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him？ Was she more than his mistress？ Was it she who had planned the theft？
“Sir。 The phone；” said the sailor； holding out the receiver。 He looked nervously at Finn； then
backed away so that he could not overhear what was said。
Finn took the phone。 He dialed the number on the slip of paper。 He identified himself and
listened to random clicks as contacts closed and relays opened。 He guessed who he would be
talking to even before he heard Groves’ voice。
“What the hell happened？” said Finn。 “Do you know anything beyond what was in the
message？”
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“Empty canister in the Delta warehouse；” said Groves。 “One dead sailor on the floor beside the
can。”
“Just one？ How many guards were there？”
“One！” exploded Groves。 “Hunter’s Point is a fucking military Base！ Why the hell should I
assign a platoon of guards on a military base！ All that would do is call attention to what should
have been the biggest fucking secret since the date of the Second Coming！”
Finn understood Groves’ logic – and its flaw： setting the canister in the middle of a bunch of
soldiers was not the same as having the can guarded by a bunch of soldiers。 The average soldier
could not be presumed to guard his own ass unless he was given a direct order。 A gun soldier
knew that。 A desk soldier did not。 But pointing out that fact to Groves would not put the
uranium back in the can。 Or end the war。 Two million dead children falling。
“Any other details？” said Finn； his voice hoarse。
“That’s all that goddamn Admiral Purnell could tell me。”
“That’s a lot。”
“I don’t need sarcasm from an insubordinate gun soldier！”
“Not sarcasm；” said Finn。 “If they got in and out and only killed one man； then it stinks of an
inside job。 Somebody knew where to find the can； and how to get on and off base without being
noticed。”
“But the Navy didn’t know what was in the can！”
“Other than you and the guards who accompanied the shipment； who knew when the uranium
would arrive； where it would be stored and how it was guarded？”
“No one；” began Groves； then stopped。 “The Lawrence Radiation Lab。 They checked the can at
midnight； but they were briefed about it earlier。 Scientists；” said Groves in a choked voice。
“God save us all from sob…sister scientists！”
“I doubt that they stole the uranium。”
“Why？”
“Crying about war and loving your fellow man is one thing。 Murder is another。 None of your
scientists is naive enough to mistake treason for legitimate protest。”
“Then who did it？ The Japs？ Did we tell Kestrel too much？”
“I’m betting on the Russians。 Have your men check all the phone calls they can from New
Mexico to San Francisco in the last forty…eight hours。 It may give them a lead。 Rerun all the
security checks in Los Alamos and at the Lawrence lab。 Put somebody to work on a list of
people who knew about the shipment。 I hope it isn’t a long one。”
“You’re at the top of it。 Who gets the job of checking you out？”
“General； if I stole it； you’re up shit creek without a paddle。”
Groves’ silence was agreement。 He sighed。 “I told the Navy you’re in charge of the investigation；
with powers second only to God and the President。 I told the FBI； too。 They didn’t like it either。
Their local agent in charge is named William Coughlan。 Hoover has assured me Coughlan will
cooperate。”
“If Coughlan doesn’t cooperate； I’ll hammer him flat；” said Finn。
“Do what you have to。 The President only gave us two days。”
“What？ But the bombs won’t be dropped for weeks！”
“He doesn’t have any choice。 If we’re going to invade； he has to set the machinery in motion。
There’s more to an invasion than guns and soldiers – once you’ve gotten the ball rolling； you
can’t stop it short of Japan。 You have until 0530； July 18th。 That’s Mountain War Time。”
“Two days；” said Finn bitterly。 “Even God needed six。”
“God wasn’t fighting the Japanese。”
Hunters Point； California
2 Hours 50 Minutes After Trinity
The Shore Patrol guard wore dress blues； white gaiters； and a pistol belt。 He saluted the Office
Page 63
of Naval Intelligence license tags on Finn’s Ford coupe。 Finn flipped open his new credentials
and handed them out the window。
“We were told to expect you；” said the guard； returning the credentials with another salute。
Finn silently wished that nothing had been said about his arrival。 Now； everyone would be
covering his ass as fast as possible。 He glanced at the other Navy ratings in the guard booth。
Their pistols were clean； their faces alert； and the gate lowered to prevent anyone leaving the
