Cox spotted Chief Petty Officer Adam Samir coming out of the hotel with a gorgeous brunette on his arm. He smacked Caraway on the back. “Look over there: Ain’t that Samir from EOD?” Explosive Ordnance Disposal.
“Yeah, get ’im!” Caraway said. “We might need him.”
Cox slipped through the crowd to catch Samir by the elbow as he was stepping up to the valet booth. “Samir, I need to talk to you a minute.”
Samir looked at him as he handed the man inside the booth the ticket for his car. “What’s up?”
“It’s private,” Cox said, offering the woman a strained smile.
“Just a second,” Samir said to his new bride. He led Cox up the sidewalk, spotting the other SEALs on the far side of the carport. “Make this quick. I’m on my honeymoon.”
Cox felt his stomach fall. “The nuke’s here on the island, and we’re going after it. Commander Brighton’s gonna be here any second. We might need you.”
“What are you talking about? The nuke’s in DC.”
Cox shook his head. “Somebody fucked up. It’s here.”
Brighton pulled up in a black 2012 Ford Bronco, and the SEALs began loading in.
“That’s him,” Cox said. “Look, this ain’t a fuckin’ drill, dude. It’s the real deal, and if we don’t find the damn thing by 08:45, your honeymoon is over anyway.”
“Shit!” Samir hissed, knowing that SEALs wouldn’t joke about this kind of thing. “Gimme a minute.” He went over to his wife. “Baby, you gotta get off the island.”
“Why?” she said, her face tightening with fear. “What’s wrong?”
“The bomb here is on Coronado. When the valet brings the car around, get in and go to your mom’s up in LA. Don’t stop for gas — don’t stop for nothing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Adam, it’s our honeymoon! Let somebody else go!”
“Who?” he asked. “Who else are they gonna find to do my job, baby? They’re rolling right now, and I’m the only EOD guy here.” He took her by the arms and kissed her. “I love you!”
The valet pulled up and got out, holding the door open for her.
“I’ll call you soon as I can,” he promised.
She was too angry and hurt to say anything. She just got into the car and pulled the door shut.
Samir had never felt like a bigger piece of shit in his life as he trotted over to Brighton’s Bronco. Cox was holding the seat forward for him to cram himself in the back with the others.
“It’s a stroke of luck you being here,” Brighton said, shifting into drive and pulling out.
“With respect, sir, I don’t feel lucky at all. What the hell is going on?”
“I was just briefed over the phone by SOG’s chief spook back in Langley,” Brighton said. “There’s an RA-115 suitcase nuke here on Coronado… two-kiloton yield, gun-barrel detonator. Built with 1970s technology, but possibly modified.”
“Conspiracy buffs have been talking about the RA-115 for years, sir.”
“So you’ve heard of it. That’s good. You know something about it, then.”
“What I know, sir, is that it’s a myth.”
“Try telling that to the refugees living in those big white tents outside of Albuquerque, sailor. The isotopes from the New Mexico Event are from Russian uranium — and that’s confirmed top secret.” He took a sheet of paper from the dash and gave it to Caraway, who sat beside him in the middle. “We got ten addresses to check out. Now, which one of you maniacs runs around with the illicit weaponry in his rig? And don’t tell me nobody!”
The five SEALs crammed into the back all looked at Senior Chief Cox.
“Uh, sir, that would probably be me,” Cox admitted. “But I can explain. Most of it fell off an army deuce and a half that I was following back from—”
“Stow it,” Brighton said. “I pardon you for your sins. Where are you parked?”
“That’s my Blazer over there in the hotel lot, sir. The red one.”
“A Chevy,” one of the others muttered. “Good ol’ Government Motors.”
“Hey, fuck you, Mopar!”
Samir snickered.
They stopped behind Cox’s Blazer, and he jumped out, opening the back door and unlocking a steel Knaack jobsite storage box.
Brighton looked inside. “Christ, Chief. Leave anything on base for the navy?”
“I like to think we’re ready for anything, sir.”
“I can see that.” Brighton reached into the box and removed one of two Benelli 12-gauge entry weapons, giving it to Caraway. “Put that in my rig.”
There were also a pair of M4s, an Mk 48 squad automatic weapon (SAW), a semiauto SR-25 in 7.62 mm, and a pair of semiauto US Navy Mk 12 Special Purpose Rifles (SPRs) in 5.56 mm. They divided up the weapons into two groups, loading half into Brighton’s Bronco.
“Cox, you take four men and the SAW.” Brighton tore the paper with the addresses in half, handing him the bottom of the page and checking his watch. The time was almost 07:30. “You take the five addresses here on the south end. I’ll take Caraway and three other men north — the EOD man comes with me.
“Now remember,” he said. “Keep it casual. Don’t go looking for a fight. Just knock at the door and have a quick look around. We’re probably looking for Chechens, so if you see anything suspicious, hear anybody speaking with a Chechen accent, call us. SOG is working to get an FBI team in here on the quiet, but those gears are slow to mesh, so don’t count on backup from law enforcement. For now, we’re it. Any questions?”
“Yeah, what do we do if we actually happen to find the bomb?” Cox asked.
Brighton looked at Samir.
“Don’t touch it,” Samir said. “Secure the perimeter and call me. If there’s a timer, be sure to sync it with one of your watches, but get the hell away from it. There’s no telling what they’ve done to it or if it’s even properly shielded. If it’s really an RA-115, then it’s old enough that the shielding may have corroded by now, and you don’t want to be exposed.” He looked at Brighton and shook his head. “Hell, sir, we don’t have a goddamn Geiger counter.”
Brighton put a hand on his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, son, I’ll be right there beside you — no matter what.”
79
Caraway studied the addresses as Brighton drove northeast up Orange Avenue. “Let’s gamble and head straight up to Second and Alameda,” he said. “That’s practically right outside the main gate to the base — only about three thousand feet from where the Reagan’s docked.”
“First, we’ll hit the one on Sixth.” Brighton hung a right past Spreckels Park. “We’re right here anyhow.” He pulled to the curb in front of a white split-level home with a Sold sign in front.
Caraway got out and sauntered up onto the brick porch, knocking at the door. He waited a minute, and then knocked again, harder this time. He heard a thump and stepped aside, wishing he had a pistol. A minute later, he knocked again. After three full minutes, he went back to the Bronco and spoke to Brighton through the open window. “No one’s answering, but somebody’s gotta be in there. I heard a thump.”
“What kind of a thump?” asked one of the SEALs in back.
Caraway shrugged. “I don’t know… a thump.”
“What’s your gut tell you?” Brighton asked, his head on a swivel, watching for trouble. “We’re racing the clock here.”
Caraway stood up, glancing back at the house. Then he reached into the truck and took out the Benelli 12-gauge with a fourteen-inch barrel. “I’m gonna have a look around back. If you hear this thing go off, you know we’re at the right place.”
The SEALs in the backseat primed their weapons.
Caraway disappeared behind the head-high shrubbery lining the walk leading around to the back of the house. All of the shades were drawn, and the house appeared to be deserted. He tried the knob on the back door. It was locked, so he took a step back and kicked it open. If the place had a burglar alarm, it was silent.