So while humans aren’t killed by e-bombs—thus making the devices nonlethal weapons—the way of life of the targeted humans is killed.
“The e-bombs Popov stole… were they nuclear?”
“Nonnuclear. They sold them on the black market, is what I was told. Every last one in the entire Russian arsenal! Can you imagine?”
“Yes, I can. Lots of arsenals all over Russia were being emptied out and sold in those days. Luckily, I believe most of the EMP weapons ended up in the hands of the CIA and not terrorists.”
“Well, Russia has a nonlethal weapons program, as America does, of course, but now all of our EMP weapons are part of our nuclear arsenal.”
“The nuclear explosion provides the energy for the EMP effects,” said Kit.
“Correct. Nonnuclear EMPs rely on conventional explosives to initiate the reactions. Anyway, when I first went to work after I got my university degree, I was schooled in the use, construction, and operation of the old, nonnuclear EMPs. And I studied the American designs, too. I learned on nonworking models. We were going to restock our arsenal but never did because they were not dependable devices. At least our EMPs weren’t. Generals like to know exactly what will happen when a weapon is employed, but with our e-bombs, there was little consistency. The U.S. nonnuclear EMP arsenal is more advanced than ours ever was, but no funds were forthcoming for us to restart the program. So I was transferred to the R and D unit where I now work.”
“Okay.”
“One night about two weeks ago some men came to my apartment. They took me and my daughter, Kala. They said if I wanted to see her alive again, I would do exactly what they said. They said I was to marry an American soldier, travel to America, and perform some work that I was trained in. I was instructed to tell you nothing, nothing at all… or Kala would die.”
She looked at Kit nakedly. There was no disguising the fact that her revelations put her daughter at even greater risk. Kit didn’t speak but nodded his understanding. “My sister, your daughter. We’ll get them back, one way or another,” he said.
Yulana smiled a little sadly; he knew she had no choice but to hope he was right.
“The one thing that seems to connect me to Popov is the EMPs. But I don’t know, I’m just guessing,” she said, resigned.
The gist of the scheme clicked into place in Kit’s mind like an unwelcome revelation. He saw the connections now, including his own.
“They need you to work on some kind of device, Yulana.”
“Do you think Popov has found one of the old Soviet nonnuclear EMP bombs?”
“Maybe.” Kit said it, but he didn’t believe it. He had his own connection to e-bombs. A few years back, Kit had led a Red Team, as part of a security training exercise, that had broken into an arsenal of EMP weapons stored at Sandia National Labs in New Mexico. He’d gotten in rather easily, actually. And that must be why Viktor Popov needed the services of Kit Bennings.
Sandia. Popov wants me to steal an electromagnetic pulse bomb from Sandia, and Yulana’s job is to make sure it detonates. But what does he want to hit? What is the target?
Bennings picked up the bottle of vodka and took a swig for real.
CHAPTER 19
A stiff breeze blew cool dry air over the desert floor, gifting Las Vegas with the kind of temperature more common to midwinter than late May. Endless sunshine, mild temps, and clean air comprised an allure almost as compelling as the nonstop party atmosphere of the Strip; the notion that anything was possible in this city was an idea for many—especially the desperate—that constantly bubbled to the surface.
Fantastic fun, if not outlandish riches, were just waiting to be had with the roll of the dice or the push of a slot button, and starting life over with a winning hand was par for the course for those who chose to make the attempt. At least that was the bill of goods sold in slick marketing campaigns to the gullible.
And so the transient population of the city was never a low figure.
Siegel Suites on Tropicana west of the Strip and the I-15 freeway catered to a transient clientele. Furnished, one-bedroom “suites” with utilities included rented by the week or month. Prostitutes in town for a few weeks, pimps, drug dealers, cons, criminals, and others living on the lower margins made the roach-infested complex home.
The units looked presentable on the outside but were often shabby on the inside. It was the perfect location to remain low-key, where residents didn’t pry or ask questions of their neighbors. The perfect place to stash Staci Bennings with a two-person babysitting detail.
The Russian man, the one called Gregory, had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Again. He sat slumped, his head tilted back over the edge of the straight-backed kitchen chair. The blue-eyed blond woman, Lily, was outside smoking somewhere on the third-floor walkway.
They were in Las Vegas. Staci was sure of that. Maybe a mile west of the Vegas Strip. She had caught a glimpse of the horizon the night they first carried her up to the apartment. They were somewhere due south of the Rio, which had been lit up with purple and red lights, and the Palms, with the electric rainbow on the roof. She had recognized those buildings.
Staci was confined to the living room, where she slept on the ratty, filthy sofa at night and watched endless TV shows the rest of the time. All of the windows were blacked out, and she had to ask permission to use the grungy toilet or the kitchen area. The bedroom was used by Lily and Gregory to sleep in shifts. The TV droned on with some late-night program that wasn’t that funny and featured celebrity guests who weren’t particularly talented.
Staci’s swollen and discolored wrist was broken and still throbbed with stabbing pain. Her puffy left knee hurt almost as much, but maybe she only had ligament damage. These injuries were courtesy of Lily, administered while Staci stood drugged and held from behind by Gregory.
At least Gregory had given her aspirin, elastic bandages, and mentholated cream. She had to apply the bandages herself; her captors wouldn’t help her. Staci understood that Lily wanted to kill her, and she also understood that since she could clearly identify both of them, they probably would. Unless she could get them first.
If she had a weapon she could kill Gregory right now as he slept; he was supposed to be awake, watching her. But the room had been sanitized. There were no pots or pans, cutlery, no heavy objects or blunt instruments. If her wrist wasn’t broken, she could sneak up behind him and choke him to death, and then take her chances with Lily. But Staci knew she was too badly injured to put up much of a fight. And they both carried weapons.
So what other options did she have?
The phone. Gregory’s cell phone lay on the round kitchen table just inches from his hand.
But who could she call? She remembered few phone numbers by heart. Her fiancé, Blanchard, was half a world away in the concrete canyons of Tokyo. Kit! Surely Kit would be in Los Angeles by now. She would send a text to his U.S. cell phone, the same number he’d had for over ten years. One of the few numbers she remembered.
As she stood, excruciating pain coursed through her knee and she almost cried out. Slowly, carefully, and as quietly as she could, she limped to the table. She held her injured wrist against her chest; there was no way she could use that hand.
Gregory, who had had four shots of vodka, as he did every night, snored lightly. She’d watched him like this before, when he sometimes would wake suddenly, for no reason. Was he going to wake? She could worry about it or she could just do it.
Staci’s hand trembled and she stopped breathing as she picked up the phone. She tried to remember if his keypad was set to make a sound when he inputted characters. Yes, it was, she thought. So she first went to SETTINGS, then GENERAL, then PERSONALIZATION and silenced KEYPAD TONES. Then she went to MESSAGES, CREATE NEW, and entered Kit’s number. Then she typed, “Vegas S of Rio/Plms nr Strip 3fl 2Russ hrry Stci.” She started to hit SEND but thought of something to add: “dnt rspnd.” She hit SEND. Then she went to the SENT FOLDER and deleted the message.