Short Season

by DJ Scott

  “I have to agree with ONI,” Clarkson said. We have nothing to suggest Bearpaw’s been compromised. Also, voice stress analysis shows that the officers involved, particularly Admiral Grishkov and his nephew Captain Grishkov, are manifesting high levels of genuine stress—too high to fake. I think those nukes really are on the lam.”

  “Right then. We consider this a real theft of nuclear weapons unless there’s some kind of new evidence that suggests it isn’t. How easy will it be for anyone to use these things?”

  The ONI Director introduced Rick Suarez from NEST who pulled a page of notes from a thin folder. “We know the Russians have an advanced PAL—permissive action link—that controls arming of the weapon. Typically, sensors in the warhead must detect acceleration appropriate to launch, temperature consistent with re-entry, and the internal clock will require timing of these events to be as expected in order to arm and to detonate. Also, the warhead must receive the authorized launch code before it can respond to the sensor inputs. The Russians enter the launch codes into the warheads at the same time they enter the other PAL parameters. Worst case, the buyers have a PAL encoder and can set these parameters to whatever they want. Zero altitude and zero acceleration, for example. We know from other sources that the encoders are not located at the weapon maintenance facilities, but we have to assume that this Kovolenko guy got hold of one.”

  Baker doodled on a yellow legal pad and nodded slightly as he took in the worst case. “Could these warheads be mounted on a different missile than the one they were designed for?”

  “Easily. The Russians are actually doing that in mounting them on the Liner. You’d need some modifications to the docking ring, but nothing a decent machine shop couldn’t handle. The warhead is less than two meters long so it would fit under the fairing of most intermediate and long range missile systems. At about three hundred kilos it’s also well within the lift capacity of any ballistic missile. I’m no expert, but I recall that the Iranians have been using an electrical system very similar to the Russians’ on their ballistic weapons so that would be no problem. All they would need then is a PAL encoder. I assume you’re thinking of the Iranians?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.” Baker paused for a moment and added, “What about the North Koreans?”

  “I don’t think we have much by way of technical data about their missile systems, but we do know they have purchased missile technology from Iran. CIA probably has information I’m not aware of.”

  “We don’t know shit,” the CIA man said. Everyone waited for him to say more, but apparently, that was it.

  “If they don’t have a PAL encoder,” Suarez continued, “they’ll have to disassemble the warhead. Our weapons have safeguards that disable all the electronic components and release the tritium gas if there is even the slightest attempt to breach the system. The tritium gives a significant yield boost to the fission primary. We think the Russians have a similar system in this particular warhead. That’s one of the reasons they have to replace all the electronic parts; even they can’t open their own warhead without deactivating it. They probably have a way to preserve the tritium, but everything else is fried. We know this warhead uses a hollow ovoid, or egg shaped, pit—the plutonium core—surrounded by explosives that are detonated at each end. This gives a low yield, but is extremely simple and reliable compared to the old multi-point detonation with a dozen or more detonators that must be activated within a few microseconds of each other. This simple design relies on tritium to boost the yield. Even without tritium, though, it would be fairly easy to detonate with low yield, maybe a few kilotons.”

  “What I’m hearing then,” Baker said, “is that with this PAL gadget they could have a fully-functional ballistic missile warhead, but even without it they can still put together a low yield atomic bomb. Am I getting this right?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Well shit!” The National Security Advisor sat back in his chair and looked down at the conference table for a moment. He then looked at a tall blond in the uniform of an Air Force Major. Above her right pocket was a nametag which read National Security Staff, Major Sherman, Nuclear Policy Group. “Jennifer, what’s your take on this? Can they activate those weapons?”

  Though one of the most junior people in the room the young major seemed perfectly comfortable addressing the National Security Advisor. “Sir, the Russians have been very secretive about the upgrades to this warhead. For sure, anyone with a PAL encoder can utilize the weapon, but I’m not so sure about the second scenario. We got one report that hinted at changes in their latest upgrade. They can probably deactivate the security features with a PAL encoder when the warhead is removed from the missile. This makes sense; some of those components are durable and don’t need replacement, but are expensive to manufacture. We also suspect a feature that causes a single point detonation if the security system detects tampering. This would completely destroy the weapon and scatter the plutonium in a way making it unrecoverable. We looked at a similar system, but computer simulations showed that twenty percent of the time there would be a fission reaction yielding up to a few hundred pounds of TNT equivalent.”

  “So maybe they can make it work and maybe they would blow themselves up trying. I like the sounds of that.”

  “No way to know. It is possible. I’ll investigate this further and send any follow-up information,” added the Major.

  “Okay, fine.” Baker, nodded at the Major to be seated. “What about finding these things?”

  Rick Suarez answered first. “Depends on how well shielded they are. Admiral,” he turned to Justin Costello, “do we have any information on the transport boxes?”

  The ONI director turned around and looked at Captain Jean Kraus, who was standing behind him along the wall. She pulled a small stack of notes from a portfolio, found what she was looking for and replied, “Stella reports they’re stainless steel, about five centimeters thick, with an additional centimeter of lead as a liner. The warhead sits in molded high density foam.”

