Critical Mass

by Steve Martini

  They entered flat ground near the side of the house, Joselyn in front, the steel barrel of the man’s rifle in the small of her back.

  Keeping her between himself and his dead quarry, the man kept peeking over Joselyn’s shoulder with his one good eye, trying to locate the body on the ground. Grass and wildflowers now formed an impenetrable horizontal sea, a foot deep and a hundred yards wide across the meadow. Having given up the high ground, the gunman could no longer find his target. He wanted to put one more bullet in him just to make sure.

  As they walked along the side of the house, he pulled Joselyn in close to his body like a shield.

  She could smell the odor of singed flesh hanging over her shoulder, the whistle of heavy breathing through the edema of burned airways.

  “Slow down.” There was fear in his voice.

  Joselyn knew that any second he could pull the trigger, sending a rifle bullet smashing through her body.

  He held her tight in front of him as he pressed his back against the wall at the side of the house, forming his own kind of human bunker.

  “What was in that?” He whispered into her ear.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The sandbags, behind the house? What was in them?”

  “I didn’t do it,” said Joselyn.

  “Explosives?”

  She nodded.

  “Who?”

  “The man they called Thorn,” said Joselyn. “He had them wired.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He didn’t want any witnesses. He didn’t want any of you to survive.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Shoot into that one.” She nodded as far as he would permit her head to move, toward the sandbagged emplacement at the front of the house. It was no more than thirty feet away.

  He glanced in that direction but held her close with a firm grip on her shoulder, as he pressed the barrel of his rifle against her back with his other hand.

  “If you don’t believe me, do it,” said Joselyn.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said the man. “Get over there.” He let go of her shoulder and pushed the barrel of the rifle into her back hard.

  Joselyn staggered forward several steps and stopped.

  “Go on.” He was breathless, almost panting.

  Joselyn was thinking that if she could hang on, stall him just a few more seconds, he might pass out. She turned now and looked at him.

  “You want to shoot me. Do it now.”

  “No. I want you over there.” He motioned with the rifle toward the bunker.

  “I told you the truth. I didn’t do it.”

  “You fired into it.”

  “Only because you were shooting at me.”

  “Move,” he said. Now there was anger in the single eye that peered out from the scarred face.

  Joselyn backed up several steps, held her hands in the air, an emphasis that she was now disarmed. She could tell by the look on what was left of his face that it didn’t matter. He knew the pain he was in, and he wanted revenge. She backed up a few more steps.

  The barrel of the rifle began to wave in broad circles as he focused his good eye on her.

  “More.”

  She took two more steps back, turned, and looked over her shoulder. She was less than five feet from the corner of the sandbagged bunker.

  “Get up against those bags.” He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and tried to sight through the scope. At less than thirty feet, it was a blur. Still, at this distance he couldn’t miss the sandbags.

  He brought the side of his body against the wall of the house for support and shielded himself from the blast behind the corner.

  Joselyn backed up until the back of her legs and buttocks hit the bags. She pressed against them and prayed, “Dear Lord, let it be done.”

  A thin splinter of wood split from the molding at the corner of the house just at the level of his eyes an instant before the sound of the shot echoed off the bluff. The gunman stood as if suspended by some unnatural force, his rifle barrel dipping six inches before it tumbled from his hands. His knees buckled. Joselyn watched as the rigid lines of his body turned fluid and collapsed into the dust by the side of the house.

  She turned and looked behind her toward the meadow. A tall, slender giant stood halfway to his knees in grass and wildflowers, a rifle in his hands.

  Gideon looked at the sky and thanked God for a lucky shot.

  TWENTY-NINE

  PADGET ISLAND, WA

  A Marine marksman examined the gunman’s rifle where they found it lying in the dirt by the side of the house. He found that the scope had been jarred, probably by the explosion in the bunker, so that its mountings were forced slightly out of alignment. Buck Thompson’s shot had missed Gideon by inches.

  The Marines, with Gideon in tow, searched every structure on the island for nearly three hours. The Geiger counter clicked with only periodic surges of background radiation, but nothing more. They could find no sign of the nuclear device. The NEST team showed up shortly after noon and took over the search.

  Gideon and Joselyn were put onboard a Marine helicopter and flown to the naval air station on Whidbey Island, where Gideon was taken in one direction and Joselyn in another.

  Joselyn wanted to know why they were being held. No one would give her an answer.

  She was allowed to shower and clean up at the base, constantly under the eye of a female Marine, then given a quick medical exam and treated for the multitude of bruises and abrasions.

  The Navy doctor wasn’t sure about Joselyn. He thought she might have suffered a concussion. The knot on the back of her head where the men had sapped her the night they took her on the dock, as well as the bruise on her cheek from Thompson’s rifle butt, had swollen badly and was quite discolored. The physician wasn’t sure about her ability to travel.

  “Is it life-threatening?” asked a stone-faced FBI agent.

  “Probably not, but I won’t take responsibility,” said the physician.

