftop in front of him.

  Sweeney threw himself out the door and emptied his magazine in the direction of the sound, and was rewarded by a clatter on the roof.

  He landed hard on both elbows just as the crump of the RPG’s impact reached up from below. This time the sound came from much closer than the others had. That one, at least, wasn’t going to hit the reactor.

  He turned over and saw the empty rocket launcher lying in the dust. The terrorist, however, was gone. Must have fallen off the roof.

  Sweeney rolled to his feet and trotted over to the edge. He was just about to look over when a shriek sounded behind him.

  “Allahu Akhbar!”

  Sweeney turned to see a bloody figure rushing at him from behind a cooling pipe. Fighting the instinct to raise his weapon and fire, he threw his feet out from under himself and dropped to the rooftop like a stone.

  The terrorist tripped over Sweeney and disappeared over the edge of the building with a feral scream.

  Sweeney rolled to a crouch, scanned for additional threats, and found himself alone on the rooftop, which held only two remaining RPG rounds, the rocket launcher tube, an AK-47 assault rifle, and a black duffel bag.

  “Clear!” he called down the stairs.

  Mary’s frantic voice exploded in his still-ringing ears. “Rip is down and we’re taking fire!”

  “Faster!” Captain Mykola Kirichenko screamed at his driver over the whine of the jeep’s engine as they raced toward Pripyat.

  Mykola braced his sagging bulk against the frame of the old Russian Volga 4×4 as it bounced along the potholed road, hoping the even older GAZ military truck carrying the rest of his men wouldn’t break down before they got there.

  Whatever madmen were using the vantage point of the tall apartment building on the edge of the radioactive ghost town to shoot at his reactor, Mykola would make sure they paid with their lives. Perhaps he might even garner a promotion out of it for saving the reactor.

  Suddenly, there was an explosion in the field off to his right. He jerked his head around and saw a cloud of dust.

  “They’re shooting at us!” screamed his gunner, swiveling the mounted .50 caliber around.

  “Fire!” Mykola roared, pointing his Yarygin MP-443 pistol at the spot. The machine gun opened up above his head, spitting flame—and nearly bursting his eardrums.

  The truck stopped behind them, and his men added the chatter of their AK-74s to the din.

  Mykola turned to his driver, a young private.

  The driver’s hands were clamped over the radio headset he wore. When he looked up, his eyes were full of barely controlled panic. “Sir,” he shouted, “the gate guard just radioed that a large unidentified truck is approaching the reactor at high speed. What are your instructions?”

  The news hit Mykola like an ice pick in the chest. “Oh no. They are behind us. We have been drawn away. A coordinated attack!”

  12

  MAXIM SAW THE GATE approaching and pushed the accelerator to the floor. With nothing to slow him down, the truck would smash through the chain-link fence as if it were made of ice. From there it was a short trip to Paradise. He had only to cross a hundred yards of pavement and detonate his cargo against the side of the reactor, which would obliterate much of the sarcophagus and cause a vapor cloud that would spread millions of gallons of radioactive waste across the globe.

  “Allahu Akhbar,” Maxim began chanting, relishing the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins.

  A sentry emerged from a guard shack and began waving frantically for him to stop. Maxim only chanted louder and gripped the steering wheel as tight as he could. Even if the guard shot him, his course was set.

  Then Maxim’s eye caught movement in the side mirror. Jerking his head around, he looked out the side window, and time stood still.

  It cannot be…

  The old man from the church! He was clinging to the bed of the truck as he reached over the side toward the gas tank. Somehow he’d escaped the room, though Maxim had himself nailed the door shut.

  Maxim convulsed in shock and horror as the man looked up at him. It wasn’t the spiteful look on the old farmer’s face that stopped Maxim’s chanting—it was the ancient brass lighter he held in his hand, its top open and wick alight.

  Before he could react, the old man dropped the lighter into the truck’s gas tank and looked up at him, their eyes meeting one last time.

