The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

'I'm going outside for a piss,' his companion said.
'Enjoy the fresh air,' Achmed observed.
Achmed slung his weapon and watched his friend go out the double doors. He'd
take a stroll soon himself, when it was time to check the perimeter security. He
was the senior man, and was responsible for the outside guards, in addition to
the security of the shop itself. It was worth it just to get out of the
controlled environment of the machine shop. This was no way for a man to live,
Achmed thought, stuck inside a sealed enclosure like a space station or
submarine. He craved an education, but not to be an office worker, sitting down
all the time and staring at papers. No, to be an engineer, the sort who built
roads and bridges, that was an ambition he might once have held. Perhaps his son
would be one, if he ever had the chance to marry and have a son. Something to
dream for. His dreams were more limited now. For this to end, to be able to set
his gun down, to have a real life, that was his primary dream.
But the Zionists had to die first.
Achmed stood alone in the room, bored to death. At least the outside guards
could look at the stars. Something to do, something to do . . .
The paint can sat there, inside the enclosure. It appeared to be ready for the
transfer. He'd watched the machinists do it often enough. What the hell. Achmed
removed the can from the air lock and walked it into the furnace room. They put
it inside the electric furnace, and . . . it was simple enough, and he was glad
to be able to do something different, maybe something helpful to whatever
project this was.
The can was light, might only have held air for all he could tell. Was it empty?
The top was held on with clamps, and . . . no, he decided. He'd just do what the
machinists did. Achmed walked to the furnace, opened the door, checked to see
that the power was off – this thing got hot, he knew. It melted metal! Next he
put on the thick rubber gloves they used and, forgetting to switch on the
argon-flooding system, loosened the clamps on the can. He rotated the can
backwards so that he could see what it looked like. He saw.
As he removed the top, the oxygen-laden air entered the can and attacked the
plutonium filaments, some of which reacted at once, essentially exploding in his
face. There was a flash, as though from a rifle primer, just a tiny puff of heat
and light, certainly nothing to endanger a man, he knew at once. Not even any
smoke that he noticed immediately, though he did sneeze once.
Despite that, Achmed was seized with terror. He'd done something he ought not to
have done. What would the Commander think of him? What might the Commander do to
him? He listened to the air-conditioning system, and thought he saw a puff of
thin smoke rising into the exhaust vent. That was good. The electric
dust-collector plates would take care of that. All he had to do . . .
Yes. He resealed the can and carried it back into the machine shop. His fellow
guard hadn't returned yet. Good. Achmed slid the can back where it had been and
made sure that things looked as they had looked a few minutes earlier. He lit
another cigarette to relax himself, vexed with himself that he was as yet unable
to quit the habit. It was starting to impede his running.
Achmed didn't know that he was already a corpse whose death had not yet been
registered, and that his cigarette might as easily have been the breath of life