by Ted Halstead
A much bigger part wondered what he would do if Abdul had been killed in the explosion. Then he would have to carry out the rest of this mission on his own with a single weapon. Several minutes crawled by while the driver rubbed his eyes, and Ibrahim thought about what he should do next.
The radio in front of Ibrahim crackled to life, and to his immense relief, the voice that came from it was Abdul’s. It said calmly, “One of our escort vehicles had the bad luck to strike a mine. I am sorry to say there were no survivors. I know all of you will join me later in prayer to honor the sacrifice of those brave warriors. Now, though, we must redouble our pace. The enemy may have seen the explosion, and might send troops or drones to investigate.”
Abdul had already warned Ibrahim about the danger of mines, but Ibrahim hadn’t taken him seriously. Most of them had been planted along the border by the Russians in the 80s. After decades how likely was it that they still worked?
Ibrahim had also noted that if the route had already been traveled three times before, plainly that demonstrated it was safe. Abdul had explained that the glow sticks were laid out by Taliban fighters, not highway engineers. Minor route deviations were to be expected. Also, something as simple as rain could shift the location of mines.
Well, now he knew better than to argue with Abdul, Ibrahim thought bitterly. And if there was one mine, there was a good chance there were more.
Ibrahim looked at the driver, who was still rubbing his eyes. Well, he couldn’t do anything about the mines, but he could do something about this.
Lifting his half-full water bottle, Ibrahim gestured pouring it over his eyes. He didn’t know why, but he felt it was safer not to talk.
The driver nodded and took the water bottle from Ibrahim and emptied it over his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he then shook his head, sending water spraying everywhere, including over Ibrahim.
Ibrahim used his hands to brush the water off his face but said nothing.
Grunting his thanks, the driver wiped his face with his sleeve, and then put his goggles back on.
With a grinding of gears, the truck was once again on its way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
En Route to Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Anatoly Grishkov looked at Neda Rhahbar’s work with frank admiration. Their flight in the Mil-8 was anything but smooth. But the quality of Neda’s drawings had not been affected, no matter how much the helicopter bucked and swayed.
The drawings showed how Neda believed Ibrahim could have rigged a new detonation mechanism for the Nasr nuclear cores after they had been removed from their original warheads. She had pushed away a tablet offered by Mikhail Vasilyev for the task, saying it was incapable of showing the necessary detail.
What had astonished Grishkov was that Neda had produced the drawings with nothing more than a sheaf of paper attached to a cardboard backing and two pencils. One she had sharpened to a fine point, and the other she had carefully carved to expose enough graphite to let her do shading.
Neda had insisted they all board the helicopter as soon as it touched down at the Afghan border post, over the objections of its pilot who said it was unsafe for them to be aboard while it was being refueled. Vasilyev had been forced to remind the pilot bluntly that their orders specified he was in command of all aspects of the mission.
As Neda filled page after page with drawings, it had quickly become evident that her mind had not been idle while they had waited in vain for the stolen nuclear weapons to appear. This helicopter represented her first opportunity to share her thoughts freely with her teammates. Neda knew these were points that only Vasilyev had the authority to share with the Americans.
Neda tapped the center of the drawing she had just finished.
“If this is the design he uses, you will need to cut the wire leading to this component first. Forget about colors. The wires could be any color. Also, the component’s shape might be slightly different, since several different models could serve the same purpose. But, it will look more like this than anything else you will see. Clear?”
Neda’s eyebrows rose, and Grishkov saw that Vasilyev was also quick to nod his understanding. Grishkov had a sudden vision of himself as a student in one of Neda’s physics classes, and had to suppress simultaneous urges to smile and to shudder.
Physics had not been Grishkov’s best subject, and he’d told Neda so.
“Identifying the component which will have the next wire attached you need to cut will be easier. It must be spherical and must be about the same size I have shown here. However, while the first component must be placed as I have shown in this drawing, the spherical component could be placed anywhere as long as it is the same distance from the fissile core.”
Grishkov and Vasilyev both nodded.
Then Grishkov asked, “What if Ibrahim places it under the core?”
Neda smiled grimly. “So, not good at physics, but you can spot problems. Yes, if he wanted to make disarming the weapon difficult, that’s exactly where he’d put it. Moving the core wouldn’t be so hard. However, touching the core even with lead-lined gloves would result in radiation exposure that would eventually prove fatal.”
Grishkov shrugged. “Well, at that point, the alternative would be allowing the weapon to detonate, so not a hard choice.”
Neda stared at Grishkov and shook her head. “Russian fatalism. No matter how many times I hear it, it’s no easier to understand.”
Grishkov and Vasilyev traded grins, much to Neda’s obvious annoyance.
“Now, I told you before that I didn’t know how to disarm the other potential design. I now have an idea for how to accomplish that, but I must be honest. I’m not sure it will work.”
With that, Neda flipped to another set of drawings and looked challengingly at Grishkov, as though daring him to say anything else “fatalistic.”
Grishkov just grinned at her.
