Judgment at Alcatraz

casing was mild steel and only about two-millimeters thick, so the spinning discs made quick work of the cuts.
With the scores completed on both generators, the men silenced the power tools and picked up steel pry bars with gloved hands. An occasional grunt punctuated the exertion required to force the quartered sections of the steel casing to separate. But leverage and brute strength won out, and the men folded the sections back to reveal an aluminum lining bolted to the base. After removing the fasteners, they lifted the lining off and discarded it to the side.
“Looks like lead sheet,” Jerry said, referring to the final layer of packaging. “These things must weigh a ton.”
“There must be several hundred dollars’ worth of scrap aluminum and lead,” one of his coworkers said.
“It’ll cost more than that to fly it out of here,” Jerry replied. “Come on. Let’s peel this lead back. The cannister should be inside.”
“Doesn’t look like any generator I’ve ever seen,” said the other worker. “There should be coils of copper wire and big magnets.”
Jerry shrugged. “What do I know? But she did say it was different, and that’s why the government wants to salvage the inner portion.”
“Hey, where is she, anyway?”
Jerry looked around, and not seeing her, shrugged again.
“I don’t know. Maybe she went into one of the buildings, looking for a bathroom. Who cares. Let’s get this done.”
Removing the soft lead sheet was easy work, exposing a gray graphite cylinder about sixteen-centimeters tall and twelve centimeters in diameter. In contrast to the arctic air, the warmth emanating from the cylinder was obvious.
Jerry removed a glove and moved his hand close.
“That’s a nice hand-warmer,” he said. “Wonder what it is?”
“Hey, guys,” Sacheen called, from the doorway of the largest structure.
It was the old co-op building, and designed with just one large room for meetings and other social gatherings. The windows had been boarded over.
“Why don’t you take a break and come on inside. I found a bottle of whiskey.”
The three men strode toward the building, eager for a break and a strong drink. They pushed through the open doorway and stopped just inside the large room. The only light entered through the opening they’d just passed through.
“Where’d she go?” one of the men said.
They all searched the empty space for her.
The door slammed shut, leaving them in total darkness.
“What the hell?”
“Sacheen, where are you?” Jerry called, fear creeping into his voice.
“I can’t see shit.”
“Use the light on your phone,” the other man said.
Three cell phone lights clicked on, providing meager illumination. The room was empty.
Jerry approached the rear door and tested it. The doorknob turned, but the door was stuck and wouldn’t budge.
“Sacheen,” Jerry called again, his voice trembling.
From outside the old co-op, having just wedged a thick board between the door latch and the plank stoop, she could hear their muted calls. She hurried to the front of the building. Using a heavy timber brace, she barricaded the front door, then closed a hasp to the doorframe and secured it with a padlock. Given enough time and effort, she figured they would break out through one of the doors, or maybe by kicking out the boards covering the windows. But it didn’t matter. She only needed thirty minutes, and she’d be taxiing down the runway and taking to the sky.
Sacheen still had one task to complete. Donning a lead-lined radiation suit she’d removed from a compartment at the rear of the Beaver, complete with head covering fitted with leaded-glass goggles, she used a set of long-handled tongs to remove the graphite cylinder from each generator. One at a time, she carried them to the same storage hold at the back of the aircraft. Inside the compartment was a lead box with two slots just big enough to cradle the cores. She replaced the heavy lead cover and completed one last check to make certain the deadly cargo was secured. After closing the hatch, she slipped out of the bulky suit.
Once strapped into the cockpit, she started the engine. While it was warming, she keyed the radio.
“Ranger here. Cargo is secured.”
“Roger that. What about the hired help?”
She gazed toward the old co-op building.
“I think the radiation sickness will get them before they die of exposure.”
Then she increased power to the engine and began her takeoff roll. A minute later, she was airborne and flying south.

Chapter 6
Hatfield, Oregon
May 17
Danya rolled her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side. She’d been behind the wheel of her pickup for hours, and her back and neck were stiff. The two-lane blacktop traced a path across flat valleys separated by low mountain passes.
The drive was far from challenging, and boredom was slowly taking over, eroding her habitual state of attention. More and more frequently, she was glancing at the dashboard, checking that her speed was within two miles per hour of the posted limit. Her grip on the wheel was firm to ensure she tracked an even course between the lines. With hardly any other vehicles on the road, even minor infractions of the traffic code could attract the attention of a lone state trooper—and a chance run-in with the police would be unfortunate. For both parties.
In the distance, she saw two grain elevators and a couple low buildings. Maybe a truck stop. If there’s a gas station, maybe they have a restroom and a coffee shop.
She slowed and saw the signage, and then the fuel pumps. Ever mindful of the vintage Airstream RV she was towing, she applied the brakes with steady pressure and coasted beside the pumps. She stepped out and stretched her body, arching her back. Her brunette hair extended just below her shoulders in graceful curls.
A young woman approached from the open door to the mini-market.
“Do you have a restroom?” Danya said.
“Inside. Fill it?”
“Oh, yeah. Regular, please.”
Just outside the market door, an old hound with a graying muzzle and oversized floppy ears was reclined on a pillow, enjoying the sun’s warmth—a contrast with the brisk air. Later