The Ecobombers

By Dennis R. Floyd

Truth is stranger than fiction. Recently a couple walking near their
home along the California coast found canisters of gold coins.
Imagine if someone were to find canisters of plutonium in their
backyard! Would they turn it into gold by selling it to countries now
spending billions to acquire nuclear weapons? Or might they deploy it
to further a political agenda? Would the American government finally
curb its environmental excesses to avoid a Nagasaki in Nebraska? This
action-packed novel explores these questions, taking the reader on a fastpaced
ride through the western half of the United States as authorities
desperately strive to prevent the most powerful weapon known to man
from being used on its innocent citizens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493182213

Dennis R. Floyd

Dennis Floyd’s passion for golf began as a caddy at the Denver Country Club. It continued throughout high school (Regis,) college (Colorado School of Mines,) and career (metallurgist, R&D manager, business founder,) and into retirement (writer.) His previous four books are in the fiction/historical fiction genres. This is his first foray into short stories. He currently resides in Wheat Ridge, Colorado and plays golf regularly at area courses.

Book preview

Prologue

When the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn appears

. . . Homer, the Odyssey

Las Vegas, Nevada, 4:15 p.m., Monday, April 21, 2014

Ding. Just as she was closing her briefcase in anticipation of cutting out a few minutes early to jump start a well-deserved long week on the beach in LA, a text message announced its unwelcome arrival on Caroline Murphy’s iPhone. Oh great, she thought, please, don’t let it be from McConnell.

She glanced at the screen and saw that her plea was denied. The TM was indeed from her boss, Mike McConnell, head of NEST. She knew this could well doom her plans. Murph, the message read, stop by my office before you leave today.

Shit, she said, audibly, but not quite loud enough for her teammate in the next cubical to have heard. So much for beating the traffic heading west on I-15, she muttered.

Caroline Murphy was a member of the Nuclear Emergency Search Team. NEST was established by President Ford in the 1970s during the height of the Cold War. Its founding mission was to locate and dismantle any rogue nuclear weapon that might somehow find its way into the continental United States. Ironically the need became even more urgent after the Cold War had ended, largely due to the recent rise of global terrorism.

Elite would not begin to describe the skill set NEST agents bring to bear on their mission. Not only do they have to maintain themselves in top physical conditioning, their scientific and technical training in nuclear materials and electronic control systems would qualify them for a Ph.D. in both of these disciplines if the training were provided by an academic institution rather than the U.S. Government.

Although Caroline had been with NEST for just over three years now, she was still the ‘rookie’ on the team, which meant that she drew more than her share of the crap assignments. She had the distinct feeling that McConnell was about to plop another one onto her lap.

What’s up chief? she asked in a cheerful tone upon entering McConnell’s office only a few moments after receiving the text. Her innate good nature easily overcame the dread that her plans might soon suffer a setback.

McConnell looked up from the folder he was reading, seemingly surprised that she had responded so quickly. Oh, Murph he said, closing the folder and leaning back in his chair. Thanks for stopping by. I’m really sorry about this, Murph, because I know you were planning a long week in LA, but something’s come up and you’re simply the best person to handle it.

Caroline suppressed the urge to blurt out one of the barnyard epithet’s that she had learned growing up as the only girl among five brothers on a ranch in western Colorado. It would certainly be descriptive of her true feelings. Instead she merely repeated her question, So what’s up?

I just got a call from Jim Harvey at DHS in Washington. He runs their Operations Directorate. He’s got some guy flying in this afternoon to check out a possible problem at the NTS. They need someone from our office to escort this fellow out to the site.

Caroline nodded her understanding. They worked closely with the Department of Homeland Security, so this came as no surprise. Also she was probably more familiar with the Nevada Test Site than anyone else on the team. That’s where NEST runs many of their training exercises and she was responsible for organizing them.

Not a problem, she said pleasantly, again suppressing her true feelings. "It goes with the territory. How am I supposed to link up with this person?

McConnell grabbed a ‘post-it’ note that he had stuck on the surface of his desk and handed it to Caroline. It’s all on here. His name’s Townsend and he will be staying at the Wynn Encore Tower. You are supposed to pick him up early tomorrow morning at the front entrance. He will be prominently displaying his DHS credentials so you can recognize him.

