Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  If they found anything, his use of MS-13 would serve his purposes well. It would confuse the authorities as to the source of the attacks. If the gangbangers were caught, they knew only the name Gustavo Soto and the number of his anonymous VoIP phone number in Jordan, which was set to forward his messages to his prepaid cell phone purchased in Cartagena. If discovered, this information would serve only to add to the illusion that Islamic jihadists had joined forces with MS-13—a nightmare scenario for the United States.

  Edgar returned to the back of the vehicle and removed one of the tall, clear, ice-cold bottles. Turning it over in his hands, he watched the sparkling liquid inside catch the rising light. It mesmerized him. How could such a small, innocent-looking package wreak such incredible destruction simply by having its bottle broken? He and his friends had constructed Molotov cocktails as teenagers and had used them with devastating effect against rival gangs. But the bottle in his hand would burn hotter than ten of their rudimentary firebombs—and it had the shattering power of a stick of TNT as well. Amazing.

  Carrying the bottle, he put his gloves back on and opened the door behind the passenger seat. He rummaged through a plastic bag from a local hardware store, producing a set of wire cutters, a roll of tape, and a three-dollar magnifying glass. These he carried to the base of the pipeline.

  The concrete base was surrounded by a rusty eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Edgar was delighted to find that someone—probably local kids—had already cut a hole in the fence, making his job that much easier. He dropped the cutters in his pocket and squeezed through the sagging wire.

  Once inside the fence, he clambered up the metal bridge supports until he could reach the top of the pipe. Bracing himself, he tore several narrow strips of the silver tape and secured the magnifying glass to the widest part of the glass bottle. Next, he cut longer strips and hung them from a support beam by one sticky end. Standing carefully, he reached up and placed the bottle on top of the pipeline with one hand, then taped it in place with the other.

  Two minutes later he was fishing two large cans of Rockstar energy drink from one of the coolers and climbing back into the Expedition. He would have preferred to recline the seat and catch a few hours of sleep, but there was more driving to do.

  Edgar put the SUV in gear and wheeled a quick U-turn. By the time the sun rose high in the sky over the New Mexico desert later that day, he would have to be far from here. Because once the sun began heating the metal pipe that was now receding in his rearview mirror, the day would get very hot indeed.

  Pripyat, in the Dead Zone

  A rusted Ferris wheel towered over the edge of the parade ground that had once occupied the center of the city. Its rusty spars stood like a silent memorial to the community of people who had once lived there. Sweeney shook his head. Tragedy had sneaked up on those people in the middle of the night, an unfathomable horror that had chased them from their beds, forcing them to leave behind all the things from which people construct their lives.

  Sweeney wiped sweat from his eyes and checked his handheld GPS. They were a third of a mile away from the apartment building and exactly one mile from the reactor. They’d been inside the dead zone for nearly six hours. He was following John Cooper, moving as quietly as possible while they skirted the edge of the parade ground past a crumbling concrete pavilion filled with the rusting hulks of bumper cars.

  “You have any idea where we’re goin’?” Sweeney asked.

  John answered over his shoulder. “For now we’re just putting some distance between us and the reactor. Hopefully the Ukrainians aren’t out looking for us.”

  “Think we can make it out of here? I’ve had enough radiation for one day.”

  John’s answer was quiet. “Let’s just take it one thing at a time. Olenka should be calling back any minute. Hopefully she’ll have worked out some way to locate Rip and Mary.”

  “I know.” Sweeney’s tone was dry as he surveyed the faded yellow bumper cars scattered about the cracked and weed-infested pavement. “Let’s hot-wire a couple of these babies and drive out.”

  The smile was evident in John’s voice, though Sweeney couldn’t see it. “That’s what I like about you, Bobby. Always thinking!” The satellite phone in his left hand buzzed. He flipped the antenna skyward and punched a button. “Tell me you’ve got something for us.”

