The Hamlet Warning (20 page)

Yet, the results would be bush league — equal to no more than a few hundred tons of TNT.

Zaloudek wanted more.

He wanted much more, for he had a purpose of his own that required the awakening of the world’s scientific community.

And that would not be accomplished by a fizzle yield in some remote tropical setting.

Zaloudek stood for a long time, rolling a thimbleful of the brown grains around in his palm with an index finger, thinking.

Vaguely, he recalled a lengthy process of conversion. 

In the commercial world, the method was complex and time consuming. Yet …

He walked to the drafting table and jotted down some formulas. For more than an hour, he pitted figures against formula, remembering, hoping.

At last, he turned to Arnheiter.

“I have an idea that might work,” he said. “It’ll take a lot of effort. But I may be able to turn this oxide into the form I want.”

“How?”

“A chemical process. I’m not certain I can do it with our limited facilities. You’ll have to buy some laboratory equipment, chemist’s-shop material. Or steal it. Everything I need should be available somewhere in Santo Domingo.”

“O.K.,” Arnheiter said impatiently. “What do you need?”

“I’ll make you a list. First, and most important, a lab furnace. A small one, the kind used in schools, would do. It won’t cost more than a hundred dollars or so, probably. You can say it’s for classroom use. Or for firing ceramic pottery, maybe. I’ll also need a vibrating tray, but I can make that from the machinery here. I’ll use the motor from the drill press. I’ll need some graphite crucibles — might as well get a dozen or so. They’re only a few dollars each. Hydrofluoric acid — several quarts. And some powdered magnesium. That ought to do it.”

“How much money, all told?”

“No more than three hundred dollars, probably.”

“But it’ll take hours,” Arnheiter fumed. “And we’re already behind schedule.”

“While you find the equipment, I’ll be working on the trigger mechanism,” Zaloudek said. “The only time we will lose will be that converting the uranium. And it has to be done.”

Zaloudek examined the remainder of the gear. Everything he had requested was neatly packed in six heavy crates. The metal work had been done to his exact specifications. The quality of the material and workmanship far exceeded his expectations. Laying out all his equipment, he set to work.

By the time daylight arrived, he had succeeded in honing the old three-inch navy gun to his specific needs. Much of the preliminary work had been done. His only remaining concern was the precise fitting. While he experimented with the firing mechanism, making certain all was in order, Arnheiter left with the truck and two men to hunt the laboratory equipment.

When he was confident that the navy gun conformed perfectly with his designs, Zaloudek went to work shaping other parts for his device, carefully taking the measurements from his drawings, checking and rechecking the figures against the prepared equipment.

Arnheiter returned in late afternoon, signaling his success with a broad grin. The laboratory furnace was rented from the university, ostensibly for use in a ceramic art gallery. Arnheiter had given the name of an existing art gallery but forged the signatures. The crucibles and hydrofluoric acid were easily located, and bought without arousing suspicion, at a wholesale pharmacy. But the powdered magnesium had required considerable search. Posing as a manufacturer of signal flares, Arnheiter had at last located a supply in a pharmaceutical warehouse. Arnheiter had hinted the flares were for use in the revolution.

“Good work,” Zaloudek said. “Let’s see what we can do with it.”

Working intently, with Arnheiter helping, Zaloudek jury-rigged a vibrator tray and fitted it inside the furnace.

After pouring four and a half kilograms of uranium oxide onto the tray, he turned on the vibration mechanism.

Over a Bunsen burner, he heated hydrofluoric acid in a flask fitted with stopper and tube. The resulting hydrogen-fluoride gas he fed into the furnace, which he allowed to heat to five hundred degrees centigrade. As they watched, the consistency of the uranium began to change.

“What the hell’s happening?” Arnheiter asked.

“The hydrogen fluoride gas and the uranium oxide are forming water and uranium tetrafluoride,” Zaloudek explained. “We’re going to have some fun with that.”

He cooled the uranium tetrafluoride and mixed the residue with metallic magnesium powder in a six-to-one ratio. He then added some potassium chlorate and poured the material into a graphite crucible. With an electric coil he’d contrived, he heated the crucible to six hundred degrees centigrade. At that point the magnesium ignited.

“Jeez!” Arnheiter yelled, jumping away from the harmless shower of sparks.

Zaloudek laughed, taking care to hold the crucible steady while the spectacular fire consumed the last of the magnesium.

