by A P Bateman
The initiation system for the warhead consisted of two kilogrammes of thermite explosive. This was detonated in much the same way as any plastic explosive or IED by use of a detonator which would explode into the explosive compound by means of electrical current. Only in this case the two kilogrammes of thermite explosive would act merely as the detonator. On its own enough to take down a row of houses or turn a battle tank to hulk of twisted metal, but it would take an explosion of this magnitude to drive the three kilogramme polonium rod down into the five kilogramme segmented honeycombed plutonium chamber to initiate fission and in turn, create the cataclysmic reaction to create a thermo-nuclear explosion. The devastation created would destroy the intended target one hundred times over, but the weapon grade uranium would do more damage. It had been Zukovsky’s intention to use the resources he had been aware of, stored deep below the earth in Epping Forest, to create a devastating explosion and shockwave throughout London. But he had needed both Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf’s involvement and Professor Orlev’s expertise in the construction of the device. And although Al-Shaqqaf had wanted to strike at the heart of the British establishment and claim a victory for Islam, he had vetoed the centre of London. Orlev had explained the warhead’s relatively limited footprint when detonated at ground level. The weapon had been designed as an aerial delivery system, to be initiated and detonate between one thousand and two thousand feet above the target. Al-Shaqqaf had been happy with that. But it was Zukovsky’s talk of the uranium stores to create a larger and deadlier weapon that had given the Iman his doubts. The cleric was not a foolish man. He knew that total annihilation of the city centre would cause more threat to Islam than it would to strengthen his Muslim brothers’ resolve and take up arms against the west. Professor Orlev had ventured that if the uranium were to be stored next to the device, but still sealed in the lead flasks and not directly detonated in the same manner as the plutonium, then it was highly probable, at least eighty-five percent, that it would create a dirty bomb. The initial explosion would be vast, destroying almost everything within a two-mile radius, but it would render the area, at least a fifty-mile radius, off limits for the next forty years or more.
A British Chernobyl.
Once that had been established as a possible scenario, both Zukovsky and Al-Shaqqaf could finally find plenty to agree on. There was a wealth of targets to choose from, but there was also the big picture. The future. Zukovsky had a list of detailed targets for the first strike of a Soviet Union nuclear attack on Britain. It was an old paper dating back to 1985, but it was clear that not much had changed. He had picked one of the targets for its proximity to an important Soviet area of interest. Not just Soviet, or indeed now Russian, or other enemies of Britain, but for the wound it would inflict upon British security.
Zukovsky had hired Professor Orlev for his superior expertise in nuclear weapons and delivery systems. Orlev had gone off the radar. Something had happened. He knew the old professor was out of the game. But Zukovsky had served in every unit in the Soviet and Russian Federation army. He had been a medic, and scout and sniper, an artillery spotter, had performed a stint in Spetsnaz specialising in urban warfare and hostage rescue and as a bomb disposal specialist. And people who took bombs apart knew how to build them. And what he had in front of him was a bomb. He understood all of the components and he was competent with the process of electrical initiation and timing delays. He had studied Orlev’s notes and had learned all he could by researching the internet on the stages of nuclear reaction. He did not have the knowledge required for detonating the uranium, but as Orlev had explained, it needed merely to be in close proximity to become a dirty bomb.