  They took a knee while John listened to Olenka. Besides an occasional “Uh-huh,” John said little to give Sweeney an indication whether the news was good or bad.

  He looked up at the Ferris wheel, whose gondolas had somehow retained their bright yellow color. How many children once played here? And where are they now? The place didn’t feel radioactive, and that only made it creepier. The whole town didn’t look that much different from the area around the safe house they’d visited in Kiev. Except that that place had been run down from overuse, and this one was run down from neglect.

  John snapped his fingers to get Sweeney’s attention and pointed to the GPS Sweeney held. He passed it to John, who began rapidly entering coordinates.

  Sweeney spied what looked to be a withered demon’s face staring up at him from the pavement off to his right. Looking closer, the realization of what it was caused a sudden revulsion in him like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  It was a tiny gas mask made of some sort of green rubber bleached almost white by the sun. Twin eyepieces, situated above a trunklike nose that led to a small green canister, stared at him. What made it so horrible was that it was obviously made for a child.

  For some reason, it had never occurred to him that there might be a need for children’s gas masks, and for a moment, the horror of that night in 1986 stared back at him through sightless glass eyes. Suddenly Mrs. Sweeney’s boy was very, very glad to be an American.

  A shudder ran up his spine when he remembered that his homeland might soon become a place where kids would need such things if the terrorists weren’t stopped.

  John ended his call and put away the satphone. “We’ve got an objective.”

  “What’d she say?”

  John’s face was grim. “There’s the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

  Sweeney rolled his eyes. “I hate it when you do that. Just tell me, for Pete’s sake.”

  John shrugged. “The good news is, Phoenix’s personal locator beacon is working. The bad news is they’re eight kilometers south of here.”

  “We can hump that in a coupla hours.”

  “Sure, but they could be moved again anytime. We’ve got to hurry.”

  “What’s the ugly?”

  “Olenka says there have been at least three explosions in the U.S. so far, all traced to ITEB. Eight people dead, but it looks like who-ever’s behind this isn’t looking to cause mass casualties. Rather, they’re out to disrupt the economy by hitting major arteries of commerce.”

  “Wasn’t that one of the tactics al Qaeda had in mind on 9/11?”

  “Exactly. Bringing down the Twin Towers was more than a symbolic gesture. Osama bin Laden made millions by shorting the U.S. stock market just before the attacks.”

  “Shorting?” Sweeney’s idea of an investment was season tickets to the Atlanta Braves.

  “Shorting is how investors make money when prices fall.”

  “You can do that?”

  John shrugged. “Dad is always talking to me about that stuff. And my godfather.”

  “Well, I’d listen to him, Coop. Colonel Lafontaine probably has more money than Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jeff Gordon put together.” Sweeney grinned. “My dad plays the stock market too…at the cattle auction.”

  John’s eyebrows twitched. “Probably more profitable than buying blue chips lately. Anyway, the speculation is that someone is trying to shut down the American economy and make money in the process.”

  Sweeney became deadly serious. “We gotta get back to the States, and fast.”

  John nodded. “Olenka’s working on that. In the meantime, we’ve got to find a way t
o get Mary and Rip free.”

  Sweeney stood. “Well, boss, let’s quit talking and start walking.”

  Fifteen minutes later they found themselves on the outskirts of Pripyat, where the land again melted into open pastureland surrounded by thick rows of pine trees. They were just coming through one such tree line when John froze in his tracks.

  Sweeney hurried to close the gap between them. “What you got?”

  “Check it out.” John pointed across the field in front of them. “I think we might have found some transportation.”

  Sweeney squinted across the field and saw a large animal slowly grazing along the edge of the pasture. “It’s a horse. What’s that it’s tied to?”

  John turned and grinned at him. “Looks like a wagon to me.”

  Rob Denny had just sat down in his easy chair when the lights went out. Again.