Caroline glanced at the note. Holy shit, she blurted, talk about zero dark hundred! It says here I have to pick him up at 0230.

"Yeah, I know, I’m really sorry about that. Apparently he needs to get to the far northern boundary of the site by zero five hundred. Do you think that will allow you enough time?

Oh, yeah, she responded, especially in the middle of the night like that. There won’t be any traffic unless you include the four-legged variety. But I wonder what the hell can’t wait until daylight. This sounds screwy.

Harvey was very hush-hush about the whole matter, didn’t want to talk about it over an open line, so I don’t really have a clue. Tell you what, why don’t you check out one of our new Hummer’s from the carpool so if you do encounter a deer or something you will have a decided advantage.

Thanks, Chief, I’d like that. It might even make the drive somewhat fun. Is there anything else?

Yeah, there is, and it seems a bit odd too. Harvey wants you to bring full-face R&R protection for both you and Townsend, plus some night vision goggles and binoculars for daytime reconnaissance.

Radiation and Respiration protection, Caroline parroted. I wonder what that’s all about. This really sounds strange, Chief, even for the DHS.

I agree, McConnell said dismissively, signaling that this discussion was over by returning his attention to the folder on his desk. Thanks, Murph, and be sure to give me a full report when you get back.

31228.png

As the Hummer bounced along the narrow, rutted dirt road, Townsend pulled back his shirt sleeve to glance at his wristwatch again. It was almost two hours before sunrise, which he knew would be at 6:12 a.m. today. He looked out the window to the east. There was no moon. It was darker than the proverbial well digger’s ass. The high beams of the Hummer illuminated a zone maybe 100 feet ahead and his driver was being appropriately cautious.

Steve Townsend had been with the Department of Homeland Security since its inception back in 2002. It was his first position after earning his PhD, in metallurgical engineering from MIT. His specialty was fissionable nuclear materials, notably uranium and plutonium. It was this expertise that had brought him to DHS in the first place. Now it brought him to this desolate region at the far northwestern corner of the former nuclear weapons test site on this cool April morning—that and the cryptic note that had arrived at DHS headquarters a week ago.

How much longer? he asked impatiently. Since Murphy had picked him up at Wynn’s a couple of hours ago they hadn’t engaged in much idle chitchat, which was fine with him. He wasn’t unfriendly by nature, but this line of work caused a lot of people to become tight-lipped.

Caroline took her eyes off the road long enough to scan the GPS screen on the dash before responding, I’d say no more than 30 minutes. We’ll be there before zero five hundred.

Townsend’s only response was a slight grunt. He looked in the passenger-side mirror and saw the plume of dust rising behind the Hummer. It was made visible by reflecting the vehicle’s tail lights. As he did so he thought, not for the first time, about how crazy this exercise was.

This is nuts, you know, he finally said, exhaling deeply to emphasize his exasperation. I haven’t been up this early since Boy Scout camp. And it’ll turn out to be nothing but a wild goose chase. I can’t believe they’re making us do this.

What, exactly, is it that they are making us do? Caroline asked, sensing an opening.

Townsend remained silent, trying to think of a politic response. Finally he said, Well, actually, I’m really not supposed to divulge much information about it, you know.

This attitude irked Caroline. As I’m sure you are aware, she began somewhat testily, all NEST team members hold both Top Secret military and DOE Q clearances. I think you can rest assured that I know how to protect sensitive information.

I understand, Townsend responded apologetically, sensing her irritation. I hold the same clearances that you do, so I know the hoops you have to go through to be cleared for classified and sensitive information. It’s just that the security types are always preaching about compartmentalization and ‘need to know,’ and all that crap. But, what the hell, you were nice enough to pick me up in the middle of the night and accompany me on this pain-in-the-ass exercise so I think you probably deserve to know a little about what we are doing.

You won’t get any argument from me there, Caroline concurred.

About a week ago, Townsend began, "a note mysteriously appeared in the Secretary’s office. It had been hand-delivered by an unknown party and placed in the ‘in-box’ on her executive assistant’s desk. The note was sealed in a plain manila envelope which had the Latin phrase ‘bona fides’ printed on the outside. ‘Good Faith,’ he chuckled, that’s a joke. There was nothing ‘good’ contained in the message, and the fact that I’m out here in the desert seeking ‘proof’ of its outrageous claims means there was not much ‘faith’ involved either."

