Part Four
Chapter 28
Minus 01:32 Hours
Several slats were missing on the west side of the old water-cooling tower. Through a gap at eye level, Zaloudek could see the National Palace less than a mile away. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and leaned against the wooden corner post. The inside of the tower was a furnace. Despite the height, no breeze stirred inside the louvered box. Zaloudek was tempted to remove more slats for ventilation, but each time he considered doing so he felt far greater concern for his own safety.
Thirty minutes ago the shooting had stopped, and from the roof they had heard yelling and cheering in the streets six stories below. For a time, Arnheiter had feared that the bomb plot had been discovered and that the war had been halted for a search. But the signs of celebration eased his mind. Now, Arnheiter was worried about the time, carping continually, driving Zaloudek to distraction.
With only thirty minutes remaining before noon and their departure for the border of Haiti, Zaloudek was beginning the final stages of assembly. He had fitted the components together in his mind a thousand times. He knew them by heart, each micromillimeter notch and bevel. But the long preparation was over. He now began the work of love.
The transfer of the nuclear materials from the shop to the roof had been surprisingly easy — aside from the work itself. Most of the fighting the night before seemed concentrated several blocks to the south. Shortly after dawn, Zaloudek, Arnheiter, and the four gunmen made several trips with the panel truck, carefully repainted and bearing a hand-lettered sign: El Mickey, el Acondicionador de Aire. Piece by piece, they had carried the material into the building. Since the electric power was off, they were unable to use the old elevator. They had to carry the material laboriously up the stairway to the fifth floor. From there they struggled up the narrow half-flight into the superstructure and the door that led onto the roof.
Now the van was parked on the street below. Arnheiter’s gunmen, armed with automatic weapons and hand-held transceivers, were stationed at strategic points, guarding all approaches to the building. They were to remain on watch until Zaloudek completed the bomb. Then they all were to walk quietly to the van, return to the shop, change clothes, and separate into three groups for the dash to the Haitian border.
Zaloudek was tired. The heat was rapidly sapping his energy. He again mopped the sweat from his forehead, and studied the mass of uranium at his feet. He had waited more than twenty years to get his hands on that grapefruit-sized chunk of metal. And now he would show the world what he could do. Several of the scientific community’s most illustrious physicists would be reminded that this was the Zaloudek that they had relegated to Bunsen burners and Kipp generators, while lesser minds were given choice assignments.
Those world-famous scientists had ignored him, and they had ignored his warning. Now, he would show them the true destruction of nuclear power — an example that would awaken the world to the fact that mankind was moving relentlessly toward nuclear Armageddon. Unless the two great powers disarmed, destroyed all nuclear weapons, and ceased making weapons-grade nuclear materials, then small nations, even small groups, would soon have nuclear capability. Once that point was reached, there would be no turning back. Zaloudek was convinced of that. He had to warn the world before it was too late.
The old water-cooling tower was ideal for his purpose. Zaloudek could not have asked for anything better.
The tower itself was obsolete. New equipment with air-cooled coils had been installed several years ago on another part of the roof. The building’s owner had left the old tower intact to avoid the expense of removal. It had not been used for years. Eight feet high, it was built on a platform six feet above the roof. Zaloudek would have preferred more altitude for his bomb — an airplane, perhaps — but the tower would tend to minimize the shadow effect of the surrounding buildings. The tower itself of course would be vaporized in the first millisecond of ignition. From his line of sight, Zaloudek could see that the resulting fireball would have access to a much wider section of the city than if the bomb were sitting on the roof. Peeping through a broken slat, Zaloudek attempted to estimate how far the fireball would reach.
Arnheiter’s yell jarred him from his reverie. “What in hell are you doing up there?” Arnheiter asked.
“Catching my breath,” Zaloudek said. “It’s hot in this thing.”
Arnheiter looked at his watch in exasperation. “It’s eleven-thirty,” he said. “We’re not going to make it! And you just keep fucking around!”