  “Stupid rolling blackouts! I wish somebody would string up the son-of-a-guns who are setting bombs off all over the country!” He was more frustrated with the lack of television than he was with the lack of lights and air conditioning. They hadn’t even been able to record their shows on TiVo.

  Doreen called from the kitchen. “Honey, where’d this glass bottle come from?”

  Rob groaned, dropping the footrest on his La-Z-Boy and struggling to his feet. “Aw, shoot. That was supposed to be a surprise!” He had totally forgotten about the fancy water bottle in his lunch pail. He sauntered into the cream and teal kitchen.

  Doreen was wearing curlers and a frustrated expression. She had the bottle on the counter, struggling with the cap. “I can’t get it open.”

  “Well, why do you want to open it?”

  “Because.” She gave him that special look that he always interpreted to mean you’re a buffoon. “I want to use it to put some flowers in.”

  “But it’s expensive bottled water! I figured we could share it while we watch our show tonight.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s water, Robbie. Not Cabernet Sauvignon. Now help me get this open.”

  He sighed. “Geez, Doreen. Give a guy a little credit for trying to be romantic.” He snatched the bottle from her and wrapped his thick hand around the cap. Maybe his impressive display of grip strength would get him some man-points. Especially since the fancy-water idea had been a flop.

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  “Oh, you get that!” Doreen cried, running for the bedroom. “I’m in my curlers and pajamas!”

  “So? You wear them grocery shopping, for Pete’s sake!” Rob chuckled and carried the bottle with him to the front door. Outside were his neighbors, Scot and Terri Estep, both holding flashlights.

  “Hey,” Scot said, holding up a wooden box. “We got some new dominoes. Y’all up for a game of Mexican Train?”

  Terri smiled, her eyes crinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Scot’s been at a conference the last few days, so I made him promise we’d do something together tonight. This is what I get.”

  “Just a sec,” Rob said. “Gotta check with the social coordinator.” He turned from the door and shouted. “Hey, Doreen! The neighbors want to play Mexican Train!”

  “Might as well,” came the muffled reply. “Can’t watch TV.”

  Rob stepped back and waved his friends inside. “Right this way, Doctor.”

  Scot wasn’t a medical doctor but something called a veterinary pathologist. As far as Rob could tell, it had something to do with looking at dead animals all day. He shuddered at the thought. They’d have to pay pretty big bucks to get him to do that sort of thing.

  “Where’d you get the bottle?” Scot said.

  Rob looked at the container in his hand. “Oh, uh…it’s some kind of expensive bottled water. I got it for Doreen, but all she wants to do is make a bud vase out of it.”

  Doreen came hustling into the room, now dressed and minus the curlers, carrying a box of candles. “Are you still on about that bottle? I told you, it’s just water. I mean, how good can water get?”

  Scot smiled. “The bottle is pretty. My boss at work collects them. He could probably tell you exactly where that one was made.”

  Rob grinned. “Tell you what. You beat us at Mexican Train, you can have it.”

  “Honey! I was going to put flowers in it!” Doreen slapped him on the arm.

  “Come on, Doreen, I’ll get you a nice vase to put your flowers in,” Rob said. “Give us guys something to compete over.”

  She rolled her eyes again, which was something Doreen was very good at. “Oh, all right. Let’s play.”

  An hour later, Scot and Terri left with their dominoes and the bottle of water. Though Scot would rib him about losing—on Saturday, when they would compete to see who could mow their lawn the fastest—Rob was actually glad to be rid of the thing. It had caused him nothing but grief.

  When Scot Estep went to work the next day, he parked in front of the laboratory sciences section of the UCLA Medical Center. He’d intended to take the bottle inside to show his boss but ended up forgetting it in his car.

  The day was a hot one, and before long the temperature inside his locked Honda Accord soared to over a hundred twenty degrees.

  Scot was eating lunch in his office, looking over some slides of a guinea pig with intracytoplasmic protozoal amastigotes when his car erupted like a volcano, spewing flames and shrapnel in all directions and shattering every window in the front of the building.

