Henry held up his hands. “You’re the boss.”
“I want to be through the hubs in ten minutes. And it’s max hazmats, people; this is radiation we’re dealing with.”
The crew hurried out. Just as he reached the door to the handling garage, Dokal said: “A word, Cal.”
Instinct made his skin crawl, but he just said, “Sure,” like it was routine, some stupid paperwork to clear first.
“What’s with the hair this morning?” she asked as they hurried up the stairs.
“It’s…nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it.
Dokal’s office was on the ED core’s second floor, which gave her a rare outside window. The white blinds were shut, preventing anyone from seeing out—or more relevantly, Callum thought, in. Two people were waiting for them. He recognized one: Poi Li, Connexion’s security director, who had been with Ainsley Zangari since the very beginning. Company rumor had it she supplied him with pirated firewalls the day he rented his first office in Manhattan, because he didn’t have the money to buy legit copies. Just the sight of the old woman made him feel guilty. She couldn’t be here about Savi. Could she?
Poi Li gave him a quick appraisal. “You look worried, Mr. Hepburn,” her deceptively light voice challenged.
Bastard! “My expenses are all legitimate.” He made it light, office banter.
The second visitor stood up.
“This is Major David Johnston,” Dokal said. “From the Ministry of Defense. Nuclear division.”
The major was a heavy man in his early fifties, moving with some difficulty and wincing every time he bent his knees. Callum imagined him being injured during some kind of dark ops mission. A thin monk’s band of white hair circled his scalp, and he wore wire-rimmed screen glasses, which gave him the air of a classics professor. His presence worried Callum a great deal more than Poi Li ever could. “Really?”
“Pleased to meet you, Callum. Counselor Torres here has been singing your praises.”
Callum gave Dokal an ironic glance. “Nice to know.”
“We have a delicate problem,” the major said. “And by ‘we,’ I mean the British government. So we’re asking for your help and discretion.”
“Which Connexion guarantees,” Poi Li said. “Correct, Callum?”
He spread his arms wide, trying not to let the dismay show. “Sure. So what’s the problem?”
“The ’68 Global Disarmament Treaty,” Major Johnston said. “Terrific breakthrough event for global politics. Lots of voter happiness all ’round.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Callum said cautiously, not that he could remember details; politics and history weren’t exactly his strongest subjects.
“It was inevitable, given the development of atomic bonding generators. Every major city in the world has an air shield now. Missiles and drones can’t get through, and if you bond enough air together, it can withstand a nuclear blast. Whole national arsenals were rendered obsolete overnight—well, five years plus. That just leaves us with low-level threats now: terrorists building their own nukes, rogue nations, extreme political groups, etc., etc. Everyone realized the only way to prevent that menace being realized is to get rid of the world’s stockpile of weapons-grade fissionable material.”
“After the ’68 treaty, everybody abandoned their warheads and their material stockpile,” Dokal said. “It’s one of the reasons Haumea was so profitable for Connexion right from the start; everyone made a show of shoving their nasties through.”
Callum watched her closely. He really didn’t like where this was heading now. And the vivisectionist gaze that Poi Li was using to study him didn’t help.
“So we did,” said Major Johnston. “Everybody minimized. The UK was left with five functioning warheads for deterrence purposes alone, and no ability to build more. However, I’m afraid we had a…uh, inventory issue.”
“Oh, fuck,” Callum groaned.
“The trouble is, back in the twentieth century and a fair bit of the twenty-first, the government was somewhat paranoid. They didn’t declare the true amount of plutonium we had created.”
“Jesus fucking wept! Are you telling me there’s plutonium in that malfunctioning tank?”
“We were trying to dispose of it quietly,” Major Johnston said. “To avoid an incident with the Transnational Inspectorate.”
“You didn’t tell them?” Callum said, aghast. “You didn’t tell Boynak what you were sending through their disposal system?”
“Our senior management was aware,” Poi Li said.
Callum turned to her, frowning. “Our management?”
“Connexion has a share in Boynak. However, the Gylgen facility staff were not informed. There was no need.”
“So we’re helping the British government to dump their illegal plutonium?”
“The plutonium was a mistake made by a previous generation,” Major Johnston said emphatically. “We were trying to do the honorable thing and correct it.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Actually, yes.”
“We need you, as crew chief, to be aware of what you’re actually facing in Gylgen,” Dokal said.
“Big thanks, pal.” Callum rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, trying to think. “I don’t get this. Is the malfunction a terrorist group sabotage?”
“I don’t believe so,” Major Johnston said. “We have sent several batches through previously without any problem. Our canisters of plutonium are listed as medical waste from various London hospitals. The plutonium itself is broken down into small pellets, each of which is encased in a ceramic to prevent it oxidizing, then sealed in a standard canister. What I believe may have happened is plain bad luck. One canister dropped from the top of the tank landed badly. The ceramic might have cracked, or even shattered.”
“You didn’t test the ceramic for impact,” Callum said in realization.
“It’s a quiet project,” Poi Li said. “Failure to fall test that particular ceramic was an oversight.”
