Unlike the Class C suits they had worn at Busetta that used gas masks to filter the outside air, these suits were Class A, which meant that they were vaporproof right down to their special seam-sealing zippers, two-ply chemical-resistant nitrile gloves, and supplied-air respirator with escape cylinder. Each man breathed from an oxygen tank strapped inside his suit.
The hiss of Crocker’s breath through the respirator and the crinkly roar produced by every movement of the thick plastic material drowned out all other sound. The suit was so bulky that Crocker couldn’t see his feet. And it was hot.
Holding a high-powered flashlight, Jabril led them inside one of two high tunnels that had been carved into the mountain. At one end was a twenty-by-twenty-foot chamber stacked to the ceiling with narrow five-foot-long aluminum cylinders.
“Mustard gas,” he said through the two-way radio built into his suit.
“Which ones?” Crocker asked.
The scientist pointed a purple glove to his right.
“And that’s sarin over here,” he said pointing to the cylinders to his left.
“That’s a whole lot of destructive power.”
“Serious stuff.”
“The sarin degrades quickly. But the mustard gas might still be lethal.”
“Even ten years later?”
“It’s possible.”
“I feel like I’m about to faint,” Lasher shouted through the radio. Mancini helped him out of the tunnel. The others followed.
Outside, Lasher removed his hood to reveal a head and face covered with sweat. After chugging a bottle of water, he said, “We’ve got to secure this place immediately. If the wrong people get their hands on this, the NTC could be fucked.”
“They’re fucked already,” Ritchie mumbled.
Davis: “The sat-phone’s in the vehicle.”
Lasher held up a hand. “Wait…”
Once he caught his breath, he explained that the United States had known about the chemical weapons stored here for years, but the Department of Defense had refused to allocate the $100 million it would cost to clean up the site and dispose of them.
“Why?” Ritchie asked.
“Politics. DOD wanted Congress to pass a special provision. The House held hearings back in 2007, but never allocated the funding.”
Akil: “I hope someone’s willing to spend the money now.”
Ritchie: “Either that or we bury the whole fucking thing under the mountain. I can rig up a bomb with the extra can of gasoline attached to the back of the van.”
Crocker: “Not yet.”
When they’d rehydrated and cooled down as best they could, Crocker and Mancini accompanied Jabril for one last look around the tunnel. Sand gophers and lizards scurried about in the dark. When Mancini switched on the handheld digital Geiger counter, it went berserk, whining and flashing.
“Hey, boss!”
“Is it working correctly?”
Jabril said through the radio, “Let me see that machine.”
The device squealed even louder when he approached the chamber at the far end. In the cone of light Crocker saw a dozen green canisters—each one the width and half the length of a coffin—propped against the rear wall.
Jabril handed the flashlight and Geiger counter to Mancini and started to unfasten the metal clasps along the side of one of them.
“Is that safe?” Crocker asked.
“Probably not.”
The scientist pulled back the lid and pointed to where he wanted Mancini to shine the light. Embedded inside the canister were four dozen glass ampoules filled with white and silver crystals.
“What’s that?” Crocker asked.
“I believe it’s uranium hexafluoride,” Jabril said.
“UF6?”
“Yes.”
Crocker knew that UF6 was a compound needed to enrich uranium. It was hard to make and carefully monitored by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA).
He tried to locate Mancini’s eyes through the plastic mask but it was completely fogged up.
“You okay in there?” Crocker asked.
“Yeah. You need UF6 to make a nuclear weapon,” Mancini shouted into his radio.
“I know. I know. Lower the fucking volume.”
“Sorry. What do we do now?”
Crocker said, “Let’s seal it back up and carry it out of here.”
“Why?”
“Just do it. I’ll explain outside.”
The two SEALs lugged the canister under their arms, set it down near the entrance, then went back to help Jabril, who seemed to be struggling. Once outside they helped him take off his hood and saw that the scientist’s face was deep red.
“It’s my heart.”
“Sit down, breathe deeply,” Crocker said, unbuttoning the top of the Libyan’s shirt and checking his pulse. “I’ll get you some water.”