The Hamlet Warning (19 page)

“By controlling the tidal basin and the docks,” the Professor said. “We would move supplies in from the east, here, then cross the river, perhaps under cover of darkness, at this point here. If the government moves strong forces across the bridge to hit our supply route, pressure would be relieved on the fighting fronts.”

Ramón immediately grasped the daring ingenuity of the plan. There was a calculated risk in dividing forces. But if the tidal basin were controlled, the government forces would be spread along a lengthy front.

Ramón laughed. “Marvelous. My congratulations, Professor. Does anyone object to the basic premise of the plan?”

There was no response.

“Then we are in agreement,” Ramón said. “We will attack, using this basic plan. And the sooner the better, as we cannot long hold out here. Would daylight, day after tomorrow, be satisfactory, Professor?”

“We will be ready.”

“Good,” Ramón said. “Let’s prepare the details.”

The battle maps were spread, and for two hours the rebel commanders drafted assignments, prepared orders, and designated sector responsibilities. Ramón found that he had little to do but listen. His commanders were thorough, experienced men. Most had survived previous revolutions, and were now putting into practical use the valuable lessons they had learned.

The work was interrupted by Alfredo’s soft knock at the door. Ramón excused himself and went out into the stairway. A runner from divisional headquarters stood waiting. His message was brief: María Elena de la Torre had been captured by rebel forces in Santo Domingo and was now being brought by car to San Francisco.

Ramón returned to the conference, walked to a cabinet, and broke out the priest’s communion wine. He filled nine chalices, and signaled to Alfredo to distribute them at the table.

Ramón proposed the toast. “I have a feeling, gentlemen, that the revolution has entered a new phase.” He lifted his chalice. “To our success, gentlemen.”

Before the silver chalices returned to the table, Alfredo opened another bottle in preparation for the second toast.

Chapter 21

Minus
3
Days
,
00
:
57
Hours

Loomis put every available man and every waking moment into the search for María Elena. He led four raids on known rebel assembly points. More than two hundred suspected rebels were rounded up and thoroughly questioned. Every informant listed in the secret books of the Policía Nacional was alerted to the ten-thousand-peso reward posted personally by El Jefe.

But results were meager.

The best information came from a minor rebel official who collapsed under interrogation. He confirmed Loomis’s fear that María Elena had been taken into rebel-held territory. He didn’t know where.

Loomis at last had to admit that without more information he was helpless. If he could ascertain Ramón’s exact location, a surprise raid into rebel territory might succeed. Or an infiltration might prove effective. But under intensive questioning, the rebel consistently denied he even knew what city Ramón presently was using as his headquarters. The rebel offered his own private view that one of the weaknesses of the revolution was Ramón’s practice of never remaining long in one place. Even members of the headquarters staff often were unable to reach Ramón, the rebel said.

The
palacio
was besieged by news correspondents and television crews. María Elena’s disappearance was major news, and the reporters were desperate for follow-up stories. In the light of the palacio’s fortresslike aspects, most reporters quickly surmised that María Elena had left government protection voluntarily. Their main concern was the question: Had she gone over to the rebels of her own free will? On this the government maintained an official silence. Some of the reporters left, hoping to make contact with the rebels. Loomis placed them under close surveillance with the same hope. He kept his men probing into rebel activities on the chance that some stray bit of solid information would come his way.

The Hamlet search also seemed to be at a dead end. A check of dock areas along the north shore failed to turn up anything unusual. A sustained, detailed search was beyond the capabilities of Loomis’s staff. Rebels held many of the major roads in the north. Most fishing boats were at sea and for the moment inaccessible. Any of a hundred quiet, sheltered coves along the north or east shores of the island could have served as a site for transfer of a few barrels from boat to waiting truck.

Interrogators were at work on Larson and his crew, but as yet there had been no report.

For the first time Loomis and Johnson were forced to consider that they might not be searching for nuclear materials, but for an atomic bomb.

Johnson suggested that the search should now be concentrated on the bomb maker. Loomis could find no fault with his logic. Considering the dead ends, the bomb maker might offer the best opportunity for a new lead. 