“I think it worked,” he said. “With any luck, we have magnesium fluoride on top and uranium metal on the bottom. In foundry jargon, this is called a derby.”

Cooling the crucible in a soft spray of water, he knocked the unwanted material away to reveal four and a half kilograms of bright new uranium metal.

“That ought to work,” he said. “Most of the success of a nuclear shot lies in the shape of the mass. I should be able to reshape this exactly the way I want it.”

The relief of knowing that his conversion process would work left Zaloudek drained of energy. He had not slept in more than thirty hours. He went to his cot, napped for four hours, then began a routine that varied little during the next three days. He worked stretches of nine to ten hours, with alternate three-to four-hour intervals of rest.

He painstakingly converted the remainder of the uranium oxide to metal. Taking great care always to keep the pieces of subcritical uranium separated, he shaped each, using precision calipers to ensure a perfect fit. Together, the components of uranium would form an interlocking cylinder, one fitting inside the other as a sort of plug. When fired from the navy gun, the plug would penetrate with tremendous pressure to form one supercritical mass — instantaneously.

The result, he was certain, would surpass the devastation of the device at Hiroshima.

Zaloudek then went back to work on the various parts of the firing mechanism, the foundation, the frame, and the cover. He patiently joined the parts. He fitted the neutron shield. He installed the navy gun. He checked and rechecked alignments. And he tested and retested the ignition gear.

When he was satisfied with the results, he carefully disassembled the device, packed all the components in the wooden crates, and reported to Arnheiter.

“We’re ready,” he said.

“How long will it take to put that thing together at the site?” Arnheiter asked.

“Six hours,” Zaloudek said. “Maybe less.”

“Then I can send word we’ll be on time?”

“We’ll be on time,” Zaloudek said.

Arnheiter summoned his men together beside the truck, handed out the special weapons, and issued his last-minute instructions.

The project then entered its final phase. 

Part Three

Chapter 23

Minus
1
Day
,
06
:
18
Hours

The battle that eventually centered on the Primate Cathedral and the Tower of Homage began at daylight. Loomis was at breakfast when the first explosions rattled the
palacio
windows. From the volume and intensity of fire, he knew immediately that Ramón had launched his all-out attack on the capital.

Loomis hurried to a phone and tried to reach Colonel Escortia, hoping to move a heavy-weapons company into the
palacio
compound. An aide reported that the Colonel had just left his quarters.

A few minutes later word came: Colonel Escortia was dead. As his driver opened the rear door of the Colonel’s Chevrolet for him to enter, an unseen lanyard attached to the door pulled the pins from three grenades secreted beneath the rear seat. In his last moments, Escortia apparently sensed what was happening. But before he could escape, the car was blown apart. The mangled body was found a dozen paces away. The driver lost both arms but was still alive.

El Jefe summoned Loomis to his quarters. “Everything is in a mess,” he said. “I’m taking tactical command. I need you here.”

Loomis fought down his protest. El Jefe was right. The issue of the revolution might be decided within the next four or five hours. Although the lines of command were plain, the organizational structure of the military was riddled with jealousies and backbiting. Clear, decisive action had to be taken.

Loomis was worried to distraction over María Elena, but logic told him that she was safe, at least for the moment. His sources had learned that she had reached Ramón’s headquarters in San Francisco, but that the headquarters had since been moved. No one knew where. Loomis found some comfort in the knowledge that Ramón wouldn’t risk the life of the most important political hostage that could possibly come his way outside of El Jefe himself. And if Ramón happened to accept María Elena’s plea for a cease-fire, he would carefully guard the life of the enemy’s emissary.

Logic also told Loomis that the battle for the capital took precedence over the search for the atomic bomb. With firefights raging throughout the
distrito
, a thorough hunt would be impossible. And a block-by-block, house-by-house search was the only practical method left.

The revolution had to be quelled so the bomb could be found.

For the next six hours, Loomis shoved all other thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the battle.

He quickly ascertained that no immediate effort would be made to storm the
palacio
. All of the rebel forces seemed to be concentrated along the Ozama River, centering at the Tower of Homage and the Primate Cathedral.

At first, Loomis failed to see the reasoning in the plan of attack. But later reports brought word of rebel buildup along the Real Carretera Bocachica across the river, and Ramón’s tactics became more apparent. 

“They’re using the river to make us disperse along a broad front,” Loomis explained to El Jefe. “They knew we’d defend the bridge heavily. They’re making us waste use of our troops there. I don’t think they intend to attack the bridge at all.”