base。 But Finn knew without asking that the guards’ attentiveness was a case of spit and polish an
hour after inspection。
“Good morning to be alive； right； sailor？” asked Finn。
“You bet； sir；” said the sailor。 The other men laughed。 Their pleasure was as clear as their young
smiles。 Finn recognized the source of their smiles； it was the relief of survivors； of the ones who
had not died on the floor of a Navy warehouse。 He recognized their near…shame and sweet
elation because he had felt it himself。
Finn engaged the clutch and accelerated away from the gate。 He drove quickly through the base；
not slowing until he turned the car down a narrow passage between two warehouses。 He had to
brake hard to avoid a Shore Patrol Jeep that was parked across the alleyway； blocking it
completely。
“Restricted Area；” said a sailor as Finn rolled down the window。 “Back up and turn around on
the doub – “
Finn held his new leather folder out the car window。 The badge shone impressively； but it was
the facing security clearance which stopped the sentry’s voice。 The man saluted crisply。
“Delta warehouse； sir？”
“Yes。”
“Straight ahead； sir。” The sailor turned and yelled over his shoulder。 “Move the Jeep！” Then； to
Finn； “You can’t miss it； sir。 Fuel barrels piled high as a battleship。”
Finn squeezed past the Jeep； then picked up speed between rows of war materials stacked in
static review。 He was stopped twice more； the last time by a civilian who took time to inspect
Finn’s credentials。
After Finn parked near the ent； staring at rectangular
buildings； square stacks of stenciled crates； the angular bulk of weapons… a cubist painting done
in shades of black and darkest gray。
That was what the thieves would have seen； but now there were people everywhere； blurring the
clean lines； uniformed men with carbines at port arms and holster flaps unsnapped。 They
prowled and snarled； barking orders at one another as though it still mattered。 Every measured
stride and cold glance tried to prove that the theft had been a bizarre accident； the wildest fluke；
a miracle made in hell。
The only people who did not seem defensive were the men in street clothes who wove among
the bristling guards。 The civilians wore relaxed confidence that bordered on smugness； they had
not made the mess； but by God they were going to clean it up。 Their conservative suits； white
shirts； dark ties； gray snap…brim hats； wing…tip shoes and cold eyes were as distinctive as any
uniform。 Finn could almost see their FBI credentials inside the breast pockets of their suit coats。
He could count fifteen agents without turning his head。 There were more inside； and still other
reinforcements at the gates。
The federal agents were good enough in their way； but they were little more than soldiers
without uniforms； men trained away from originality； men who had so little leeway within their
regulations that they guarded their few perquisites as jealously as a hen guarded its chicks。
He needed roosters； not hens。 He needed men as quiet and smart and deadly as Masarek； who
had infiltrated an enemy base and stolen 2 million lives。
Two days。 My God。 Just Two！
Finn felt as he had in Okinawa； the jungle behind him and the cliff in front； riding a seesaw of
fury and helplessness； watching children fall。
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Two days。 Two million lives。
With a savage motion； he banged open the glove compartment and removed his 。45 caliber
automatic pistol。 The gun’s size was a drawback that he tolerated because it had better stopping
power。 The 。45 had been designed as a man…killer； and had never been excelled。 The smaller 。38s
worn by the gentlemen of the FBI did not wrinkle their suits； but Finn was not a gentleman； and
their sartorial regulations were not his。
Finn checked the gun’s clip and worked the slide to chamber a cartridge。 He cocked the pistol
and set its lever safety。 The movements atic。 He used his senses of
touch and hearing almost as much as his eyes。 Satisfied with the gun’s readiness； he tucked the
。45 into a belt clip at the small of his back。 Then he slid out of the car； pulled his jacket down
over the gun and headed for the warehouse that was the focus of all the anxiety。 He walked with
obvious purpose； a tall； lean man whom other men automatically gave way to。
In the warehouse； thin gray illumination seeped through a row of dirty skylights； but did little to
soften the utilitarian interior。 It was cold and dank and ugly。
A sudden flash of light drew Finn’s pale eyes。 He glanced down a short aisle between stacked
crates and saw a FBI technician with a Speed Graphic camera and flashgun lining up