Duck Valley Reservation, Nevada
May 17
In the hills, about two miles east of Owyhee Road, a small team of technicians was busy at work. The double-wide trailer that served as their laboratory was adequate, but primitive. Still, they made do with lead shielding and down-draft chemical hoods—eight of them—that vented through the floor of the trailer. The hoods themselves were nothing more than five-sided rectangular boxes, with the sixth side, the front, a clear glass sash that could be raised or lowered.
The technicians stood before the chemical hoods. Their arms, clad in black elbow-length rubber gauntlets, were inserted into the boxes where they worked with corrosive acid. The heavy gloves, lined with a thin layer of lead foil, made even routine finger movements awkward and strenuous.
In half of the hoods, small piles of ceramic pellets were digested. As the acid did its chemical magic, noxious orange-brown fumes were given off, and these had to be ducted to the outside. Once the pellets were dissolved, the resulting solutions were then concentrated, and finally, evaporated to dryness in the other four hoods.
All but the front sash of each hood was wrapped in layers of lead sheet to contain the radiation. To protect the workers—who had to spend time in front of each hood—they were covered in lead-lined suits. Plus, their daily time in front of the hoods was limited to avoid the onset of radiation sickness. This requirement did not significantly limit productivity since the lab was outfitted with cameras for remote monitoring, and the dissolution process, as well as the drying process, proceeded with little in-person oversight from the technicians. The cameras were monitored from a second trailer nearby, which served as the living quarters.
Unbeknownst to the technicians, the radiation monitor each wore had been calibrated to give a false low reading. The job only required two days, insufficient time for the symptoms of radiation exposure to develop. And long-term effects would be of no concern.
After a full day of round-the-clock effort, the ceramic pellets were digested and dried to yield a colorless powder. In this form, the powder was soluble in water—an undesired property. The technicians further heated the powder in air until it decomposed. This process was also completed inside the down-draft chemical hoods. The result—a water insoluble material that was packaged in lead straws, each holding about a gram of radioactive strontium-90. The straws, each about twenty-centimeters long, were crimped at both ends and placed in grooves in graphite trays. A cover, also made of graphite, fit over the trays to secure everything in place.
Sacheen monitored the technician’s progress from the monitors in the second trailer. She’d been paying close attention to their work from the moment she’d delivered the fuel cannisters from the two thermoelectric generators that had been partially dismantled on the shore of Bathurst Inlet. Russia had deployed more than a thousand of the generators decades ago. Unsecured, now they littered the Arctic, leaving their deadly contents free for the taking.
After flying the de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver at tree-top level across the border, she’d made one clandestine fueling stop at a remote ranch, landing on a long and straight dirt road that led to a rustic barn. The owner of the ranch had made a nice profit for less than an hour of work pumping fuel into the Beaver, and for keeping his mouth shut.
Gassed up, she’d completed her flight, landing on a primitive dirt landing strip on the reservation. A simple metal structure served as a hangar for the aircraft as the precious, yet deadly, cargo had been offloaded for further processing.
The graphite containers were stacked next to other boxes, similar in appearance, but filled with lead straws containing cobalt-60 oxide. Another radioactive material, the source had been metallic rods of cobalt-60 used in medical imaging. Like the ceramic pellets, the cobalt rods were also dissolved in acid, and then converted to a water-insoluble powder suitable for aerial dispersion.
“The irony of this location hasn’t been lost on me.” She was sitting at the de facto kitchen table—a simple six-foot plastic folding table.
Across from her sat Leonard Cloud. Like Lewis Blackhawk, he was from the Shoshone tribe and had lived on the Duck Valley Reservation most of his life, having left only long enough to complete a college education at the University of Tulsa.
Leonard’s eyes were dark and clouded with anger.
“It was here,” he said, “on this reservation, that the family of my uncle was murdered by government agents. The date is forever burned in my mind. February twelfth, 1979.”
“Your uncle was a great leader and spokesman for the Movement, for our people,” Sacheen said.
“It came to him naturally. His passion as an outspoken activist in support of Indigenous-People’s rights is well-documented and serves to teach new generations. It is fitting that we are continuing the fight for respect and dignity for all tribes.”
She reached out and wrapped her hands around Leonard’s.
“The atrocities committed by the government against our people will never stop,” she said. “Not until we strike a devastating blow. One which the Washington politicians could only imagine in their darkest nightmares. The time for murdering our people, for treating our people like feral dogs, will come to an end. We will force them to recognize our sovereign nations and personal freedoms. Sacred lands which were illegally taken from our ancestors will be ours once again. Wealth, which was stolen from our forefathers, will be returned.”
