Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

President Merrick sat behind his desk in the Oval Office with a video image of the CIA Director on his computer monitor. Ken Morris appeared uneasy as he tried to answer some of Merrick’s questions. Simple questions which needed answers before Merrick made certain decisions to protect US citizens.

Merrick felt his blood pressure mounting an attack. He leaned closer to the screen to drive home his point. “Ken, I allocated a large sum of funds this afternoon in return for information and so far I’m not getting any return on my investment.”

“Well, the problem is, we can’t control when the intel will be retrieved. When someone is embedded like this, they might be on top of the situation and yet not be able to make contact in fear of compromising their identity.”

“Is this what your team believes?”

“Yes.”

Merrick put a stranglehold on the neck of his monitor. “Ken, I want you to e-mail me hourly updates. Do you understand me? I want to hear from you every sixty minutes, even if it’s just to tell me you don’t know anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And with every hour you don’t have something of value to tell me, you’re that much closer to finding a new career in the private sector. Am I clear on this point?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Merrick slammed his keyboard which disconnected the transmission. At the same moment, and without coincidence, a brief knock came on the door followed by the arrival of Secretary of State, Sam Fisk, and a man Merrick had never met before. The man was thin with a trim beard, a blue shirt and red tie. Merrick could tell by the knot, the man hadn’t worn a tie in years.

Fisk guided the gentleman over to the desk while Merrick stood and held out his hand.

“Doctor Jake Peterson,” Fisk said to Merrick.

Peterson shook Merrick’s hand with wide eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Have a seat, Doctor,” Merrick said, pointing to the chair across the desk from him.

Fisk remained standing beside the visitor, his hand resting on the back of the man’s chair. “Dr. Peterson holds a PhD in Nuclear Physics from Georgetown University,” Fisk said.

“He also has Top Secret Clearance.”

Merrick sat back down. “Very nice of you to come down here on such short notice.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Sam told you why you were needed, correct?”

It seemed to take Peterson a moment to realize that Sam was the Secretary of State standing next to him. “Oh, yes, sir,” he said, smoothing out his pant legs with nervous energy. “He explained the situation.”

“Good,” Merrick said. “Well, as far as we know, this dirty bomb is on the verge of crossing the border into the United States. We don’t know the size of the bomb, nor the potency of the material inside. What I’m looking for is some rudimentary understanding of the danger our nation might face should this crossing occur. Can you help me?”

Peterson seemed to anticipate the question. “Of course. Do you know if the word ‘salted’ has ever come up?”

Merrick tilted his head. “Salted?” He looked up at Fisk.

“A salted bomb has more radioactivity,” Fisk explained. “It’s much more dangerous.” He paused a moment. “No, I don’t think that word has ever come up.”

Peterson edged forward in his seat. “Mr. President,” he said anxiously, “is there any way I could get a glass of water?”

Merrick smiled and gestured toward a small refrigerator on the west wall where Fisk was already reaching down and acquiring a cold bottle of water. He handed it to Peterson and watched the doctor take an ample drink.

Peterson let out a big breath and twisted the cap back onto the bottle. “Thank you.” He looked around the room. “It really is oval, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Merrick said. “First time I entered this room, my mouth dried up as well. Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Peterson said. “Sir, without any data regarding dimensions of the bomb, it will be difficult to give you solid information.”

“Understood. Maybe you could give me some insight as to the dangers of a typical dirty bomb?”

“Of course,” Peterson said. “I must tell you, however, the overwhelming majority of these devices don’t carry nearly enough radioactive material to cause major fallout. Because of the nature of this weapon, it’s meant to disperse the radioactive material over a large area rendering its potency rather unproductive.”

“How so?”

“Well, a nuclear weapon uses fission to provoke an enormous explosion of radiation, whereas a dirty bomb is normally created with conventional weaponry which then scatters the radioactive material.” Peterson hesitated, glanced at Fisk, then back to Merrick. “Mr. President, do you want my opinion, or do you want just the factual data?”

“Yes,” Merrick said. “That’s a great point. I want your opinion. That’s why you’re here.”

“Well, terrorists are normally pursuing an immediate reaction. They want to deliver the most damage in the quickest amount of time. They’re not after the long-term effect of a radioactive spill. I would suggest they are attempting to create more psychological harm than physical damage. Mass panic and terror are normally what they are after.”

Merrick could see Fisk nodding his head and liking what he was hearing.

“So, in your opinion, Doctor,” Merrick said, “a dirty bomb wouldn’t carry enough radioactive material to cause major long-term fatalities?”

“That’s correct, Mr. President. Decontaminating the affected area would require considerable time and expense, but no, I would doubt there would be a cluster of fatalities.”

Merrick tapped the top of his desk with his index finger. “Okay,” he said. “I think that tells me what I need to know.”

Peterson got to his feet. “Sir, I don’t want to trivialize the danger involved with a dirty bomb. They are extremely dangerous, especially in a crowded space. Depending on its size, anyone within one hundred yards probably wouldn’t survive such an explosion. But if you could control where it’s detonated, you could contain its fallout.”

Merrick stood and shook Peterson’s hand. “Thank you again, Doctor. You’ve been a great help.”

When Peterson left, Fisk took his seat and crossed his legs. “So? Are you feeling better about my suggestion?”

“You mean your clever tactic of doing nothing?” Merrick said.

“Ingenious, isn’t it?”

“What was that explanation of ‘salted’ all about? I know what the fuck ‘salted’ means.”

“You looked at me like you didn’t know.”

“I looked at you because I hadn’t heard it used in our conversations with the War Room.”

“Oh.”

Merrick picked up his tablet computer and handed it to Fisk. It was opened to a page on the BBC’s website. The headline read, “The United Palestinian Force a New Player in the Terrorist Game.”

Fisk read through the article with a scowl on his face. When he was finished, he placed it on Merrick’s desk and slid it back to him. “It’s what I’ve been telling you,” he said. “These punks want attention in the worst way. Who do you think was the anonymous source they quoted?”

Merrick clasped his hands together and tapped his chin. “So how much of a player are they?”

“Look, it took them eighteen months to get a dirty bomb into Mexico. They paid millions just to get Garza to transport the thing over the border. From what I understand, they’re tapped out on funds. They put all their chips into this venture. If Garza gets this thing into our country and they are able to detonate the device anywhere near a populated area, the gamble will pay off. They’ll immediately become a new player. The funds will start rolling in and membership will thrive.”