Townsend seemed to pause in his tale, so Caroline prompted, So, just what were those outrageous claims?

Well, he continued, For one thing the note claimed that there would be two sunrises in Nevada on Earth Day. Then it listed the GPS coordinates we are now headed toward, and said we should be there by 5:00 a.m. if we want to witness the first one.

And do you think this is a credible threat of a nuclear detonation? Caroline asked guardedly.

In a word, no, he said, shaking his head. We probably get a hundred similar threats a year and ninety-nine of them are clearly bogus. However this is the rare one that was deemed worthy of further checking. In part this is because it was delivered by someone with access to the fourth floor at DHS HQ, which is not easy to carry off. And another thing, the note didn’t make any specific demands, which is very unusual. It perfunctorily stated that a demonstration was deemed necessary to establish the group’s credibility so we would take seriously requests that would follow. Our behavioral analysts seem certain it is a ‘he,’ by the way. The note concluded by describing when and where the demonstration would occur and it was signed ‘The Ecobombers.’ The powers-that-be thought I should come out here and check it out. Because of the possible nuclear connection, they also asked that I get NEST to accompany me, so here we are. Like I said before, it’s probably just a wild goose chase.

Better safe than sorry, Caroline responded halfheartedly. Besides you will get to enjoy a beautiful Nevada sunrise. Not too many visitors to our fine State get that experience. When dawn breaks most of them are either still deep in slumber or holed up in some casino trying to recoup their losses.

Just then the Hummer hit an unseen deep rut that ran across the road, propelling both the vehicle and its two occupants skyward. Whoa, baby Caroline exclaimed as she sought to control the vehicle, sorry about that, pardner. I’m probably driving a bit too fast for the poor light but I don’t want to be late for the show.

Right, Townsend responded in a drawn-out manner. What do you say we just try to get there in one piece? There is no point in giving the looney who wrote the note the satisfaction of thinking it led to someone getting injured, especially if that someone is me.

Caroline scowled at him briefly for the reproach.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. The final half mile was mostly a winding path that snaked upward a couple of hundred feet to the top of a large, east-west oriented mesa. Although the plowed road came to an end once they reached the top, the plateau was so flat and barren that they had no trouble driving directly toward the spot on the eastern rim that was designated by the GPS coordinates. Townsend grew nervous as they closed in on the rim at a good clip. Suddenly Caroline pulled a sharp left and jammed on the brakes, bringing the Hummer to a skidding stop.

As the Hummer’s dust plume passed over the vehicle, Steve again checked his watch, studiously avoiding any hint that he had been worried. It’s 4:50 a.m., he said, returning to a friendlier tone, We made it! Good work, Caroline. Where do you think we should position ourselves?

She took a moment before answering, scanning the view through the windows on the right side of the Hummer while apparently contemplating her response. As you can see, she finally said, pointing over his shoulder to the east, we have an expansive view of the desert floor from north to south here. While I agree with you that it is unlikely that we will see anything more than a beautiful sunrise, I still favor positioning ourselves behind the hood of the Hummer just in case. In that way, if there were to be a nuclear blast, our bodies would be somewhat protected from the radiation pulse by the mass of the engine. Also, she paused while reaching through the gap between the bucket seats and into the back to retrieve a bulky canvas duffle bag that she had stashed there earlier, in an abundance of caution your boss asked mine to equip us with these R&R face masks.

She placed the bag on her lap, unzipped it and pulled out one of the masks, handing it to Townsend so he could examine it. Then she grabbed her own mask and gently tapped the hard, flat glass faceplate with her knuckles, saying, not only do these babies have a radiation-proof faceplate, but they also sport an ‘absolute’ filter here under the chin. She held the face mask by the canister that protruded from its chin area. It will protect us from any airborne radioactive particles that may appear. And, for the coup de grâce, each mask has a small digital video camera mounted on top of it so that anything we see or do will be captured for posterity.

Wow, anything we do. I’d better get those racy thoughts out of my mind right now.

Murphy laughed, thinking, ‘This guy isn’t as square as I thought, and now that I can see him better, he’s not that bad looking either.’

Townsend rotated the mask around and examined it closely. Wow, he said appreciatively, this really is a nice piece of gear, but it does seem to be a bit of overkill.

