Chapter 9
Puerto Limon, Costa Rica
Wednesday
4:38 p.m. Central Time
“Copy that, Bravo. Ellis, once they’re all tagged and bagged or handed off to Charlie, you and the men clear out to base. Delta has secured our position and we’ve got a possible hot situation here and no need in all of us sitting on top of it.”
“You sure, Colonel?”
“Yeah, we’ve got this and the NIRT guys will be here within the next few minutes. Once the doc clears our two friends from Africa, we’ll have a go at them.”
“Copy that. I’ll let you know once the doc clears them for a chat. Be advised that the medevac chopper is one minute out.”
“Right. Alvarez out.” Frank looked over at Parvo, who was bleeding from his left thigh. The once off-white, now bloodred bandage Johnny was pressing against his leg was almost saturated. The tourniquet had stopped him from bleeding out, but he was still bleeding.
“Johnny, you need to get that looked at.”
“Yes sir. I think you just said that about a minute ago.”
“Well, the situation hasn’t changed. Medevac is almost here.”
“Just a scratch, Colonel. One of those crazy bastards made the mistake of bringing a knife to a gunfight.” Johnny gave a toothy grin.
“I saw that. Good work today.” Frank looked at the bomb that he’d placed carefully back in the metal case it had come in. The thing had to be at least sixty years old. It also had to be unstable and dangerous. They had been lucky it didn’t go off during all the ruckus. He looked down at his Geiger counter and while there was a very noticeable gamma ray increase, there was no radiation “danger” at the moment. That was, of course, assuming the bomb didn’t decide to detonate. Frank had no idea why this thing hadn’t been decomissioned, dismantled, and destroyed decades ago. He wondered just how many more like it might be out there. He also was guessing that high explosives surrounding the nuclear core were unstable and might not detonate properly, collapsing the core into a critical mass. Maybe it would go critical. Maybe it wouldn’t. But it would still be a dirty fissile mess to clean up one way or the other. The sound of the medevac helicopter caught his attention. There were two of them coming. One of them was a standard, but the other looked like a dual rotor airplane.
“Colonel, a V22-Osprey and it’s coming in hot.” Johnny pointed.
“I suspect that is our NIRT guys,” Frank said.
The two landed just at the edge of the pier about fifty meters away. The rear loading door of the Osprey was open with a gunner standing at the ready in the middle. Several teams jumped out of both aircraft as they sat down. One group had a USMC combat medic, who hit the ground running in a straight line for them.
“Colonel Alvarez?” The combat medic came to a stop and saluted.
“Yes, over here.” He pointed to Parvo.
The team piling out of the Osprey all had Nuclear Incident Response Team patches on their jackets. Two of the men from that group approached quickly with Geiger counters at the ready. Two men with Department of Homeland Security armored vests jumped out, too, along with a blond-haired lady in civilian tactical clothes and no armor. From the looks of her, Frank pegged her as CIA. The colonel’s Delta team marines fanned out to give them room, but they all were keeping a close eye on the thugs on the ground with zip tied hands behind their backs.
“Bomb’s right over here guys.” Frank grinned at them. “No signs of other fissile material nearby as best we can tell. But it wouldn’t hurt to give the place a thorough sweepin’.”
“Colonel Alvarez?” One of the NIRT team approached him. “You’ve been ordered to come with us, sir.”
“Where to?”
“I’m told you’ll be briefed on the way.”
“Well, I’m not leaving my team or this bomb, this nuclear bomb, without more information than that.” Frank grunted. “Did you get that? The nuclear bomb part?”
“Yes, sir. I was told you’d respond that way. I was also told to read this to you.” The NIRT operative held up a piece of paper, cleared his throat theatrically, and read from it. “Um, sir, the paper says to clear my throat as such first. Then it says, and I quote verbatim, uh, sir, ‘Shut up, smart-ass, and get on the goddamned chopper! Alton.’ Uh, unquote, sir.”
“Jesus Christ!” Frank had only gotten an order like that one other time in his life and had hoped he never would again. “Did they say more?”
“No, sir. I’m told you’ll be briefed on the way.”
Frank looked down at Staff Sergeant Parvo. The medic had sprayed the cut and sealed it and was already bandaging it with a fresh wrap. They would evac him soon. Johnny was in good hands.
“Johnny, I’ve gotta go. I’ll check in on you when I can.”
“Yes sir, Colonel. No worries. I’ll be fine.”
“Colonel, we need to go,” the NIRT operative urged him.
“Understood. Well, let’s move.”
* * *
Frank sat scrunched into the jumpseat in the back of the Osprey, looking out the opened back loading bay at the gunner strapped in and standing to behind the fifty caliber at the ready. He rolled his neck back and forth as he strained his shoulders to pull the seatbelt harness around him and his body armor. The blond CIA lady sat across from him and motioned for him to put his headset on. Frank nodded but took his time. He always liked to watch the ground roll out from underneath as an Osprey rolled gently forward and then suddenly lurched as the twin props engaged, slinging them over a hundred meters in the air almost instantly.
