“Thank you for coming in at such an early hour,” he said. “FBI Director Larry Johnson and NSA Director Davis Means will join us later by speaker phone, once they learn if the item found along the Arizona-Mexico border is real. But at this time it appears to be a nuclear device.”
He turned to Alan Thornton, a chief ally he relied heavily upon when it came to sound direction. “Al, your assessment from the preliminary reports, please.”
Alan Thornton was a man of bookish appearance who wore outdated suits and believed his bad comb-over was good enough to belie the fact that he was balding. Whenever he sat down he did so with aristocratic posture where his spine remained rigidly straight and his chin raised in haughty manner. And when he spoke he did so with a powerful voice. “According to our sources,” he said, “it appears that the device is a workable unit armed by the transference of codes from an independent source, such as the BlackBerry found at the scene.”
“Is it Russian made?”
“The early assumption, Mr. President, is yes, we believe so. The Cold War versions are antiquated to what we consider the backpack version, a cylindrical component roughly the size and shape of a five-gallon drum. But this unit is state-of-the-art, something never seen before, not even by our own intelligence agencies. So the question is this, do the Russians have the capability to cannibalize from the old units to create something new, compact and far more deadly? And right now, Mr. President, the answer is yes. Or at least it appears so.”
The president faced Doug Craner, the leading principal of the CIA who was responsible for monitoring insurgent activities abroad. “And what’s your account, Doug?”
Craner was old-school military whose roots went beyond twenty years and whose service was invaluable as a Marine. His flattop was cropped to specs and the clipped tone of his voice was evident that habits were hard to relinquish. Even now, nineteen years retired from the ranks, Doug Craner continued to air something stoically martial about him. “Of course we know of the Cold War versions, Mr. President, but this package is something unique. The word from intel is that a Russian by the name of Yorgi Perchenko, a former KGB chief who ended up as the assistant director of Directorate S at the end of the Cold War, and summarily dismissed due to his refusal to change his hard-lined views for new alternatives, may be indirectly responsible.” He then handed the president an 8x10 black-and-white glossy photo of an aged male with salt-and-pepper hair. The collar of his jacket was hiked against the cold with the fabric covering the man’s lower jaw, but not enough to cover his face.
“I remember him,” the president said lightly, placing the photo down. While serving as a statesman in the Senate, Burroughs kept a watchful eye toward the Eastern Bloc when the Berlin Wall fell and communism collapsed. But during that time Perchenko’s name kept coming up as a stolid hardliner who constantly voiced his opinion to the elitists in the Russian parliament that resistance was to be met with brutal force for the sake of self-preservation, not with the totality of surrender. His recompense for his verbal barrages was a quick reassignment to the Directorate S, where he did a brief stint before disappearing altogether.
It was a name he had not heard until now.
“We believe,” said Craner, “prior to Perchenko’s assignment to the Directorate S, that he had accessibility to the military-based storage units and absconded with the antiquated versions during the confusion at the time of the Soviet Union’s fall. We know for a fact that some portable versions have gone unaccounted for, and Perchenko maybe the reason why.”
“But why now? Why would Perchenko retaliate against American sovereignty more than twenty years after the fall?”
“He’s not,” said Thornton.
Craner nodded. “We believe Perchenko has developed a more sophisticated weapon by cannibalizing parts from the Cold War versions, and is now proposing them on the black market to the highest bidder. At this time we’re trying to verify this information.”
The president fell back in his chair, his jaw muscles working out the growing tension. “And the highest bidders, in Perchenko’s black market sale, were the Arabs at the border.”
“It appears that way. Right now we’re looking for a money trail.”
The president nodded his disgust. “For a person to sell such a weapon on the black market is incredibly irresponsible and undeniably lacking in reason and conscience, which makes Perchenko a very dangerous man. And such men do not deserve the right to walk this planet.”
After a moment of tense silence, the president offered an inquiry in a tone suggesting forced calm. “Tell me about the weapon found at the site.”
Secretary of Defense Michael Draewhite proffered a faxed photo taken at the scene. “When NSA opened the lid they discovered that the case was lined with a thin layer of lead to act as a marginal shield. The essential parts of the unit, as Doug mentioned, were cannibalized, but only to a degree.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The workings within the case, Mr. President, are basically computerized components manufactured with microchips, processing boards — things that didn’t exist during the Cold War. What is the same, however, are the three spheres inside, units I believe were taken from the Cold War versions and reassembled to what you see there.”
“And the spheres are what exactly?”
Draewhite didn’t pull any punches. “They are the crucibles that provide the ignition of an atomic blast.”
President Burroughs continued to examine the faxed photo as Draewhite continued.
“The Cold War versions possessed only one sphere with the bulk of the backpack possessing a detonator unit, which consumed a large capacity of space. Over time those units have been miniaturized to provide more room. So instead of holding one sphere as the old units did, the new unit is now capable of holding three, tripling its yield.”
“And how much yield does each sphere contain?”
“A single sphere contains exactly one kiloton.”
President Burroughs closed his eyes. Three kilotons was approximately one-quarter of the yield that wiped out Hiroshima.
“And Perchenko may be responsible?” When the president said this he did so more to himself as if slipping off into reflection, quickly realizing when the KGB transitioned into the Directorate S, Perchenko’s role as assistant director was to watch over several departments, one that included conducting terrorist operations and sabotage in foreign countries. Although he might not have pulled the trigger, he at least provided the gun. Everything seemed to fit, at least on the surface.
The president sighed. “What about the men killed at the site?”
Doug Craner laid a second photo before Burroughs, his finger pressing it firmly to the desktop for a brief moment as he spoke. “We have confirmation that all three men were on the FBI watch list. But one in particular is of extreme interest. This is Khalid Hassan, an Iraqi national who fought in Iraq before serving with al-Qaeda forces against American troops in Baghdad. His stint was cut short due to being severely wounded. But we believe Hassan is responsible for the deaths of nearly thirty-seven American troops and operatives prior to his decommission from battle.”
The president leaned forward, a photo in each hand, a Russian and an Arab, the man trying to determine the ties that bind them. “So now I pose this question to you, Doug: In the assessment of the CIA, do you believe the Russians and Arabs to be working together against American interests?”