Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (17 page)

All of the heads nodded affirmatively.

“Nobody sleeps. Everybody is wide-eyed and bushy tailed. I’ll make one last round to verify your hide before dawn. Do not shoot me. Stay frosty, and get it done. Go!”

Part of the burden of command was not only did Nick have to ensure his team was executing properly, but that he did the same.

He began looking around for a hide.

It was excellent terrain for concealment. Rocky outcroppings, intermixed with healthy patches of sizeable pines provided an abundance of nooks, crannies and ground cover, all serving to limit visibility.

After seeing the area first hand, Nick was more convinced than ever that the other side possessed some sort of sophisticated personnel detection equipment. U.S. Special Forces were as good as any fighting men on earth. The odds against detecting a competent team in these surroundings must have been astronomical. The fact that they had been taken out in less than two minutes was close to a miracle. Unless the other side had help.

Nick had used infrared, light amplification, laser beams, ground scanning radar, and a host of other methods over the span of his career with the teams.

But most of those technologies were deployed around fixed fortifications with consistent power supplies and clear fields of observation. Other than thermal and NVDs, little else worked in the open field, especially in rough terrain like they were operating in now.

It all led back to camouflage and the art of deception.

In Afghanistan, he’d come across Taliban fighters carrying thick wool mats. At first, everyone thought they were sleeping mats or some particular type of prayer rug. A captured prisoner had spilled the beans – they were a desperate attempt to defeat NATO’s thermal imagers. An example of Islamic fundamentalist urban myth.

So how did the previous guys manage to get themselves caught, cornered, and overrun? None of it made any sense, but if things went well, he would soon learn the answer to those questions.  

The big man found his hide, the combination of a downed tree limb forming a natural lean-to against a granite boulder. Working quickly with the saw blade side of his machete, Nick trimmed numerous smaller branches from a nearby sapling and within a few minutes, had excellent concealment from all angles.

After verifying his handiwork, it was time to check on his team.

Only Kevin seemed to be struggling. Nick pointed to a small indentation in the earth, “Why don’t you lie prone and cover that little trench?”

“Because the last time I did that, the fire ants just about ate me alive. I want to be on rock or higher off the ground,” Kevin whispered.

Nick spotted another good spot a minute later, a small groove between two outcroppings of rock. “You can fit in there just fine. It gives you excellent fields of fire, and you can get out in a hurry if need be. Let’s cut some brush to stack in the opening, and then you can seal yourself in.”

Butter was good, Nick having trouble finding the big man’s hide. Grim, as expected for a man with his experience, had chosen an excellent position.

It was just an hour before daybreak when Nick settled back into his own makeshift hut, the operator taking a few minutes to drink and consume some nourishment. “Now the monotony kicks in,” he whispered to no one. “And Lord, I pray it stays that way.”

Hack awoke and went about his usual routine, making his tea and padding around the cabin until the fog of sleep cleared from his brain.

While he waited on his water to heat via microwaves, he had to admit that despite all of the danger and activity, it was easier to climb out of bed these days.

“You’ve got a sense of purpose again,” he told the bathroom mirror. “You’re important to other people. Life, once again, has meaning.”

Putting away his toothbrush, Hack reflected for a moment on his forced retirement. He’d never married, never had any interest in either sex. Airplanes, technology, and solving problems had been his love interest. When the powers that be at the Skunk Works had visited his office and informed him of the company’s policy regarding “age separation,” the engineer had thought it was a badly played joke.

Bitterness was hardly adequate to describe his feelings over the whole ordeal. There had been the typical parties, lunches, and all the other trimmings of an old man being sent out to pasture. He wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the uppity-ups had pulled a gold watch out of his pocket.

And then he’d sat in his small condo for days, waiting to be called back into his former life. He was sure some project would require his skills… positive some problem would arise that only he could solve.

Nearly three months passed before it dawned that the phone wasn’t going to ring. He spent the time drinking… at home… alone. The empty bottles of bourbon lined up on the kitchen counter were his scoreboard of misery. The hard liquor was winning.

He could still remember the day he’d looked in the mirror and said, “Solve your own problem, old man. Fix this, or you’ll simply drink yourself into the grave, and no one will know or care.”

He had money. He had time. Where did he want to go? What did he want to do?

One day he was walking to the liquor store to replenish his ever-dwindling supply. A poster in a travel store window caught his attention, the image displaying beautiful mountain scenery with emerald green foliage and smiling vacationers. “Come to the Land of Enchantment,” the text read.

Hack studied the ad for almost five minutes. Smaller images showed a Native American dance, skiing, hikers with backpacks, and the beautiful town of Santa Fe.