  Suarez thought for a moment. “We know these are plutonium warheads which are much easier to detect than highly enriched uranium. Each warhead should put out just over half a billion fairly hard gamma rays, and about half a million neutrons a second. The cases you describe would provide good gamma shielding, but not so much for neutrons.”

  Baker didn’t need to get lost in thickets of technical jargon. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning to detect these things from any distance we would need neutron detectors, and hope they didn’t add neutron shielding outside the cases. Neutron detectors are common in America and Western Europe, but not so many in Eastern Europe. Most of the screening detectors at ports and other points of entry are gamma based, even in the U.S. To find them we need to know fairly specifically where to look and to concentrate neutron detectors in a few locations.”

  “Major?” Baker looked at the young Air Force officer.

  “I think Mr. Suarez is right. Not likely that routine screening procedures will turn up the warheads. We need to know where to look.”

  Sonny Baker took a deep breath and looked over his notes. The picture was filling in, and it was grim. “Jim, assuming CIA is correct that the warheads last known location was Tallinn, could they reach Iran from there?”

  Colonel Jim Galloway was one Baker’s Iran experts. With a background in both special operations and intelligence, he had been tracking movement of arms into Iran. “We’ve pretty well shut down sea transport into Iran. A few smugglers get across the gulf, but that’s small stuff. They’d never move something this valuable that way. Best bet would be ship to Karachi in Pakistan and then by truck to Iran. I doubt the Pakistani government, such as it is, would participate, but there are plenty of terrorist, dissident, and just plain old criminal groups who would. Another possibility is movement across Turkey—we know the Kurds have cooperated in small-time arms smuggling. The
Iranians might be desperate enough to cut a deal with the Kurds for more autonomy if it meant getting hold of half a dozen nuclear warheads.”

  Baker nodded and scribbled more notes. “Alex, set up whatever radiation detectors you need to monitor shipping through the Bosporus and at Karachi. I know you have assets in both places. Take whoever and whatever you need from whatever agency has them. The first person who gives any pushback is on the street. Period. Any further problem and their next stop is Guantanamo. We cannot fuck around with this.”

  “Mr. Suarez, I want you to survey the port at Tallinn to be sure those warheads aren’t still there. My office will arrange a direct flight from Andrews. How soon can you leave?”

  “I can get the equipment I need from our D.C. office and be ready in an hour.”

  “Do it. Admiral, contact your opposite number in Sweden. See if they can check out those containers when they arrive or find them if they already have. Tell them as little as possible.”

  “I’ve already been in touch with their Chief of Naval Intelligence. The Swedes take this kind of thing very seriously. They’ll be all over it, and will do it quietly.”

  “Good work, Justin. Other thoughts?”

  “Two, actually,” added Clarkson from CIA. “First, it’s probable these weapons are not destined for the U.S. as their first stop. They need some kind of work to activate them. Also, if we are the target they would likely separate them. Right now it sounds like they are traveling in three sets of two. We naturally want Homeland Security to ramp up surveillance at East coast ports, but our main focus should still be Europe and the Middle East.”

  “And your second thought?”

  “We should try to get detectors on or near the Suez Canal. That’s an even more likely a transit point than the Bosporus. Justin, what can the Navy do? Our Egyptian assets have been seriously degraded since Sisi.”

  Justin Costello thought for a moment. “I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.”

  “All right, then.” Richardson Baker rose. “I’ll brief the President in an hour. We’ll meet at 1300 tomorrow in the Situation Room. I’ll expect answers and you can expect the President to be in attendance.”

  Chapter 8

  August 19, 2017 2100Z (1700 EDT)

  The White House

  President Brendan Wallace was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office, enjoying a few moments of privacy after meeting with a senate delegation about overhauling Social Security, a subject fairly low on Wallace’s priority list. As a former Army intelligence officer and senior policy analyst at Homeland Security, he had made security his signature issue during the two terms he served in the House of Representatives. By sidestepping the domestic wars over economic policy, Wallace had become of the very few Washington insiders who was respected by both parties. Viewed as a benign, non-controversial policy wonk, Wallace had been persuaded by several like-minded and well-heeled backers to enter the Presidential race, not so much to win, but to get security issues back onto the front page.

  The Iranian bomb, something he’d been warning about, had electrified the world. Suddenly the young Congressman from South Carolina was being compared to Churchill and his warnings about Nazi Germany. The addition of Samuel Morten—shrewd, articulate and aggressive—to his campaign staff had provided the academic polish and prestige Wallace himself had lacked.

  Then the press revealed the frontrunner had paid for college on a Navy ROTC scholarship, and later faked a knee injury to avoid service. This scandal, coming within weeks of a nuclear Iran, had ended his campaign almost overnight. Even Wallace had to admit this was pure luck.

  Finally, the economy had several quarters of unexpected growth and reduced unemployment. The resulting increase in tax revenues had cut into both the federal deficit and the purely economic campaigns of his remaining opponents. In the end, Wallace gained the White House by a comfortable margin of just over a hundred electoral votes.

  Then came the Reagan and Qeshm Island.

