Full Assault Mode (28 page)

“Who are the two happy skiers?” Kolt asked. “They look like they were having a lot of fun. Where is that?”

Timothy’s answer shocked him.

“That’s my third cousin, Darren Smith, with my sister,” he said proudly. “We were at Lake Tahoe back in two thousand.”

“Darren Smith?” Kolt asked curiously. It was a fairly common name. There had to be a million Darren Smith’s in the world. “He ever serve in the military?” Kolt asked, certain it was just a crazy coincidence.

“As a matter of fact, he did,” Timothy said as he stood up and walked to pick up the picture. “He was a hero, they said.”

“Really?” Kolt asked, trying not to seem too excited or interested. “How so?”

“Well, I don’t know any details, really, as it’s all top-secret.”

“Why?” asked Kolt.

“He was in a special unit,” Timothy answered as he handed the picture to Kolt.

Kolt was speechless as he stared at the photo. He focused in on the face of the man wearing the red hat.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Kolt said as he set the picture back down in its original spot and tried not to seem too enthused.

Kolt immediately assumed Timothy knew all about his cousin’s service with Special Forces and his death in the Middle East. He didn’t want to push it; Kolt was concerned about upsetting Timothy and quickly changed the subject. He needed info about the plant, not about the cousin.

Part of Timothy’s problem was the feeling of always having to live up to his cousin’s success in the army. That was obvious to Kolt now. It drove his affection for commando and SWAT stuff since it got him as close to his cousin’s special operations lifestyle as he could ever hope to get. One could argue that his deeply felt jealousy contributed to Timothy’s disgruntled status at Cherokee Power Plant. Kolt wondered if Timothy’s supervisors had any idea.

Timothy obviously wanted to talk about his cousin a little longer. “We don’t know any details about how it happened. Just somewhere over there.”

Timothy spent the next two hours briefing Kolt on the licensee’s protective strategy, discussing their implementing procedures, and going over what Timothy referred to as security issues still open with the corrective action process, all in an effort to determine how the bargain-priced .50 caliber rifles could improve their overall security posture.

After a quick lunch at the plant’s cafeteria, Timothy easily secured Kolt a visitors’ badge and escorted him around the protected area, pointing out the microwave-volumetric security zone and alarms, the electric-field taut wire zones and functions, and how visiting vehicles are processed through the sally port. Kolt was impressed with Timothy’s knowledge and energy. Timothy seemed to get stronger as the day passed by and enjoyed talking tactics and how best the plant might use a bunch of new .50s.

After walking down the protected area, Timothy took Kolt into the power block and helped him process in to the radiological controlled area, where a special radiation monitor had to be worn on the chest and proximity key cards were required to gain access and move through the area. Timothy showed Kolt the main control room first, which prompted Kolt to recall what Hawk had said the other day. Hawk had told him that the MCR is the specific area that keeps the reactors operating safely and that it serves as the nerve center.

Leaving the control room, Timothy escorted Kolt through the auxiliary building en route to the main reactor building, passing through a series of heavy flood doors and fire doors that required entrants to have special access, which was activated by the tiny microchip embedded in one’s photo ID.

As Kolt moved closer, Timothy pointed out the features of the card reader. “Simply swipe your badge down through the thin slot, watch a little light change from red to green, wait for the distinct audible of balance-magnetic locks to release, and then open the heavy door to enter,” Timothy said. “Pretty simple but secure.”

After moving through the door, Timothy pointed out the large circular door of the tubular entrance point to the reactor’s core. The personnel access hatch was the primary point of entry to the main reactor, where the nuclear fuel rods were kept.

“If the uranium fuel inside that thing explodes, would it be like a nuclear bomb going off?” Kolt asked.

“Ha. No. That’s a common misconception, for sure, though,” Timothy said, clearly enjoying his role as escort and educator. “It’s physically impossible for the nuclear fuel to explode like that. The fuel is only about three- to five-percent fissionable uranium.”

“Hmmm,” Kolt said. “So what is the percent for a nuclear bomb?”

“Geez. Nuclear weapons have in excess of ninety-percent fissionable uranium,” Timothy said.