Complete data from more than a hundred roadblocks erected early in the search were fed into Octopus. Loomis set up a special office, containing computer terminals for direct access to Octopus. The electronic search continued on a twenty-four-hour basis.

Acknowledging that the search now must consider the possibility of a completed atomic bomb, the United States Government, at Loomis’s request, sent in an outstanding nuclear authority, Dr. George C. Coon, a small, affable man who wore a perpetual grin. Johnson had worked with Coon in the past and seemed to regard his arrival as a stroke of luck.

“Now you might think, just to look at him, that he doesn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain,” Johnson said by way of introduction. “Well, he does. I mean, if it was raining, and he was getting wet, I really think Coon would come in out of it. Unless, of course, he happened to be thinking of something else.”

Coon grinned broadly at Johnson’s gibes and said nothing.

“He’s talented, too,” Johnson said. “Coon can stand and stare at a blank wall all afternoon and never blink.”

Coon went to work preparing a prospectus. He took many things into consideration. The Atomic Energy Commission’s MUF lists — Materials Unaccounted For — of the last twenty years were analyzed in detail. Santo Domingo’s terrain and physical features were studied. Time limitations, required hardware, and many other factors were postulated. From his contrived scenario Coon emerged with some probabilities and presented them at a conference in the Jaragua headquarters suite.

“I think the nuclear device will be placed on a roof,” he said. “Altitude is preferable. They might try for an airplane, but a nuclear drop involves a sophistication undoubtedly beyond their capabilities. I would guess that the device will be prepared at another site — some small workshop, perhaps. A home garage might do. The individual components could be manufactured elsewhere, even in another country, and assembled here. Our man undoubtedly would want to make a final check of the components, however. Or, it could be that some or all of the actual construction may be done here. My point is that he probably will spend some time, somewhere, fitting and shaping components before moving to the actual detonation site for final assembly.”

“How long will he spend at the detonation site?” Loomis asked.

“Probably a minimum of four to six hours,” Coon said. “I’m assuming, of course, that the site would be the most vulnerable factor in the whole operation. He would want to keep his time there to a minimum. But the very nature of a homemade atomic device undoubtedly would preclude merely taking it intact to the site and leaving it. First, there’s the weight to consider — several hundred pounds, at best. Some bulk, four or five feet by two or three feet, most likely. And the mechanism might be somewhat delicate. There would be the risk of jarring something out of kilter. No, I think our man would prefer to assemble the device at the detonation site. I certainly would.”

In late afternoon the first new lead arrived. Johnson returned from the Octopus terminals with a sheet of paper and in high humor.

“I’ve just received an interesting readout,” he said. “Two names. One is Clay Loomis. Served with various insurgents throughout the world, now known to be in the Dominican Republic. Might do anything if the price is right.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Come on, Johnson,” Loomis said.

“I can’t help it. That’s what the machine said. But the other name is more interesting. A man passed through your Boca Chica roadblock two nights ago. Gave his name as Sam Ledbetter of New Orleans. But his physical description and passport data cross-check to Otto Zaloudek, a nuclear physicist who once worked on the fringes of the scientific communities at UCLA and Los Alamos. I think Zaloudek’s our man.”

“What’s your reasoning?” Loomis asked.

“One, Zaloudek has dropped completely out of sight. A thorough search doesn’t find him anywhere. Two, he is known to have been in Europe — two trips recently, six and eight weeks ago. Three, he became disenchanted with the U.S. nuclear setup several years ago and was canned. It seems he became concerned that the two great powers were about to blow up the whole world, or something. He had a plan for disarmament. Both sides were to shoot all their nuclear goods into space.”

“I remember something of that,” Coon said. “He had some followers. No one prominent. But there was some concern over security.”

Johnson nodded. “Zaloudek apparently never had complete access to bomb design. But he was on the fringes. He saw a bit here, a bit there. The feeling is that he has the capability.”

“Most any student of physics knows the basic theory,” Coon said. “If he has an inventive mind, it’s child’s play.”

