Certain Jeopardy (10 page)

THE 2:00 A.M.
MOON
hung high in a cloudless obsidian sky. Moyer lay on his belly peering over the short parapet of a two-story truck supply a half block from the suspected row of concrete tilt-up structures. He held a monocular NVG unit to his right eye. Similar to the Army-issue PVS-14 night vision scope, the device allowed him a near daylight view of the north and west sides of the target buildings.

“One guard smoking a cigarette near the north street-side corner. Looks bored.” Moyer studied the man for a moment.

“Standing alone during the wee hours can do that,” J.J. said.

“He’s the only signature I have on the FLIR.” Caraway kept a low profile while moving the handheld forward-looking infrared device. “He seems to be the only one on duty. Maybe the others are sleeping in the building, but there’s no way I’m gonna get a reading through concrete walls.”

“Here,” Moyer said, handing the NVG to Caraway. “See what you can tell me about the fence.”

Caraway raised the monocular to his eye. “Full-perimeter chain link, six feet high, no razor wire. Of course, you already know that.” Moyer gave the man time to study the situation. “I don’t see anything to indicate the fence is electrified. Checking for motion sensors.” Caraway could be a pain, but he was thorough. “I don’t see ground sensors or anything to indicate a passive detection system. Of course, I wouldn’t expect one. Having a guard walking the grounds would set off motion sensors and any other intruder alert system. I think we have one guy and a fence.”

J.J. eyed Moyer. “Those buildings could house several hundred hostiles.”

“No doubt, but I don’t think they do,” Moyer said. “If you had that many men, then why only one guard? I doubt there’s more than a handful of people inside.” Moyer retrieved the night vision device from Caraway and studied the situation again. “It’s not right. They’re too casual about their security. Why?”

“No idea, Boss.”

Moyer rolled over on his back, removed his encrypted cell phone, and made a call. A second later he said, “Whatcha got?” Rich, Medina, and Pete had taken position on the roof of a furniture manufacturer.

“We have a good view of the south and east quadrants. Nothing happening.”

“Okay, set up the LVRS. We’ll do the same. We’ll monitor at distance.”

“Understood.” The line went dead.

Moyer faced Caraway. “Set her up.”

J.J. helped Caraway erect a small aluminum tripod supporting a video camera and transmitter. The lightweight video reconnaissance system allowed surveillance at a distance of six miles. The panel truck would serve as a base station. Live surveillance from the rooftops would be impossible during the day when the streets came to life. This way, at worst, someone might discover the equipment on the roof and the government would be out some pricey toys. Better than having a team member observed or even arrested and tipping off the targets.

Thirty minutes later Moyer and J.J. sat in the panel truck. The others returned to their hotels. There was nothing to do now but watch nothing happen on two LCD monitors.

* * *

LUCY MEDINA COULDN’T SLEEP
.
What had been a sharp pain in her uterus this morning had evolved into a dull, persistent throbbing. Not enough to make her double over but enough to keep her from sleeping more than a few minutes at a time. She rose from bed, made her way to the living room of their small home, and tried to find a comfortable position on the couch. She turned on the television but kept the sound low. The children didn’t need to be awake at 4:00 a.m. Neither did she. Finding nothing of interest, she stopped on a program that promised to make her rich through real estate.

Lucy closed her eyes. Why did everything inside her seem to burn?

* * *

STACY BOLTED UPRIGH
T IN
bed. The cool air touched her damp skin, chilling her. She took a breath, then another. Her heart ricocheted against her ribs. She raised a hand and touched her sternum. The dream had been so real, so startling, so horrible. As the nightmare drained from her mind, it left a residue of pain, like boiling water over tender flesh. She moved from the bed, bent over the toilet, and emptied her stomach.

When the retching ended, Stacy tossed cool water on her face. Compared to the heat of the night terror, the cold water was refreshing. Pushing back the drapes that covered the bathroom window, Stacy gazed at the moon and wondered if Eric could see it from wherever he was.

HECTOR CENOBIO PREFERRED THE
privacy of his office and lab. He was comfortable lecturing to the few upperclassmen and graduate students that attended his classes, but standing before fifty scientists and journalists made him uneasy. Of course, only a handful of these were journalists. The rest were researchers from the various disciplines that orbited the world of nuclear physics.

Hector had become something of a celebrity in the science community. Yet outside of those whose research touched on nuclear power generation, he was largely unknown, and he liked it that way. What he didn’t like was answering questions from the media. Most reporters didn’t know enough about the subject to make insightful queries. A few science writers had a fair grasp of the concepts at hand, but he still felt the need to dumb things down.

He had already made his opening remarks, methodically laying out the principles of reprocessing spent nuclear fuel. His reasoned explanation fell on deaf ears. Apparently reporters could only ingest information preceded by a question.

