Britnell seemed jolted, as if his week-long stay coming up at Alpha Base were a revelation to him. “There’s a way to get around it. Ever hear of an Identification Friend or Foe, an IFF?” His words were slurred.
Vikki grew alert. “Hmmm?”
“I’ve got one in my Bronco. I might be able to get away for a while — the IFF will mask us. You don’t have to wait a week for me to get off duty.”
“Sounds fascinating.” She didn’t want to seem too eager; besides, she’d be able to pull more out of him when he was coherent. “George.”
“Uh?”
“That construction contract, the one my company is bidding for?”
“Yeah — what about it?”
“Is there any way you could get me an area map of the Pit? That’s the last bit of information we need. If we knew where the service lines were located, we could bid a bigger building for the new barracks.”
“New barracks?” He thought for a moment, blinking. “Sure, that’s no problem. The place is a rat hole now.”
“Don’t say anything about this — they might think you’re giving us an unfair advantage in the competition.”
“There’s no competing with you, babe.”
Vikki closed her eyes. She tried not to grimace as Britnell moved on top of her, roughly.
The motions seemed to come mechanically. She bit her lip and stole a quick glance at her watch. Five minutes. The erotic rapture had fled, leaving only garlic from dinner and beer-laced sweat from coupling. Another few minutes and he’d be through— either hopelessly spent, or too drunk to continue the sex.
It was coupling, executed in dull, automated fashion.
Vikki turned her head and looked at the smartphone.
Chapter 10
Major McGriffin presented his ID card to the guard and refrained from whistling.
The guard checked McGriffin’s name against a computerized roster. The young airman sternly flipped the card over, then handed it back to McGriffin. After going through the wringer, the security measures in the Red Room seemed a piece of cake. Located inside Alpha Base’s command post, the Red Room’s door wasn’t even painted red.
The tour was his last for a while. The plethora of facts tired him — in some ways it was like taking a drink of water from a fire hose. The information piled up, higher and deeper. Most of it was interesting, but he had neither the time nor the memory to digest all the details.
But again, it kept his mind off Linda. And anything that did that had to be good for him.
McGriffin glanced at his watch. He was early, and Lieutenant Fellows was nowhere in sight. The husky young lieutenant had been a godsend, volunteering his time to show him the ropes. Usually the nonrated officers kept their distance from the rated types. It was some kind of ego problem in reverse.
But McGriffin didn’t attribute Lieutenant Fellow’s friendliness completely to the fact that they were both Academy grads. McGriffin sincerely thought that the young man would have taken the same pains with anyone in McGriffin’s position.
Fellows appeared, breaking his train of thought. “How do you do, Major?”
“Great. I appreciate the time you’re spending, Curtis.”
“Like I said, no problem. The more you know about our facility and what we keep here, the better we can do our job.”
“You still sound reluctant to admit you store nuclear weapons.”
Fellows cringed. “Matter of habit, sir. You know, official Air Force policy: we’re supposed to neither confirm nor deny the existence of any nuclear devices.”
“Nuclear devices. You make the world’s most destructive weapons sound so sanitary.”
Fellows laughed. “I recall you’ve got to be command post at 1800. I’ll try to keep the time short, sir.”
At the end of the corridor they approached a vault set into the wall. It resembled a huge safe. Fellows stopped before the vault and spun the dials.
McGriffin studied a sign by the vault:
THE USE OF PHOTOGRAPHY EQUIPMENT, CAMERAS,
ELECTRONIC RECORDING, THE TAKING OF NOTES, OR
ANY OTHER REPRODUCIBLE MEDIA IS
STRICTLY PROHIBITED!
(PLEASE SECURE THE DOOR BEHIND YOU)
Stepping over the steel rim jutting up from the floor, they entered the vault. Fellows pulled the portal shut behind them. The huge metal door hissed closed.
McGriffin gaped at the chamber. It was as if thirty thousand square feet of material had been stuffed in a room ten times smaller.
Four tables, each fifty feet long, made up the perimeter of a giant rectangle. At crammed intervals along the table he saw mock-ups of disassembled warheads. Inside the tables were giant “busses,” the delivery platforms where the warheads would sit. The room was split up into four distinct sections labeled: 1945-60, 1961-75, 1976-92, 1992-present. Various warheads, triggering devices, delivery vehicles, and even a computerized display of the warhead development phase were all packed into the room.
Fellows led him around the table. “The displays are roughly grouped by generation. As a rule of thumb, each generation signifies a tenfold increase in weapon efficiency, accuracy, and design. The weapons from the fifties are quite a bit different from those produced in the late eighties.”
McGriffin pointed at the last section. “What’s so special about 1992? That last section covers a lot more time than the earlier ones.”
“That’s when we stopped our underground nuclear test program. Officially, we haven’t designed any nukes since then. We’ve just refined and upgraded old designs, to make them safer.”
McGriffin whistled and moved around the displays. He stopped before a huge metal container and ran his hand over the surface. A sign above the device read little boy — the first nuke ever dropped in a war. And the MARK 17—the first thermonuclear device. The weapon was immense. To think that an ancient B-47 could even carry it was mind-boggling.
Farther down the line a suitcase-size hydrogen weapon looked sleek and succinct compared with the forties-vintage device. Labels such as “Earth/Ice Penetrator,” “Howitzer Qualified,” “Enhanced Neutron Radiator,” and “B-81” adorned the cramped displays. The inner workings of each device were visible as a slice through the weapon’s center.
McGriffin inspected one of the casings. “Funny. They made a big deal once about some college student who discovered how to build one of these. My junior high science teacher had us design one for a physics project.”
Fellows lifted an eyebrow. “Junior high?”
“Sure. You slap two pieces of fissionable material together, such as Uranium 235. When enough uranium comes together, a chain reaction occurs, and blooey, you’ve ruined everybody’s day. To build a hydrogen bomb, you use the energy from an atomic bomb to compress hydrogen. A fusion reaction occurs, and you’ve really made one big parking lot.”
McGriffin stepped back and folded his arms. He took in the chamber and assorted weaponry. “You know, if I could do it in seventh grade, why are people so paranoid about the secrets getting out?”
“The trick is putting the right quantity of material together, with the right timing and symmetry. Refining those quantities, and keeping that knowledge secret is what’s critical. Can you imagine what would happen if a few lunatics got a hold of a nuclear device? The nukes all have Permissive Actions Links — PALS — to prevent them from being detonated if they’re stolen, plus a host of other nasty things. But still … ” He trailed off.
McGriffin started to pat the casing, but thought better of it. He glanced at Fellows, who watched him, grinning.