“What kind of man is he?” Loomis asked.

“A complete profile is being prepared. And we’ll be getting photos on the Photofax for distribution. But so far, we know he’s a tinkerer: slow, methodical, drives everyone around him to distraction with his plodding ways. He’ll be easy to spot.”

“How?”

“Easy. We can’t miss him. He’s short and round. He walks like a duck. And he’ll be busy building an atomic bomb.” 

Chapter 22

Minus
2
Days
,
21
:
50
Hours

The machine shop was far better equipped than Zaloudek expected. He had asked only for welding equipment, cutting torches, calipers, a few other tools, and a simple lathe. His conservative requests had been ignored. The Hamlet people included an elaborate drill press, complete die equipment, and a huge chest of precision tools, along with a forge and other metal-working gear.

“I won’t be needing all this,” Zaloudek told the man called Arnheiter. “It’s only in the way.”

Arnheiter shrugged. “That’s what they sent,” he said. “They even gave me a floor plan. I just did what I was paid to do.”

Zaloudek ran a hand along the edge of the drill press. “A terrible waste,” he said. “This building, everything here will be vaporized. Maybe, when we’re through, we can take some of this with us.”

“I think not,” Arnheiter said. “We’ll be damned lucky to get out ourselves. You don’t know what it’s like, up in the north, in the Cibao. Santiago was a battlefield. San Francisco is held by the rebels but is under siege. La Vega has heavy fighting.” 

“But you got through,” Zaloudek pointed out.

“Only because I know the roads,” Arnheiter said. “I dodged the roadblocks.”

If Arnheiter had encountered so much trouble, Zaloudek couldn’t understand how the other people would manage to move the nuclear materials. “Are you certain the goods are safe?” he asked.

“I’m positive they were as of three hours ago,” Arnheiter said. “Of course in this fucked-up country, anything can happen. But I think they’ll reach here just after dark. We thought there would be a better chance of bringing the truck in without trouble in the early evening.”

“We don’t have much time,” Zaloudek said. He was impatient to start work. There were so many things he would have to check.

“We can’t do anything but wait,” Arnheiter said. “No use sweating it. You want a beer?”

“No,” Zaloudek said. “I will be needing steady hands, if the goods come.”

Arnheiter shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He went into the back room, where Zaloudek earlier had seen a small kitchenette.

Zaloudek still wasn’t used to Arnheiter’s brusque ways, despite their two days together. He knew little about him. In odd moments, Arnheiter had mentioned service with the French Foreign Legion in Algeria. He also seemed familiar with Uruguay, Honduras, Chile, and other hot spots. The man appeared completely devoid of humor and imagination. Zaloudek was by nature impatient with delay, and thus far there had been nothing but delays. Arnheiter had been six hours late at the rendezvous — a bar near the Duarte Bridge. And now, the truck with the goods was more than twenty-four hours overdue. A cryptic message had arrived: the material was safe and on its way. Zaloudek liked to keep his mind occupied. Waiting rankled him greatly.

Arnheiter had arranged a room for Zaloudek a block away. But Zaloudek said he would prefer a cot in the shop, explaining that he expected to be working day and night, with only a few hours of sleep, until the project was completed. In one of his few concessions, Arnheiter had agreed.

The shop was on Duarte Avenue just off El Conde. Ostensibly a new firm not yet open for business, the shop was kept locked. A sign out front informed the curious that “El Mickey” Air-Conditioning Repair would soon have a grand opening. The building itself was small, no more than thirty feet across the front and perhaps sixty feet in length. Large, overhead double doors at the front were connected to a high-speed chain lift that opened and closed the entrance within seconds. Inside, the concrete floor was clean and uncluttered. Zaloudek had assumed that his working conditions would be much worse.

Arnheiter returned with his beer. He pulled two cane-bottom chairs up to a small drafting table. “We better get our shit together,” he said. “There may not be time, later.”