A squat man in a rumpled coat stood. He held an MP3 recorder in his hand. “Dr. Cenobio, isn’t it true that the recycling process is more expensive than you’ve let on, and that the end result is fuel that costs more to make than the fuel is worth?”

Hector had just covered this but managed to hold back a frown. “As I mentioned a few moments ago, the world is changing at unexpected speeds. The costs of oil and natural gas have reached new levels and will continue to climb. While most people worry about the increase of fuel at the pumps, there is a greater concern: power generation. The population is not decreasing. Third-world nations are not walking into the high-tech world; they’re skipping in, leaping over the stepping stones first-world countries had to traverse. There are countries whose citizens have never used a phone attached to a phone line. They have graduated straight to cellular. The up-and-coming countries are going to need more and more power. Nuclear is the only way to provide consistent power that isn’t dependent upon oil from other countries.”

“But the process is still expensive, right?”

“Every power source is expensive. Yet my new techniques have brought the price of reprocessing down and will continue to do so in the decades ahead. Besides, expense is not the only concern. There are other matters in play.”

“Such as?”

Whatever happened to one question per reporter? “Storage. Fuel used in reactors is not eternal. It has a limited lifespan. Spent fuel must be replaced. Unfortunately spent fuel is still radioactive and requires special care. This spent fuel is stored in cooling pools, but we have reached the limits of what such pools can hold. Many companies have begun storing spent fuel in dry casks, concrete and steel canisters, but this is an expensive proposition. Each cask holds about ten tons of waste. A one-thousand-megawatt reactor generates enough spent fuel to fill two casks a year, and each cask costs approximately one million dollars.”

The reporter started to ask another question, but Hector stopped him with an upraised hand. “It was generally thought that spent fuel would be sequestered in underground facilities like Yucca Mountain, Nevada, in the United States. Yucca Mountain was to begin taking deposits in 1998. We are over two decades past that date. The best estimates state the facility will open in 2017. In the meantime, more and more spent fuel is accumulating in what remains of cooling pools and dry casks.

“There are four hundred and thirty-nine nuclear power plants in the world, with another thirty under construction and two hundred more on the drawing board. Those numbers will increase, as they should. My technique will allow the world to make use of the spent fuel from these and future plants.”

Another man stood. He was tall, wore a tweed jacket, sported a thin mustache, and looked a few years beyond sixty. He spoke with a heavy Italian accent. “Dr. Cenobio, as I understand it, your process is similar to those used by the United Kingdom and France in which you—and forgive me for being so basic—extract and enrich the plutonium in used fuel.”

“The end result is the same, but my process is different, more efficient and cost effective.”

The man grinned. “Of course it is, Doctor. Your reputation precedes you. My question centers on the unintended use of such plutonium. Isn’t it true that plutonium is relatively easy to handle and is thus a target for terrorists?”

Hector had been expecting this. “It is true that the current state of spent fuel is too dangerous for terrorists to transport. Too many harmful gamma rays. It is also true that plutonium is less dangerous, but that doesn’t mean that it can be easily stolen or—”

“Forgive me, Doctor, but over the last decade plutonium— enough to make several nuclear bombs—has been reported missing from Los Alamos in the United States and Sellafield in the UK—”

“It is my understanding the Sellafield was an error in auditing.”

“So we are asked to believe. My question is this: Why should a process such as yours be allowed when it leads to the creation of a material that can be stolen, illicitly sold, or otherwise find its way into the hands of terrorists?”

Hector stepped back from the lectern for a moment. He had been answering questions like this for the last five years. He stepped to the microphone again. “Such a thing is highly unlikely. We can control who has access to such technology. I cannot imagine any sane country making this new technique available to a government that supports or harbors terrorists. Security measures will be in place.”

“India, 1974.”

“What about India?” Someone in the group called out.

Hector fielded the question. “I believe he’s referring to India’s efforts to separate plutonium from fuel used in a nuclear power plant.”

“A nuclear plant with technology provided by the United States. India made a bomb and joined the world’s superpowers with a nuclear arsenal.”

“We’ve learned a lot since 1974,” Hector said.

“Have we?”

MOYER WAS GLAD TO
see the sunrise. Another couple hours and Jose Medina and Martin Caraway would spell them. Medina would be bored stiff, but Caraway would enjoy it. Anything that involved electronics was candy to him.

J.J. sat on a metal folding chair reading a pocket Bible by penlight.

“Found anything interesting?” Moyer asked in low tones.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been reading that Bible for a couple of hours now. Have you found anything interesting?”

“It’s all interesting. Cover-to-cover interesting.”

“Can’t say I’ve spent much time in the book. Don’t see muchrelevance for the twenty-first-century warrior.”

J.J. tilted his head to the side. “The Bible is the most relevant book ever.”

“Yeah, well, maybe. It doesn’t seem to have done you any harm.”

“Any shortcomings in me came from someplace other than the Bible.”