“I’m on schedule,” Zaloudek said. “There’s nothing left to do but to put it together. Just like reassembling a rifle.”
“Is there anything I could be doing while you piddle around?”
Zaloudek hesitated. Arnheiter was nervous, impatient, a constant source of irritation. He simply didn’t understand the need for rigid safety factors and painstaking measurements. But if Arnheiter had something to do, maybe he would quit pacing the roof, worrying.
“You can drill the holes for the frame,” Zaloudek said. “I’ve marked the places.”
Arnheiter climbed the ladder and stepped over the coaming into the tower. Zaloudek handed him the brace and bit. While Arnheiter drilled the holes through the two-by-six floorboards, Zaloudek located and carefully distributed the bolts, lockwashers, and nuts that would secure the nuclear device to the tower.
By the time Arnheiter completed the last hole, he was sweating, too.
“I don’t see why you have to bolt the damned thing down,” he said. “You’ve already said that when it goes off, the tower will flat disappear.”
Zaloudek had no logical reason. The bolts simply fitted into his orderly working methods. He liked everything nailed down. He quickly made up an explanation.
“When the cannon fires, the recoil might conceivably jar things out of kilter,” he said.
The possibility even sounded plausible to himself, but he knew the logic was deceiving. Criticality would come virtually simultaneously with the gun’s explosion. In the next instant there would be no gun barrel for recoil, nor framework to be jarred. The gun and the steel frame would be vaporized — along with the building and most everything for at least a block in each direction.
“We’re ready for the frame,” he told Arnheiter.
They struggled the heavy base into position. Zaloudek then sent Arnheiter down to the roof with a crescent wrench to hold each bolt while he tightened the nut. He then called Arnheiter back into the tower to help him fit the cannon onto the frame. The thick-barreled gun was heavy. They could barely lift it. They made three separate attempts before the holes were lined up and Zaloudek was able to slip the bolts through.
Arnheiter staggered to the side of the tower, fighting for breath. He removed a louver and put his face close to the opening.
“Eleven forty-two,” he said. “We’ll never make it.”
Zaloudek wiped his face and hands on a grease rag. “We’re past the most difficult part,” he said. “We will be off the roof by twelve noon. I promise you.”
He worked the uranium target into place, carefully checking the alignment. He then fitted the reflector onto its track, and began working it toward the uranium, centimeter by centimeter, monitoring the buildup of neutrons.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Arnheiter asked. Zaloudek attempted to explain. “I’ve got to get this just exactly right,” he said. “There’s no margin for error. The trick is to hold the mass just below criticality without going over. That’s why I must measure the number of free neutrons, every move I make.”
The explanation did nothing for Arnheiter’s nerves. “You mean that thing is about to go off? Right now?”
“Almost,” Zaloudek said, monitoring the radiation with his equipment. “Theoretically, at least, some unexpected external source could send it over the brink. A burst of radar waves from a passing plane. A burst of cosmic rays. Or a minor mathematical error on my part.”
Arnh
eiter was scarcely breathing. Zaloudek marked his settings with chalk. He backed the reflector a few inches and measured the distance from the mark to the uranium target.
“My calculations are confirmed,” he said. “Now I’ll arm the device.”
With Arnheiter watching nervously, Zaloudek loaded the cannon and carefully fitted its projectile into place.
He maneuvered the shield back onto its track and began edging it forward again, carefully monitoring the free neutrons with each minuscule move.
“Christ, how do you do it?” Arnheiter asked. “I’m scared shitless.”
Zaloudek paused for a moment. “So am I,” he said. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be scared. But by taking it slowly, measuring the return carefully, we will be all right.”
“What do you mean, ‘return’?”
