Grunting, Nevsky peered at the serial numbers he had recorded in his notebook. He carefully picked up one of the three plutonium pits and brought it close to the glass. The number matched. He moved it to a mass balance inside the glovebox, powered up the electronic scale, and waited as it found a fiducial, the zero point reading.
Placing the pit on the scale, the red digital numbers flickered, finally matching the mass he had written down. He expected no surprises, but it had to be done. Nevsky wasn’t tired. If he wished, he had all night to verify the other pits. Earlier today he had felt too rushed, with the other team members anxious for more tours, more food, more fun. If mistakes were found later, Nevsky’s head would be on a platter.
Painstakingly, he verified each serial number and carefully weighed each pit. Finished, he moved to the second of the three gloveboxes in the Pit Assembly Area, carrying his notebook with him. As a reward to himself for his efforts, he took another drink of bourbon from his flask.
Still no sign of PK Dirks. Perhaps the technician had abandoned him intentionally to tempt him, trying to provoke an international incident. Some of the Test Site workers would welcome a return to Cold War days, as would some of his own colleagues.
Inside the second glovebox, the weapon cores were again warm to the touch, even through the rubber gloves. Nevsky wondered where this particular warhead had been targeted. Had the Americans planned to vaporize his beloved Lebedeev with one of these finely machined spheres? The thought sickened him.
With his musing, he almost missed the mass inconsistency.
Nevsky stopped and returned the pit to the scale. The reading was low, only by a fraction, but too low for the amount of plutonium that should have been present. The gray metal seemed a different color, its temperature cooler than the others.
“Ah! What is this?” He picked up the pit and squinted at the serial number. Yes, two numbers transposed in the middle — and he had nearly misread the code. Placing the sphere back on the electronic mass balance, the number jumped on the LED, then stabilized — again, at the wrong value.
“Do you think you can squirm out of treaty obligations? This is a mock pit — what have you done with the real thing?”
He decided to call the team in immediately, dragging the other inspectors from the casino floors. He would waken General Ursov in his hotel. As military liaison to the disarmament team, Ursov would immediately send an encoded message to Moscow.
A sound came behind him. Dirks must have returned at last! Nevsky placed the mock pit back inside the yellow safe circle. His hands still thrust inside the glovebox, he half-turned to look behind him, ready to confront the technician escort with what he had found.
He caught only a glimpse of the raised crowbar —
Nevsky tried to jerk his hands free, but the gloves were too tight, holding him like a straightjacket. Jerking, he managed to slip his right hand out, lifting his arm to protect himself.
The first blow from the crowbar broke his wrist. Nevsky cried out, but the second blow caved in his skull, squelching any further shout.
Then silence returned to the Device Assembly Facility.
CHAPTER 1
As dawn spilled through the tan rock canyons, Agent Craig Kreident rode in the front seat of the FBI rental car, buckled in and holding on tight as Jackson took the corners significantly faster than the maximum safe speed.
In back, dark-haired agent Ben Goldfarb had stopped his usual banter, leaving quiet and intense Jackson to concentrate on driving. Craig glanced at his watch, seeing the second hand sweep around.
As Jackson curled around another hairpin curve, Craig slid sunglasses firmly in place through his chestnut hair. Tapping his fingers on the seat, he stared out the passenger window beyond the guard rail, seeing the long drop down. The sun grew brighter, funneled through the narrow canyon cut by the Colorado River on the Nevada/Arizona border.
Ahead, Hoover Dam formed a cliff of concrete, a wonder of engineering that held back the waters of Lake Mead. The dam was a popular tourist spot, and Highway 93 across it was a vital lifeline between Nevada and Arizona.
If the radical militia group, the Eagle’s Claw, succeeded in blowing up the dam, repercussions from the resulting disaster would approach biblical proportions.
Craig tapped his fingers again, swallowing in a dry throat. He looked at his watch once more. The second hand still hadn’t completed a full circuit of the dial. The worst part was not knowing how much time they had.
Reaching the bottom of the grade where the road and the Hoover Dam spanned the canyon, Jackson pulled smoothly into the empty visitor’s parking lot next to an old exhibit hall. He jammed the shift lever into park, lurching to such a sudden stop that Craig jerked against his seat belt.
Goldfarb popped open the back door, sliding out. Craig unbuckled, grabbed the small walkie talkie on the seat, then pushed open the passenger side door. He reached in his jacket for his FBI badge and ID. “Let’s go!”
Two law-enforcement vehicles marked with Hoover Dam Police and one National Park Service jeep waited there. Three policemen and a park ranger stepped forward, ready for action. They seemed relieved to see the FBI. One policeman wiped a hand across his forehead.
While the spotty early morning traffic continued to drive by, curious onlookers turned their heads. Craig pushed his sunglasses against his face, adjusting the shoulder holster beneath his dark suit jacket. “I’m Special Agent Craig Kreident,” he said, “in charge of this operation.” Exchanging names like rapid gunfire, Craig introduced Ben Goldfarb and Randall Jackson, while the two policemen and the park ranger gave their own names.
“Is this all the backup we’ve got?” Jackson asked, shading his dark eyes and scanning the canyon walls as if searching for hidden snipers.
“For now,” one of the Hoover Dam policemen said. “More on their way, another dozen park rangers, plus three Boulder City police officers.”
“Park rangers?” Goldfarb raised an eyebrow.
The ranger settled his hat firmly on his gray-streaked dark hair. His face was tanned and leathery, as if he had spent his entire life under the desert sun. “We have minimal law enforcement at the dam itself, especially before the Visitor’s Center opens and the tours start. The National Park Service representatives at Lake Mead, Grand Canyon, and Death Valley are the closest Federal law-enforcement agents.”
“Good enough,” Craig said, fidgeting, anxious to get moving. “We’ll take all the help we can get, sir.”
“We’ve been here and vigilant since we received your message an hour and a half ago,” said the second policeman, flushing beneath his freckled skin, “but we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for.”
The other policeman looked more bothered by Craig himself than the threat of the explosives. “Agent Kreident, the Eagle’s Claw and their militia counterparts have been blabbing to the newspapers and radio stations for months. What makes you believe this one’s not just another false alarm?”
Craig frowned. “Because this one’s real in my opinion, sir.”
Goldfarb smiled and stepped into the conversation. He was a head shorter than Craig with deep brown eyes and a sunny smile; he used the smile as a weapon more often than his own handgun.
“I’ve checked up on the Eagle’s Claw,” Goldfarb said, “and I’ve read their collected letters in the evidence file — cheery reading, let me tell you. Typical right-wing militia organization, so patriotic they’re bloodthirsty. America for Americans and none of this ‘world policemen’ crap — that’s their own words. They want no more foreign aid, closed borders, protectionist trade policies. They hate the United Nations with a passion, because it ‘waters down American ideals and dilutes the sovereignty of our nation.’“