Zukovsky wore an NBC mask and non-porous rubber gloves to handle the honeycomb of plutonium into place. The base plate of plutonium sat on a piece of steel drain cover he had taken from the side of the road. He had drilled the plutonium plate using a water-cooled drill bit on an extremely low speed, high torque setting. The plutonium plate was then bolted through the drain cover and the table and reamed tightly with washers and wing nuts. He then heated the nuts with a blow-torch, fusing the threads. He had built a sturdy cradle out of a cut-down step ladder to hold the polonium rod just above the plutonium. The first few inches of the rod were inside the honeycomb with a half-centimetre gap all of the way around. The thermite explosive had been shaped around the other end of the rod using the funnelling method. The explosive was shaped like a triangle, the thinnest part at the end of the rod and the thickest part packed closest to the plutonium. Detonation from the RDX detonators inside the thermite would grow in intensity, millisecond upon millisecond, but the greater the explosion at the end of the chain acted as a driving force much like the slow burn explosion of a bullet from a case inside a rifle breach. The polonium rod would accelerate into the plutonium honeycomb at thousands of feet per second and at hundreds of thousands of foot pounds in kinetic energy. The honeycomb would absorb and spread the energy and create the highest temperature from the reaction creating fission. It was the exact opposite of nuclear energy or fusion, an uncontrolled and erratic breakdown of stability.
Alesha entered slowly, cautiously. She was dressed the same as Zukovsky and carried another of the lead uranium flasks. She was flushed, breathing heavily through the thick rubber mask. She placed the flask next to the others under the table and looked at him earnestly. The mask hid her terrible burns, but it rubbed them and she was irritable. “Are you finished?”
“Not yet, my dear,” he paused. “I have to fit the detonators and the timing device.”
“How long?” she asked. “I’m freaking out with that thing here.”
“Just keep bringing in the flasks. It will not be long now.”
“We need Professor Orlev for this. How do you know we have not been irradiated?”
“Orlev is either dead or has been captured. Along with Sergei Gulubkin, he is finished.” Zukovsky nodded towards a box on the table which sat amongst the components. It was constructed from orange plastic and the size of an early nineties Nokia phone. “Geiger counter, commercial grade,” he said. “See the readout? It detects the beta pulses. It’s not ideal, we’re in the high end of the safe zone. I wouldn’t have an x-ray for a few years, but we are not close to radioactive threat.”
Alesha backed away nonetheless. “Well hurry up and get it done,” she said and walked out for the last flask of uranium.
Zukovsky turned back to his work. He would fit the timer last and would not set it until he had met with Al-Shaqqaf and his men. They wanted to film a propaganda video in front of it before a known and wanted ISIS fighter was to detonate it. Zukovsky had met the man before, a small but evil looking character with a large scar on his face. He had felt uneasy in his company, and given his hatred of Islamic extremists, it had been difficult to talk to the man about the weapon. This particular extremist was wanted for his part in the execution videos of several western aid workers in Syria during the early days of the war.
Zukovsky looked up at the window. He had a clear but distant view of the principal target, but the far reaches of the weapon in every direction were of equal importance in striking at the heart of his enemy. He had waited so long for this, and now he was so close he could barely breathe with anticipation.
70
“Where are you?”
“I’ve dropped Rashid off at hospital, I’m in your flat. Just had a shower and change of clothes. Where are you?”
“I’ve just merged with the M40 from the A40, heading northwest. We’re following Droznedov, but he’s not Droznedov. The real Droznedov checked in, but has disappeared. What were you doing with Rashid?”
“Complicated. I’ll tell you later. He was a stalking horse for me.”
“A what?”
“A way of bringing in something I would need,” King paused. He was attempting to dress with the phone to his ear. It had reached the point for a hand change. “Turns out he was a bit more helpful than that.”
“Do you ha
ve a vehicle?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well I hope it’s a fast one because you need to get up here and see how this plays out.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well get going and call me when you’re on the M40. I’ll let you know where we are.”
“We?”
“I have a security officer driving me. And a watcher team is up front. We have a tracker on the target and his vehicle, but last minute problems meant it’s nothing more than sixties technology.”
“I’ll be with you shortly,” King said.
Caroline turned in her seat and leaned in towards the window. She spoke softly, quietly. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday afternoon,” she paused and whispered. “At my place.”
“We’ll talk later. No problems my end. But I’d better get going if I’m to catch you up.”