  16

  A SMALL, NEARLY OPAQUE window high up on the wall was the only source of light for the tiny basement room that held Rip and Mary. Mary sat against the outside wall with her knees pulled up to her chest, and fought back tears, hiding her face in the sleeve of the white one-piece jumpsuit they’d given her to wear. Rip sat across from her, head leaned into the corner and saying nothing.

  So far, it had been the most horrifying, humiliating day of her life. And judging from the light coming through the window, it was only early afternoon.

  If being forced to undress and shower in front of a squad of leering soldiers hadn’t been bad enough, she was now forced to contemplate the final words of the Ukrainian commander before the solid steel door of their cell had slammed shut.

  “You are the only survivors of this despicable plot. Your fellow terrorists were all killed resisting our fine security forces. But don’t worry. Once you are convicted, you will certainly see them again—in hell.”

  What was worse was the crushing dread she bore, knowing that it was probably her fault for not having been strong enough to get Rip on the ATV and escape fast enough.

  Rip sat up and looked at her. “I think John and Sweeney got away. I bet the fat guy thinks the other terrorists are our compadres.”

  Mary shook her head and stared at her bare feet on the cold concrete floor. “How? I mean, there was only one way to the roof of the building as far as I could tell.”

  Rip shrugged and leaned back against the wall. “If anyone could figure out a way, those two could.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She looked up at Rip, their lanky staff sergeant, and smiled. “Thank you, by the way.”

  Rip gave a quizzical look. “For what?”

  “For not looking.”

  He broke into a smile. “You’re welcome. And thank you for not looking back.” He gave her a playful wink.

  “You won’t…tell anyone, will you?” She choked on the words.

  He huffed and spread his hands, encompassing the dank-smelling room. “Who am I gonna tell?”

  Anxiety and grief overcame her, and she again dropped her head into the crook of her arm.

  Rip was quiet for a long moment. Then he murmured, “Well, you’re the jefa on this mission. What happens now?”

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know, Rip.”

  “Do you really think they’ll execute us?”

  She sniffed. “I’m afraid they’ll ship us off to some prison and we’ll never be heard from again.” Now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure which would be wors
e.

  “Even if they find out we weren’t with the terrorists?”

  The weight of despair pressing on her made it a chore to even shrug. “Especially if they find out who we are.”

  Rip made a face like he was trying to figure out a math problem. “But what about, you know, due process?”

  Mary gave a little snort and threw her hands in the air. “All I know is, they did everything they could to cover up the Chernobyl disaster the first time—to keep it from the world press. I can’t imagine they would want news of a security threat to the reactor advertised around the world.”

  “But won’t our embassy try to get us out?”

  “Maybe through back channels. But that could take months, even years.”

  Rip sat back against the wall, his face impassive. After a moment he said, almost to himself, “Pues, if that’s the way it has to be.”

  Mary sat up and shot him a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rip shrugged. “Nothing. I guess this is where we’re supposed to be right now. So we just need to roll with it.”

  “What kind of philosophical gibberish is that?”

  Rip fixed her with his dark eyes. “What makes you feel like you have to control everything in your world?”

  Mary had to fight to keep from unloading all the frustration she was feeling. “Control! I’ll tell you why I have to control my world.” She punctuated her statement by jabbing a pointed index finger in his direction. “Because if I don’t control my world, nothing will.”

  Rip’s eyebrows shot up, but there was no trace of anger or resentment in his face. “That’s where you’re wrong, amiga. That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Yeah? How so? Am I supposed to just not care what happens to us?”

  “Of course you should care. But if you hold on to things too tightly, you’re sure to lose them.”

  “Well, excuse me if I hold on too tight to my life. It’s the only one I have.”

  Rip chewed his lip for a moment. “Look, forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you. A lot of things have changed for me recently, and I don’t have them all worked out in my head yet.”