Everyone looked so happy. The countryside was appealing. The images weren’t anything at all like he’d seen the few times he’d been assigned to projects in New Mexico.

Three days later, he backed his seldom-used sedan out of the driveway, the backseat occupied with a couple of small overnight bags. He had cash, a full tank, a folding map from the gas station, and a heart full of adventure. It had saved his life.

Now, today, he was important again. People came to him to solve problems, and he was making a difference. Even the danger was thrilling.

His usual trip to the front porch produced no surprises. The Apache were there, looking up to acknowledge his presence with a nod. “Anyone want a cup of tea?” he asked, more from habit that any anticipation of anyone accepting his offer.

No one responded.

Shrugging his shoulders, the inventor decided to go and check on their prisoner. He’d been stalling the Cochiti, the families of the fallen still wanting revenge. “He may become a valuable asset if we have to negotiate,” he’d told the governor. “You never know the value of a hostage.”

He found Grissom lying on his cot in the storage shed… a vigilante Jicarilla nearby. “Good morning,” the toymaker greeted.

The sergeant only nodded an acknowledgement, the man understandably finding captivity less than agreeable. “How are you feeling?” Hack asked.

“I guess I’m okay… given the circumstances.”

Realizing there wasn’t going to be any meaningful conversation this morning, Hack turned to the guard. “Is he eating?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

Hack hung around for a moment, giving Grissom another chance to strike up a dialog. The sergeant merely closed his eyes, returning his head to the canvas surface of the cot.

Shrugging, Hack returned to the front porch and informed Apache Jack of the day’s agenda. “I want to visit the project this afternoon after I get some new aerial pictures. But first on our itinerary is a visit to the mine.”

Nodding his understanding, the tall warrior barked some orders to his comrades and then hurried to catch up with Hack.

“The Mescalero returned two metal hawks early this morning, Grandfather,” the bodyguard reported. “One crashed and has a cracked motor mount, the other’s camera isn’t working.”

Hack stopped mid-stride, a scowl crossing his face. “Damn it! I told them to take it easy. My creations are only toys, not industrial strength tools. How many is that in for repair now?”

“Six.”

Shaking his head, Hack continued toward what had originally been intended as the cabin’s garage. Since the collapse, Hack had taken to calling it the “hangar.”

Rolling up the door, he gazed in at a concrete floor now littered with drones, all in need of mending.

There was a variety of shapes and sizes present, the flyers scattered here and there, each with an attached sheet of paper describing its unique problem or failure.

“Have the Locusts delivered any more batteries lately?” Hack asked.

“Yes, they delivered a box of laptop computers while we were away in Los Alamos. Many of them looked like newer models.”

The news uplifted Hack’s mood, somewhat. Batteries were his largest single concern regarding his flying toys. They weren’t making them anymore.

As his drones had become a daily factor in the life of the tribes, Hack had soon realized that batteries were going to be a problem. The latest, greatest cells produced just before the collapse could be charged and discharged 500-700 times. But those were rare.

On average, the toymaker’s calculations predicted 400-500 cycles before the internal chemicals became tired and wouldn’t hold a charge.

With the Valley Green project, hunting parties, scouting missions for the Locusts, and the security of the Caldera area, they were running over 20 flights per day. At that rate, their tiny Air Force wasn’t going to last very long.

There was now an airport of sorts in every major pueblo around the Caldera. Hack had discovered that the local high school and college students were fast studies, many of the youth already adept at basic programming, computer usage, and other concepts required to utilize his inventions. They, with his tutelage, soon became competent pilots.

One of the primary uses was what the locals had started calling the “carrier pigeons,” an apt nickname for the mail and message delivery between the villages.

Without cell phones or landlines, communication had been nearly nonexistent between the tribes. The first use of a drone to request emergency services had been to save a pregnant woman during a difficult delivery. Trained medical personnel of all sorts, whether you were looking for a Medicine Man, western doctor, or nurse, were rare. Both mother and child had survived.

Once everyone figured out the power of Hack’s pigeon message service, a regular mail delivery of sorts had begun operations. Every morning, people would go to their pueblo’s airport with addressed envelopes or to see if any new correspondence had arrived. Sometimes it took a few days, but the message would eventually be routed to the proper place.     

Hack had spent countless weeks making new drones. With the Locusts delivering parts and components, he’d repurposed everything from lawn chair frames to tiny industrial motors. Circuit boards taken from cell phones, televisions, and even salvaged medical devices had been soldered in his workshop.

An electronics warehouse outside of Albuquerque had been a godsend. A radio repair shop in the suburbs of Taos a goldmine. 

But frames, motors, and computer chipsets weren’t the primary issue with keeping the drones airborne. Months ago, he’d listed batteries as the Locust’s top priority.