He explained that there were three options for their escape route after the blast. A small boat was waiting in Boca Chica. With any luck, they could head east by car, put out to sea, and there await word whether to sail for Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, or possibly a mid-ocean rendezvous.

“This fucking revolution may queer that,” Arnheiter said. “If fighting breaks out around the Duarte Bridge at the wrong time, we’re screwed.”

“The roads in that direction are not good,” Zaloudek said.

“There’s that, too,” Arnheiter agreed. “I’m not too keen on the boat. Even after we get to sea, we’re still a long way from home.”

Zaloudek nodded agreement.

The second option, Arnheiter explained, involved a backroad trip to the Haitian border, where arrangements had been made for seclusion in Petionville. The third plan called for flight by small plane to Port-au-Prince for connection with a commercial flight to Jamaica.

“I don’t like the idea of the small plane,” Arnheiter said. “If one of those Dominican Mirage jets sees us, we’ll never make the border.”

Zaloudek felt the same way. He didn’t like to fly, especially in small planes. But he also disliked mountain roads. “Is the highway through the mountains dangerous?” he asked.

“Highway, hell,” Arnheiter said. “It’s no more than a cowpath. And it’s all mountain. Real rough country. But there’re no soldiers up there. And once we’re over the Haitian border, we’re safe. We can spend two months or more holed up, drinking and screwing.”

Zaloudek didn’t like any of the plans. He couldn’t imagine putting to sea in a small boat, vulnerable to pursuit by both sea and air. He was terrified of small boats. And big ones, too. He would feel naked and exposed on the open sea.

The idea for escape by small plane was even worse. He was certain that with the blast, American jets would soon be monitoring the area. Even if Dominican jets failed to find them, the American planes with their better equipment were certain to notice a private plane scooting for the Haitian border. And the thought of a desperate trip by car over mountain roads left him nauseated.

Spreading a map on the table, they debated the plans throughout the afternoon.

Eventually they decided on the dash by car to the border. Arnheiter’s preference for the plan seemed closely linked to the probability of two months in seclusion. Zaloudek also found the prospect held appeal.

“All right,” Arnheiter said. “I’ll send the word that we’ll take that route. But of course if anything happens, the other options are still open.” 

After a light supper brought in by one of Arnheiter’s men, Zaloudek napped on his cot in the corner of the shop. He was awakened shortly after midnight by the arrival of the truck.

Arnheiter opened the big front doors and the two-ton Ford stake-bed backed into the shop. The doors were hurriedly closed and locked.

Zaloudek laced his shoes, walked to the back end of the truck, and watched as Arnheiter and his three men lowered the power loader, exposing the cargo. Seven green fifty-five-gallon oil drums were stacked neatly in front, a light chain snaked through the tops to hold them in place.

A chill of anticipation went up Zaloudek’s spine.

A nuclear engineer for more than twenty years, he’d never before worked with weapons-grade uranium. He knew all about it in theory. He’d seen parts of designs for many nuclear weapons. But he’d never seen the raw materials.

“What’ll we do with the stuff?” Arnheiter asked.

“How about putting it over there?” Zaloudek said, pointing to the far corner of the room. “You might have them put the barrels a few feet apart.”

“Why?”

“A simple precaution,” Zaloudek explained. “If uranium beyond a certain amount is brought together, the mass turns critical. That’s why it is shipped this way, in small bottles, suspended in barrels. In the trade, they’re called birdcages.”

Arnheiter looked at the barrels with renewed interest. “You mean that shit might go off?”

“Conceivably,” Zaloudek said. “I’m speaking in terms of an accident — barrels knocked over, bottles broken open. Of course the result would be a fizzle yield, a sort of messy dud. But forty-nine kilos of uranium would make a considerable disturbance, even with inefficient detonation.” 

“You hear that, you fuckers?” Arnheiter yelled. “Take it easy with those things!”

Zaloudek waited patiently while the men unloaded the trucks. With a counter, he then carefully checked each birdcage for leakage.

The material apparently was still in the original Crescent, Oklahoma, conversion plant packing. He could find no damage. Each barrel contained a ten-liter bottle placed in a length of five-inch pipe, which was centered by welded braces. Each ten-liter bottle contained seven kilograms of uranium.

