For six minutes John Abraham stood as if deliberating, his eyes fixed, staring, absorbing everything at the scene and making a mental note before approaching the case and the bodies of those who surrendered their lives to protect it.
Alongside him several NSA officials stood silent, deducing, with every member clad in formal dress attire and conservative hairstyles that were perfectly coiffed. And Abraham had to wonder how this was possible given the short notice to be on the premise, like him. In marginal adherence to his appearance, he tucked the tail end of his shirt to somewhat conform to his law enforcement constituency.
Far be it if NSA should show up the FBI, he considered.
Two men in hazmat suits ventured into the established perimeter zone, the soles of their boots making tracks in the soft sand reminiscent of the lunar imprints left on the moon’s surface. With Geiger counters in hand the men swept their wand over the aluminum shell.
Just a minimal amount of Geiger ticks, nothing more.
Getting to a knee, one of the hazmat officers undid the clasps of the aluminum case and opened the lid while his colleague continued to wave his wand slowly back and forth.
The ticks remained at minimal, the threat of radiation emission at safe levels. Whatever concerns there might have been regarding toxic levels were summarily dismissed.
“Clear.” The call came from the primary hazmat officer who maintained constant communication with his team through a lip mike to the site’s Comm Center, which was a cube van parked beyond the perimeter lights.
Abraham moved forward, as did the principals from the NSA and the Mexican National Security and Investigation Center, with each man gravitating toward the case from all points of the perimeter.
Passing the bodies of the dead Arabs without so much as a glance, the officials circled the device and studied its contents. In the light the burnished spheres lined side by side beneath the Plexiglas shield gleamed imposingly.
“As you can see,” said Valente DeMora-Cuesta, a top-ranking official from the Mexican National Security and Investigation Center, also known as Cisen, waved his hand back and forth to prove a point, “this is Mexican territory.” The man was truly Napoleonic and short, his demeanor radiating a cocky arrogance, in which he forced the importance of his position by reminding the Americans that on Mexican soil he was the primary official. They weren’t buying it, however, even when DeMora-Cuesta tried to force the issue in perfect English that a challenge would be met if they contested his decisions. “This weapon belongs to the Mexican Government and will be appropriated in the name of Mexico.”
Abraham chortled. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” The American border was less than sixty meters away.
DeMora-Cuesta’s arrogant vein never subsided. “Need I remind you that you are on Mexican territory, a sovereign country?”
“Your territory has become a sieve allowing such things to happen to our nation. We need this device to learn how to dismantle it safely, in case others have gotten onto American territory. We need to track its point of origin and find the core group that’s marketing nuclear weapons.”
“Not our problem,” he commented. And then in Spanish, barked a command to his team to gather the weapon.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Abraham.
“What you want on Mexican territory matters little to me.”
As DeMora-Cuesta’s team neared the aluminum case John Abraham nodded to the NSA principal, who whispered something into his lip mike. Within moments, personnel wearing black body armor, helmets and face shields advanced from the perimeter line manning assault weapons with attached laser scopes, the crimson lines crossing the distance between them and the Cisen team as multiple red dots from their scopes settled on the center of DeMora-Cuesta’s body mass. Within seconds the members of the Cisen team were pinned in the crosshairs of two dozen elite soldiers.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said DeMora-Cuesta.
“We can do this one of two ways,” said Abraham. “We can either do this my way… Or we can do this my way. You decide.”
DeMora-Cuesta scanned the area; totally surrounded, the commandos drawing a bead. “To raise a weapon against Mexican officials is an obvious violation of the covenant between the United States and Mexico. Our government will certainly file a grievance with your government. And you, Mr. Abraham, along with everyone here, will be named.”
“I don’t think our government gives a rat’s ass, since they’re the ones who sent us here with the objective of acquiring this device in the first place.”
DeMora-Cuesta reluctantly conceded, bowing out of the circle of officials and motioning to his team to follow him beyond the lit perimeter. There was no doubt in Abraham’s mind that he was going to call for backup. It was an easy read.
The NSA official chortled. “I like your style, Abraham. You should become one of us.”
“I’m very happy where I am,” he answered.
“Yeah, well — I should contact headquarters since our friend here is obviously on his way to call in a detachment to counter our strike team. This could be fun.” And then he was gone, heading for the Comm Center.
Abraham watched the Cisen group exit the area before leaning over the device and noting the three spheres, the computer boards, and the two phallic cylinders opposing one another with their tapered points less than an inch apart. Probably the strike pins, he considered.
His next business of conduct was to examine the bodies. The Arabs he noted were clean shaven, an indicator they were preparing themselves for death by cleansing the body before entry — a martyr’s belief. It was also a learned pointer he was trained to look out for while coming up through the ranks of the Bureau working in counterterrorism.
Ignoring the Arab who had his facial identity erased after being struck by the impact of the bullet from an assault rifle, Abraham left the area as NSA associates quickly prepped the case for safe travel to Area 4 of the Nevada Test Site.
CHAPTER SIX
The moment President Burroughs was informed of a ‘Dante Package’ being discovered along the Mexican-American border, he wasted no time in calling Mexican President Cesar Munoz to issue a claim on the device, regardless of whether or not it was perceived to be several meters south of the actual borderline, which put it in Mexican territory. There were no discussions, debates, or negotiations. President Burroughs was holding firm on this matter, and was not about to concede since America’s safety was optimum.
Within moments President Munoz relented, promising to withdraw his Cisen team from the area in the interest of maintaining strong political ties with the United States. His commitment, however, came after the president strongly indicated that his contingent team of commandos would use whatever force necessary to appropriate the item.
Point made!
Within ten minutes after the call ended with the Mexican president, President James Burroughs duly invited his leading team of advisors, which included Chief National Security Advisor Alan Thornton, CIA Director Doug Craner, Secretary of State Janet Dommers, Vice President John Phippen, and Secretary of Defense Michael Duarte for a high-priority session inside the Oval Office. Although the sun had yet to show on the horizon, everybody at least appeared fresh for the coming day.
On most mornings President Burroughs was an affable and spirited man, always smiling and quick with a joke. But this morning he appeared aged and less engaging with lips pressed in a tight expression and his eyes markedly deep with concern. After learning of an Arab task force trying to maneuver a nuclear weapon onto American territory, his demeanor quickly took on a mask of worry as if the weapon’s discovery accelerated his aging process at an exponential rate, the skin beneath his eyes hanging with droopy folds.