Caroline ignored the comment, opened her door and stepped outside the vehicle and into the darkness. Let me show you the proper way to wear this thing, she said, cocking her head to suggest that Townsend get out and move around to her side of the vehicle.

He complied, placing his hand on the warm hood of the Hummer to avoid tripping in the near total darkness as he worked his way around the front of the vehicle and drew alongside Murphy. When he arrived she palmed the mask in preparation to pushing it against her face. With her free hand she pushed her long blonde hair away from her face so it would not prevent a good seal from forming between the rubber gasket of the mask and the adipose tissue of her facial skin. She pressed the mask against her face and reached behind her head with her other hand, pulling the rubber straps up over the top of her head and securing them tightly behind her head. Finally, placing a hand on either side of the mask, she pulled it away from her face slightly, reseated it, and then exhaled sharply into the mask. The breath increased the pressure inside the mask and forced a check valve at the bottom of the filter to open, expelling the excess air. It was a standard procedure designed to make sure the seal held solidly against her entire face. It worked perfectly.

See if you can repeat that, Caroline ordered, her voice muted as it emerged from within her mask.

He was not really sure why, but for some reason Townsend felt a desire to impress Caroline even in a small matter like fitting a respirator. Having worked in the nuclear field for the past ten years, he was not unfamiliar with respirators, including those with full-face masks like this one, so he had it on and seal-checked in no time. Ready, he said somewhat smugly.

Caroline chose to ignore his feat. She simply returned to the duffle bag sitting on the driver’s seat and removed two pairs of binoculars. These are designed to seal against the flat surface of the face mask, she explained as she handed one to Townsend. Just press the suction cups against the glass and rotate the center knob to focus.

He tried this, looking back in the direction they had driven to see if he could focus on a tire track in the darkness. It’s too hard to see well in the dark, he observed, but I think this will work nicely once we get a little sunlight.

Not to worry, Caroline said, reaching into the duffle bag again and retrieving the night vision goggles. These will help us see in the dark. However for now I recommend we just wear our R&R masks while we observe whether anything happens at zero-five-hundred.

I agree, Steve responded as he hung the strap around his neck and let the binoculars dangle on his chest. By the way, do you think it’s even remotely possible that someone could have smuggled a nuclear device out here?

Remote is the operative word, Caroline responded. This area of the site is seldom visited. I would say it would be about as difficult as smuggling a note into the DHS Secretary’s in-box. It would take an insider, but it could be done, no question.

Townsend pondered this response but said nothing. Instead he positioned himself alongside Caroline and behind the hood of the Hummer. He placed his elbows on the flat surface of the hood before taking another look at the luminous dial on his watch. One minute to five, he pronounced as Caroline laid her binoculars on the hood

I’m halfway excited, she admitted. Should we start a countdown?

Townsend laughed. Sure, what the hell, he said. It’s probably the only excitement we’re going to get out of this exercise. Tell you what, he continued, elevating and rotating his arm to reveal the face of his wristwatch to her. This baby is timed to the second with the cesium clock in Boulder and its second hand is luminous. I will raise my hand when it reaches ten seconds before five AM, and you can begin the countdown then.

You’ve got a deal, Caroline smiled, although Townsend couldn’t see far enough into her facemask to see her smiling as she gazed off to the east. It’s still pretty damn dark out there with another hour before sunrise. I’m not sure where to look.

Don’t worry, Townsend responded grimly. If a nuke goes off it won’t matter where we are looking.

Steve began staring intently at his watch. After a short pause he raised his hand and said, Now.

Ten, nine, eight, Caroline dutifully began the countdown as loudly as she could to offset the muffling effect of her face mask, . . . three, two, one, zero . . . Holy Shit!

No sooner had Caroline uttered the word ‘zero’ than the entire desert floor below them burst into view just as if it were high noon in July. Immediately her eyes were drawn to a region about thirty degrees south of due east that seemed to be the origin of the blast. She placed her binoculars to her facemask as an immense fireball began roiling upward. She marveled inwardly as its color changed from white to yellow to red over a period of only a second or two.

Townsend was also speechless. Inside the mask his mouth was agape and his eyes wide as he observed the surreal scene unfolding before them. Atmospheric nuclear tests had ended fifty years ago, so he had seen only old movies of them, but that was enough to make this scene seem eerily familiar. Then he suddenly noticed a ground wave moving toward them along the desert floor at a seemingly very high rate of speed. The wave left wisps of dust rising in the air as it rapidly passed over small ridges and undulations in the ground. Look at that, he shouted, pointing toward the oncoming wave.