Callum closed his eyes, trying to remember his physics. “If you expose plutonium to moist air, it oxidizes and hydrides, then it expands by…”
“Up to seventy percent,” Johnston completed. “The canister itself may have ruptured from that expansion pressure. It is only a standard commercial plastic, printed in the Gylgen plant and shipped out to customers.”
“Never designed to contain accidental plutonium expansion,” Callum said wearily. “I’m guessing the residue trickled to the bottom of the tank and blocked the valve. Unlikely, but…”
“Our scenario is worse than that.”
“Oh, bloody hell!”
“The powder which plutonium oxidization and hydration produces has been known to flake off and ignite spontaneously.”
“Ignite?”
“Yes. If there was a fire resulting from that initial fracture, it would probably breach further canisters. And each one would multiply the problem.”
“How many plutonium canisters are in this tank?”
“Twenty-five. That’s a kilogram of plutonium in total.”
“Fuck me! Well, let’s hope I can vent the whole mess before that fire starts.”
“Cal,” Dokal said quietly. “The Gylgen facility engineers didn’t pressurize the tank.”
“But you said…Oh.”
“Yeah, there was a fire inside the tank,” Major Johnston said. “That’s what caused the pressure increase. There’s only a limited amount of oxygen in there, so that’ll be consumed by now. But we suspect that while it was burning, it turned a lot of the other canisters molten, releasing more plutonium along with all the other residue. That is probably what’s broken the valve. There are no sensors left inside; the fire took them out. We don’t know what state the waste is currently in. The canister plastic
may be liquid, or it may have recongealed. If you blow a hole in the bottom of the tank, the waste might not vent.”
“We can’t take the risk the fire will restart, Cal,” Dokal said. “Some of those canisters contained radioactive water. If we get any more oxidization on the plutonium, it could combust and rupture. Time is becoming critical. You’ve got to send the whole tank through.”
“It’s fifteen meters long, and weighs sixty tons!”
“But it’s only four meters wide. Whatever you need, Cal. There is no budget here today. You can thread up to six meters, our largest portal. I checked, and we have a pair available.”
“All right, I accept the risk,” Callum said calmly. “But my crew needs to be told.”
“Not Raina Jacek,” Poi Li said immediately. “Not with her political background.”
He almost argued. Almost. But a very bad part of his brain was thinking about being vetted by security. The problem simply wouldn’t exist if he had Poi Li’s trust on this one.
“Okay, Raina will be in the Gylgen control room. I’m talking about Alana, Colin, and Moshi; they’re the ones who’ll be physically tackling the tank with me.”
“They can be told,” Poi Li agreed.
“Let’s go, then.”
* * *
—
When Callum got to handling garage five, the crew was almost ready to go. Moshi, Colin, and Alana were in their green-and-yellow hazmat suits, running tests on the life support packs. Raina was sitting on a bench, with a thick hi-rez wraparound screen band on her face, muttering away to her mInet, hands raised midair as she deftly moved virtual icons around. Henry was with two support staff, already wearing his thermal regulator suit, which resembled a body stocking knitted out of slim tubes. The staff walked him over to the Govnex Mark VI space suit, a rigid torso with a hinged backpack that was already open for him. He had to wiggle through the small rectangular opening. Legs went in first, then he had to bend almost double, shoving his arms into the sleeves as he pushed his head through the neck ring. Callum winced in sympathy as he started to pull on his hazmat suit.
“We’re going for full disposal,” he told them. “I want to drop the whole tank out through Haumea.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re kidding, chief.”
“That’s crazy!”
“It’s not crazy,” Callum said levelly. “Something in those containers has leaked and blocked the valve. We don’t know what, and we don’t know how much. I cannot risk a partial clearance; that’d leave us a worse problem than we have now. So the whole thing goes, quick and clean. Dok has already cleared it with corporate.”
Raina had pulled her wraparound down to give him a skeptical stare. The others were all exchanging glances.
“It’s four meters in diameter, chief,” Colin protested.
Callum’s lips twitched a grin. “So we thread up to six. There’s a portal pair waiting for us on Haumea.”
“You’re shitting us!” Henry exclaimed in delight. “Nobody gets to use a six-meter portal.”
“We do.”
“Okay, then.” Alana pursed her lips in approval. “Now you’re talking!”
“So. Henry, we’ll be taking two portals. One to depressurize the tank—that’ll buy us some time—the second to thread up ready for complete disposal. That’s going to take some serious cutting. Moshi, electron beams for all of us. Colin, we’re going to need at least two cases of shaped charges. Raina, how’s your timing? We’re going to need some serious precision on this.”
“I’m insulted you asked.” But she was smiling. Like the rest of them, she had her eyes on the big prize. This operation was going to look great on their CVs, and the bragging rights they’d have over the other crews was incalculable. There was also the prospect of a bonus, always index-linked to the scale of the hazard you averted.
They used Connexion’s internal European hub network to get them to Stockholm, then there was a private portal to the Boynak offices, which put the Gylgen facility one step away. As soon as they got there, Raina went straight for the operations control room. A technician in a hazmat suit led Callum and his crew to the disposal building.
