Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (3 page)

Craig crept slowly around, studying the turbines, looking for any sign of tampering, loose access plates, boxes or packages that could have been explosives.
 
He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he had to keep moving.
 
He glanced at his watch once more.

After he had circled the third generator and bent toward the fourth, he saw a man emerge from one of the many tunnels that connected elevator shafts, access halls, and river bypass tubes.
 
The stranger wore the jumpsuit and hardhat of a dam worker, but he moved with a furtiveness and quickness of purpose that did not mesh with someone just going about his daily duties.

Craig stepped out of his hiding place, withdrawing his nine-millimeter handgun and his badge.
 
“Federal agent,” he shouted.
 
“FBI.
 
Remain where you are, sir.”

The stranger stepped backward and froze, then he spun into action.
 
Though Craig had been prepared, he didn’t react fast enough when the stranger snatched a small revolver from inside his overalls, cocked it, and fired in a single swift motion.
 

Craig dove behind the shelter of the turbine, and he heard the man running, heavy workboots echoing in a humming background of main generators.
 

Pulse pounding, Craig snapped up his own Beretta, but the stranger fired quickly three times in succession.
 
Bullets ricocheted off the curved metal hulls of the hydroelectric turbines; one bounced with a high-pitched whine from the solid stone wall.
 

Craig cautiously peered around the curve of the tall turbine, ready to jerk back, hoping he could react fast enough the moment he saw a muzzle flash.
 
The terrorist knew his location, but Craig had lost track of where the stranger had fled, where he might be hiding.
 
He yanked out his walkie talkie.
 
“Goldfarb, Jackson, all officers — I need backup down at the main generator room.
 
I’ve found our customer.”

As the others rapidly acknowledged, Craig switched off the speaker; it wouldn’t do to have a squelch of static or an unwelcome voice coming at the wrong time.

The tunnel was empty now, and Craig couldn’t tell if the terrorist had ducked back through the labyrinth of passages, or if he had hidden himself somewhere in the cavernous main generator room.
 

Craig hustled cautiously, keeping low.
 
By the book, he should have called out and demanded that the man surrender — but those procedures were better left for fairy tales.
 
This man wouldn’t surrender unless he had absolutely no other chance.
 
Fanatics were fanatics, whatever the motivation.

He heard a scuffed footstep, saw a steel-toed workboot — then the man sprinted out the open doorway to the outside at the base of the dam, by the spillway and the turbine outflow that became the churning tailrace beyond the generators.
 
Perhaps the terrorist had a getaway vehicle among those parked on the narrow access road.

Craig ran after him, dumping caution now that the suspect had fled outside.
 
He did not dare let the militia man slip away.

Sunshine dazzled him for a moment, but Craig didn’t waste time with sunglasses.
 
He blinked repeatedly, trying to focus as he rushed blindly forward.
 
The militia man had turned right, racing down the asphalt access way.
 
As Craig rounded the corner, he saw the suspect duck behind a twelve-foot-high transformer.

The terrorist popped out from cover again and fired.
 
Craig shot back, but both bullets missed.
 
He dove behind one of the generators, spooked by
Danger — High Voltage
signs mounted on the machinery.
 
The high-tension wires suspended across the canyon contained more electricity than he ever wanted to touch. . . .

Craig glanced between the steel tiedowns that held the transformer machinery in place against the canyon wall.
 
He debated waiting for his backup — but by that time the man might have slipped away.
 
He clicked his walkie talkie.
 
“This is Kreident.
 
I’ve got him at the transformers.
 
Hurry.”

Craig dashed away from the big transformer and slipped between the next two, advancing on his quarry.
 
He made another jump and scrambled behind the transformer.

The militia man fired once at him as he peered out, but Craig waited an extra second.
 
He knew he was getting closer.
 
His own handgun remained drawn.
 
He took the time to put his sunglasses on now, so the light would not dazzle him when he leaped back out of the shadows.

“You can’t get away, sir!” Craig shouted, his words carrying above the loud buzz of the transformers and the vibration communicated through the rock wall from the spinning turbines.
 

The militia man didn’t answer.
 
After what Craig hoped was an unexpected interval, he bolted out again, trying to go around two more stations in the row of transformers — but the terrorist had been waiting for him, taking no cover whatsoever, standing out in broad daylight, his revolver pointed directly at Craig’s chest.

Craig dove to one side as the man shot once.
 
The bullet came close enough to burn through the sleeve of his jacket.
 
He felt a sting, but didn’t think he had been seriously injured.
 
But he was totally vulnerable, dead in the man’s sights . . . and the terrorist did not hesitate.
 
The man followed him with his weapon —

Craig shot while rolling on the ground.
 
His bullet spanged off the metal transformer behind the terrorist, causing him to spin about, smacking his wrist into the machinery.
 
The weapon clattered to the ground, and the militia man scrambled for it as Craig fired again at his feet.
 
A white starburst of ricochet blossomed on the concrete by the scuffed workboots.

Craig steadied his own Beretta.
 
“Hands up!
 
Move it!”
 
He had the man helpless, unable to do anything . . . except surrender.

“Let’s just take this from the top, sir,” Craig said.
 
His voice was even, professional, uninflected.
 
He had learned to be calm, never to lose his cool even in a standoff such as this.
 
“You are under arrest — and you are going to tell me exactly what you’ve done to sabotage the dam.”

The militia man looked at him with an astonished expression.
 
Craig was amazed at how . . .
average
the man looked.
 
Medium height, medium build, mousy brown hair, plain features — not handsome, but not ugly.
 
