A Time for Patriots

“That’s all you get for one fifty is a peek,” Riley said. “If you want to bring the van inside the hangar, it’ll cost you another one fifty. Larry will take the cash while you test the packages.”

Sullivan nodded at the second undercover agent. “You trust him with your three hundred thousand dollars?”

“Stricker knows his life won’t be worth spit if he screws me,” Riley said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Now it was Sullivan’s turn to hesitate, but he nodded. “Let’s do it.” He walked toward the van and opened the sliding side door. Inside were four large steel cylinders, about three feet high and twelve inches in diameter. He nodded. “The real deals, not homemade containers.”

“I’m not crazy enough to drive around with amateur-built containers,” Riley said. “Do you know how to operate it?”

“No, but my guy Carl does,” Sullivan said. He spoke into a walkie-talkie, and a few minutes later a man emerged from the hangar. He had trouble walking, his hair was thin and missing in several spots, and one eye looked clouded over. He took the detector from Sullivan’s hand and examined the casks. “Carl was a pilot for the Department of Energy for fifteen years,” Sullivan went on. “He flew that shit all over the United States in every kind of plane. One accident, and they fire him without benefits. Three years later, he finds out he’s got leukemia.”

The man named Carl turned the device on, waited for it to initialize, then looked at the display. “No leaks.”

“Every agency has got radiation detectors nowadays,” the undercover agent said. “I’m not driving around waiting to get popped by some local yokel.”

Carl examined the first cask, then punched commands into a small keypad on the side of the large steel container. A motor opened a thick steel shutter, revealing a tiny window on the side of the cask, and Carl held the detector up to the open window.

“Shouldn’t he stand away from that window?” Riley said.

“Carl knows a few more doses won’t kill him any quicker,” Sullivan said. “Carl?”

“Beta particles and gamma radiation… fairly high levels,” Carl said. He closed the window.

“That’s the iridium-192,” Riley said. “The stuff’s half-life is pretty short, but you said that was okay.” Sullivan nodded but kept on looking at Carl as he worked.

Carl checked another cask. “Gamma radiation only. Very high levels.”

“Cobalt-60,” Riley said.

Carl checked the third cask. “Neutrons, protons, beta particles, and gamma rays. Plutonium-239.” Lastly, he checked the fourth. “Alpha particles, beta particles, and uranium. Neptunium.” He closed the window, stumbled back to Sullivan, and gave him his detector back. “The tester inside will give us the exact amounts and levels, sir.”

“Thank you, Carl,” Sullivan said, clasping him on the shoulder as he walked by. “Get ready, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Neptunium-237, as ordered,” Riley said. “The rest of the cash, and you can take ’em inside your hangar. My man Stricker will count all the cash, drive out to our rendezvous point, and I’ll stay until you accept the packages.”

“Done,” Sullivan said. He radioed again, and another man brought out a second suitcase. Stricker counted all the bills, carefully this time, nodded in agreement, and drove off. Sullivan radioed for the hangar door to be opened.

* * *

When the inspection shutter on the first radioactive waste container had opened, the radiation dosimeter on board the Predator unmanned aircraft orbiting overhead detected the released radiation and transmitted an alarm to the command center in the warehouse complex near the airport. “The first cask was unsealed,” Hardison said to his assistant. “Spin ’em up.” The assistant went outside and signaled to the strike-team leader to prepare for takeoff, and the helicopter pilots began starting engines.

At that moment a Yuba County Sheriff’s Department cruiser turned into the entrance to the warehouse complex that concealed the four helicopters. The assistant looked at his watch, wondering what the deputy wanted. The cruiser parked about thirty yards away from the front row of helicopters, and a man in a suit, tie, and sunglasses emerged, taking his identification badge out and slipping it into his top jacket pocket with the seven-pointed sheriff’s star visible. The assistant hadn’t met the sheriff, but he thought he recognized him.

The newcomer gave the pilots a thumbs-up as he approached the assistant special agent in charge. “Sheriff Adamson?” the assistant asked.

“No,” the man said, and he withdrew an automatic pistol from under his jacket and shot the assistant in the chest three times. Immediately he withdrew a small device from his jacket, pressed a button, then walked inside the warehouse. Two seconds later, a three-hundred-pound homemade explosive device in the backseat of the police cruiser detonated. The first row of helicopters disappeared in a ball of fire and engulfed the second row, and in a fraction of a second all four choppers were destroyed and twelve SWAT officers perished.