Caroline removed her binoculars and looked in the direction Steve was pointing. She knew from her training what this meant. Brace yourself, she hollered, that sucker will be here in no time.

She had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when they felt the Hummer start to roll and shake and the ground beneath their feet roil slightly. They could also hear a rumble from the ground as the shockwave passed, traveling faster on the surface due to the higher conductivity of ground than air. Shortly thereafter the air shock intruded with a terrifying roar. Get behind the vehicle, Caroline shouted. The blast wave will hit next.

They both squatted behind the engine and none too soon. The pulse of the blast wave slammed into the side of the Hummer, raising it onto two wheels and then dropping the heavy vehicle back to the ground. Steve and Caroline quickly glanced at each other and were pleased to see that neither appeared hurt. Tentatively they rose again and looked off to the southeast. The bright color of the fireball had turned nearly dark, but they could still make out the debris field that was rising in the distance, assuming the infamous ‘mushroom cloud’ shape.

Townsend looked at Caroline with a combination of shock and concern. He shook his head slowly back and forth. Finally he said, I’d better call Washington.

What are you going to tell them? she asked.

That the Ecobombers have established their bona fides, he said somberly.

Chapter 1

Rocky Flats, Colorado, July, 1956

MUF, Angelo said quizzically. What the hell is MUF?

"Material Unaccounted For, you stupid paisano,’ Dominic responded. Only another Italian could get away with tagging Angelo with a racial slur.

Okay, okay, Angelo said, I get it, material unaccounted for. But what does that really mean, Dom? What material? What’s unaccounted for?

The two friends were sitting alone in the cafeteria of Building 71, taking their morning break later than the rest of the crew because they had to decontaminate a ‘spill’ before the crew leader would let them leave the ‘zone.’ Some asshole hadn’t checked his hands when he removed them from the lead-lined gloves in one of the chemical-processing glove box lines. Of course the jerk’s hands had been ‘hot’ with radioactive contamination, probably because of a pinhole perforation that sometimes formed in one of the gloves, and the idiot had left a trail of contamination on everything he touched. He was up in medical now, getting the wire brush decontamination scrub—an appropriate punishment for his negligence. His skin would be brushed until it bled to remove any plutonium on his body. They took this crap seriously.

I know you are new on the job, cousin, Dominic began patiently explaining, but I thought someone would have told you about MUF before. Why do you think we shut down production at the end of each month for inventory?

Of course I know about that, Dom, Angelo said defensively, it’s to count up all the plutonium so they know how much there is and where it is.

Right, Dom approved. I hear that shit costs about $50,000 a gram, or some astronomical figure like that, so they can’t afford to lose any of it. They collect every scrap of paper, anything that has been in contact with the plutonium and chemically process it to retrieve even the slightest amount of plut, so virtually none of it is ever lost or wasted.

And Angie, Dominic continued, that’s where MUF comes in. It’s kind of a fudge factor. Each month, after we get done counting all the plutonium in the lines and in storage vaults and so forth we end up with a grand total. That total needs to jibe with the total from the previous month. If it doesn’t we have to repeat the inventory. But it can never be dead nuts exactly the same number, there’s always a little difference. So that’s what MUF is. It’s the difference between what we should have and what we can actually account for. A lot of plutonium gets hung up in the plumbing and ventilation ducts and that kind of shit. If we didn’t have some allowance for that we would never get production restarted.

I think I understand, Angelo said. It makes sense, I guess. So how much MUF is there each month anyway?

Well that’s a big secret, you know, Dominic responded. It can’t be much or we’d get in trouble with the high muckety-mucks at the Atomic Energy Commission. My guess is that it’s only a few grams or so, but no one really knows.

Huh, Angelo said. He then fell quiet, kind of withdrawing into himself like he often did.

Dominic observed his friend for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to get another cup of coffee from the giant urn on the counter. ‘Weirdo,’ he said to himself and then promptly forgot the conversation.

But Angelo didn’t.