He was the sort of man who worked in every out-of-the-way gas station, in every hardware store, any service industry where the customers forgot their helpers moments after leaving the store.
 
He could move about anywhere without being noticed.
 
No doubt that was just what the Eagle’s Claw had intended.

Except now this man had been caught in the main generator room of the Hoover Dam, shooting at an FBI agent.
 
The terrorist’s eyes took on a glazed look as if he had somehow been programmed with a different routine.
 
“It’s too late.
 
The bomb’s already set and ticking.
 
You’ll never find it in time.”

“Yes I will,” Craig said, striding forward and extending his gun, “because you’re going to tell me where it is.”

The militia man took a step backward, blocked by the deep river channel and churning cold water pouring through the bottom of the dam.
 
Across the canyon Craig saw the concave plane of concrete, a barrier holding back Lake Mead.
 
If that dam broke in an explosion, the stampede of water would reach all the way to Mexico in a few hours.
 
Hundreds of thousands of people could die — and Craig had no time for kid gloves.

“You’re going to tell me, and you’re going to tell me now.”
 
Craig’s voice carried sufficient threat and absolute certainty — but the man took another step backward.
 
His face turned grayish, resigned.

“You’re
already
in dreamland, man, if you think I’m going to tell you squat.”
 
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the churning water below, the rushing Colorado River that swept through the canyon.

“You’ve got no place to go,” Craig said.

“I can go to Heaven,” he answered.

Craig lunged for the terrorist, but the man leaped backward over the edge, falling down.
 
He struck the rocky wall once, leaving a reddish stain, and then plunged into the rushing tailrace, which sucked him under before sweeping him downstream.

Finally, moments too late, Jackson, Goldfarb and the others charged out onto the service road next to the conversion transformers.
 

Craig stared over the edge at the roiling water, gaping in disbelief at what the terrorist had just done.
 
But the shock paralyzed him for only a few seconds before a greater horror struck.
 
He turned and ran toward the others.
 

Now he knew the bomb was ticking.
 
And with the militia man dead, they had very little chance of finding it in time.

CHAPTER 2

Tuesday, October 21

6:45 A.M.

Rio Hotel and Casino

Las Vegas

Swiping groggily with her left hand, Paige Mitchell missed turning off the alarm on her first two attempts.
 
The room was dark, and she knocked over the glass she kept on the nightstand, spilling lukewarm water on the bedspread, the floor.
 
That, if nothing else, woke her up.

Pushing aside the tropical bedspread, she leaned over and fumbled with the clock radio, finally clicking off the music.
 
Red numbers blinked 6:45 as she turned on the light in the unfamiliar bedroom.
 
Another hotel, another bed far from her home in Livermore, California.
 
This was Las Vegas, at the Rio.
 
Her bed sat on an oval pedestal; jungle-patterned curtains hung in front of a window that covered one entire wall.

Paige ran a hand through her mussed blond hair and made her way to the bathroom.
 
Frequent travel was the price of her job working for the Department of Energy’s protocol office, a job that often didn’t seem like work at all, even if she had to walk on eggshells every day to keep the team of sometimes-volatile Russian disarmament inspectors on track, to soothe their indignant threats of pulling out.
 

Only a few more days, though.
 
By the end of this week, the team would have gone through their paces, filled out the forms, and completed the treaty-mandated disarmament inspections, just in time for the international nuclear downscaling summit.
 
The eight inspectors were scheduled to meet with the U.S. President late on Friday, when he made a quick stopover in Las Vegas, then depart on Saturday morning, when everybody could go home.
 
Mission accomplished, the world saved once again. . . .

Last night, DAF manager Mike Waterloo, whom she’d known as “Uncle Mike” since she was a little girl, offered to help Ambassador Nevsky at the facility after hours, leaving her to babysit the remaining Russians.
 
Once they got away from the bleak Test Site, the seven stuffy men had consumed their comrade’s share of alcohol, feeling no guilt about leaving their team leader behind to keep working.
 
Paige had left the men to their own celebrations, returning to her room for a long hot bath and a good night’s sleep.

Still trying to wake up, she rummaged through the drawer and pulled out a sleek black one-piece swimming suit.
 
Even with her frenzied schedule, Paige insisted on maintaining her own routines.
 
She’d have time for a brief swim down in the pool, then she could pick up coffee and a bagel to take back to her room while she changed for another day at NTS.
 

She eased to the floor and started her stretching exercises, taking long, deep breaths.
 
Paige held a hand over her head and slowly extended it until she could grasp her foot.
 
She’d put up with the hectic schedule for four more days, then she would be glad to see the Russians off.

The phone rang just as she switched to stretching her left leg.
 
The clock blinked 6:53 A.M.
 
Had she ordered a wake-up call?
 
But when she answered the phone, the voice on the line sounded worried.
 
“Paige?”

“Yes,” she said, initially startled.
  
“Uncle Mike?
 
What’s wrong?”

“Can you please come out to the DAF as soon as possible.”
 
He sounded grim.
 
“There’s been an . . . accident.
 
Last night.”

“An accident?
 
What is it?
 
Is everyone OK?”

“Ambassador Nevsky — he’s dead.
 
As the DOE representative, please get over here as soon as you can.
 
I need . . . I need your help, Paige.”

Shocked, she gripped the phone tightly.
 
“I’ll be there within the hour.”

Before she hung up, he spoke in a voice that seemed stronger, as if he took heart just from knowing she was on her way.
 
“We’ve got an international incident on our hands, and we need to move quickly — otherwise the whole disarmament process might blow up in our face.”