Exasperated, Neda shook her head. “Yes, I know. Consider the alternative. Very well, here are the steps…”
By the time she finished, they were all exhausted. Neda said, “I’m going to try to get some sleep.” Grishkov grunted, “Good idea,” and less than a minute later, both of them were asleep.
Tired though he was, Vasilyev found himself picking up Neda’s drawings and looking through them. The detail was so well rendered that he felt as though he could reach out and touch the weapon. He wasn’t thinking about Neda’s instructions. Instead, he was admiring the drawings as art.
They reminded him of sketches done by Rembrandt he had seen in a museum in Amsterdam. Except he thought these were better.
It genuinely didn’t occur to Vasilyev that his judgment might be affected by his opinion of the artist.
Experience with dozens of helicopter flights in Chechnya told Grishkov this one was coming to an end, even before his eyes opened. Maybe the sound of the engine?
Grishkov couldn’t have said why, but he cautiously opened his eyes, only a sliver. He didn’t like what he saw.
Vasilyev was still awake and looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He was holding Neda’s drawings and looking at them. That wasn’t the problem.
Every now and then, Vasilyev looked back and forth between the drawings and the still sleeping Neda. The look on his face was…very much like the one on Neda’s when she had looked at Vasilyev on the flight to the border post.
Not good. Not good at all.
Grishkov made a production out of yawning and stretching himself awake. Vasilyev started like the proverbial child caught with his hand in a cookie jar but quickly recovered.
By the time Grishkov asked whether they were close to their destination, Vasilyev answered, “Yes, less than five minutes,” smoothly enough that Grishkov could almost forget what he had seen.
Almost.
Grishkov had never had to deal with this problem before. Women served in the Russian Army, but none had been deployed in front-line combat in Chechnya, serving only in rear area support functions such as medicine and communic
ations. The Vladivostok police force had female officers, but none were homicide detectives.
Neda and Vasilyev were both intelligent, sensible people. However they felt about each other, neither would do anything that could affect the success of their mission.
Grishkov told himself this and believed every word.
So why did he have such a strong feeling of impending disaster?
Ten Kilometers North of Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Captain John Rogoff looked at the small metal building dubiously. Mikhail Vasilyev, Anatoly Grishkov, and Neda Rhahbar were all in the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle (JLTV) with Rogoff, and none of them liked the look of the building either.
A radiation reading from the Okhotnik drone assigned to them in support had been sent to Vasilyev over his satellite phone, as well as a poor quality image of a vehicle, probably a truck. Vasilyev had then given the target location to Rogoff only as based on “new intelligence.”
But nothing about the building or its location made sense. It was big enough to house the small truck that they expected to be used to transport the weapon to its target. But there was little room left over for any significant force to defend it.
The building had front and back doors that could swing up and allow the entry or exit of a vehicle. On each side, though, there was only a single window fitted with translucent glass. Excellent for admitting light, but no one inside could see out unless a camera system was present they’d failed to spot.
Of course, it also meant they couldn’t see inside without someone getting close enough to punch a hole in the building’s metal walls.
And why park the vehicle they thought was here away from Jalalabad, a city of over three hundred thousand people that could have served as a significant target on its own? Particularly since it was also home to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Fenty, next to Jalalabad Airport, where they had obtained this JLTV.
Come to think of it, wasn’t it remarkable that in all of Afghanistan, the vehicle happened to be parked conveniently near one of the few FOBs the U.S. had left in Afghanistan? Almost as though someone wanted to be sure American soldiers would come to investigate.
So, this vehicle was probably a trap. And they were most likely the mouse about to bite on the cheese. But they couldn’t ignore it, because the truck could be the real thing.
There was good news. This brand new JLTV, the successor to the HMMWV, was equipped with an M-153 Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station (CROWS) system. Rogoff had explained that it allowed him to direct fire from the Browning .50 caliber machine gun attached to the JLTV without leaving the vehicle.
Rogoff had deployed the other men of his unit on all sides of the small building. Neda had suggested to Rogoff in robust terms that his soldiers be placed in positions as far away as possible, consistent with carrying out their mission. Rogoff had shrugged and told her he’d already ordered his men to do just that.
The truth was that even more than most soldiers, Rogoff, and his men, had long since made their peace with the concept of a sudden and violent end in combat. A lengthy, lingering death from radiation poisoning though- that was another matter.
Fortunately, truck wheels were easy to hit from a considerable distance. Rogoff was confident his men would be safe from anything short of the warhead’s detonation.
From what Neda had told him, if that happened, anyone within visual range of the building would never feel a thing.
Rogoff looked at the CROWS II system display, zoomed in on the small metal building, and frowned. No movement.
After some discussion, Rogoff had agreed to let Neda place a small sensor patch on the hood of the JLTV. It communicated wirelessly with a small tablet that Neda was examining, with a frown even deeper than Rogoff’s.
“No, no, this is not right! Cobalt, iridium, strontium, caesium…these are the radioactive elements found in medical waste, not a nuclear weapon! This is a trap! We must leave…”
Before Neda could finish her sentence, the door on the building side in front of them flew open, and a small white truck roared toward them.