  “She can travel,” said the agent.

  She was handed a blue Navy jumpsuit, in place of her soiled and torn clothing, and hustled aboard a small Air Force jet in the company of two agents. A moment later Gideon, also wearing a Navy jumpsuit and bent over so that he was nearly crouching to half his height, entered through the door of the small jet. He smiled when he saw her, bandaged and scrubbed, and wearing a jumpsuit two sizes too big for her.

  “Lovely. It’s good they had one in your color,” he said.

  “Sit down and buckle up,” said the agent.

  Gideon took the chair next to Joselyn.

  They talked for maybe an hour until the drone of the jet engine finally put them both to sleep, her head tilted over onto his shoulder, his head against hers.

  Gideon was awakened by the gradual decline in altitude and air pressure. Instinctively he looked for his watch and only then realized that it was gone. He’d left it with his clothes back on Whidbey Island. He shifted in his seat. Joselyn blinked her eyes and woke. She stretched and yawned.

  “I think we’re about to land.” He told her. “Do you know what time it is?”

  She looked at her empty wrist. “No.” Then out the window, but she couldn’t see a thing. They were flying through cloud cover thick as soup.

  Ten minutes later, they felt the wheels of the jet as they skidded onto the runway. The plane taxied to a stop near a large hangar. All they could see out of the windows were military planes, jet fighters, and transports, lined up along the runway.

  Gideon craned his neck to see out of the low windows. There was another large plane, blue and white with gleaming silver wings parked inside a massive hangar a hundred yards away. On the tail section was painted a large American flag, just above the tail number 28000. The words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA were stenciled in clear, dark letters on the white upper portion of the fuselage.

  “I think it is Andrews Air Force Base,” said Gideon.

 
A dark blue government van pulled up on the apron next to the plane. Gideon had to manually unfold his legs, and even then he walked like a stick figure once he cleared the low door on the small Air Force jet. He felt as if he was coming out of a sardine can.

  Joselyn got to the bottom of the steps ahead of him. On solid ground now and rested, she became more assertive and turned to one of the agents. “Where are you taking us?”

  “You’ll see.” He opened the sliding door of the van and motioned for them to get in.

  She didn’t move, and when Gideon tried to, she stopped him. “Are we in custody?”

  The agents looked at her, and then glanced at each other.

  From the look, it was clear they weren’t sure.

  “If we’re under arrest I want to see a lawyer, and I want to know what we’re charged with.”

  “Later,” said the agent.

  “No, now.” She had been shot at and kicked, threatened with a rifle, and nearly fried by an explosion. She wasn’t going to move until she got some answers.

  Gideon took one look at the stern expression on the agent’s face. “I think that perhaps this is not the time to stand on legal principle,” he told her. He took Joselyn’s arm and gently gestured toward the van.

  “Where are they taking us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m not going. Not until I get some answers.”

  “I think if you do not, they may put you in the van forcibly.”

  “Listen to the man,” said the agent.

  “I want to talk to somebody in authority,” said Joselyn.

  “That’s where we’re taking you,” said the agent. “To see the man in charge.”

  Joselyn looked at Gideon. She wasn’t happy. She folded her arms and tapped her foot, but she didn’t move.

  “We could always call the Dutch ambassador,” said Gideon.

  She didn’t look at him, but the stone slowly cracked around her lips, she laughed, and the resolve was gone. They got into the van. The agent shook his head.

  It took an hour in thickening city traffic before they started to see familiar landmarks. The Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson’s in the distance on the other side, and the tall obelisk of the Washington Monument. Joselyn had never been to Washington, D.C., before, and she hovered like a tourist at the darkened windows of the van as they sped past each site.

  Gideon seemed to take it in stride. The adrenaline rush of the previous day left him weary, even with the fitful sleep on the plane. He was jolted into full consciousness when the van turned and pulled up to the black iron gates.

  The expression on Joselyn’s face said it all. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Gideon didn’t say a word, but he was leaning forward, looking over the front seat between the two agents. In the distance, through the black wrought iron of the southwest gate, was the gleaming oval portico of the White House with its Doric columns.

  One of the agents flashed credentials at a uniformed guard in the kiosk, and they waited while a phone call was placed. Seconds later the iron gates rolled back. The van drove up West Executive Avenue and turned right, stopping in front of a basement entrance to the West Wing.

  Without ceremony, the van door slid open and two men in suits looking suspiciously like Secret Service agents helped Joselyn and Gideon from the back of the van.

  Neither of the agents said a word but instead led the couple past a guard. They took the first right, down a few stairs. Joselyn could smell food. When they got to the bottom she could see the White House Mess, a kind of small cafeteria.

  “Wait here.” One of the agents stayed with them while the other went over to a large locked door. A Marine guard in dress uniform with a side arm was stationed next to the door. The agent worked the coded keypad next to the door, opened it, and disappeared inside.