“The uranium is giving off radiation,” Zaloudek explained patiently. “But at the moment, each chunk is subcritical. This steel reflector is bouncing back neutrons toward the target, contributing to a buildup. When the cannon fires, it will send the projectile into the uranium mass at five hundred feet per second. The projectile itself is uranium. The projectile will plug the hole in the reflector. The shaped charges will meet instantaneously and interlock in a way that increases pressures tremendously. The result will be a fireball.”
“Jesus,” Arnheiter said.
“I’ve hedged the bet a little,” Zaloudek couldn’t keep from boasting. “A little wrinkle of my own. I have glued a wafer of lithium onto the nose of the projectile and some polonium on the target. That’s to boost the level of free neutrons on contact. The idea is sort of like making certain your fireplace catches by pouring gasoline on it. Also, there is a trick to the shape of the charge, the interplay of the mass and projectile, increasing the pressures by several factors.”
“What’s keeping it from going off right now?” Arnheiter asked, his voice strangely subdued.
“My arithmetic, mostly,” Zaloudek said. “If it went now, it would be what is called a fizzle yield, a very low percentile of effectiveness.”
“Does that ever happen?”
“Not anymore. Usually, anyone who works with atomic weapons knows what he’s doing.”
Arnheiter checked the time. “Twelve to twelve,” he said.
“See? I told you we’d be off the roof by noon,” Zaloudek said. “I’m ready to connect the timer and interlocks. Once I do that, there’s no turning back. This baby’s going to go.”
“I better check and make sure everything is all right,” Arnheiter said.
He picked up his walkie-talkie and clicked the button twice. One by one, the acknowledgments came in by return clicks. First the man in the stairwell on the first floor, monitoring the entrance. Next, the lookout in the apartment building across the way. Then the guard at the door to the roof. And last, the man on the balcony over the truck. The escape route was clear.
“Go ahead,” Arnheiter said. “Set the timer.”
Zaloudek made the first connection before he heard the sound. He looked up. Arnheiter heard it, too.
A helicopter was heading straight toward them, just clearing the rooftops.
Zaloudek leaped to his feet, and was heading for the ladder when Arnheiter grabbed his arm.
“Don’t panic!” he said. “Maybe they’re not hunting us. Keep working! We’re air-conditioning repairmen! We have every right to be here!”
Zaloudek knelt by the bomb, feeling his heart lunging uncontrollably. He fought against instinct to keep from looking up. He picked up a wrench and pretended to be tightening the bolts on the frame, so upset that he stripped the threads on one. He was aware that Arnheiter had moved to the tool kits and was standing within reach of his 9-mm Israeli Uzi.
And the helicopter came toward them, the flap of the rotors filling the tower with sound.
*
Minus 01:12 Hours
As Loomis took the helicopter low over the main business district, Johnson was leaning forward, tense and intent on the search. Coon, relaxed and jovial, appeared to be enjoying the ride.
Through his headset, Loomis monitored the nets on army and police frequencies. The search was floundering. The celebrations in the streets hampered traffic. Stores and offices were closed, blocking vital search areas. Apartments were empty and the doors locked. The routes to many roofs could not be found. Janitors and building engineers had vanished. Under the circumstances, the searchers were authorized to smash doors and chop holes, but those measures simply took too much time.
The air search also seemed doomed. Loomis had never before noticed the number of downtown rooftops in use. Many were bare, but most were not. Although the majority of downtown buildings housed offices and stores on the street level, the upper floors usually contained apartments.
“You ever see so fucking much laundry?” Johnson fumed. “They must have saved up their dirty clothes all through the revolution so they could celebrate today by flying their drawers.”
Coon chortled. Loomis eased back on the cyclic, lowering forward speed, and studied the rooftops. He moved slowly up El Conde, no more than a hundred feet over the highest buildings, carefully watching the telephone poles and the maze of overhead wiring.
Alerted by the distinctive flap of the rotor blades, a surprising number of people streamed out of the apartments and onto the roofs to wave. The roofs of El Conde soon seemed almost as well populated as the crowded streets below.
