Nuke

by Dave Eberhart

Copyright ©2004
ISBN: 0-87714-908-9 eBook edition
ISBN: 0-87714-319-6 PB edition

All rights reserved by Denlinger's Publishers, including the right to reproduce this electronic book, or portions thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

THE AUTHOR

A native of Washington, DC, Dave Eberhart earned a Journalism degree from the American University. Before getting underway in a writing career, however, he elected to serve as an officer in the United States Marine Corps.

After three years as a line officer, he was selected for the Funded Excess Leave Law Program, graduating from the University of San Diego School of Law.

Following a career as a trial lawyer, both in and out of the military, Mr. Eberhart returned to writing, and during a five year expatriate period penned five novels while repeating the travels of author F. Scott Fitzgerald through Europe.

After a stint as an editor with APB News in New York City, he became the veterans' affairs editor and later the news editor of the domestic edition Stars and Stripes, the nation's oldest military newspaper.

Presently, he is a writer and editor for NewsMax.com magazine and Web site.

THE BOOK

Forensic doctors and FBI agents follow the clues of what they think is a serial murderer, unwittingly uncovering a fantastic terrorist plot to blast nuclear waste over a third of the continental United States — using a crude atomic bomb.

An Excerpt From "Nuke"

Doctor Richard Powers blinked his lids over the yellow orbs of his eyes and shuddered the length of his grotesquely swollen body. Two hours before, his medical torturers had drawn fluids from his chest. In a couple of hours, the vultures would return to debride the shreds of black flesh from his back, arms, and legs. Powers prayed that, before then, he would die.

The bullet, which had smashed into his thigh with the force of a hard-swung baseball bat, had missed the bone and the artery. While the wound had still been numb, he was able to get up and limp away from the station wagon. But after a couple of hundred yards, the tree stump that was his leg had come back to life, and each tottering step burned the wound as if a red-hot poker probed deeply in his flesh. After half a mile, the pain had dropped him gasping to his hands and knees. Even then he had fought through the pain and limped on, endeavoring to preserve his miserable life.

He wished to God and heaven that he had not retreated like a half-crushed insect from the station wagon. He should have lain where he had first fallen and allowed the bomb to blast his old, broken body into atoms —to climb high into the sky with the fire and ashes.

The morphine could not insulate him from the searing pain, and his back arched off the bed in another quivering spasm. As a doctor, he drew comfort from the knowledge that his body was on the verge of shock and would soon snatch him from this hell.

The nurse who sat by the cluster of hanging bottles and black boxes near his bed was startled by the cries which escaped from his raw, burned mouth. She stood and looked down at him.

Powers saw the compassion in her eyes. She was a young woman and pretty. He knew that she was debating whether to call the doctors. The softness in her eyes reminded him of her, those many years ago. And he thought about the boy, his legacy to the world —his poor, pathetic son.

The phone on the wall buzzed softly, and the pretty nurse lifted it off the hook. "Yes, doctor, I understand. I'll use my discretion. No more than ten minutes."

A face appeared at the small window in the door.

"Come in, gentlemen," the nurse said after opening the door. "He's awake. Don't be long, and don't upset him."

Stryker and Doherty approached Powers. He tracked them with his yellow eyes. As he drew near the bed, Stryker smelled the corruption of the burns —the stench of chicken parts after a day in the garbage. Bile rose in his gorge. For an awful moment, he thought he was going to spew in the stainless steel sink against the wall.

Doherty looked grim as he stood at Stryker's side.

"Doctor, we need to ask you some questions," Stryker said, feeling totally awkward, wishing that he had allowed Doherty, the veteran investigator, to handle the interrogation.

Powers made no response.

"Can you tell us how much weapons-grade stuff you gave to Hensley?"

Powers furrowed the raw meat at his brow.

"He's in a great deal of pain," the nurse explained. "His throat is swollen, and it is difficult for him to talk."

Powers had his eyes on his nurse when she spoke. He looked back at Stryker and motioned with a feeble gesture that he should bend closer. Stryker dropped to his knees beside the bed.

"Where is the boy?" Powers asked in a raspy whisper.

"The boy? I don't know …"

"The one you arrested for the murders."

"He's here in Lexington awaiting trial. Can you tell me something about the bodies?"

"The boy was defending himself and me against that horrible man —the man who came to the house. I'm sure Fielding sent him."

"Henry Fielding?"

"Yes."

"What dealings did you have with Fielding?"

"That's not important now. The boy is innocent. I am responsible for all those deaths."

"All of them?"

"Yes. You must see that the boy is cared for. There is money, my money … saved." Powers bridged his back in a powerful arching spasm. A yellow froth leaked from the corner of his mouth. He blew out a rush of rancid breath and spittle. Stryker recoiled.

The nurse raced around the foot of the bed and pushed Stryker away. "Please leave him," she said.

Powers seemed to focus his eyes on the nurse. A crooked smile wrinkled his ruined mouth. Then he closed his eyes.

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