Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  He glances back at Sylvie. Looks like she hasn’t slept in three days. Isn’t easy being married to Howie Collyer, Straub decides. Howie plays the whistleblower out to save the world and his wife pays the price.

  But there was never as much on the line. His job, yes—but he was close to retirement anyway. Now they are playing on a new level with much higher stakes. And Sylvie Collyer is too smart not to know the rules have changed.

  “I’m afraid so,” Straub says.

  “And he’s not going to stop until he finds it. Or someone stops him.”

  “Let’s try to look on the bright side.”

  “C’mon, Winn, stop trying to soft soap us. Howie’s the one who belongs at The Farm, not us.”

  Straub knows the only way he’d get Howie to The Farm is in handcuffs. “Believe me, if I could get Howie to give this thing up, that’s the first thing I’d do—and it’s not like I haven’t tried. He’s just one stubborn son of a gun, as if you don’t know that already.”

  He glances back at the two women. Though neither one of them are happy with what they are hearing, they realize he’s telling the truth.

  “What are our chances?” Grace asks, acting every inch the lawyer.

  He wants to tell her, God only knows. But he thinks better of it. The closer Howie gets to the bomb, the more they will turn up the heat. Short of leaving the pilot on the side of the road, taking a flight to central Africa and secreting himself deep in the jungle with a pygmy tribe, Howie Collyer has no choice but to stay in the game.

  “Howie’s smart. And as I told you, I’ll do everything I can.”

  “You are not answering my question.”

  “You’re right. I’m not.” He looks directly at Grace in the rearview. “And I can’t because it’s a question for which there is no answer right now. Too much is up in the air. But you know he cares too much about his family to put himself in jeopardy. So I’d try not to worry. The minute I have some news, I’ll let you know.” Winn grins a sympathetic smile and warms up his eyes, letting the ladies in the backseat see his face in the mirror. It works, he can feel the tension subsiding.

  Speeding down the dark interstate toward Williamsburg, cruise control on seventy-five, dry leaves swirling across the asphalt in front of him, he’s not wanting to consider the complexities of what he’s involved himself in. Even in the darkest days in Eastern Europe, he never felt pulled in so many directions. Messy, very messy. Too many things running through his mind.

  Is this Howie’s personal crusade and I’m only clearing the path for him?

  Am I using Howie to advance the cause of the CIA?

  Is this my own retribution against the Pentagon?

  Am I using my old friend to get back in the game again?

  Is it that I’m fifty-five and losing my nerve?

  Or all of the above?

  Straub tries to clear his head. He wonders if the two women can read his consternation. He is relieved to hear Sylvie pose a question he can answer in absolute candor and with total conviction. A pleasant feeling for a change.

  She asks, “What about my cats?”

  “The Raymonds are going to take care of them. I arranged for that. It’s all set.”

  “Thank you, Winn,” Sylvie says. “I appreciate that, very thoughtful of you.”

  If you only knew, Straub thinks as he watches a light drizzle begin to fleck the windshield. If you only knew . . .

  Georgetown is deserted at this time of night. Crossing the street heading for his house, Straub is tempted to stop and rap hard on the window of the black sedan as if to say, Wake up boys, I’m back. No point in rubbing it in, he decides, or in letting them know what time he returned. It won’t take long for Vector Eleven to come to the conclusion he is outmaneuvering them and they need to put someone with half a brain on the case. In the meantime, he can have his way with them.

  Sparky starts his high-pitched yapping the minute Straub turns the key. He called Barbara to ask her to let Sparky out of the garage. You’d have thought he’d asked her to get a ladder and clean the gutters. The grizzled Jack Russell tears out from the kitchen barking so ferociously he sounds like he’s intent on sinking whatever teeth he has left into a choice part of the intruder’s anatomy.

  So much for sneaking in unnoticed.

  “Is that you, Winston?” Barbara calls from upstairs.

  “I’ll be up in a second, dear,” he shouts up to her as he hangs up his coat and hustles into the kitchen wondering if Barbara took Sparky out for his evening walk while deciding not to bother even if she didn’t. He is much too tired and still has work to do.

  He opens his laptop, pulls a stool up to the counter, opens his email and begins typing:

  Howie, I just got back from taking Sylvie and Grace to Camp Peary. Glad I did because your place in Charlottesville was crawling with Pentagon creeps. They’ll be okay at The Farm but they are worried to death. Honestly, if I thought there was any way to pull it off, I would try to bring you in. But after what’s happened, I doubt I could guarantee your safety so you’re going to have to follow through on whatever you’ve got going. This is no time to be a hero, Howie, don’t try to go it alone. You have to tell me exactly what you are up to so I can figure out how to help you at each step of the way. Talk to me soon. Winn

  Starting to reread the email, he decides to just send it and hit the sack, figuring it’s the best he can do at two-thirty in the morning.

  On the way back from Williamsburg Straub turned the same ground over and over in his mind. For the sake of Sylvie and his family, out of good conscience and just because in weaker moments he likes to think of himself as a good guy, Straub decided he had to take one last crack at convincing Howie to give up.