It was a standard industrial structure of metal girders covered in composite panels. Inside was a three-dimensional lattice of pipes and loader rails interlaced with stairs and suspended walkways. At the far end was the reception bay, with cargo portals linked to various collection stations across the continent. Right at the center, suspended over a deep pit, were the five tanks.
Callum took one look at the imposing matrix of metal—a brutal edifice made worse by the red emergency lights flashing across it. The sirens had been switched off hours ago. Apollo threw up a swathe of schematics, identifying components. “Leave the bugez,” he said. “They’ll take too long to scale this. We’ll carry the cases from here.”
They didn’t say anything, just did as they were told and plucked their equipment cases from the bugez. Callum guessed they were still in shock. He’d explained about the plutonium on the way over, cutting Raina out of the comms circuit.
It was two flights of stairs up to the walkway that led to the top of the tanks. He was sweating by the time he got up there. The cases were heavy, and he had an electron cutter slung over his back.
Loader rails ran parallel to the walkway, silent and still since the pressure warning started. He glanced at the blue plastic canisters frozen in position, stretching all the way back to the loading bay. Each one had a prominent radiation warning emblem. Ordinarily that might bother him; today he just didn’t care. Like they’re going to make a difference if we screw up.
Dokal had shown him the confidential file Johnston had provided. It had estimates of the potential damage should the tank rupture. Likely quantity of plutonium particles to spew out, wind patterns, ground dispersal…Emergency evacuation procedures to enact for anyone within two hundred kilometers, contamination effects on local wildlife and vegetation. Cost of a clear-up—shocking in both financial and environmental terms.
“Mini Chernobyl,” she had said grimly.
Apollo had shown him that file. It banished his usual level of confidence, which he fought hard to hide from his crew.
They arrived at the cluster of tanks. Each one had a couple of airlocks on top, the size of oil drums, with a feeder mechanism above them to channel the canisters off the loader rails.
“Alana, clear the insulation off the top of our tank, enough for a blister. Moshi, get me a temperature reading, then prep a puncture charge. Colin, the blister, please. And guys—”
They turned to look at him, caught by the unaccustomed gravity in his voice.
“Calm and careful, okay? We cannot afford screwups.”
“You got it, chief.”
While the others got organized, he took a minute to study the tank and the lattice of steel girders that held it in place, working out where the supports would have to be cut. The schematic his mInet threw up across the hazmat helmet visor confirmed the load points. Twenty of the bastards.
Alana used a power plane to slice the insulation foam off the tank, cutting a circle more than a meter across.
“Thirty-eight Celsius,” Moshi said. “That’s well inside tolerance.”
“Good,” Callum said. “Let’s keep it that way. Place the charge.”
Colin put the puncture charge in the middle of the area—a black plastic circle like a fat coin, three centimeters across.
Callum opened the first of his cases. The portal it contained was a disk thirty centimeters in diameter. On one side it was a hole that opened into a metallic chamber in Haumea station, while the other side was a twenty-centimeter strata of molecular circuitry, stabilizing the entanglement. When Callum looked through, the portal was facing a wide airlock hatch, with amber caution lights strobing around it. As always, he had to resist sticking
his hand through and wiggling it around.
“Henry? How are we doing?”
“I’m in the ventchamber. Portal is locked in position. Ready to open outer door.” Henry’s space-suited hand came into view through the portal, giving a thumbs-up.
“Stand by.”
Colin held up the blister—a hemisphere of incredibly tough metalloceramic, with a meld-bonding rim. Callum twisted the portal disk into its locking slots in the apex of the blister, and they both lowered it onto the patch Alana had prepared.
“Seal it,” Callum said. “Henry, open the ventchamber hatch, please.”
“Confirmed, chief. Opening now.”
Callum watched the data Apollo was throwing onto his visor display, seeing the pressure inside the blister wind down to zero. “Fitz, status, please.”
“Haumea systems all stable,” the operations director said. “Portal power supply confirmed and buffered. You’re go, Cal.”
“Raina, update?”
“Blister seal melded to the tank. It’s secure, Cal. Good to go.”
“Thank you. Moshi, blow the puncture charge.”
There was a dull crump from the blister. Callum heard a loud whistling sound. Apollo showed him the pressure in the blister rising sharply.
“It’s venting, chief,” Henry reported. “Good plume. Mostly gas. Some particles.”
It took three minutes for the tank to empty. Callum, Moshi, Alana, and Colin all kept watch on the casing, but although it trembled as the gas was expelled, nothing else happened; the whistling noise reduced to nothing after a couple of minutes. “Right, then. Let’s get it prepped for dumping,” Callum said. “Henry, I’m looking to start threading up in about an hour.”
“I’ll be ready at this end, chief.”
Moshi had the job of blowing the horizontal support struts that fastened the tank to the surrounding lattice. He clambered along the metal girders, fixing a double charge to each strut. Alana and Colin used their electron beam cutters and severed the disposal pipe at the bottom of the tank below the jammed valve, then went on to slice out a two-meter section. When they were finished, there was a clear space below the valve.