and radioactivity monitoring equipment. When he investigated, he uncovered the yellowcake production.
“ Turns out they’d found a super-rich vein of uranium ore. Over the next eighteen months, they mined it, grinded it into particles and extracted the uranium by treating it with leaching chemicals right there in the mine. They knew what they were doing — that process yields a coarse, radioactive powder — stuff known as yellowcake. This particular ore produced an unusually high-yield, as well — over 90 percent pure.
“ Meanwhile, the CIA uncovered Operation Thundertain’s dispersal method from a contact in the Republic of Moldova, where the terrorism financiers were meeting. Their mercenaries and hired workers were packaging the stuff into 400, 55-gallon drums with five pounds of C4 plastic explosive in the center of each drum and then sealing them up tight. They painted the drums yellow and call them ‘Twinkies’ for the obvious reason. But they certainly don’t plan this cream-filled yellowcake to last forever.
“ These Twinkies don't pose a high risk to human and animal health in the drums from a distance. But this stuff they’ve got, being an abnormally high-radioactive substance, merely standing close to it without protective clothing can cause organ damage and even cancer — the seriousness of injury depends on the length of exposure. But, here’s the worst: ingesting or inhaling the high-yield dust itself will most likely be fatal within hours, possibly minutes.
The message ended, and we sat silently, digesting what we were up against.
Specks finally asked, “How’d they get so many of these foreign mercs in to the country, anyway? And the helicopters?”
“Getting the people in isn’t that hard, especially if they’re not on the terrorist watch list. Even if they are, with the money backing these bastards, there are plenty of holes in this country’s boarder for those with the means to exploit. Lots of good Border Patrol folks and Coast Guard, but not nearly enough for this big country. The helicopters have me more concerned. I’m afraid they’ve stolen them from the National Guard. That means some of our very brave soldiers are lying dead somewhere.”
We flew on with no further conversation.
* * *
Our fuel had been at about a third of a tank when we left Doc’s. I checked it often on our trip north and noticed it seemed to be dropping faster than what the turbine engine consumption alone should cause. In thirty-five minutes, we were on empty. The low-fuel light came on and the audible alarm rang.
“Specks,” I said, “we must have caught a bullet in the fuel line or tank at some point. It’s abo ut dry. The way the fuel level’s dropping, I don’t think we’ll make it over the next mountain ridge.”
“The double main line’s up here another five miles,” Specks said. “If we can get that far, we can set down by the tracks and catch the next freight to Slaughterhouse. With the storm gone, we might see a little rail traffic.”
“We’ll need to find that ride quick,” I told him. “No radio and no cell phone service. Those bastards in the National Guard helicopters must have blown every comm tower within 100 miles. If we don’t beat that hazmat train to Slaughterhouse, I don’t know how we’re going to stop it from getting all the way to Denver.”
A s the helicopter’s turbine began to stutter, Specks said, “There’s the mainline, and we’ve got a freight approaching the last tunnel before the yards.”
* * *
Coming in hot, suddenly the 150 mph forward motion is reduced dramatically, and we lurch headlong as the helicopter’s turbine engine dies and whines down. Without the engine propelling us, I let the 30-foot-diameter rotor free-spin in autorotation, and we descend quickly from 1,000 feet above the rocky, snow-covered landscape. I don’t want to think about what Rillie would have wanted to do in the final minute before we hit the
“ Turns out they’d found a super-rich vein of uranium ore. Over the next eighteen months, they mined it, grinded it into particles and extracted the uranium by treating it with leaching chemicals right there in the mine. They knew what they were doing — that process yields a coarse, radioactive powder — stuff known as yellowcake. This particular ore produced an unusually high-yield, as well — over 90 percent pure.
“ Meanwhile, the CIA uncovered Operation Thundertain’s dispersal method from a contact in the Republic of Moldova, where the terrorism financiers were meeting. Their mercenaries and hired workers were packaging the stuff into 400, 55-gallon drums with five pounds of C4 plastic explosive in the center of each drum and then sealing them up tight. They painted the drums yellow and call them ‘Twinkies’ for the obvious reason. But they certainly don’t plan this cream-filled yellowcake to last forever.
“ These Twinkies don't pose a high risk to human and animal health in the drums from a distance. But this stuff they’ve got, being an abnormally high-radioactive substance, merely standing close to it without protective clothing can cause organ damage and even cancer — the seriousness of injury depends on the length of exposure. But, here’s the worst: ingesting or inhaling the high-yield dust itself will most likely be fatal within hours, possibly minutes.
The message ended, and we sat silently, digesting what we were up against.
Specks finally asked, “How’d they get so many of these foreign mercs in to the country, anyway? And the helicopters?”
“Getting the people in isn’t that hard, especially if they’re not on the terrorist watch list. Even if they are, with the money backing these bastards, there are plenty of holes in this country’s boarder for those with the means to exploit. Lots of good Border Patrol folks and Coast Guard, but not nearly enough for this big country. The helicopters have me more concerned. I’m afraid they’ve stolen them from the National Guard. That means some of our very brave soldiers are lying dead somewhere.”
We flew on with no further conversation.
* * *
Our fuel had been at about a third of a tank when we left Doc’s. I checked it often on our trip north and noticed it seemed to be dropping faster than what the turbine engine consumption alone should cause. In thirty-five minutes, we were on empty. The low-fuel light came on and the audible alarm rang.
“Specks,” I said, “we must have caught a bullet in the fuel line or tank at some point. It’s abo ut dry. The way the fuel level’s dropping, I don’t think we’ll make it over the next mountain ridge.”
“The double main line’s up here another five miles,” Specks said. “If we can get that far, we can set down by the tracks and catch the next freight to Slaughterhouse. With the storm gone, we might see a little rail traffic.”
“We’ll need to find that ride quick,” I told him. “No radio and no cell phone service. Those bastards in the National Guard helicopters must have blown every comm tower within 100 miles. If we don’t beat that hazmat train to Slaughterhouse, I don’t know how we’re going to stop it from getting all the way to Denver.”
A s the helicopter’s turbine began to stutter, Specks said, “There’s the mainline, and we’ve got a freight approaching the last tunnel before the yards.”
* * *
Coming in hot, suddenly the 150 mph forward motion is reduced dramatically, and we lurch headlong as the helicopter’s turbine engine dies and whines down. Without the engine propelling us, I let the 30-foot-diameter rotor free-spin in autorotation, and we descend quickly from 1,000 feet above the rocky, snow-covered landscape. I don’t want to think about what Rillie would have wanted to do in the final minute before we hit the
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