  Wallace had studied American involvement in Viet Nam, Somalia, Iraq, and Afghanistan and thought he had learned all their lessons. Like other men who had occupied the Oval Office though, he understood too late that he had not. There was still time to mitigate the damage, to get American troops out while keeping the Strait of Hormuz open. And to do it without the threat of a nuclear Iran—that at least, he had accomplished.

  He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. “Good time Mr. President?”

  “Not particularly, but come on in.”

  Karen Hiller, his Chief of Staff, came through from her adjacent office. A former South Carolina basketball player, Hiller stood a full six feet tall, but she never avoided heels. She had been intimidating Washington power brokers with more than her height ever since she graduated from Georgetown Law and began working for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Later, as Counsel for the Minority Leader she had evolved into one of Washington’s premier deal makers. She was ruthless, ambitious, dedicated, and in love with Brendan Wallace.

  “Sonny Baker wants a few minutes, Mr. President.”

  “About?”

  “He called it national security immediate, but didn’t elaborate. You know how he loves his jargon.”

  Brendan Wallace chuckled. He knew that Hiller’s nickname among the staff of the West Wing was ‘Flak Jacket’ for the way she aggressively protected the President from bad news. “I better see him, jargon or not he rarely exaggerates. Show him in. And you better sit in too.”

  “Yes, sir.” With a swish of her shoulder length black hair she turned, opened the door, and motioned towards Baker who was waiting in the Presidential secretary’s office.

  The President took a seat in a wing-back chair while Baker and Hiller shared a large sofa across the low coffee table. Wallace noticed his old friend looked tired, eyes a bit red, shoulders down. Even his signature bowtie was starting to droop. “How bad is it, Sonny?”

  “Pretty bad, sir.” Over the next ten minutes, Baker summarized the new crisis.

  “Jesus Christ, Sonny. Am I hearing that the Iranians have just bought six top-of-the-line Russian nuclear warheads?”

  “We don’t know that, Mr. President. Iran is, of course, a likely suspect, but for now we’re spreading a broad net.”

  “Add North Korea to that net. I want the Navy to monitor shipping headed for North Korean ports. If there is strong reason to believe those warheads are aboard, I’ll authorize an intercept in international waters.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll talk with Admiral Greene at PACFLEET. We’re setting up monitoring around the Suez Canal so that would give us a heads up.”

  “Sure, unless they go around the Horn.”

  “Right. ONI can monitor the movement of all ships out of Europe going that route. Fortunately there aren’t too many. Anything else Mr. President? We have a full briefing laid on for tomorrow. I’ll get Karen the details.”

  Before Wallace could reply, Karen Hiller looked sharply at Sonny Baker. “Sonny, in future I’d appreciate it if anything of this magnitude was brought to my attention immediately.”

  The President looked directly at his Chief of Staff. “Karen, I appreciate your desire to stay in front of every issue, but this is national security immediate and Sonny was right to come straight to me.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Karen Hiller and Richardson Baker left the oval office together, trading icy stares. Hiller said a few words to the National Security Advisor, but they were lost in the hum of the air conditioning.

  The President walked back around the Resolute Desk, an 1880 gift from Queen Victoria, and resumed reviewing his notes. His mind, however, was not on Social Security, but rather on the whereabouts of six thermonuclear warheads.

  And more specifically, what to do when he found them.

  Chapter 9

  August 20, 2017 0730Z (0930 CEST
)

  Zadar, Croatia

  The MV Milos Tethys, 4200 tons and owned by Theologides Shipping of Piraeus, was tied up alongside the wharf and going nowhere. Scheduled to leave the day before with a load of parts for agricultural equipment, five tons of canned olives, fifty pallets of bottled mineral water, and six shipping containers, she was now waiting for a replacement oil pump for her aging diesel engine.

  Nikos Antoniou, master of the Milos Tethys, and son-in-law of Theologides, was sitting in the small harbormaster’s office. Like all such offices worldwide, the room smelled of cigarettes, stale coffee, and a hint of diesel fuel and lubricating oil. The harbormaster, an Albanian known to Nikos only as ‘Fish’, was an obese man with a huge drooping moustache and breath that reeked of sardines and tobacco. He was asking for an additional daily dockage fee for the time the Milos Tethys would use its berth awaiting repairs.

  “That is not possible,” Nikos said. “Mr. Theologides’ contract calls for a single fixed cost regardless of stay.”

  “So I am to lose money while your worthless ship just sits there?”

  “I did not write the contract. And I doubt Mr. Theologides would agree to pay more. He is not a charitable man.”

  “Can I at least load your cargo and free space on the wharf?”

  “Sadly, no,” replied Nikos. “Mr. Theologides contract also calls for delivery within a certain period after loading. If we load now, before repairs are completed, it could expose Mr. Theologides to penalties. Again, to this he cannot agree.”

  “Perhaps I will contact your Mr. Theologides directly.”

  “Be my guest. I’m sure you will be referred to his maritime attorneys.”

  “The Port of Zadar has attorneys too,” replied Fish. “They even have an office in Piraeus.”

  “Theologides Shipping employs a firm in London.”

  At this, the harbor master spat out the open window. It was a particularly expressive gesture.