Caroline felt a little flushed. King had ended the call. She had not even considered a date since her fiancé’s death, let alone imagined being intimate with another man. And she had never done what they had so soon after meeting someone. Not even with Peter. Maybe it was the threat of the warhead hanging over them, the missing agents or the death of so many innocent people around them, but being with King had made her feel so alive. For a brief while, all had been forgotten and she felt safe and warm and needed. She had felt guilt too, but to her surprise not at having finally moved on, but for Watkins, for Mathews, for the Special Branch officers, for Forester – people who would never feel again.
“You okay?” Frank asked.
Caroline nodded. “Hell of a week.” Frank slowed the car considerably and moved over to the inside lane. Caroline looked at the laptop resting on her lap and realised what he was doing. “Well played,” she said.
The intermittent dot had slowed and was entering the slip road of a services. Frank held back and eased into the carpark in the first space he saw.
Caroline dialled Brannan’s number. The surveillance team leader picked up on the first ring. “Hello, we saw it too,” Brannan said. “Have you pulled in or carried on past?”
“Pulled in.”
“Well, it won’t matter because he can’t get off the motorway for another eight or ten miles. You can wait out, or get back on the motorway and stay under fifty in the inside lane. From how he’s been driving he’ll sail right past you before the next exit.”
“No way, he’s seen me, remember? We’ve spent time together.” She thought of how he’d grabbed her by her hair, humiliated her. The threat he had made to her. Maybe he would forget her, but she knew she’d never forget the man’s face. “One unlucky sideways glance and he could recognise me. Besides, we don’t know how long he’s stopping for. And anybody travelling that slow will get a look from most people as they pass.”
“Fair enough,” Brannan conceded. “I’ll send one of my team in for a peek.”
“Well just don’t spook him,” Caroline said and ended the call.
***
Hodges opened the door to the hotel room and turned to the scenes of crime officer. “I’ll check it over first, then you can go do your thing. Finger prints and DNA swabs on whatever you can get.”
“I know what to look for,” the SOCO woman said curtly. “Just don’t touch anything. And this is a hotel room, there’ll be tens, if not hundreds of trace elements from previous guests.”
Hodges reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of latex medical gloves. He slipped them on and held them up for approval. Smiled when he got no reaction at all from the dour woman. “Well let’s just hope the Holiday Inn staff do a thorough clean on a changeover and got rid of a lot of previous traces,” he said and stepped inside.
The room was tidy. The man claiming to be Droznedov had been thorough. He had even made the bed, which Hodges guessed was to eliminate the chance of leaving anything behind under the sheets or the bed itself. There was nothing to look at, nothing out of place. The room was not that big to start with and Hodges could see all there was to see from where he was standing. He dropped down and looked under the bed, but it was clean. He opened the door to the bathroom carefully and saw the body straight away. After all his time as a homicide detective it still made him flinch. “Major Droznedov, I presume,” he said quietly.
The body stared back at him, the eyes dry and dull. It had slumped low in the bath and the legs had bent upwards and outwards. There was a faint swelling and bruising on one eye and the nose was bloodied. The right arm looked to be broken at an impossible angle. That would have been the game changer, Hodges thought. Whatever fight the two men had had, the arm would have meant the end for Droznedov. Hodges looked the body over and could see the neck was distorted. He could imagine the two men fighting, Droznedov was a Russian GRU major. He would have been through a great deal of specialist training at some point; he would not have been an easy opponent. The other man had dealt a savage blow to the arm, most probably a striking forearm block or a kick, then snapped the Russian’s neck as he had writhed in agony.
Hodges took out his phone and dialled. It answered on three rings. “Caroline, Hodges,” he said curtly. “I have a body who I suspect to be the real Major Droznedov. Broken neck, most likely. SOCO are going to go over the room now. I’ll get a pathologist on it right away, but the injuries are pretty obvious.”
“Thanks,” Caroline said. “Any ID to confirm it?”