“It is unfortunate that the Council elders do not approve of our methods.”
“They are fools,” she hissed.
“You shouldn’t let it upset you so. They are old men who can’t see the truth. Together, we will transform the Movement. Our vision is true. Tens of thousands of our brothers and sisters will follow our leadership. The time for patience is over, while the time for action is upon us.”
She rose from her chair and walked around the table, then sat on Leonard’s lap and cradled his face in her palms.
“It is our destiny to carry forward the fight that many of the great chiefs from generations ago had undertaken,” she said. “And we will be victorious.”
Leonard wrapped his arms around her to pull her closer, and kissed her passionately.
She pushed away. “Later, my wild buck.” She wore a coy smile. “The technicians will soon be finished.”
None of the workers lived on the reservation. They were all Caucasian and Hispanic, and had been recruited from a couple drug labs that operated in remote swaths of northern Nevada. They were all outlaws with criminal records for drug dealing and possession. They’d been working in meth labs—a dangerous job that required attention to detail, commitment to following directions to the letter, and the ability to synthesize dangerous chemicals while wearing personal protection gear. This typically comprised gauntlet-style neoprene gloves and a full-face respirator.
They’d eagerly accepted the temporary job Leonard offered at three times their normal compensation. Half was paid upon arrival at Leonard’s lab, and half was promised upon completion of the job.
Leonard sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” He patted her on the butt as she rose. “Besides, I have a trench to dig.”
s
As Leonard was walking to the backhoe, the door to the lab opened.
One of the technicians called out, “Hey, man. The job’s done.”
They no longer wore the bulky hazmat suits and gloves.
Leonard turned to face the worker, and pointed toward the other trailer.
“You can go inside and clean up, have some whiskey. Sacheen has the remainder of your pay.”
Sacheen heard the sound of the backhoe diesel engine firing up as the five technicians entered and sat around the table.
“We passed Leonard outside. He said you have our money.”
“Yeah. And whiskey,” another said.
“I’d settled for a night in the sac with you,” said a third, with lust-filled eyes.
“Settle down, boys.” She reached into a kitchen cabinet and tossed a cloth bank bag on the table.
Bundles of hundred-dollar bills spilled out. The five men all grabbed for it at the same time.
“Ten grand for each of you,” she said. “Just as Leonard promised. There are five bundles there. Each still has the currency strap applied at the bank. That’s ten thousand dollars per bundle. Count it if you like.”
“I believe I will. Not that I don’t trust you. But just to avoid any mistakes.”
“Knock yourself out.” She retrieved a bottle and five shot glasses from the cabinet, and placed them on the table. “Help yourself to a drink. You deserve it. You all did a good job.”
The technicians powered down two shots each, sharing trivial banter and occasional laughs, before taking a breather and returning to counting the cash. The smallest man at the table was the first to feel the effects. His arms, overcome by the force of gravity, fell to his side, the half-filled shot glass crashing to the floor.
“What the hell?” said another.
Then he, too, slumped in his chair. Soon, they all were immobilized. They were still breathing, and their eyes still moved about, communicating terror.
The diesel engine had quieted, and Leonard entered through the door. He paused, surveying the limp bodies surrounding the table.
“Shit. What did you give them?”
She smiled. “Conium. It’s an alkaloid extracted from hemlock. Works by paralysis.”
“You mean, these guys aren’t dead? They’re just paralyzed? I thought you were going to poison them.”
She nodded. “That’s what I did. Given enough time, the paralysis will stop their heart and respiration, but the skeletal muscles are affected first.”
“No kidding. And fast, too.”
“Yeah. I guess I did put a lot of the alkaloid in the whiskey. I wasn’t sure how much they would drink. As it turns out, they drank plenty.”
Leonard poked one of the men in the shoulder. Motionless, he stared back with listless eyes.
“Well, then, let’s get on with it,” Leonard said. “You take their feet, and I’ll grab their arms.”
One by one, he and Sacheen carried the paralyzed men out of the trailer, to the trench he’d just dug with the backhoe. Standing at the edge, they dropped the bodies in. Side by side, Sacheen and Leonard looked into the deep trench. The victims were still alive and breathing shallowly. Those who had come to rest on their back looked up in abject horror, knowing what was about to come.
“Say goodbye,” Leonard said to Sacheen, but also to the paralyzed men.
She waved. “Bye-bye.”
Leonard climbed into the seat of the backhoe and started the engine. A puff of sooty smoke belched from the exhaust before the engine settled into a throaty rumble. He moved the hydraulics control levers to scoop a bucket full of dirt, and dumped it over the bodies. He repeated the process over and over.
In five minutes, the trench was filled.