He could manufacture, tool, carve or weld practically any other component required, except the fuel cells. And in order to lift even the smallest amount of cargo, the tiny flyers needed the latest in electrical storage technology. The scavenging teams had happened onto a few good finds, but Hack was concerned it wasn’t enough. Laptop computer cells, home alarm systems, and even repurposed cells from cordless power tools had been implemented. Some of Hack’s hacks had worked well, others, not so well.

Cell phones had excellent cameras, accurate GPS units, and usable transmitters. Small appliances ran on brushless DC motors. Hack was proud of his accomplishments. The Locusts weren’t the only ones who could scavenge.

But batteries were still an issue, and at their current rate, Hack had estimated they would have to cut back on flights in less than six months. In a year, they would be grounded unless a new supply was discovered.

“I’ll solve that problem when we come to it,” he whispered, bypassing the bone yard and heading into the workshop to retrieve his latest, most sophisticated invention.

The Apache security detail watched with great interest as Hack returned a short time later, clad in a head-to-toe white suit. “He looks like an astronaut,” one of the Indians commented.

Raising the face-shield, Hack turned to Jack and said, “We’re off to the old mine. I need to work on those cases from Los Alamos.”

For the first time since they’d been protecting his property, Hack noted a bit of hesitation in the Apache’s demeanor.
He’s scared of radiation poisoning
, the toymaker thought.
Good… he should be
.

The suit was clumsy, and Grandfather needed help entering the golf cart. A few moments later, they were heading up the mountain.

Hack wasn’t really sure of the mine’s original purpose. The narrow tunnel was barely wide enough for two men to pass, cut into the solid rock at the base of a 30-foot wall. Given the lack of a rail line, the toymaker assumed it had been excavated by a small-time outfit, probably over a hundred years ago. A real estate agent had actually discovered the overgrown entrance while surveying the property for a listing.

“Could have been silver, maybe turquoise… there’s no way to know. Whatever they were after, I don’t think they found it,” the agent had reported.

The tunnel was only 30 feet deep, ending in a chamber no larger than Hack’s bedroom. It was the perfect place to develop a nuclear deterrent.

With the heavy protective suit, a box of Sieverts badges, and a pair of lead-lined gloves, Hack was taking every precaution. He’d even rigged a small water tank and nozzle in order to douse his clothing after working with the deadly substance.

As the Apache approached the entrance, Hack noticed the posted guards were keeping their distance. He didn’t blame them and was actually pleased his warnings were being heeded.

He entered the mine, carrying two large, battery powered lights salvaged from a Santa Fe office building. He found the protective cases for Los Alamos exactly where he’d left them, stacked neatly near the “spreaders” he’d fashioned in his machine shop.

Each of the cases contained nine pounds of Colbalt-60, shielded by three inches of layered tungsten polymers and lead. Hack had zero intention of opening any of the “caskets.”

The deadly substance was, according to the documentation captured in Los Alamos, in the form of a finely granulated powder. Colbalt-60 was a synthetic by-product of nuclear reactors, this particular batch having been processed in Canada.

The plan to weaponize the radioactive powder was simple. He would rig an altimeter with enough explosives to disintegrate the cases and scatter the contents. Carried aloft by the weather balloons, his makeshift detonators would ignite once they reached an extreme height. The resulting explosion would create a poisonous cloud in the upper atmosphere. By the time gravity pulled the gamma-ray emitting particles to earth, the prevailing winds would have distributed the substance across a wide swath.

Hack knew his plan was fraught with peril. The concentration, disbursement, and net effect of the contamination was subject to wind, humidity, soil conditions, and a host of other variables.

But like his Apache friends outside, he knew the average citizen was terrified of radiation. He hoped that fear would be enough to deter anyone from interfering with Valley Green.       

Wishing he had the time and resources to test his explosives and detonators, Hack proceeded to rig each case with a shape charge he hoped would be sufficient to achieve his goals. In reality, he was probably placing more homemade explosive on each “bomb” than what was required, but better safe than sorry.

It was nervous work.

Hack was certain the government cases offered sufficient precaution against any leakage, the captured Geiger counter reaffirming his faith. But, if one of his spreaders were to accidently explode, it might breach the shielding, and that would result in the entire mine being contaminated.

His work was further complicated by the thick gloves and hot, non-breathing suit, and the constant need to check his dosage badge.

Twice, Hack had to exit the mine, rushing to pull off the restrictive head gear and drinking in both air and water.

After four hours, it was done, the Nations of the Caldera joining the elite club of global nuclear powers. At least that was how the toymaker hoped his trinkets were perceived.