Dale Brown - Act of War

“Three notes of caution, Captain. One: once you remove the mechanical safety lock, it activates a chemical battery inside the warhead, which powers the warhead,” Zakharov said. “Since the fuse will be set for contact, any sudden movement or impact on the warhead that creates more than twenty Gs could set it off. It does not have to be a violent action—dropping it or even hitting it with a hand or object hard enough could be enough to trigger it. Have your men out of the building when you pull the pin, be careful to walk away from it, and for God’s sake don’t slam any doors on your way out.

“Two: you have just five minutes from the time you pull the mechanical safety pin to when you must turn on the test kit,” Zakharov went on. “After that, the chemical battery will be spent and there will be no way to set off the detonation charge except if you somehow managed to cook off the explosive charge using a blasting cap. The warhead will be all but useless then.

“Third: that remote control device is also a dead man’s switch,” Zakharov concluded. “If you press and hold the red button for more than six seconds, the weapon will detonate when you release the button. There is no way to stop the device from triggering after that unless someone disarms the device while the button is pressed. The device will also detonate when you move out of radio range of the test kit, farther than about two kilometers or so, even if you are still pressing the button. This may help you and your men bargain for escape if you are caught or discovered. Vi paneemayetye?”

“Da, Colonel,” Khalimov responded.

The ex-Russian commando was one of the most emotionless men Zakharov had ever known, he thought. He nodded approvingly. “You don’t seem too nervous, Captain.”

“I have worked around dangerous ordnance many times, sir,” Khalimov aid. “Dying in a high-explosive, biological, or nuclear blast makes no difference to me—I am still dead.” He looked at the Russian colonel with stone-cold eyes and added, “Besides, I watched you shoot me in the chest point-blank with a Dragunov sniper rifle, sir. I have already lived and re-lived death many times since then.”

“Of course,” Zakharov said. “That’s an experience most humans will never have.” They unbolted the warhead from the hopper, set it in a case inside one of their soldier’s vehicles, wrapped it securely in the aluminum foil material again, and concealed it all under a carpet and spare tire. “It must never leave your sight from now on, Captain.”

“It won’t, sir.”

“Good luck to you, Captain,” Zakharov said. “We will see each other shortly. As soon as your operation is complete, I will arrange to wire the funds to your numbered accounts in Latvia.”

“Do you anticipate any problems, sir?” Khalimov asked.

“The Director has not been as well informed as I thought lately,” Zakharov admitted, “but he has always paid promptly and I have no reason to believe he won’t do so again. But I want to be close to him when your mission is complete just to make sure he stays cooperative.”

“Very good, sir,” Khalimov said.

“Razvjazhite Ad,” Zakharov said, saluting the assassin and then grasping his right forearm in a brotherly Roman Legion–style handshake. “Unleash hell.”

“Yes, sir,” Khalimov said confidently, returning the salute and the handshake. “Ih sud’ba nahoditsja v moih rukah. Their fate is in my hands.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico

That same time

We found him!” Special Agent Ramiro Cortez shouted in the phone.

Kelsey DeLaine looked at the time on her cell phone display; about four A.M. local time. “Who, Rudy?”

“Colonel Yegor Zakharov.”

She was instantly awake, swinging her feet off the lumpy mattress in a flash. “Talk to me, Rudy,” she said, stepping quickly over to Carl Bolton’s room next door and pounding on the rickety door; he was awake and dressed in moments.

“Homeland Security was tracking down citizens, visa holders, naturalized citizens, or resident aliens who recently entered theU.S. from overseas but whose fingerprints collected during customs inprocessing didn’t match in the national database,” Cortez said. “They were focusing on males traveling from South or Central America with advanced degrees or skills such as pilots, chemists, physicists, and so forth, matching Zakharov’s general description. There’s one guy on a flight from Mexico City to San Jose, California; came in last night—commercial pilot, resident alien, but he has no prints on file.”

Kelsey could feel the excitement rising in her gut—this one sounded very promising. “Is it him?”

“It’s a Mexican citizen and three-year resident alien. Real documents, not fakes. Has rented a room from a lawyer in San Mateo for the past year and a half.”

“But you faxed Zakharov’s picture to customs in Mexico City and San Jose, and…”

“Bingo. Positive ID.”

Kelsey punched Bolton’s pillow excitedly. “Did you get an address on him? Did you pick him up?”

“The San Francisco SAC decided to set up a surveillance unit first until he could get an arrest warrant,” Cortez explained.

“If they have his place under surveillance and he hasn’t shown up since last night, it means he probably picked up the surveillance and bugged out.”

“But now we got a new identity and hopefully a whole new set of clues as to his whereabouts,” Cortez said. “He’s an aircraft sales rep for a firm in San Jose, named Tomas Estrada, goes by ‘Tom.’ He travels frequently to Central America…”

“Easy enough to hop on down to Brazil from anywhere in Central America,” Kelsey pointed out.

“Credit cards, frequent flyer account, bank account, all legit and well established,” Cortez went on. “Commercial pilot, Mexican and U.S. licenses. Speaks fluent English and Spanish. Well known to the airline ticket agents and local flying businesses around the Bay area. They’re still checking around to see if Estrada or anyone matching his description has any other places he frequents in the area.”

“An arrest warrant for a suspected terrorist linked to Kingman City should be a slam-dunk for any federal judge these days, for God’s sake,” Kelsey said. “Rudy, I need to get the hell out of here. Hasn’t the director met with the White House yet? Chamberlain needs a good bitch-slapping right about now.”

“The meeting is supposed to happen this morning,” Cortez said. “Don’t worry—you’ll be out in a couple hours. I’ve got a jet on the way that’ll take you to San Francisco to meet up with the SAC.”

“Are you sending Zakharov’s picture…?”

“To every airport, bus, rail, ship, and state police office west of the Rockies—as we speak,” Cortez said. “If he doesn’t surface within twenty-four hours, we’ll go nationwide.”

“Go nationwide now,” Kelsey said. “This guy’s mobile. If he’s a pilot, you’d better include fixed-base operators at as many general aviation airports as you can. He might have his own plane.”

“Good point. I’m on it.”

“Any other clues come up?”

“Nothing, except the Estrada character was legit all the way,” Cortez said. “Lots of paper pointing to a regular hardworking guy taking advantage of all the fine things our country has to offer.”

“Hiding out in plain sight, you might say.”

“Exactly. This guy’s smart, Kel. Real smart.”

“He’s a stone killer with his hands on one and possibly more nuclear weapons,” Kelsey pointed out. “I’m going to talk with Richter and Jefferson again to find out if they can tell me anything else about Zakharov and his henchman, Khalimov.”