Loomis studied the individuals, one by one, classifying them, dismissing them as suspects. Women hanging laundry looked up in dismay, concerned over the effects of the windstorm created by the chopper blades. A man on one building ran to help his wife control dancing lines of laundry and stopped to shake a fist skyward. On a balcony of a commercial hotel three prostitutes made obscene gestures. Two repairmen were working on the air conditioner of an office building. One looked up. The other didn’t bother. Loomis eased back even more on the cyclic, hovering. In the street below, their panel truck was parked illegally. Already, in the wake of fighting the mordida — the bribe — apparently had been resumed with the police for such practices. All appeared normal. Loomis moved on. Two young girls were sunbathing on the next roof, halter straps undone. They reacted with an appropriate mixture of hilarity, modesty, and indignation.
Coon chortled.
Johnson glared at him in irritation, then looked at his watch. “Ten till twelve, Loomis,” he yelled. “An hour. You really ought to give these poor fucking people an hour.”
Loomis nodded. The air search seemed hopeless. There simply were too many things that should be checked from the ground. Any vent on the roofs below could be false, hiding the nuclear device. It might be secreted in any of the many superstructures. Or Coon could be wrong. A waterfront blast might be planned to raised a deadly radioactive spray over the city. Conceivably, an air burst might be the method: a radio-controlled plane, a drifting balloon, or a high-level drop timed to detonate the device at a thousand feet or so.
They would have to evacuate the city.
Loomis radioed ahead for a jeep and turned the ship back toward the polo grounds, canting the nose down for speed, stepping up the power. He took the helicopter straight in, braking the descent at the last instant.
He cut the engine and the rotor began windmilling toward a stop.
“I’ll sure say one thing for you, Loomis,” Johnson said, unbuckling. “You haven’t lost your horrible ways with a chopper. There was a minute or two there I forgot all about that fucking bomb.”
*
Minus 01:09 Hours
At army headquarters the generals were congregated in a conference room around a map of the city. The areas covered by the search were shaded in red. Less than a third of the downtown section had been marked off.
Galíndez of the Policía Nacional saw Loomis and crossed the room to greet him. “We’ve just had word through military channels,” he said. “The United States Government has received a message that a major disaster will occur in a
country in the western hemisphere at precisely six o’clock today Greenwich Mean Time. That, of course, is one o’clock here. The message said that although occurring in another country, the disaster will be for the edification of the United States.”
“Well, that sure ought to make the people of Santo Domingo feel a lot better about it,” Johnson said.
“Do they have any clue at all yet as to the identity of the group?” Loomis asked.
“Langley has now projected the theory that Hamlet consists of the younger generation of some of the world’s most powerful families, trying to exceed the successes of their fathers. One suspected is the son of an Italian automobile maker. Two are of Arabian oil families. Another is in Greek shipping …”
“That theory has been around awhile,” Johnson said. “I thought we had discarded it.”
“Apparently your people at Langley have some new clues to lend it support,” Galíndez said. “But at this point, as far as we are concerned, I suppose the matter is academic and has no real bearing on the decision we must make within the next few minutes.” He turned to face Loomis. “I have just conferred with De la Torre in San Cristóbal. He wants to announce the bomb’s probable existence, without further delay. There is some opposition here. What do you think?”
Loomis glanced at his watch. Almost noon. They were entering the last hour. And there now was little hope that the search would produce results.
“I think it has to be done,” Loomis said. “I would call it a bomb threat, a precautionary evacuation, to keep panic to a minimum. With forty-five minutes of warning, and with proper instructions, most people will be able to walk westward out of the danger zone …”
“There is one major problem,” Galíndez said. “Electrical service has not yet been restored to most of the downtown section. Even normally, that would be a time-consuming procedure, involving electrical grids, things I do not understand. To complicate matters, the rebels sabotaged transformers and other electrical equipment. Consequently, most radios and television sets are inoperative in the section where they are essential. Most people in that section will not get the word.”
The Hamlet Warning Page 25