  The last thing Maxim heard was the whoosh of flame meeting fuel, and in that instant he knew that he had failed. He opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late.

  His soul was torn from his body and swallowed by darkness.

  Mary clawed her way through the cloud thrown up by the RPG’s impact less than fifteen feet away. She reached for Rip’s limp form. Flames licked up the trees and smoldered in the grass covering the berm they’d taken cover behind. Her ears weren’t working right. Her vision was blurred and slow, like the world was drenched in corn syrup. Every movement required herculean effort.

  Oh please, no! “Rip! Wake up! Rip!”

  She reached the spot where his body had been thrown by the blast. She started to feel for a pulse, but then a fusillade of bullets cracked over her, causing her to bury her head in his chest. The heavy thuk-thuk-thuk sound of the gun followed, echoing off the deserted buildings in Pripyat. She felt a strange buzzing in her chest.

  Is this what it’s like to die?

  The headset screeched in her ear. It was John. “Phoenix, this is Valor One. How bad is Rubio? Over.” He sounded far too calm under the circumstances.

  She could feel Rip breathing. She keyed her mike. “He’s alive but unconscious.”

  “Roger. Can you move him?”

  “I…I don’t know. We’ve got the whole Ukrainian army headed this way!”

  Peering over the berm, she could see a dark green military jeep followed by a large truck with its bed full of soldiers moving parallel to her position only a hundred meters away. They must have been heading into Pripyat. She’d seen them coming before.

  But now they were stopped, and the jeep’s mounted machine gun was hammering away at her, kicking up geysers of dirt and cutting off leaves and small branches over her head. The buzzing continued in her chest.

  John’s voice was still cool as ice, and it was making her mad. “Listen, Bobby and I will draw their fire to the rooftop. You get Rip on the four-wheeler and meet us at the rear of this building. We’ll break contact and meet you there.”

  That did not sound like a very good plan. What have we gotten ourselves into?

  “Phoenix, are you ready?”

  Some small arms fire added to the din of advancing troops, and she knew there was no other way. She hit the Transmit button. “Okay. But hurry.”

  “All right. Ten seconds and we’re going to make some noise. Out.”

  Mary was doing her best not to hyperventilate. This was not what she’d expected combat to be like. She never knew she could be so afraid.

  She slithered around to get a better grip on Rip’s battle harness. “I can do this,” she breathed. Mind over matter, isn’t that what Dad always used to say?

  A few seconds later, she heard John and Sweeney open up on full automatic from the rooftop. Almost immediately, the ground fire shifted away from her and toward the high-rise as the Ukrainians responded. Bullets began exploding up the side of the building, stabbing dimples in the already-crumbling concrete.

  Go! Now! Mary jumped to her feet, grabbed Rip’s web gear, and pulled as hard as she could. He was heavier than she expected. His body barely budged.

  She heaved again. Veins throbbed on her neck as she pulled until she thought her arms would break. An involuntary cry escaped her lips. For all her effort, though, she had managed to drag him only halfway to the ATV. It was clear she’d never be able to lift him onto the vehicle’s rack.

>   “No, I can do this!” she shouted to herself. “Come on, Rip!” She pulled again with all her strength, but his dead weight was just too much. The battle raged on across the field, and she knew time was running out. The buzzing in her chest started again. She sat down hard, blinking back tears. “I can’t do it.”

  She touched the trickle of blood on Rip’s head. It didn’t seem to be bleeding too bad. What was it he’d said that morning? God will get us through.

  Maybe God was busy. But just maybe…

  Her prayer was almost indignant. “Pay attention, God. Rip needs Your help right now.” Then she hesitated, choking on the words. “I need Your help too. I can’t do this alone.”

  Her radio crackled. “How you doing down there? We’re almost out of ammo.”

  She pushed the Talk button. “He’s too heavy, John. I can’t get him on the ATV. I don’t know what else to do, over.” She stifled a sob. What am I doing here?