When he returned to his work station—the foundry, where plutonium tetrafluoride is reacted with calcium to produce plutonium metal buttons which are subsequently melted and cast into small ingots—Angelo kept thinking, ‘$50,000 for a single gram, that blows my mind! And they probably lose a lot more than a gram in the inventory each month. I wonder, if a tad bit more were to disappear, would they even notice it?’

As he was thinking this he experienced one of those rare moments in life when fantasy collides with opportunity. His task today was to retrieve, clean, and weigh a newly produced plutonium button. To Angelo, the term ‘button’ was a bit misleading. He thought they actually looked more like a small cow pie, one that would fit nicely in the palm of your gloved hand. They were about four-inches in diameter and an inch or so thick and had a flat upper surface and a rounded bottom owing to the shape of the reaction vessel in which they were produced.

He inserted his arms all the way into a pair of the arm’s-length, lead-lined rubber gloves that were attached to portals in the foundry’s glove box lines. He used his gloved fingers to grab the hollow graphite cylinder that was used for the exothermic reaction that produced the button. It was cool enough now to safely hold it without burning the glove. The button would be at the closed bottom-end of the vessel, so he turned it upside down and knocked on its side with a hard rubber mallet until the contents dropped with a thud onto the waist-high stainless steel floor of the glove box line. Angelo steadied the plutonium button with his gloved left hand and used his right to bang repeatedly on the calcium fluoride plug that still adhered to the button. The plug was a by-product of the chemical reaction that produced the pure plutonium metal and it always stuck lightly to the flat, top surface of the button. The plug finally broke loose and Angelo now held the palm-sized plutonium button up close to the Plexiglas window that was situated between his glove portals. He flipped it back and forth so he could examine the surfaces. The bottom surface was relatively smooth; but the flat surface that had been in contact with the calcium fluoride plug was somewhat pockmarked. ‘Hmm,’ Angelo mused, ‘I wonder what causes those pockmarks.’ He set the button on the floor of the glove box and picked up the calcium fluoride plug that he had just knocked off. He held it up close to the window so he could examine it more carefully than he normally would. Sure enough, there were a few tiny plutonium metal nodules! They were still stuck in the button surface of the plug and their positions corresponded exactly to the positions of the pockmarks in the plutonium button. These ‘pock beads’ would surely be recovered when the plug was sent to recycling, but just now they gave Angelo an idea.

He placed the plug on the stainless steel floor of the glove box and began banging it hard with his mallet. The brittle calcium fluoride soon broke into several small pieces that spread along the stainless steel floor. Angelo brushed those pieces aside with his gloved hand and eureka! There on the floor of the glove box he could see a few tiny plutonium nodules scattered about among the debris. He nervously looked around the room and noted that no one else was presently working in this particular glove box so no one had observed what he was doing. He opened the door of a small cabinet that was mounted to the inside of the glove box directly across from where he was working. He knew the cabinet contained a bunch of small plastic vials, each about the size and shape of a 35-mm film canister. These vials were normally used to hold samples that would be transferred to the chemical laboratory for analysis. There were dozens of these vials and because they were still unmarked they were not inventoried, so Angelo knew that no one would notice if one of them was missing. With no more forethought he grabbed a vial, unscrewed the top, and tilted the vial so he could use the flat tip of a small screwdriver to poke four of the tiny plutonium beads into it. The beads varied in size and shape and resembled a pea or a piece of corn. Angelo screwed the top back onto the vial and held it to the window, shaking it as if to prove that it really did contain the plutonium metal beads.

Now Angelo faced a real dilemma. ‘So what do I do with this vial?’ he asked himself. ‘It’s too risky to remove it from the line right now because someone might come by and wonder what the hell I was doing.’ Then he again noticed the many other vials still remaining in the cabinet. ‘I know, I’ll hide it in plain sight! I can just hide it in the back of the cabinet and wait until the next inventory to see if anyone notices the plutonium is missing. If they do I can sprinkle the beads back onto the floor of the glove box and act like someone did a poor job of cleaning. It will simply be found during the second inventory count. But if they do not notice this slight amount is missing, then I will an idea about how large the tolerable MUF number is. If someone happens upon the vial before the inventory they will most likely just dump the contents into the glove box trash without so much as a second thought.’

So that is just what Angelo did! And the end-of-the-month inventory came and went without comment. So he repeated the pilfering next month, although this time from two plutonium buttons, placing eight more beads in the original vial. Another month-end inventory again resulted