FORTY-SIX

Inside the metal barn in the Shenandoah Valley, Korstikoff stood over the portable nuclear weapon. It was close to completion. The delicate operations involving the neutron initiator and the use of uranium deuteride as the neutron source still needed to be dealt with, but he had personally supervised Iran’s development of those components. Once the initiator had been connected to the bomb, Korstikoff felt satisfied it would be a work of perfection. Now they were only hours away.

The only other thing that needed to be done was to make the encrypted sat-fone calls to the collaborators to the north who were simultaneously preparing their bomb for New York City. The two teams would confirm final assembly and then coordinate the strikes so they would be only minutes apart. Even though the call should be very secure, they were taking no chances. Each had a method of making sure that no other telecommunications took place within a fifteen-mile radius of their positions. Their special devices would ensure absolute secrecy.

When all of that was done, they would delicately load the bomb onto the truck, which would head up I-81 toward I-66, then into Washington, down Constitution Boulevard, and straight for the Capitol.

The route would take the truck to a cul-de-sac at the bottom of the hill under the Capitol building, in the shadow of the Washington Monument, which was only a few blocks away.

When detonated, this bomb, the bigger of the two, would send out a blast-furnace shock wave with the heat intensity of the sun. It would obliterate the Capitol and all of the members of the Senate and the House of Representatives. The White House would be blown clear off the surface of the earth. All the Senate and House offices and their staffs would be incinerated instantly. The Supreme Court, the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian, and the central offices of the entire federal government would be vaporized.

Much of the Pentagon, farther from Capitol Hill and closer to the Beltway, would be devastated, though there would be survivors. But America’s ability to make immediate military decisions would be paralyzed.

The rest of Washington, D.C. — the apartment buildings, condos, shops, the glass commercial towers housing lobbying organizations, law firms, trade associations — all would be shattered and in flames.

The marble monuments, Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, would be blown into rubble.

Korstikoff looked at his watch. He needed to check his flight out of Dulles to make sure it was still on time. He wanted to avoid Reagan National. He had no intention of being anywhere near the blast.

John Gallagher was twenty miles from the exit off of I-81 that led to the spot where he was betting the nuclear terror cell might have set up shop. He was gambling on a location designated by the KGB decades before.

His Allfone rang. He clicked it on. A familiar voice from the past said, “John, Frank Treumeth here. Long time — ”

“You said it,” said Gallagher.

“You sound like you’re in a rush — ”

“That’s putting it mildly. I gotta crisis. I’m working freelance now.”

“Gee, John, that kinda language makes me nervous. I’m running an outdoors shop now; fishing gear, kayak tours — ”

“You still own guns?”

“You kidding?”

“Still know how to shoot ‘em?”

“Okay, what’s up?”

“A portable nuke has been located here in the valley.”

“What!”

“I’m not kidding. Excellent intelligence on this. The Feds are in total denial.”

“Why?”

“Don’t get me started. I just need to know if you can help …”

“Who you working for?”

“Does the name Joshua Jordan mean anything?”

“The Air Force laser guy?”

“Right. Washington doesn’t trust him, but I do. He’s received credible evidence of a suitcase-type nuclear device being assembled not far from you. The clock’s ticking. This may have to be a citizen’s arrest …”

“Okay, listen, John. You’re a good guy, did some pretty gutsy stuff in your career. But here’s what I heard … you were ordered into some kind of counseling cause you didn’t cooperate. You got pushed out of the Bureau. I’m sorry buddy, but this whole thing sounds crazy — ”

“I don’t beg well. I can’t get down on my knees ‘cause I’ve got arthritis. But if could, I would. I’m on my knees, crying like a little girl for you to help me.”

“What is it you want?”

“I know you’re connected here. I don’t think the Feds will get involved, or if they do, it’ll be too late. I’m sure you got street cred out here in Petticoat Junction, you know, with officer Barney Fife or whoever’s the local constable. You need to round them up and get some firepower to join me at the site.”

“What site?”

“I have reason to believe — ”

“So you don’t know for sure?”

“Not absolutely.”

Frank Treumeth groaned on the other end.

“How do I get through to you, Frank?”

Then someone, a woman in the background, was yelling something to Frank, who yelled back, “Honey, it’s John Gallagher. He’s on the phone.”

Then Gallagher could hear Frank’s wife groaning too.

“Look, John,” said Frank, “I think I need to talk this over with Sandra first. This is really way out there.”

“Fine,” Gallagher said, “go ahead and talk it over, but I’m telling you, it’s time to cross the Delaware. You know? We gotta stop the Hessians and save the Republic. You with me or not?”

Pause.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Whatever …” Then he hung up.

Minutes later Gallagher saw a sign saying that his exit was ten miles away. His esophagus was burning again. Stress.

He started calculating the ludicrous stand he was about to make. One man against … how many? He had his clip-loaded Berretta with him and a permit to carry. He also had his 357 Magnum Short Barrel with him. But these guys, if he knew anything about terror cells, would have armed guards packing automatic weapons, maybe shoulder-mounted grenade launchers.

If they really had a small nuke destined to turn Washington into a big landfill, they weren’t going down easy.

More acid searing his chest.

His Allfone rang. He snapped it on. He hit the Video button this time; if Frank was going to turn him down, he was going to do it to his face.

Frank Treumeth’s face flickered on the screen.

“Okay, I talked to my wife.” Frank didn’t look happy. “You know, John, she remembers you from the Bureau. Never liked you. Didn’t know if you were aware of that.”

“So you’re going to let your country be destroyed because your wife thinks I’m a jerk …”

“Not exactly.”

Gallagher was listening.

“Despite all that … I told her I didn’t feel I had enough to go on to stick my neck out for you …”

Gallagher kept listening.

“And Sandra said, and I quote, ‘Then you’re gutless, Frank.’ So,” Frank continued, “I put in a call to Corby Colwin, the deputy sheriff. He’s on his way over here. I didn’t tell him much, for obvious reasons, but Corby and I will meet you in his cruiser. Where will you be?”

Gallagher gave him the exit number, which was right in front of him at the moment, and clicked off the cell. He turned onto the exit ramp and pulled over on the shoulder by the stop sign to wait.

He leaned back in the driver’s seat and whispered, “Thank You, God.”