  Rip groaned.

  Mary pounced on him. “Rip! Wake up! Can you hear me?”

  John came back over the radio. “Okay, listen, stay where you are, we’ll try and fight our way to you.”

  Rip’s eyes fluttered open. “Ohhh…am I dead?”

  “You’re going to be if you don’t get up,” Mary said. “Rip, you’ve got to help me get you on the back of the ATV.”

  “Ugh…okay.” Rip rolled over slowly. “Who’s shooting?”

  “The Ukrainians.” She keyed her mike. “Wait, John, I think we can make it. Rip woke up.”

  Rip groaned and got to his knees.

  “Roger,” John said. “Make it quick. Out.”

  Mary jumped up and grabbed Rip’s arm. “Help me, Rubio!”

  The groggy Latino struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Mary’s shoulder. Then he hesitated. “Wait, let me get the sniper rifle.”

  “Leave it! Get on that four-wheeler, Staff Sergeant!”

  “Ugh…uh…I’m going.” He let her guide him the last few steps to the ATV and then climbed aboard.

  She jumped on in front of him. “Hold on to me, Rip!”

  When Mary felt Rip wrap his arms around her waist, the buzzing started up again in her chest. That was when she realized it was her satellite phone vibrating. Someone was calling from headquarters.

  They’ll just have to call back. She started the motor and slammed the vehicle into gear. The back tires spun in the dirt, and they sped off toward the building where John and Sweeney were. She cast a glance across the field and could see that the army vehicles were moving that way again as well.

  The ATV bounced hard as she pushed it up and over the berm, causing Rip to moan again. Mary hunched over the handlebars and mashed the throttle with her thumb, then hit the Transmit button on her chest with her other hand. “Valor One, we’re headed your way!”

  “Roger, we’re coming down.”

  She abandoned all hope of being able to keep her voice calm on the radio and screamed into her mike. “Make it fast, Sergeant, or you won’t make it at all!”

  Mary’s arms burned with exertion as she tried to coax more speed out of the all-terrain vehicle, slashing through the low branches that reached out like adoring fans to grab at their clothes as they ripped past. The apartment complex loomed up ahead, but she could feel the Ukrainians racing to beat her there. She slid around the corner and saw the other ATV parked by the stairs leading to a crumbling entrance.

  But the men weren’t on it.

  She reached up to call them on the radio, but before she could hit the Transmit button, an olive-drab army jeep fishtailed around the other end of the building and bore down on them. Protruding from the roll cage was the large-caliber machine gun that had been firing at her moments earlier. And this time, the soldier manning the gun couldn’t miss.

  Mary shot her hands skyward in surrender

  Rip did the same. “What now?” Rip whispered in her ear.

  “Keep your mouth shut.” Mary instructed, eyes locked onto the machine gun. “Whatever you do, don’t let them know you’re an American.”

  Mykola Kirichenko was sweating, despite the cool morning air. He’d almost forgotten what adrenaline felt like.

  He swung his flabby bulk out of the jeep, keeping his pistol aimed squarely at the two terrorists on the all-terrain vehicle. With his other hand, he raised the radio transmitter to his lips. “Give me a situation report! Now!”

  Even through the static of the old radio, he could sense the panic in the voice of the sergeant who was guarding the gate. “A truck just exploded in the road sixty meters from us!”

  “Is the gate intact?”

  “Affirmative, Capitan.”

  “Lock down the area, and alert headquarters in Kiev that there has been an attack.”

  The truck with the rest of his soldiers skidded up behind the jeep. Men exited the bed with their rifles even before it had come to a stop.

  His blood was at full boil. He shouted up at the machine gunner in the jeep. “Keep those two covered. If they so much as sneeze, you shoot to wound only. Headquarters will want to interrogate them.”

  The gunner nodded, deadly serious. Even a young soldier like that one probably understood how close they were teetering on the edge of apocalypse. Mykola turned to his men. “First squad! Clear this building! Go! Go!”