  The cafeteria seemed to be bustling. Young men in rolled-up shirtsleeves and ties, and young secretaries in short skirts, hustled back and forth on the stairs, each looking as if they were on a mission from God.

  The plastered walls were painted a glossy white, with Colonial pediments over the doors.

  No one seemed to pay much attention to Gideon or Joselyn. She felt like an itinerant in jail togs. She fussed with her hair a bit, wishing she had a comb and mirror and a little makeup.

  A few seconds later, the door to the room opened again and the agent came out. He was in the company of an older man in shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie knotted halfway down his chest, and glasses, narrow cheaters propped up on his forehead like a visor.

  He took the glasses from his forehead and held them in one hand a second before he reached them.

  “Ms. Cole and Mr. van Ry, I assume.” He extended his hand and the first smile either of them had seen from anyone in half a day.

  “My name is Sy Hirshberg.”

  Gideon recognized the name.

  “I am the president’s national security adviser. I want to thank both of you for coming.”

  “I didn’t know we had a choice,” said Joselyn.

  He ignored her. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’m dying of thirst,” said Joselyn.

  “What would you like?”

  “A club soda, if you have it.”

  “Done. And you, Mr. van Ry?”

  “Very good. Yes. The same.”

  With a look from Hirshberg, the Secret Service agent was suddenly transformed into room service. “And while you’re at it, see if they can put together a couple of sandwiches.”

  “No meat,” said Joselyn as the agent turned, headed for the Mess.

  “If you’ll come this way,” said Hirshberg. “We have a lot of questions, and not much time.”

  He led them back to the door with the combination on it. Hirshberg opened the door and ushered them in. It was a conference room surrounded on three sides by two small offices, computer workstations, and little warrens filled with communications equipment. The main conference area was small and gave the appearance of being cramped, every inch being employed in some functional use.

  There was a map projected on a screen hanging down from one wall. It was large-scale and very familiar. It showed in detail large sections of North Puget Sound, the area embracing the San Juan Islands.

  There were a series of tables arranged in a rectangle with an open area in the middle, a few men and two women sitting around it. Some of the men were in uniforms.

  There was intense conversation. They were in the middle of a meeting. A few people looked up, but no one paid particular attention to Joselyn or Gideon.

  Gideon immediately recognized one of the women. Sheila Johnstead was the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations.

  Joselyn’s eyes were fixed on the man seated at the far end of the room. She couldn’t help but stare, in the dim pools of light, at the president of the United States.

  He didn’t smile or acknowledge their presence; in fact he barely looked at either of them. He was locked in conversation with a man seated directly in front of Joselyn with his back to her.

  “I cannot emphasize how important this is,” said the president.

  “Sir, I can appreciate that,” said the other man.

  She couldn’t see his face, but the voice had a familiar ring. Joselyn thought maybe it was someone she’d heard interviewed on television.

  They were ushered into chairs against one wall just inside the door. The room was crowded to the point of overflowing. Young aides stood against the walls with pads and pens, periodically scribbling notes. An air of tension hung over the place as palpable as smoke.

  “Sir, I realize it is important, but evidence before a grand jury, if it is to mean anything, must be maintained in confidence.”

  “We have a crisis here,” said the president. “Don’t you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.” It was that familiar voice. Joselyn tried to edge around to see the profile of his face, but she couldn’t.

  “Then
help us out,” said the president. “You are the only one who has reviewed all of the evidence in this case. I am asking you in my official capacity, as president, to tell me everything you know concerning your investigation of this matter.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” said the man, “Rule Six of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure makes no exception for disclosure of grand jury information pertaining to national security.”

  It hit Joselyn like a lightning bolt. The man sitting in front of her was Thomas McCally, the assistant U.S. attorney from Seattle, the man she’d left waiting in the courthouse the day Belden ran.

  “Well, if the law doesn’t provide such an exception, it should,” said the president.

  “That is a matter, sir, between you and Congress,” said McCally.

  Joselyn arched an eyebrow. McCally was clearly swimming in deep political waters.

  The president flipped a pencil into the air. It landed in no-man’s-land between the tables.

  “He’s yours,” said the president. “You deal with him.” He turned to Abe Charness, the attorney general, who was seated two chairs away.

  Charness offered an uncomfortable smile to McCally and ran one hand through his thinning gray hair, disheveled and falling out faster by the minute. His shirt showed signs of perspiration under the arms, where it was bunched up by the thick suspenders that looped over his narrow shoulders.

  He was not a big man, but Charness mustered all the authority he could in his voice. “Son, we don’t have the time to go through the grand jury transcripts. We assume that if you had uncovered anything regarding the smuggling of a nuclear device into the country, you would have alerted all of the appropriate agencies, the National Security Council, and the military.”

  McCally nodded.

  “So we assume that you did not uncover such information.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Fine. The president has a simple question. It goes to issues of policy concerning this administration. We need to know whether the name Viktor Kolikoff ever surfaced in connection with testimony by any of the witnesses in your investigation.”