  But common sense prevailed. The truth is that Howie is going to be safer on the outside. Winn couldn’t keep him at The Farm forever. Sooner or later the Pentagon would find a way to get to him. Whatever he knows, Howie poses too much of a risk to them. As crazy as it sounds, Howie stands a better chance on his own.

  Anticipating an earful from Barbara for having been gone so long, as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom, Straub thinks, At least I’ve done my duty—whatever that’s worth.

  18

  Front Royal, Virginia, Monday morning

  Sharon sits up in bed suddenly, someone’s tapping on her door. She hopes to hell its Howie. Grabbing her jeans, she staggers across the room, doing her best to jump into them as she heads for the door.

  “Collyer? Is that you?”

  “C’mon, open up.” She fumbles with the buttons on the fly as she unlocks the door. It’s barely light out.

  Howie’s facing her. Risstup is parked alongside. He’s in a daze.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sharon says.

  “Worse, I got an email from Winn. We have to get going.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just get your stuff. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

  At the crack of dawn, the manager of the Nite Owl heard the automobile screech out of the courtyard. Pulling back the curtain, she saw the Accord kicking up gravel as it disappeared around the corner. The clock read 6:08. She could never figure out what was going on with the old goat in the wheelchair, the attractive middle-aged gent and the lady who was at least twenty years younger, but they seemed nice, didn’t raise a ruckus and paid in cash. What they were up to was the question. All she knew was that she had seen much worse and that she was never going to share their stay at the Nite Owl with anyone. The two bills the man had slid under her blotter guaranteed her lips would stay permanently zipped.

  “You want to slow the hell down, you’ll get us killed.” Sharon says as they speed out of town. Howie backs off the gas.

  “That’s better, now tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  “We’ve been there long enough.”

  “What got you so freaked out?”

  “They’re pulling out all the stops to find us.”

  �
��Great,” Sharon sneers sarcastically, “I’m really glad to hear that. So where are we heading now?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Can’t wait. What about the photograph I was supposed to get?”

  Howie pats the laptop sitting beside him.

  “She sent it?”

  “I downloaded it a half hour ago. I don’t know how you ever talked a total stranger into sending you a family photograph.”

  “Just because I’m a nurse doesn’t mean my skill set is limited to changing bedpans. Let me see.”

  “Go for it,” Howie says, handing her the computer. “It’s the PDF on the desktop.”

  As she’s mousing around, she notices Straub’s email. “Mind if I read what Winn sent you?”

  Before Howie can stop her, Sharon’s halfway through. He can feel her starting to steam up.

  “This is just great. Now your CIA buddy is hanging us out to dry.”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “Some guardian angel he is.”

  Howie stumbles around for something to say. “Look, I know this isn’t easy.”

  Sharon’s poking her finger at him, as ticked off as he’s ever seen her. “Easy? I tell you what this is—a goddamn suicide mission. You’re so obsessed with your damn bombs you’ve got the whole world after us. I didn’t bargain for this kind of crap and neither did Risstup. Any minute I can imagine someone running us off the fricking road and gunning us down.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”

  His comment stops her. She whips around to glare at him, her eyes shooting a blaze of sparks in his direction.

  “I beg your goddamn pardon?”

  Howie notices Risstup is wide awake in the back seat, his eyes glued on their conversation, head swiveling back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match.

  “Okay, so just what do you propose we do? Return the major here to the hospital with a note of apology pinned to his chest? Tell them we made a mistake and we’ll be good boys and girls if they just forget about the whole thing?”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that government agents are all over your house? Aren’t you worried about your family?”

  “How heartless do you think I am? But when we took him out of the VA hospital, we both made a conscious choice. If I remember correctly, it was you who used the phrase over my dead body. You told me we had no choice but to get him out of there.”

  Sharon ducks her head as if to concede he has a point. Turns to stare out the window.

  “Winn is saying that we’re out on a limb, no question about it. But Winn’s telling us at this point there’s no other way to play it.”

  She throws up her hands. The words come out haltingly. “I’m sorry. The email freaked me out. Your friend Straub was my security blanket.”

  “He still is.”

  “I sure hope so.” She gives him a weak smile. As if she wants a pat on the back.

  Howie gives it to her, “Look on the positive side. If there wasn’t something significant here, they wouldn’t be after us. We’ve saved the major’s life and we’re on the verge of discovering the truth behind this lost bomb.”

  Sharon’s nodding. Howie knows her well enough to understand she’s moved on. While she can be stubborn and hardheaded, she can also turn on a dime. Change her mind when circumstances warrant, her attitude shifting quickly from moody to matter-of-fact.

  “So where are we heading?”

  “I booked us into the presidential suite at the Four Seasons.”

  “Fat chance, five’ll get me ten we’re headed for another fleabag.”

  Both sit back and let the dust settle as they head southeast through Pennsylvania with the rising sun pouring in through the driver’s side.

  Sharon studies the family picture sent to her from a lady named Risstup whom she found through searching genealogy sites on the Web. Took a little talking but she emailed a photograph with the long-lost uncle who had once served in the Air Force.

