Nitikin and his helper had practiced the procedure for four days, using a short section of three-inch pipe for the gun tube and wooden mock-ups of the uranium components.
Yakov liked the young Colombian. Unlike some of the older FARC commanders who had lost sight of the goal of social change and had become warlords presiding over narco empires, Tomas, like most of the young rebels, adhered to revolutionary principles. He would lay down his life in a minute if he believed it would advance the cause of the revolution. In this way he was fearless, but not foolhardy.
Tomas learned quickly and asked questions that made it clear he understood the most critical parts of the procedure and the risks involved. Most of all he understood the time constraints.
After assembling the parts of the tube and the steel anvil that would form the base for the target, Nitikin placed an old alarm clock on the sill of the window directly above the two lead caskets. The clock was set with both hands straight up, twelve o’clock.
Nitikin spoke in Spanish, but his Russian accent destroyed any trill to the Spanish rs. “I will set the alarm for twenty minutes. When the alarm goes off, or if it fails for any reason, when the big hand reaches four, Tomas, you are to exit the hut and get as far away from the building as fast as you can, no matter whether we are finished or not. Do you understand?
Si.
You are not to argue with me, talk to me, or ask any questions, just go. Understood?
Yes, seńor. I understand.
They donned their lead-lined suits, pulled the hoods over their heads, gloved their hands, and began breathing through the respirators. They had only practiced with the suits once before, but they wore the thick gloves each time. The gloves made it difficult to manipulate the tongs that would be used to pick up and carry the subcritical uranium components and to hold them in place as they were fastened down or fitted with other parts.
Within less than a minute, Tomas and Yakov began to feel the drag of the heavy lead as gravity began to pull on their bodies.
Nitikin used a ratchet-and-socket set to unscrew the four bolts from the lid of the first casket. He reached up with his gloved hand, took the clock from the windowsill, reset the hands to twelve, flipped the alarm lever, and put the clock back on the sill. Then he reached down with his hands and lifted the heavy lid off the casket, setting it on the table.
The target elements of uranium, four of them, rings stacked upside down, forming a V-shaped cup, looked like lead to the naked eye.
Tomas took the tongs and grasped the top ring. Sure-footed and steady, he moved to the table and quickly aligned the first ring. This was the bottom of the cup-shaped target. It fit perfectly in the prepared bed of the high-carbide steel anvil.
Nitikin tried to explain the procedure to Alim through the interpreter, using the walkie-talkie. Because of the hood, the translator was having difficulty understanding him. Alim kept coming back, asking for clarification.
Tomas repeated the process and the second ring of the target was in place.
Nitikin tried to explain this. The question came back, “How many is that now?”
“Two,” said Nitikin.
“What did you say? Repeat one more time.”
“Two target disks installed.”
“How much time remaining?”
“I don’t have time to look right now.”
“Give us an estimate.”
Nitikin ignored them. He could see that the constant static and shouting from the walkie-talkie was making Tomas nervous. If he dropped one of the elements on the floor and deformed it, the device could well be useless.
Without any air-conditioning in the hut, the suits had become stifling. The small glass lens inside Nitikin’s hood through which he could see began to fog up.
“What is happening now?”
“Listen to me. You can either have a bomb or a description of how to make one, but you cannot have both. Do you understand? You must decide,” said Yakov.
A few seconds passed, then the translator’s voice. “Afundi says he wants to come in and see for himself.”
“Tell him to come ahead as long as he is prepared to die,” said Nitikin. He turned off the walkie-talkie and tossed it on the table.
As Tomas moved back to the casket one more time, Yakov realized there was only one uranium element left in the storage case. The Colombian grabbed it with the metal tongs and quickly placed it on top of the others as Nitikin took up the ratchet and two of the bolts from the lid of the empty casket along with two steel washers. The uranium target disks had been milled with two small holes. These lined up precisely with threaded holes in the base of the anvil. Now that the target disks were stacked and aligned, they were ready to be bolted down.
Avoiding any contact by his gloved hand with the uranium, Yakov put one bolt through a washer and dropped it into the first hole, then did the same with the second bolt. He used the ratchet to carefully tighten them, making certain not to deform the soft uranium.
The moment he was done he turned and looked at the clock. The most critical part of the process was still before them. They had used up seven minutes, including precious time wasted arguing with Alim over the walkie-talkie.
Yakov moved to the second casket and started loosening the bolts. Less than a minute later he had the lid off. The smaller portion of highly enriched uranium, the bullet, lay before them, cradled in a shaped cavity cast in the bottom lead casket.
Tomas moved with the tongs, gripped it, and picked it up. He hadn’t cleared the top lip of the casket when the slick cylindrical projectile slipped from the tongs and fell back into its case and settled again in the cavity in the bottom.
Tomas stopped and looked at Nitikin. Yakov could tell he was rattled. He reached over and took the tongs from him. Nitikin delicately reached in and lifted the projectile from the bottom of the case. Gripping the tongs tightly with both hands, he rotated the object up close in front of the thick glass lens of his hood, examining it for any deformation or dents.
“It’s all right.”
Tomas nodded.
Nitikin set it back down in the case, handed the tongs back to Tomas, and retrieved another smaller set for himself. Using the smaller tongs, Yakov picked up a brass ring, banded metal, with a fused neoprene seal along the center of the outside of the ring.
Tomas picked up the projectile again, this time using both hands to squeeze the tongs. Holding it firmly, he set the base end on the table so that the bullet rested upright, like a missile on a launch pad. He used the tongs to steady it near the bottom, at its base, as Nitikin carefully slipped the brass ring over the tip of the projectile.
To the naked eye, the bullet looked perfectly cylindrical, but it wasn’t. The circumference was imperceptibly larger at the bottom than the top, so that the ring slid down the projectile to the bottom third and stopped. Yakov tested it with the tongs to make sure that it was properly seated. The ring didn’t move.
He checked the clock. They were sixteen minutes in. Quickly he picked up the second ring and slipped it over the projectile. This time the slightly smaller ring slid only halfway down before seating itself against the side of the projectile.
Yakov grabbed a can of lubricant, pried open the lid, and with a small brush, dabbed a bit of the viscous clear liquid on the outer neoprene gaskets fused to the two brass rings.
“Ready?” said Yakov. He steadied the projectile with the small tongs while Tomas gained a more secure purchase with the larger tongs.