Each barrel weighed less than a hundred pounds, easily handled by one man.

“How big a bomb can you build with this stuff?” Arnheiter asked.

Zaloudek eased one barrel out into the center of the floor, well away from the others.

“The question isn’t how big, but how efficient,” he explained. “The Hiroshima bomb had sixty kilograms of uranium. We’ve got forty-nine here. But the Hiroshima bomb was very, very crude. Terribly inefficient. A stupid bomb, really. I’ve seen figures estimating less than one percent of its fuel was utilized. I’ll be very disappointed if we fail to achieve a ten percent yield.”

“Then it will be bigger than Hiroshima?”

“Somewhere in that range,” Zaloudek said, taking refuge in evasive nuclear weapons terminology.

“How much bigger?”

Zaloudek spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Who knows? Again, there are so many factors to consider. Much of the efficiency also is contained in the situation. We don’t have a B-29 or B-52 handy, and our device will be impractical for a private plane. So an air burst is out. That means we’ll lose some efficiency to shadow effects. On the other hand, a ground burst will kick up more dust and debris — all full of deadly radiation. Chunks of concrete and steel will fly out like artillery shells for miles. It’s difficult to predict exactly what will happen.” 

“Where’d you learn all this stuff? Working for the government?”

“No. Not all. You or anybody can find the essential material if you know where to look. The
Los
Alamos
Primer
has all the basics. It was declassified ten years or more ago. You can get it from the government for a couple of bucks. There is a book called
Manhattan
District
History
that explains all the technical problems they ran into with the Trinity, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki shots. It was Top Secret when written, but then declassified in the sixties. There are others.”

“Is that where you got all these charts and figures?” Arnheiter asked, pointing to the drafting table.

“No, those are mine. I made them up from the
Los
Alamos
Critical
Mass
Summaries
. They cost a few dollars, and you can get them from the National Technical Information Service. Not everything is in there. But all heavy metals are very similar. You can get some idea of the critical mass, the shaping of the metal, reflectors, and so forth. I think I could manage if I’d never seen a bomb design. But I
have
seen the essential details of Hamlet, a very good design. I have incorporated some of Hamlet’s best features into my own device.”

Arnheiter seemed to be growing nervous. He looked at the barrels with mounting concern. “How do you know the damned thing won’t go off before we get our asses far enough away?”

“I don’t,” Zaloudek said. “But I can assure you I’ll do my best.” He reached for his white coveralls. “I might as well get to work,” he said. “Let’s move a cage over by the workbench.”

With the barrel in place, Zaloudek lifted out the bottle, opened it, and poured out into his open palm some dull brown grains resembling instant coffee.

He could hardly believe his eyes.

“This is uranium oxide!” he shouted.

Arnheiter eased over to look, keeping a respectful distance. He seemed confused by Zaloudek’s distress. 

“They said it was weapons-grade stuff,” he said.

“It may be,” Zaloudek said. “But it’s uranium oxide. I told them I wanted metal — what we call broken buttons.”

Arnheiter seemed on the verge of panic. His voice trembled. “They probably didn’t know the difference. I didn’t. I thought uranium was uranium. Can’t you use this?”

“I could,” Zaloudek said. He tried to explain the problem. “You see, efficiency is a matter of mass, of compactness. Uranium oxide is loose — too much wasted space. It would work. But it’d be far, far less efficient. I would have to redesign everything, completely. I couldn’t obtain anywhere near the yield I want.”

“Maybe that’s just one barrel,” Arnheiter offered. “Maybe the rest of the stuff is all right.”

One by one, they opened the other birdcages.

All contained uranium oxide.

Zaloudek knew of no way to convey to Arnheiter his terrible disappointment. He could use the uranium oxide. Criticality could be achieved. He could find ways of surmounting the inherent problems. Several ideas came to mind immediately — various methods of using explosives to bring the uranium oxide into a more compact mass at the crucial instant.