It didn’t get far. Just as at the border post, multiple rounds hit all of the truck’s tires as well as its engine, bringing it to a shuddering halt. Three bearded men carrying rifles jumped from the back of the vehicle and began to aim them at the JLTV.
None of them had the opportunity to fire a single round. Each fell in a crumpled heap as multiple shots struck them.
Rogoff spoke calmly into his handset, “Hazard, hazard, hazard. Exit best possible speed.” Then he zoomed the CROWS II display on the driver, who sat alone in the truck’s cab. However, Rogoff made no move towards the trigger that would have sent rounds from the Browning .50 caliber machine gun it controlled in his direction.
Rogoff then pointed at the driver’s hand, which was visible resting on the truck’s dashboard. He said softly, “Deadman switch.”
From the backseat, Grishkov grunted. It seemed like months ago, but it had been just a few days since he’d been holding one just like it.
Neda whispered in Russian to Vasilyev, “Doesn’t he understand that this is a trap? Why are we still sitting here?”
Vasilyev replied in Russian, “He’s giving his soldiers as much time as possible to escape. They don’t have the protection of this vehicle’s metal walls.”
Then he smiled and said, “My kind of officer.”
Grishkov nodded approval as well.
Neda looked at both of them in disbelief and asked, again in Russian, “But what happens when that man realizes we’re not coming any closer?”
A flash of light where the small truck had been an instant before, and a shock wave that flipped the JLTV upside down, answered Neda’s question.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
En Route to Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
Mullah Abdul Zahed scowled as he looked at the text message on his satellite phone. It was a relatively cheap and straightforward model that could neither make calls nor access the Internet. All it could do was send and receive texts, and it was one of the very few possessed by anyone in the Taliban.
The expense of even a relatively cheap satellite phone, as well as the monthly bills that came with it, were one reason few besides Abdul had one. It was not the main reason, though.
No, over the years, the Americans had repeatedly demonstrated their ability to track down phones, in one case even launching a Hellfire missile from a drone before the hapless Taliban satphone user had finished his call.
So, Abdul was using the standard Taliban strategy to minimize this risk. The lead Taliban agent at Bagram Airfield would send a single number to Abdul based on a list of possible outcomes Abdul had prepared weeks ago.
The number Abdul had been hoping for was “1”. That would have meant all the Americans who had appeared to capture the decoy weapon had become casualties. Instead, he got “5”. The decoy weapon had exploded, but none of the enemies had been killed. Though some had been injured, the force attacked with the decoy would still be able to pursue the real weapons.
Abdul had given the other satellite phone to their agent in Bagram in part because he knew that any Americans injured by the decoy weapon would almost certainly be taken to the hospital there.
Abdul was also counting on the agent to inform him of increased security measures in or around the base. Another number-based list Abdul had prepared ranged from “airfield has been closed to all incoming traffic” to “armor deployed on all approaches to the airfield.” Abdul had also given the agent discretion to send him a more extended message if nothing on the list matched what the Americans did, and he believed Abdul had to know.
Abdul sighed. Well, it could have been worse. “6” would have meant that the decoy weapon had failed to detonate, or had failed even to injure the Americans.
The truth was, Abdul had been lucky to get the decoy weapon in place in time. Ironically, the death of Khaksar Wasiq is what had made it possible. The collection of radioactive materials from h
ospitals and clinics in Pakistan had taken years, and Khaksar had agreed to the project only because Abdul had promised the “dirty bomb” made with the materials would be used in Afghanistan. Abdul had been completely sincere in that promise.
But after the dirty bomb had been built and smuggled to Afghanistan, Khaksar got cold feet. He wanted a guarantee that the weapon wouldn’t be traced back to the Pakistani Taliban, and Abdul had no idea how he could give that to him. There were only a few medical facilities in Afghanistan where radiation treatment was available, and they were under very tight security.
Abdul suspected it would be easy to prove the dirty bomb had been built using radioactive materials from the over two dozen hospitals and clinics using them in Pakistan. He could hardly say that to Khaksar, though.
Ignoring Khaksar’s concerns wasn’t an option either. The men who were guarding the bomb were loyal to Khaksar. Also, finding men to replace them wouldn’t be so easy. The Taliban had plenty of men ready to fight against impossible odds to free their homeland.
The number ready to face certain, imminent death was much smaller.
The number ready to spend their last days close to radioactive materials that would make them progressively sicker every day was…even smaller.
When Abdul had learned of Khaksar’s death, he had immediately sent word to the men guarding the bomb that they would be used to trap the Americans who were seeking the stolen Pakistani nuclear weapons. Since they had already learned of Khaksar’s passing, they didn’t question the order.
Well, it hadn’t been a total waste of effort. The Americans had been both distracted and delayed.
And he had one more diversion left, more distracting than all the others.
High Energy Materials Research Laboratory (HEMRL), Pune, India
CL-20 was first developed by the U.S. Navy’s China Lake facility in the 1980s, but due to its expense was used primarily as a propellant. With an explosive yield higher than either Semtex or RDX, terrorists had been interested in obtaining CL-20 for bomb manufacturing ever since its existence had been made public. However, as long as its only production source was the U.S. military, it remained out of their reach.