“But we have them bottled up, with lines here, and here,” El Jefe said, pointing on the map. “How will they get supplies to their men if fighting is prolonged?”

“Across the river, I think. They’ll use the river, and the tidal basin, for rafts and small boats.”

In the silence that followed, Loomis knew that El Jefe was groping for a possible alternative in positioning government troops. “I wish we could use the gunboats,” he said.

The range inside the harbor would be too short for the gunboats’ main batteries. It would be like using a cannon in a crowded room. The destroyer’s main batteries could not be deflected enough to be brought to bear. And they’d be vulnerable to recoilless rifle fire from shore.

“They might stand off, several miles at sea, and shell the tidal basin,” Loomis said.

“I gather you don’t think that would be effective.”

“Probably not,” Loomis admitted. “If I had a choice, I’d try to get tanks along Avenida 30 de Mayo here, to where they could effect a field of fire across the tidal basin.”

El Jefe ordered the plan put into action. Three AMX-13 tanks were sent rumbling up Avenida George Washington and Avenida 30 de Mayo, taking heavy small arms fire. Personnel carriers in the wake of the tanks moved troops into the rocky shoreline below the boulevard, where they were able to return the heavy fire. The rebels fell back, and for a time the tanks were near Pointe Bellini, commanding both the mouth of the river and the approaches to the opposite banks. But in early afternoon, rebels flanked the tanks, knocking out two with recoilless rifles. The remaining tank retreated.

By nightfall the rebels held more than thirty blocks of the Old Town, from within a stone’s throw of El Conde Gate to the river and south toward the sea. More than two hundred government soldiers were dead and a like number wounded. The hospitals were jammed. Rebel casualties were believed heavy but perhaps somewhat lighter than those of the government. Shortly after dark Loomis received reports that rebel reinforcements, brought down from San Francisco, were being moved across the river to relieve those who had carried the fight all day.

With daylight, the combined forces would no doubt advance westward toward Parque Independencia and, possibly, the
palacio
.

“We’ve got to hold them,” El Jefe said. “Ramón is overextended, going for broke. If we can move them back tomorrow, the whole thing will collapse. Do you have any ideas?”

Loomis found armchair fighting a frustrating experience. All day he had chafed over the confusion. Now, he might help restore some semblance of order.

“Maps, reports are one thing,” he explained to El Jefe. “The situation may be another. I’d like to go look at things firsthand.”

“Do you really need to take the risk?” El Jefe asked. “You’re undoubtedly a marked man.”

Loomis shrugged. “If I am, it isn’t the first time. I doubt Ramón will do anything significant tonight. I would guess he’s preparing for a daylight assault — probably on the
palacio
/”

“All right,” El Jefe said reluctantly. “I’ll await your reconnaissance. Then we’ll talk. When will you be back?”

“I should make it a little after midnight,” Loomis said. 

El Jefe was silent for a moment. “Do you think there’s any hope of getting María Elena back before the assault?”

“No,” Loomis said. “I doubt Ramón will act on her plea for a cease-fire until he knows, one way or the other, how things are going to go. He will doubt her story. He won’t risk his revolution.”

El Jefe nodded. “That is the way I see it,” he said. He massaged his temples, fighting fatigue. “I don’t mind telling you that all this is beyond me. I don’t know what to do. I’m in an embarrassing position. I’ve resisted the United States for years. And now I must raise the question: Should I call upon them for help?”

Loomis didn’t want to make a recommendation either way. “I’m probably the last person in the world who could give you the right answer to that,” he said.

El Jefe nodded his understanding. “I wouldn’t think of asking them for help under normal circumstances. But my God! María Elena in the hands of the rebels! The nuclear bomb! And the Hamlet people — something we can’t even find or fight! And on top of everything, Ramón is now showing twice the strength we anticipated.”

“Twenty thousand U.S. Marines might make a difference,” Loomis agreed.

“How do you think Washington would respond to a call for help?”

Loomis considered the possibility. The new President was an unknown quantity. In the past, there would have been no question. But Vietnam, as well as lingering repercussions from the 1965 Dominican occupation, not to mention the Bay of Pigs fiasco and several Middle East adventures, to some extent had soured political inclinations for meddling in other people’s affairs. And of course the CIA, the military, and various United States corporations had come under considerable fire for manipulating foreign governments and elections.

“I really don’t know,” Loomis admitted. “I’ve been out of contact too long.” 