“So what exactly is the threat?” Kolt asked. “Why so much security and all those barriers outside and elevated ballistic towers with armed officers?”

“Good question. Well, the threat is release of radiation to the general public. Ever heard of Chernobyl, or more recently Fukushima, where scores died from acute exposure to radiation? If the core is breached, or even if the used fuel we store in the spent-fuel pool can’t be continuously cooled, this place will melt down in hours, releasing a godawful amount of deadly radiation into the atmosphere.”

“What’s the risk to the public?” Kolt asked, noticing that sweat beads had formed on Timothy’s nose and chubby pink cheeks.

“Well, opinions vary,” Timothy answered. “Some so-called experts say upwards of two hundred thousand people will die, others disagree. If nothing else the genetic and financial fallout would be extraordinary.”

After a few minutes of answering Kolt’s general questions, they left the reactor building and retraced their steps back through the auxiliary building. From there it was a quick climb of the three levels of the turbine grating stairs with their bright yellow handrails, until they reached the locked heavy door controlling access to the fuel-handling building.

“The blue number painted on the wall. Six hundred and forty-five? You have that many doors around here?” Kolt asked as they processed through another key-card-access door.

Timothy laughed and shook his head. “No, this floor is supposed to be six hundred and forty-five feet above sea level, give or take a few feet, I imagine.”

Kolt shook his head, acknowledging the response while reaching up to tighten the plastic knob on the back of his white hard hat. Sweat had formed around his head, too, causing his hard hat to slip down close to his eyes. Close enough to see the large sweat spot on Timothy’s lower back, Kolt followed his escort toward the large body of water the size of two dozen vehicles parked in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

“We can’t go past the yellow handrail due to radiation-dose limits and FME,” Timothy said.

“Foreign-material exclusion,” Kolt said. “They use that term in the air force on runways, I heard.”

“This is what we call the fuel floor, or fuel deck. Inside this large pool are the spent fuel rods.”

Timothy walked Kolt to the edge of the massive pool and stopped at the yellow handrails. Kolt held on to the waist-high railing as Timothy pointed out the tops of the fuel rods that could barely be seen through the twenty-three feet of glowing and glimmering water.

Kolt shook his head, amazed at the simple but ingenious idea that nuclear energy was being used to produce the electricity that powers billions of cell phones, laptops, and flat-screen TVs every single day.

“So they are moved to here from the main reactor core?” Kolt asked, understanding the process a little better now.

“Yes, the fuel is replaced about every eighteen months,” Timothy said.

“Wow, pretty amazing!” Kolt said. “So we can go swimming in the pool if we wanted to with no issues?” Kolt asked.

“Uh, you can, not me,” Timothy said, chuckling a little while lifting his hard hat higher on his forehead. “The radiation still in the fuel rods keeps that water hot as hell, about one hundred to one ten degrees Fahrenheit. Even hotter the closer you get to the silver-colored assemblies.”

“I guess that would be slightly uncomfortable, kind of like a high-end hot tub where the temperature gauge failed miserably,” Kolt said.

“The water temp isn’t your biggest problem. It’s the lethal dose of radiation you most likely will take swimming in that pretty pool,” Timothy said.

“Kill ya, huh?” Kolt asked, almost assured already Timothy would answer in the affirmative.

“Only one hundred and fifty thousand Rem per hour if the fuel is fresh from the reactor core,” Timothy sarcastically said. “But it dissipates over time.”

“I take it that is a lot,” Kolt said. “So if someone falls in there accidentally, he will die of a lethal dose of radiation?” Kolt asked.

“Immediately, no. Over time, it’s certain death,” Timothy answered. “It all depends on the total dose your organs take from the radiation still emanating from the spent-fuel assemblies.”

“Sounds tricky,” Kolt said.

Charlotte, North Carolina

In the last few hours talking with the terrorists, Kolt hadn’t heard anything from them that really sparked his interest. Nothing the terrorists said presented a true opportunity for him to actually control the outcome of their impending attack on Cherokee. After talking to Timothy yesterday at Cherokee, Kolt knew he needed something to exploit, just not in a way that would kill a lot of innocent people. Kolt didn’t want anyone dead except the terrorists. All of them but one, anyway. He would have to keep one of them alive to lead him to Cindy and, he hoped, to Nadal the Romanian.

