David Baldacci - Zero Day

She started and stared up at him.

“Hoping we might not be able to get in?”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

“Facing fear is better than running from it,” he said.

“What if it’s fear you can’t beat?”

“Then it might be better to be dead,” he answered.

He pulled out two pairs of night-vision goggles. “The place will be pitch black inside presumably, so this is the only way we’ll be able to see. Once we confirm we’re the only ones in there, we can use our flashlights. I’ll show you how to use the goggles. They take some getting used to. And if something happens to me, you’ll need them to get out as quickly as possible.”

“If something happens to you, it’ll probably happen to me too.”

He shook his head. “Not necessarily. We have to buck up the chances that at least one of us will survive.” He explained how the device worked and then slid it over her head and flipped the eyepieces down over Cole’s clear mask shield. He powered it up and took her through what she was looking at.

“Okay, you’re officially night-vision goggle certified.”

He powered up his own goggles and slid them down in front of his eyes. He handed her the roll of cable. “Spool this out as we go.”

“I got the longest length I could. Think it’ll be enough?”

“We have to go with the equipment we have. If it’s not long enough, we’ll figure something else out.”

She nodded.

He led the way down the stairs, his field of vision reduced somewhat because of the green that made him feel like he was in a dirty aquarium. But certain details were enhanced beyond what his naked eye could ever pick up.

Puller liked details. They were often the difference between walking out of a situation and being carried out of it.

They reached the bottom of the steps. They were now in a long hall formed from concrete painted yellow. They had traveled half of it when he began to see the filtration equipment. He tapped Cole on the shoulder and pointed ahead. “Filtering station.”

She tapped him on the back to indicate she’d seen it too.

The machinery they encountered was large, elaborate, and was probably state of the art for its time. Puller faced next what he had expected to, even though the filter station had not been on the facility plans. A large fan. Twice as tall as he was. This would be a tricky part. At least they didn’t have to worry about the thing starting up. He contoured his body to get past it and then helped Cole do the same. They were careful with the phone cable so that it was not against the blades of the fan. The last thing they needed was a cut line and no communication. No cell signal could work from under three feet of concrete. Puller worked the line down to the bottom of the floor so that the only thing it was touching was the base of the fan, which was rounded smooth metal.

They continued on another hundred feet or so. In his head Puller calculated distances and concluded that they were close. He shifted his knapsack to a better position and lifted his forward M11 from its holster. The MP5 rested against his chest and he could deploy it on target in seconds. He looked back and saw that Cole had her Cobra out too.

The inside of the facility was large enough not to be classified as close quarters, but an MP5 was a devastating weapon in virtually all encounters that did not involve long-distance killing. But if there was a sniper in here with the same green glasses Puller had, he and Cole were probably dead.

They made their way through two more barriers, one of which Puller had to dismantle, and then they stepped out into a space that was enormous by most definitions. It was also totally dark. Without the goggles they would be operating blind. They had about three hundred feet of phone cable left. He hoped it was enough. He immediately stepped to the right and took cover behind a long metal workbench. Cole scooted along behind him. The place smelled of mildew and rot. What the concrete bunker above could not protect against was moisture from below.

Puller looked around at the walls of the building. They were high, windowless and built of brick. The ceiling was about thirty feet above him. It was solid, with fluorescent lights hanging from support poles. There were additional floors above this one. The plans had shown that. Probably admin and other support offices. But they appeared to be in the main work area of the facility.

And overlying the entire building was the dome of concrete. Puller felt like he was inside a building that was inside an egg.

“We have to grid-search this place,” he said through his mask.

“What exactly are we looking for?”

“Things breathing, fifty-gallon lead-lined barrels, and something that looks like it shouldn’t be here.”

“And what is that exactly?” asked Cole impatiently.

“Something that looks new,” he answered. “You go left and I go right. We’ll work our way to the center.” He handed her a walkie-talkie. “These will work in here. They’re not bouncing off a satellite somewhere. But they’re not secure either, so someone could be listening.”

Thirty minutes later Puller had found them.

He counted the barrels. There were five of them. He couldn’t tell if they were lead-lined but he hoped they were. As he drew closer he could make out the muck and mildew clinging to the sides of the metal. He hoped there were no holes in them. If so, he was probably already dead. He drew even closer and used a gloved hand to rub some of the muck off. He was looking at a faded blue label with a skull and crossbones.

Blue meant uranium.

The next barrel in line was the same. He pushed against each with his hand. They were full, or at least seemed to be. The weight could be coming in part from the lead lining. Yet the tops appeared sealed and had enough crust around them that Puller didn’t think they had been opened in decades. Two other barrels had red labels and the skull warning.

Plutonium cakes. He pushed. They were full too.

The last barrel in the line had the same red label. Plutonium. But that wasn’t what he was focusing on.

The top was off the barrel. He eased a few steps closer. Then, deciding to just go for it, he got so close he was able to look down into it. Lead-lined, yes. That was good. There was no penetration into the lead from the outside elements.

That was excellent.

The barrel was also empty. The plutonium was on the loose.

That was catastrophic.

And then he noted something else. On the concrete floor were six identical rings lined up next to the barrels. Puller knew exactly what that meant. There had been six other barrels here. Uranium and/or plutonium. And now they were gone.

He got on his walkie-talkie.

“I found the stuff. And we got one empty barrel. That used to hold plutonium. And a half dozen missing ones.”

The walkie-talkie crackled and Cole said shakily, “I found something too.”

“Cole, you okay?”

“I… Just get over here. I’m on the east side, about three hundred feet from where we came in.”

“What is it? What did you find?”

“Roger. I found Roger Trent.”

Together they gazed down at the prone man. Puller didn’t think he was dead, because he was trussed up. One did not tie up the dead. Just to be sure Puller knelt next to him, stripped off his glove, and felt for a pulse. He gazed up at Cole. “Slow but steady. He’s been drugged.”

Cole said, “And I found these.”

Puller looked where she was pointing. This was the last thing he would have expected to find in here.

They were banker boxes. He opened one. They were full of financial records. Puller sifted through a few files. There was also a baggie filled with labeled flash drives.