  Six men immediately turned and charged up the steps and into the building.

  Mykola turned his attention to the other men. “The rest of you, set up a security perimeter. There may be more of them. And you two—” he jabbed a fat finger at two privates—“handcuff these terrorists and put them in the back of the truck. If they resist, shoot their kneecaps. I want them alive.”

  As the men heeded his instructions, he turned back to the two captives, who sat unmoving on the tiny sport vehicle, hands held high. He suddenly realized that neither of them carried weapons, and wondered why. No matter, he would soon find out the reasons for their plan. A warm feeling of well-being was seeping into his consciousness. By thwarting an attack on the reactor, not only could he retire in dignity, he would do so as a national hero.

  His thick lips parted into a smile. This was turning out to be a very good day after all.

  13

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  EDGAR OSWARDO LERIDA, a.k.a. Gustavo Soto, spread a new copy of USA Today over the table and smiled. He’d made the front page, again.

  He sipped his mojito, peering over the wedge of lime at the grainy black-and-white security camera image on the page. Printed next to a full-color blowup of smoke billowing in front of the Los Angeles skyline, the image showed him scaling the fence between Lincoln Avenue and the railroad bed where it crossed above the infamous I-5 freeway.

  The head scarf had been a stroke of genius. Even before the police found the stolen car—abandoned in a residential neighborhood where he’d left his SUV—they were suspecting a “middle-aged man of possibly Middle Eastern descent.” The copy of the Qur’an he’d left under the seat had completed the ruse, leaving no doubt in the average American’s mind that a coordinated attack by one or more Islamic terrorists was underway.

  He looked around the Rubalcabas Taco Shop in east Las Vegas where he sat. The place was almost deserted at this time of night. He was surprised they were still open. He’d discerned from speaking with the diminutive waitress that both she and most of the kitchen help were in this country illegally. Which was good, since that meant the food would be authentic and they probably didn’t read the paper.

  Edgar scooped up some salsa with a tortilla chip and leaned over the table so he could read the article. Its headline blared, “Deadly Explosions: Possible Links to Terror Group.”

  Six people are dead and thirty-seven wounded after a large explosion derailed a train in Santa Ana last night.

  Authorities responding to the resulting blaze say they believe a powerful firebomb was placed on the tracks where they cross Interstate 5, which caused the freight train to derail and fall onto the busy freeway. The busy intersta
te remains closed, causing major traffic jams that have affected the entire city.

  Federal agents from several government agencies arrived on the scene within hours and have taken over the investigation. An FBI spokesman told USA Today that the rail line was a backbone of interstate commerce and will also be disrupted for the foreseeable future. No one yet knows whether this will affect prices of basic commodities across western and southern states.

  Law enforcement officials are concentrating their efforts on finding a man security cameras captured climbing the fence around 11 p.m. A suspect thought to be the same man was seen driving away from the area in a car that later was found to be stolen.

  The man is described as being between five feet ten and six feet, one hundred ninety-five pounds, with black hair and dark skin. At first, authorities were hesitant to label the man as Middle Eastern, but when the stolen car, recovered six hours after the tragedy, was found to contain materials written in Arabic, Orange County Police Chief George Thompson says they are “virtually certain” the suspect is of Arab descent.

  The most troubling aspect of the tragedy, Thompson said, is that “certain elements of the crime are very similar to the devastating fire that caused a widespread Internet outage on the West Coast a day earlier.”

  He was referring to a fire in an underground storm drain in San Jose, California, that caused an evacuation of the building that houses a data center known as the Metropolitan Access Exchange-West. The intense heat from the fire reportedly caused major damage to the switching center and some of the fiberoptic cable that carries data to and from the center. The resulting Internet blackout has caused an uproar across the heavily Internet-dependent Silicon Valley.

  So far, no group or organization has claimed responsibility, but talk-show callers and even some politicians are speculating that a radical terrorist group based in Lebanon may be behind the firebombings.