“Caraway doesn’t seem to care much for your Bible reading.” Moyer turned his eyes back to the two monitors. The most exciting thing they’d seen so far had been a stray dog sniffing the gutters for food.

J.J. lowered the Bible. “You’ve noticed that, have you?”

“I notice everything that goes on in my team. It’s my job. So what’s his beef with you?” Moyer didn’t look away from the monitors. The remote video setup was working as planned. They were parked five miles from the site but still received a strong signal from both LVRSs.

“It might be better if you ask him.”

“I’m asking you, J.J.”

J.J. shrugged. “He blames me for his wife’s desertion.”

That got Moyer’s attention. He turned in his chair. “You’re responsible for Caraway’s wife leaving him? Do I want to know why that is?”

J.J. shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. The only time I met her was at the barbecue you threw for us when we returned from Afghanistan. Even then I didn’t spend more than fifteen or twenty minutes talking to her. Martin was there the whole time. Nothing happened—I want to be clear about that.”

“That’s good to hear, but I still don’t understand the problem.”

“He doesn’t like my faith.”

Moyer raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“He told me so. Not long after Afghanistan. That night backat the airfield the guys were blowing off some energy talking about the men we killed. I didn’t feel like joining in, and Caraway noticed. I guess he also saw me looking at the shepherds we killed and put two and two together.”

“You mean your regret about killing the civilians.”

“Yeah. Anyway, he began razzing me pretty bad. He told me his wife won’t come back to him because she’s a Christian. I still haven’t figured that out.”

Moyer hesitated. How much should he say? “Caraway is a man who likes women—likes them a lot. Apparently marriage didn’t quench his thirst. His wife decided not to stay after she learned of his most recent affair. He was fine with that until his new girlfriend left him. No wife, no mistress. The guy’s alone. He doesn’t do alone well.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“I’m telling you enough so I can also tell you to give the man a little space. You don’t have to like him, and he doesn’t have to like you. But on this team we work as a unit. I don’t care what my men do in their off time as long as they don’t disgrace the Army.”

“Can I ask how you know all this?”

“My wife bumped into his just before she left. Word got back to me. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Caraway. I’ll talk to him at the right time. Understood?”

“Understood.” A moment later J.J. said, “Can I ask a question and not lose my head?”

“Depends.”

J.J. took a deep breath. “How bad is it?”
Moyer stiffened. “How bad is what?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me to mind my own business, but

I think you’re sick.” Moyer studied the video monitors, but their images didn’t register. “I’m fine. Feel great. Never better.”

J.J. chuckled. “You know my brother is a chaplain, right? He once told me that if someone makes three statements when one would do, they’re concealing something.”

“You think I’m lying?”

J.J. took several moments to answer. He closed his Bible and set it on the equipment console. He licked his lips. “Yes.” The word was soft and carried no animosity.

“That’s either an incredibly gutsy thing to say to your Master Sergeant, or incredibly foolish.” “I know.” J.J. looked at his hands. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” “I told you I’m fine.”

J.J. leaned back in the metal chair and let slip a near silent sigh. “You know what my dad taught me to do? When we traveled and stayed in a hotel, he would always bring the luggage in, set it on the bed, then go to the restroom and toss a little toilet paper into the commode, then flush it. He used to tell us that one thing both cheap and ritzy hotels had in common was plumbing problems. He’s an executive with an envelope-manufacturing firm. He travels a lot and has stayed in more hotels than any ten men combined.”

“And your point is …” “When I came to your room today, I slipped into the head. The toilet didn’t flush well when you last used it.” Moyer licked his lips. His stomach dropped like an untethered elevator.

J.J. leaned forward again and rested his elbows on his knees. “My father had colon cancer. He used to pass blood.”

There it was. He had been found out by a faulty valve-flush toilet. “So now you think I’m unfit to lead.”

J.J. shook his head. “If you say you’re good to go, then I believe you.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because a man shouldn’t go through such things alone. The diagnosis scared my father to death. It was the only time I saw him weep. The thing is, he went through the surgery and treatment and is alive today.”

“I don’t know that I have cancer. The doc says it could be other things.”

“So you’ve seen the doctors.”

Moyer tore his eyes away from the monitor. “I was in the office when I got the call.”

J.J. straightened. “You were at the infirmary when the call came down?”

Moyer didn’t answer. “We were setting up tests.”

“I’m surprised the Army docs let you respond.”

“Look …” He took a breath. “I went to a civilian doctor.”

“Why would you … oh. You were afraid they’d take you off mission status. Makes sense. I would be too.”

“Wasn’t much time to think about alternatives. I did what I had to do. Now let me be clear about this: You will say nothing to the team. Once this mission is completed, I’ll get the doctors to do what they need to do, but right now my focus—and that means
your
focus—is on this mission. We’re done talking about it, and you are not to bring it up again. Got that?”

“Loud and clear.”