He fiddled with the headset and took a swig from the water bottle one of the NIRT guys had handed him rather than from his own gear. The headset was tuned to the open channel and he could hear other chatter and the pilot and copilot talking to each other about something unrelated to anything important.
“Dr. Ginny Banks, CIA.” The blond woman held out a hand. Frank shook it.
“Lieutenant Colonel Francisco Alvarez. Call me Frank.” Frank loosened the shoulder harness strap on the left side as it was digging into him a bit much. “Why am I here, Dr. Banks?”
“Please, call me Ginny. And hold one…” Banks unbuckled and approached him. She pulled his headphone cable from its slot and then plugged it into a box she pulled out from a pocket in her black tactical cargo pants. She plugged her headset into it as well, flipped a switch on it, illuminating a green light, and then plopped carefully back into her jumpseat as the helicopter buffeted her slightly off balance. Frank raised an eyebrow at her, concerned she might have hurt something.
“…shit…damnit…” she muttered.
“Dr. Banks, you alright?”
“Fine.” She buckled back into the seat. “This is a secure private channel. Once we get on the ground in Corpus I’ll give you the full brief. But here is the general situation report. About thirty hours ago a Russian Topol-M missile was hijacked from the missile TEL just north of Oral, Kazakhstan. The crew were all killed with the exception of the commanding officer, a Colonel Vladimir Lytokov, a former MiG pilot and cosmonaut wannabe. We think he is the inside man on this job. The missile was left at the site minus all of the nuclear reentry vehicles within the nose. This was a well-funded operation.”
“Jesus, how many warheads?”
“The Russians won’t say. The treaty only allows for one. CIA agrees with a Pentagon analyst that there are at most six.”
“What Pentagon analyst?” Frank knew most of the active-duty analysts in the nuke-watching business. He’d been part of the response teams for decades.
“Uh, hold one…” She held up a finger and pulled her phone from another pocket. Frank watched as it appeared she was scrolling through emails until she found the right one. “Let’s see…aha, here it is. U.S. Navy SEAL Chief Warrant Officer Four Wheeler McKagan.”
“What did CW4 McKagan say?”
“He is the one with the six-warhead estimate. CIA analysts agree.”
“I’ve done some time with the warrant. He’s a good man. I’d take his word on this one,” Frank said. He was thinking on how truly a small world it was. He recalled being on an inspection team in Iran several years back with McKagan. Goddamned SEALs could hold their liquor. And there was that time the two of them had been put on a Spec Ops joint effort funded through the Defense Research Projects Agency and one of the congressional committees. Now that was a fiasco. The program was still classified to only a handful even though it never got off the ground. “Hot Eagle” was what DARPA had called it. Fun times. A lot of unusual training, brainstorming new and wild techniques, and then there was the evening drinking in the hotel lobby bar. There were a handful of other soldiers on the team but as far as Frank knew they were either killed in Afghanistan or retired out. He and Mac were the only ones from that group still around. He trusted Mac. McKagan was a good soldier.
“So, what’s our play?” Frank asked the CIA agent.
“Our play?” Banks shrugged. “Find the goddamned nukes before somebody sets one of them off.”
“Sounds about right.” Frank agreed with the play, but it was more of an outcome than an actual plan. He needed—well, he at least hoped for—something more. “Any ideas on a starting point?”
“We’ll get you briefed in Corpus. Then we’ll catch a fast ride to SOCOM, where a joint task force is being assembled. From there, we’ll start our engagements.”
“Any ideas on if these perps are planning to use the weapons or sell them?”
“Very little I’m afraid. Just, well, Rear Admiral, um, one star, I forget what that’s called…”
“Lower Half.”
“Right, Rear Admiral Lower Half Tonya Thompson and the SEAL warrant both think they plan to detonate at least one of them.”
“Why?”
“With both the Russians and the Americans looking for them, they don’t believe they could be fenced or sold without them being caught.”
“Sound assessment. Maybe.” Frank thought about all the potential dealers, fences, and buyers for WMD-type arms and had to agree. Unless there were new players that were overtly cocksure of themselves.
“We have little more than that right now. All the services and agencies are taxing collection sources and means as we speak.”
“Understood, ma’am. So, is that all the info you have for me now?” Frank closed his eyes and leaned his head back to take a deep breath. He realized that he was more tired than he had originally thought. And, as the adrenaline of the fight was wearing off, he realized he had a few bumps and bruises that were starting to ache. As soon as he landed, he intended to take about a bottle full of ibuprofen.
“That’s about it. Pictures and such will be available when we land.”
“How long till then?”
“About four hours.”
“Well then, I suggest we get some rest while we can. Who knows when we’ll get another chance?”