Free Craig Kreident #2 Fallout by Doug Beason Kevin J Anderson Page A

Nevada?”
    “Protocol liaison for the disarmament inspectors.   It’s a temporary assignment for DOE.”
    Craig fell silent — that put a whole new spin on things.   But still he chewed on his lower lip, unconvinced.   “This militia problem could turn out to be the tip of a much bigger iceberg.”
    “Goldfarb and Jackson can handle it for the next three days, Craig.   They’ll have help.”
    “Three days is all we’ve got until the Claw’s deadline.   October 24.”
    “Get over to Las Vegas tonight.   Find a room somewhere.   Miss Mitchell will be your NTS security escort, and she will brief you on the details.   Until then, unless you can talk over a secure phone, the true nature of your investigation remains classified.   Understand?   Or do I have to fly out there and explain it to you face to face?”
    Craig tried to keep his voice steady.   He answered crisply.   “No, ma’am.   That won’t be necessary.”
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 9
    Tuesday, October 21
    6:30 P.M.
     
    Caesar’s Palace
    Las Vegas
     
    Trying to maintain his patience and keeping an open “American hospitality” mood, Mike Waterloo drove with his station wagon crammed full of Russians.   Six members of the disarmament team rode with him as he fought through the evening traffic clogging the Las Vegas Strip.  
    After their days in the DAF, he had come to know all the inspectors by name, though now they treated him like a mere chauffeur, talking among themselves in guttural Russian, excluding him from the conversation.   He clenched his jaws so that a ripple of muscles stood out on his gaunt cheeks, making no comment as the Russians guffawed, sharing a joke — possibly at his expense.   He would never know.   Their humor struck him as forced, with a slightly hysterical edge, still shocked at the messy death of their comrade.  
    General Ursov had remained behind in protest, going to his room at the Rio where he was no doubt contacting superiors back in Russia . . . or possibly just documenting the information he had collected from NTS.   Waterloo wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Ursov worked as a spy for the KGB, or whatever the state intelligence organization called itself these days.  
    Despite Ursov’s protests, the others had overwhelmingly voted to see Copperfield’s show.   They would hear nothing about changing those plans — dead comrade or no dead comrade.
    As Waterloo drove, the Russians marveled at the dazzle of Las Vegas — the epitome of American commercialism.   The foreigners acted more excited about seeing a stage magician than about global nuclear disarmament.   Maybe if Copperfield could just make the entire stockpile disappear. . . .
    Waterloo pulled into the first roundabout parking lot of Caesar’s Palace.   The palatial building’s smooth arches, splattering fountains, and alabaster statue reproductions recalled the golden age of Greece, complete with lovely Corinthian columns, gilt edgings, and shapely curves.   He let a valet take his vehicle to the free parking while the Russians boiled out of the front and back seats, gawking at the architecture, the opulence.  
    This place was very different from what Waterloo had experienced in Russia three years ago. . . .
    Following the breakup of the USSR, the Russians and the U.S. had agreed to a bilateral monitoring of nuclear dismantlement.   Hence Waterloo’s long stay in Russia, and the return visit of this team to the Nevada Test Site.
    Waterloo had been one of twelve inspectors arriving in Moscow, a year after the death of his wife, only a few months after Gordon Mitchell had succumbed to cancer.   It had felt good to get away.  
    He and the others had worn badges that sported a bright U.S. flag, which elicited many stares in the airport.   Protocol prevented the Russians from physically touching the inspectors, but Waterloo and his teammates were scanned for metal objects.   He removed every electronic item from his suitcase,