“I’ve had reports that a U.S. Navy task force has been assembled at Guantánamo Bay. It could be a precaution, or perhaps even a routine fleet exercise. But they are reported to be headed this way. In the light of that, I’ll hold off on any request, for the moment. But you might feel out your friend Johnson on the possibility of intervention. If worse comes to worst, just the bare hint of intervention might make the whole revolution collapse.”

“I wouldn’t count on the United States,” Loomis said. “From what I’ve heard, without me the whole country’s gone to hell.”

*

Loomis returned to his quarters, changed into old Marine fatigues, and called Johnson at the Jaragua.

“I’ll sure say one thing for you people,” Johnson said. “You really know how to run a noisy war.”

“Good local talent,” Loomis said. “Lots of experience. What did your people learn from Larson?”

“Just confirmation of what we suspected. The material was off-loaded to a shrimper at the north end of the Mona Passage. Seven barrels of stuff. Four wooden crates. Larson doesn’t know who hired him, what was in the barrels, or who they went to. All he had was a recognition signal.”

“You believe him?”

“No. But I believe the crew that took his brain apart and studied all the little pieces. Larson thought he was handling heroin. He set his price accordingly.”

“Bullshit. That cargo must have weighed several hundred pounds. There’s not that much heroin in the world.”

“Well, Larson’s not the brightest fellow alive, either. He was told that the crates contained art objects. He didn’t open them.”

“Where is he now?”

“Awaiting your pleasure. I suggest holding him on suspicion of smuggling until we find out which way the wind blows.”

“I’ll recommend it to our government tomorrow, if we still have a government. Any description on the shrimper?”

“Negative. Larson says it was a dark night. The calendar confirms it. Aerial reconnaissance in Washington is doing some backtracking to see what they missed. They might come up with something. But I wouldn’t lay odds.”

Loomis thought of the many small towns and fishing villages along the north coast. The boat could have landed cargo most anywhere. There were hundreds of coves and freshwater creeks where a small boat might put light cargo ashore.

“I wish we could take a chopper and run up there,” he said.

“I doubt it would do any good,” Johnson said. “I would imagine the material is here in Santo Domingo by now.”

“Look, Johnson, I’m fixing to make a tour of the lines. Why don’t you come with me?”

“You always seem to put me in the position of pointing out the obvious,” Johnson said. “Isn’t there some shooting going on over there?”

“I’ll bring an extra weapon,” Loomis said. “We can have some fun.”

“You don’t understand, Loomis. I don’t mind dying to keep some Latin dictator in office. But frankly, I’d be at a loss to explain to Langley if my body became an international incident.”

“It’d raise the CIA’s image from second-rate domestic political burglaries,” Loomis said. “But don’t worry about it. I promise. If you’re wasted, we’ll burn your body. You’ll just disappear and become a great mystery. A
cause
célèbre
.”

“Oh, in that case, I accept. I’ve always wanted to become one of those. But I think you better hear my news. Lisbon snared a runner a few hours ago. They picked his brain. All it contained was a simple message: ‘One P.M. Saturday, Santo Domingo time.’ Our people in their brilliance believe that means Santo Domingo is to be vaporized at one o’clock on Saturday.”

“That’s tomorrow!” Loomis said.

“Brilliant people all around me,” Johnson said.

Loomis thought ahead, his mind racing to all the ramifications. If the city were evacuated by government troops, the rebels, not believing the bomb existed, would move in.

And María Elena was with the rebels.

But El Jefe probably wouldn’t evacuate. El Jefe kept the revolution foremost in his mind. That would be his first concern.

Loomis had read psychological studies of a phenomenon: when people are faced with an overwhelming danger, they tend to ignore it. All over the world, villages cling to the sides of active volcanoes, cities mushroom on known earthquake faults, and houses are built on floodplains and beneath huge dams. Repeatedly, populations warned of impending disasters have chosen to ignore them.

Without Ramón’s help, the city wouldn’t be evacuated.

“We’ve got to reach Ramón,” Loomis said. “We’ve got to arrange a cease-fire, an evacuation.”

“I was afraid my news might upset you,” Johnson said. “I even thought about not telling you. What have you heard from María Elena on the possibility of calling off this inconvenient little war?”

“Nothing.”

“No news is bad news,” Johnson said. “Frankly, unless we get things calmed down enough to conduct a house-to-house, I’m not optimistic. No firm leads, and only eighteen hours.”