During a pause in the discussion, out of nowhere, Kolt recalled something Timothy had mentioned to him during Kolt’s visit with him yesterday.

“Those ops guys,” Kolt said with an obvious tone of disgust, “they think they are above the law.”

Farooq bit. “What are you saying, Timothy?”

“Once every twelve-hour shift, an ops guy has to make checks of critical equipment off-site.”

“What is an ops guy? When do the shifts start?” Farooq questioned.

“Oh, sorry, ops is slang for operations. They run the plant. There are two shifts. One day and one night that run from seven to seven.”

“Where do these ops guys go?” Joma asked, pulling the larger street map in front of him and placing the Google overhead of Cherokee adjacent to it.

“They have four checks to make each time they leave the site,” Kolt explained while pointing to the street map on the table. “They make a radio call back to the main control room after each one.”

Kolt pointed confidently to four different locations with obvious road access as Abdul circled each with a red marker. Kolt wasn’t entirely sure about any of the stops except the corner gas station.

“Then, they always go by the 105 Auto Shop before they come back to the plant,” Kolt added. “Even though they aren’t supposed to.”

“What, a whorehouse?” Farooq said in astonishment “You are serious, no?”

“No, a convenience store. They grab donuts and coffee. Security would never get away with that. We don’t leave the plant for anything during our shifts. Typical ops jackasses!” Kolt snorted.

“Do you know who is going to be on each shift?” Joma asked.

“Yea, I can check the schedule. It’s published a month out,” Kolt offered.

“Then you should be able to get a picture of the guy, or woman, on each shift, right?” asked Abdul.

“Uh, yeah, I should be able to go into the security database and get a picture off their identification badge.”

“Would you be able to get into his personal office before he arrives to work or after he leaves for the day? Maybe at lunchtime when he is in the cafeteria?” Farooq asked.

“Probably. Why?”

“Good,” Farooq said. “Take a family photo off his desk and Xerox a copy for us. Don’t forget to put the photo back in the same place. Do you think you can do that?”

“Sure, but I don’t understand why,” Kolt said.

“Just do it,” Farooq said.

“It’s settled, then,” Kolt said, trying to assert some authority over the operational planning. “I’ll be on duty at the plant’s main checkpoint when you guys attack. I’ll make sure I’m out of the booth and conducting random checks away from the action.”

They looked at Timothy, each making eye contact and silently wondering if Timothy actually had the balls to see this thing through. Kolt understood the gravity of what was transpiring. He knew the American culture. He had seen nothing the day before to confirm the real Timothy was a traitor to his country. Sure, he despised his supervisors and coworkers, that much was clear. But that was a far cry from becoming a modern-day Benedict Arnold.

Kolt knew Carlos’s call to insert him as Timothy was incredibly risky, but at least it took Timothy out of the picture. Timothy Reston wouldn’t have to pull the trigger against his own country.

“Are you worried, Timothy?” Farooq asked softly.

Kolt didn’t answer right away. He struggled for the appropriate response and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s OK to be nervous a little,” Farooq offered. “It helps you concentrate and ease the soul a bit. We feel the same way.”

Farooq looked around the small room at the other jihadists.

“But, my new friend, we must have assurances that you are truly with us in our mission.”

“I said I am OK,” Kolt answered, unsure exactly what Farooq was getting at.

“Timothy. You will not be at work on twenty-one April,” Farooq said.

“Why is that?” Kolt asked.

“Because on that night you will be with us. You will carry a weapon and attack with us. You will obtain revenge from all those that have admonished you over the years,” Farooq explained. “And, if you desire to ever see your wife again, you will show your faith to our operation.”

“Attack with you? No way, I can’t,” Kolt said, not having to manufacture surprise. He hadn’t expected them to force him along at the last minute.

“You must, brother Timothy. We cannot be successful without you.”

Kolt thought it over for a few seconds. He knew he would go on the attack with them, if for no other reason than to ensure the least amount of injured Americans as possible. And, of course, he desperately wanted to rescue Hawk. But he wasn’t even sure they still had her in the area, and he didn’t have so much as a single starting point.