Chapter 55
The Maghreb
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
The casks flown in from Siberia, which had hours ago been lined up in neat formation in the hangar, were now strewn on the far side like so many spent beer cans. It was an inglorious end, given that what they’d held had been manufactured with the aim of saving lives.
Cesium chloride was one of many products of the Mayak Production Association.
Situated on the heel of the Ural Mountains, the Mayak site is among the largest nuclear facilities in the Russian Federation.
In addition to producing power, the complex has extensive facilities dedicated to the reprocessing of nuclear waste.
It also separates radionuclides, rare earths, and noble metals for medical and industrial use.
Cesium 137 was a case in point. A by-product of the fission of uranium 235, the radioactive isotope has long been used as source material for radiation therapies.
Specifically, it was once widely employed in blood irradiation machines, a vital tool for preventing complications during transfusions.
For years Mayak was the world’s sole producer of cesium chloride, a derivative compound of the isotope.
In the form of a salt, it was similar in appearance and texture to talcum powder.
It was this feature of radioactive cesium chloride that led to its disuse.
Salts, by nature, are highly soluble, and handling one that is also a high beta and gamma emitter is a recipe for contamination.
Medical facilities around the world shifted to less-risky alternatives, and as they did, the owners of Mayak lost a profitable sideline.
Yet as was often the case in Russia—a vestige of its communist era state-run economic model—the loss of a market did not correspond to an end of production.
The cesium chloride kept coming. As containers of highly radioactive material, little more than waste, backed up behind its fences, the administrators of Mayak began looking for an alternate storage site.
Which was how, years later, one hundred and six oxidized and leaking barrels of highly radioactive cesium chloride had ended up behind a chain link fence in Siberia.
Andrei Malenkov had seen the potential of that cache.
He’d spent months repositioning it for his own designs.
Finally, tonight, everything was in place.
Poised to take flight from a forgotten desert airfield.
—
Qasim stood absolutely motionless, as if his slight frame was cast in stone.
He was sweating profusely in the protective suit, and the nylon head straps of his breathing apparatus were drenched.
The sun outside had set hours ago, but the hangar doors were shut and all the fans had been turned off—it was a basic precaution of working with radionuclides that air circulation be kept to a minimum.
His lead-lined vest and gloves seemed to grow heavier by the minute.
He had done his best to stay hydrated, but four hours into the process he’d probably lost at least three kilos.
The work required the patience of a Talmudic scholar.
Still, Qasim never flinched. Vengeance was a powerful motivator.
The holding tank in the last drone was nearing the fill level—a simple fishing float rose to the top, the red-and-white bobber dancing merrily in a clear tube.
The gauge was an elementary creation and had worked admirably.
He thought it a fitting metaphor for the entire undertaking: cutting-edge physics applied with exquisite simplicity.
Qasim switched off the pump and the motor went quiet. He used a pair of tongs to remove the transfer tube and let it fall to the floor. He checked the mixing tank and saw only two percent of the slurry remaining. He had planned well—he’d been shooting for less than five percent.
Qasim had been treading fine lines throughout the process.
He needed to get the viscosity right, dispersing the source material throughout the liquid without clogging the feed system.
Once the mix was finalized—the source material becoming cesium hydroxide after being mixed with water—he hoped to fill the holding tank on every drone and leave a minimum of mixture remaining, optimizing the potential for contamination of the target area.
Using a long pole—a tree trimmer he’d modified for the task—Qasim placed the cap on the drone’s feed tank.
It proved to be the most difficult of the ten, but soon he locked the cap in place.
He next shut off the agitators in the mixing tank.
With those motors stilled, the hangar fell into an eerie silence.
Qasim drew in a deep breath, then looked over his shoulder.
He was still alone. There had been a few observers at the outset, Malenkov among them.
Then the inevitable spillage had begun—a feed tube had fallen to the floor as he moved it toward the second drone.
A liter or two of the solution had slopped onto the concrete.
Qasim fully expected such incidents, especially at the beginning. Soon after that, he’d been alone.
The incident didn’t worry him. Those who understood radiation respected it.
The rest lived in fear. Which, of course, was the essence of their entire plan.
The radioactive residue he would disperse on their target, spread over roughly eight square miles, would not be extreme.
But it would be enough to deny access as panic took hold.
And by conservative calculations, it would take at least seven years to decontaminate. A greatly expanded Three Mile Island.
He walked across the hangar to the utility door, his polyethylene booties squishing across the floor.
His suit was multilayered, a full body coverall that protected against micron-sized particles.
He stopped at the door, removed the hood and respirator, and dropped them to the floor.
Getting out of the suit was a multistep process that he would undertake outside.
Qasim reached for the door handle, but then paused.
He took a last look at the scene, and his mind drifted to the history of this place.
The Moors had come to the Maghreb with their double-edged swords, the Nazis with their Panzers.
It struck him that the ambitions of men never changed; the centuries simply gave new means of lethality for advancing them.
Ten ungainly drones sat still under the bright fluorescent lights. They were fully prepped for launch. Fuel, navigation updates, and now one thousand liters of payload. A squadron of bombers waiting for launch. Qasim’s work was done, and with three hours to spare.
Somehow, however, the sense of satisfaction he had expected—no, he thought, the sense of sweet revenge—was lacking.
He never doubted the pain his work would inflict on the Egyptians.
People would die, and, economically, it would push the nation into the sea.
Still, he felt only emptiness, as if the last months had never happened. Or perhaps the last years.
Qasim turned away and pushed through the door. He was immediately struck by the sweet scent of rain on the desert breeze.