Shadow of the Fall

Lieutenant Colonel Pickard watched the young woman tap the eraser end of a pencil on the casing of the device. Each time the eraser tip struck the weapon he could feel his blood pressure rise. He could not for the life of himself figure out how he had come to be sequestered in an ammunition bunker with a live nuclear device and a seemingly crazy woman, but he now just hoped he made it out in one piece. He also couldn’t quite figure out how the flash traffic communications from the base weapons team had landed the young woman at his doorstep, but he was sure it would all end badly. The young woman leaning over the open bomb casing, wearing beach shorts and blue bikini top, could not be any more than in her mid-20s. Her hair pulled back into a loose blond ponytail made her look ever younger than that. The thick black plastic rimmed glasses she was wearing just made her look odd. “Hmm, that’s odd. Not bad odd, but just odd.” “What’s odd?” The military officer didn’t really want to ask the question, it was reflex. “Every time I tap the outer casing, the elevational-timer jumps down a number. The actual clockwork isn’t really moving, as much as the analog display is. I was hoping it was going to be a mechanical problem. It’s usually a straight up mechanical problem when they’ve been in the crate as long as this fellow has. This, however, is definitely an electrical problem. That’s odd.” What does odd mean, exactly?” “Well, the same way a plane’s control surfaces are basically electric-over-hydraulic, and a computer actually flies the plane – ” “You mean, fly-by-wire?” “Exactly. You can think of a nuclear bomb the same way. Just here, it’s electric-over-mechanical. Normally, when a mechanical problem appears, you unplug the electronics and fix the mechanics.” “But, you don’t when it’s electronic?” “It’s certainly not recommended. With the electronics being on the top end, they can act as a mask. The problem could be an electronics component issue, or they could be masking some mechanical problem downstream of the trigger assembly. Masking in such a way as to make it appear upstream, follow? If you just unplug it, it could go boom.” The lieutenant colonel visibly blanched. Kristin smiled at the man softly and looked back down at the device, which she had disassembled as far as was comfortable. Dr. Kristin Marie Hughes, 29, leading field operative for the Nuclear Emergency Search Team (NEST), was nobody’s idea of your typical weapon’s specialist. At 5 feet 6 inches tall, crystal clear blue eyes, a fit, beach-caliber body that tipped the scales at about 120 pounds, she was much more surfer girl than scientist. This was especially true considering her current state of dress. Sadly, her b-cup bikini seemed to always make more of an impression on people than her PhD in Nuclear Physics or her expertise with weapons. In a funny way, her toned physique had nothing to do with her All-American beach girl persona. Living in Henderson, Nevada, outside Las Vegas, she spent her off time rock climbing, or mountain biking. She was a naturally outdoorsy girl, and it showed in her attributes. Why was she currently in Italy? Well, she wasn’t. Not really. She had been on a beach in Croatia when the problem with the nuke had first started. A phone call, a helo ride, and a Mach 2 fighter jet flight had put her down in Camp Darby, Italy, in record time. The base’s bomb handling unit, currently standing outside the ammunition bunker, was not happy when she appeared and universally took control of the situation. The base commander, Lt. Col. Pickard, was equally unhappy when he was locked in the ammunition bunker with her. Such is the way, some days. “So colonel, married? Any kids? Most base commanders have families. They must love it in Italy?” “Ah … yes. I have a wife, and a daughter in high school.” “What’s her name?” “My daughter? It’s Sam. That’s short for Samantha. And yes, she really likes Italy. She goes to the local high school. Why do you ask?” “Talking about familiar topics tends to calm people. You were starting to look freaked out.” “We’re locked in an ammunition bunker with an activated 20-kiloton nuclear bomb. Shouldn’t I be freaked out?” Kristin laughed quietly and smiled at the colonel. “You have no idea how many times I’ve been in this situation. It’s really not that crazy a scenario. Besides, there’s lots of elevation left on the altimeter. We’ll get this old boy calmed down, long before it really gets upset.” The color started to creep back into colonel Pickard’s face. While what she said was true, and they most-likely would fix the nuke with no issues, activated nuclear weapons were notoriously touchy creatures. It really could all end badly. Kristin turned her attention back to the ticking time bomb in front of her. This early-era Cold War bomb was a predecessor to the current era of sophisticated nuclear warheads. Where today’s generation of weapons are warheads on missiles, this old beauty was a big drop bomb with an altimeter for a trigger. It was certainly something built before the doctor was born. It would be like working on her grandmother’s tube radio without any instructions or proper tools. But sometimes, like today, the coolest part was just figuring it all out as you went along. “What do you say we get about fixing this thing, colonel?” The colonel nodded enthusiastically and Kristin gave him a warm smile. Her All-American smile had a way of making men calm. “Could you please hand me that No. 12 Torx driver? It’s the blue handle, third from the left.” The colonel picked up the tool and handed it over to her, grip first. Kristin tried the tool on the exposed screw head and then sat it on the ground next to her leg. “OK, let’s try the No. 13. That one was a tad too small.” The colonel handed over the next tool and leaned slightly forward to watch the crazy woman work. Kristin checked the driver on the screw head and then sat it on the ground next to her other leg. Feeling semi-good about her path forward, she picked up a No. 7 Phillips head screwdriver and removed the screws holding the adjacent exterior panel in place. She stopped for a moment as she placed the panel on the ground next to the others and took stock of the sheer number of pieces. Modern nuclear weapons were a study in simplicity. This bomb had more pieces than a child’s erector set. They really didn’t make them like this one anymore. It was the Urban Dictionary definition of Old School. Bending all the way over the device, Kristin shoved her head as far inside the device as it would physically fit. Several grunts and hmms emanated from inside the casing before her face reemerged. She picked up the pencil and gave the casing a quick tap, tap, tap, before straightening up. As expected, the altimeter jumped three times in corresponding to the taps. Kristin leaned back and returned to her original cross-legged sitting position. She pushed the black framed glasses up on top of her temples and her glacier-blue eyes sparkled in the dim light. A mild look of bemusement ate at the edges of her neutral expression. “Sir? Could you hand me that can of diet Mountain Dew, please?” The base commander handed over the room-temperature canned soft drink and watched the crazy bomb technician down about half of its contents with a large gulping sound. Kristin returned the can to the colonel and cracked her knuckles in a pre-fight sort of way. “You can have the rest of it if you want. It is kind of muggy in here. I just needed to run a little liquid down my throat. This next part tends to make my mouth dry.” The base commander blanched and swallowed audibly. He looked down at the young scientist with a kind of fatherly disbelief. “Before you take the next big leap, may I ask you a question?” “Yes, sir. Fire away.” “What do your parents think about you running around the globe, defusing nuclear bombs, at your age?”