either glycol dinitrate or a compound known as 2,3-dimethyl-2,3-dinitrobutane, or DMDNB, both of which were “slow-rate vaporizers” that were perfume to a sniffer’s nose.
Luckily for Shasif and the others, they needed only sixteen ounces of explosives for their purposes, so the piecemeal shipments had taken only a few weeks. From this pound of Semtex they had formed six shaped charges—five each of two ounces, and one of six ounces.
“I performed my last survey of the facility yesterday. As we’d hoped, the diversion berm and canal aren’t finished yet. If we do our job correctly, there will be nothing they can do to stop it.”
“How many gallons, do you think?” This from Ahmed.
“Hard to say. The line is fully functional, and the capacity is almost three-point-two billion gallons a year—almost nine million gallons a day. From there the calculations become complex. Suffice it to say, it will be enough for our purposes.”
“No change in the exfiltration plan?” asked Fa’ad.
Ibrahim looked hard at him. He lowered his voice. “No change. Do not forget, though: Live or die, we must succeed. Allah’s eyes are upon us. If He wills it, all of us or some of us will survive. Or not. Those concerns are secondary, is that understood?”
One by one, each man nodded.
Ibrahim checked his watch. “Seven hours. I’ll see you there.”
After the initial excitement of their first getaway weekend and the flush of lovemaking faded, she began distancing herself from him, staring out the window, declining his suggestion that they go out, allowing just the right amount of pout to her lips. . . . After thirty minutes of this, Steve asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Allison replied.
“It’s something. I can see it on your face. You’re doing that thing with your lip.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “Tell me.”
“It’s stupid. It’s nothing.”
“Allison, please. Have I done something wrong?”
This was the question she’d been waiting for. Kindhearted Steve. Wimpy Steve, so worried about losing her. “Sure you won’t laugh?”
“I promise.”
“I was talking to my sister Jan yesterday. She said she saw this documentary, something on the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, I think. It was all about the geology of—”
“Of where I work? Allison, I told you—”
“You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. Okay, go ahead.”
“She said a lot of scientists are against the whole thing. There are protests all the time. Legal stuff, trying to shut it down. They saw there are earthquake faults all around that area. And they were talking about the groundwater, if there’s a leak.”
“There’s not going to be any leaks.”
“But what if ?” Allison insisted.
“The slightest leak would be detected. They’ve got sensors everywhere. Besides, the water table is a thousand feet down.”
“But the soil—isn’t it soft or something? Permeable?”
“Yes, but there are redundant systems, levels upon levels, and the stuff will be sealed in casks. You should see these things, they’re like—”
“I’m worried about you. What if something happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Can’t you get another job? If you and I . . . I mean, if we keep going . . . I’d worry all the time.”
“Listen, right now it’s not even operational. Hell, we’re just now getting around to doing a mock delivery.”
“What’s that?”
“Just a simulation. A trial run. A truck comes in, we offload the cask. You know, check all the procedures to make sure everything’s working like it should.”
Allison sighed, folded her arms.
Steve said, “Hey, I’m not going to lie. I think it’s kinda cool you’re worried about me, but there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Really? Here, look at this.” Allison walked to the nightstand, grabbed her purse, and came back. She rummaged inside for a moment, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Jan e-mailed me this.” She handed it to him.
Though only an artist’s cutaway rendering, it was detailed enough to show the facility’s main level, two sublevels, and far below that, through layers of brown and gray “rock,” a blue horizontal stripe labeled “water table.”
“Where did she get this?” Steve asked.
“She Googled it.”
“Ally, there’s a lot more to the place than this . . . cartoon.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.” She got up, walked to the balcony window, and stared out.
“I didn’t mean that,” Steve said. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“So is Jan wrong? Are you telling me nobody at that place worries about this stuff?”
“Of course we do. It’s serious business. We all know that. The DOE has—”
“The what?”
“Department of Energy. It’s done years of research on this. Spent tens of millions just on feasibility studies