  “I can’t wait to show the major this photograph.”

  “Let’s hope it works.”

  “Hey, Collyer, can I ask you a question? Something’s been bugging me about these lost nukes.”

  “In twenty minutes I can tell you everything you need to know.”

  “I’ve been on your website and read through all the links. But there are a bunch of things that don’t compute.”

  “Shoot.”

  “These nukes, aren’t a lot of them over forty years old?”

  Howie nods. “But they are H-bombs—not bread. They don’t get stale.”

  “Don’t they rust, won’t water seep into the explosive charge? And the nuclear materials, uranium, tritium—all those radioactive isotopes, don’t they have a half-life?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So is it possible that they are so old they are worn out? The explosives wet, the radioactive materials past their prime?”

  “As for the half-life business, without getting technical let me point out that the Pentagon is still stockpiling bombs produced forty years ago. They get outmoded and there’s minor disintegration here and there requiring replacement of individual parts but they don’t go bad.”

  Sharon nods. In his rearview, Howie notices Risstup is sitting listening.

  “Now the other issue,” Howie continues. “Though the hydrogen bomb is extremely sophisticated, it is a simple mechanism. Basically, there’s a small atomic bomb—no bigger than a head of lettuce—a miniature version of the bombs that we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, inside the hydrogen one. The atomic device is set off by a four-hundred-pound charge of TNT. That activates the fission process of the bomb, which creates the pressure and radiation to touch off the second stage— the hydrogen bomb part.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “The early weapons were so powerful they had to be dropped by parachute so that the airplane didn’t get caught in the mushroom cloud. The Pentagon’s term for it was retarded delivery. Some of them were designed with shock-absorbing honeycomb noses.”

  “So they had soft landings.”

  “Yes.”

  “What made them explode?”

  “On the early ones, simply hitting the ground. Even with parachutes, a four-ton bomb makes a hell of an impact. And these things were built like tanks. I mean, the people who designed these bombs designed them to stay intact until they were detonated.”

  “Even in water or buried in mud?”

  “From all the estimates I’ve heard, the bomb casings will stand up to salt water for another ten years. When seawater starts seeping in, yes, the TNT will be affected. That’s what the Pentagon is counting on. Hoping that they will remain undisturbed for another ten years when they will become degraded and less threatening.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “No one wants to take the chance of going near one and setting off the four hundred pounds of unstable TNT. A dredge from a salvage tug could bump into a bomb accidentally, a line from a fishing trawler could scrape it against a ledge and create a spark—use your imagination, anything could set the explosives off. And in the early days, some of these H-bombs were armed with nuclear capsules, no failsafe triggering mechanisms at all. They were good to go the minute they were loaded onto the aircraft.”

  “Couldn’t they retrieve the bombs with divers? Divers who are precise and careful?”

  “The Pentagon has studied that to death. And what they discovered only underlines the gravity of the situation. The chance that a nuke will break apart during recovery is too great. Can you imagine if we accidentally exploded one of our own bombs? Some diver attaches the cable at the wrong spot? It’s murky and he can’t see? The cable scrapes against the bomb casing, a spark ignites the TNT? Then all hell breaks loose.

  So it’s in the Pentagon’s interest to leave them alone. If they are reluctant to go near the nukes, what does that tell you? They’re playing a waiting game, hoping that nothing will disturb them before they disintegrate.
And in the meantime they are putting the country at peril. Someone at the Pentagon practically admitted it right to my face. That’s why they were so determined to stigmatize me, they knew I understood the dimensions of the risk they’re taking.”

  “What if a terrorist locates them first?”

  “Hell to pay, an absolute shitstorm. If a group of bad guys managed to retrieve one of the nukes and set it off or detonate it, you could imagine how catastrophic it would be. Thousands or millions would perish, whole sections of the country permanently evacuated, uninhabitable for centuries, the United States would be totally crippled, never be the same again. Despite the enormity of 9/11, in comparison it would make that look like a blip.”

  “And you think that’s conceivable?”

  “Was it ever considered a possibility for terrorists to turn commercial airplanes into guided missiles and bring down entire buildings? Look what happened when we failed to gameplay that option.”

  “That’s scary, scary as hell,” Sharon says, shaking her head at the thought.

  “You can’t dismiss any scenario. The more far-fetched, the more potential it might have. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell people.”

  “And no one would pay attention?”

  “There are some smart people at the Pentagon but as in any big organization, they have their blind spots, all too wrapped up in their own priorities to think outside the box.”

  “So that’s why the major’s knowledge is so important.” Sharon glances back at Risstup.

  “If he really knows where that nuke was dropped, it could break the whole thing open.”

  “Then what would you do?”

  “We’d better find it first, okay?” Howie didn’t want to admit he hadn’t the slightest idea.

  Except for a few tourists heading through on their way to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Shenandoah Valley as well as a steady stream of trucks heading to the freight depots around town, Front Royal is a backwater, a whistlestop in northern Virginia three hours south of Lancaster. Howie’s driven through the town many times but until now has never had reason to stop. Now he’s cruising the dark streets looking for a place to stay.