“Not yet. I’ll check and call you back.” Hodges ended the call and pocketed his phone. He reached into the inside pocket of the man’s jacket. Nothing. He tried the other one and felt the thick wallet and pulled it out. He looked at the jacket curiously, something seemed to snag, pulling the material of the shirt underneath. He looked at the wallet and frowned at the length of wire and the ring pin fastened to it. It looked like the wire had been twisted around many times to keep it in place. He had never seen a security measure like it, and it seemed to have little effect as he had managed to pull it clear. It did not even dawn on him when the blinding light hit him a millisecond before the shockwave of the explosion which lifted him off his feet and threw him through the plastered and tiled partition wall and out into the bedroom where his body fell at the foot of the bed. Lifeless, broken and still.
71
“Moving on.”
“We’re on it,” Caroline said. “We’ll maintain our rear position. Give him half a mile or so. Any eyes on at the services?”
“He went to the men’s room, bought a bottle of water and some cigarettes.”
“I do hope he hasn’t been spooked.”
“My man was invisible, walked out ahead of him and back to the car without looking back.”
“We could do with topping up the tank,” Frank interjected.
“Brannan, we’re going to do a quick fuel stop,” she said, leaning across and looking at the gauge. “Half a tank, so we’ll be about five-minutes tops.”
“Have that, will call and update as we go. You may need to get a foot down though.”
“No problem,” Frank smiled.
“Will do,” Caroline said and ended the call.
Frank pulled up to the pump and got out. Caroline watched the screen of the laptop and saw that from being stationary, Droznedov was moving across the map at an alarmingly swift rate. She looked up at Frank through the rear window and saw that he was hanging up the pump. There was no pay-at-pump facility and she watched the man walk swiftly to the kiosk. He was less swift as he perused the confectionary aisle. Caroline hit the horn, but it did not work without the keys in the ignition. She cursed inwardly, then relaxed a little as she saw him pay. “Come on, don’t wait for a bloody receipt!” she said, then watched as he walked back across the forecourt. She caught his eye and beckoned him to hurry.
“What’s up?” he asked, dropping into his seat.
“He’s off the bloody screen,” she said sharply. “Come on, let’s get going. Foot down!”
“Yes, my lady,” he smirked. The car sped forwards and he glanced over his shoulder as
he entered the exit, floored the accelerator and kept changing up through the gears. They left the slip road and entered the slow lane at one hundred miles per hour and kept on their course to the outside lane where the car touched one-hundred and twenty. “There’s been a major ECU remap on this vehicle’s engine. It does about one-forty but gets there pretty damned quickly.”
“Well let’s see how long it takes to get him back on the screen.” Her mobile started to ring and she answered it, seeing that it was Brannan from the caller ID. “Yes?”
“He’s got his foot to the floor. We’re up around one-twenty. It’s right at the top of our vehicle’s speed limit. We stand to lose him if he goes much faster. If plod see this and get involved we’re in the smelly stuff.”
“Do you think he’s trying to shake you off?”
“I’m not sure, it seems a bit erratic behaviour.”
“I can’t see him yet,” Caroline said, finding it difficult to keep her eyes on the screen as Frank slowed for a last minute manoeuvre from a car drifting across the lanes in front. “Where are you?”
“Just past Junction Five.”
“We’re at Four. That’s eight miles or so on the map,” she turned to Frank. “Foot to the floor!”
“He’s slowing up,” Brannan said. “He’s shifted lanes; it looks like he might be coming off at Six. Either that or he’s seen plod up ahead.” Caroline kept the phone to her ear and her eyes on the screen. She said nothing and nor did Brannan. “No, he’s gone past. He’s doing around ninety, and so is everyone else by the look of it.”
“Call if there’s any change, I need to save my phone’s battery.” She ended the call, but the phone rang instantly. King’s mobile number. She felt her heart skip a little. Then she blushed feeling like a teenager. “Hi. Where are you?”
“Junction Five.”
“Jesus! What are you in, a rocket?”
“As good as. Where are you?”