“The source is sending plutonium and cesium. They prefer that the bomb be detonated in a heavily populated civilian area.”

“Like hell!” I blasted him. “The Muskets would never attack American citizens directly. They’re whistling Dixie. What did you tell them about us? We’re not a terrorist organization. Forget it! This obviously isn’t going to work. It’s too dangerous anyway.”

“Just hold on, don’t get your dander up. I already told the old man that strategy’s not going to fly, that you want to blow up a base. He’s getting back to them.”

“You need to make it real clear what we’re about, so they’re not under the impression shipping that material’s going to result in a 9/11 scenario. That’s not going to happen . . . ever!”

“Details endanger security. They don’t know shit about the Muskets except what’s on the PR website. When the request to kill civilians came back, I had a talk with Uncle Wady. I didn’t tell him about Montana, but I explained the nature of our objectives. He asked for specific information he could give them. They have to have something. He told me the source was willing to spend the money, take the risks, get the isotopes off the black market, and arrange for shipment. But they want some kind of target detail.”

I took out the tiny notebook I always carried in my shirt pocket and wrote down the name of the target. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t my choice; It was Kicks Iron’s and he had Christof’s total support.

“If this gets out, we’ll never trust your uncle or his connections again.” I warned.

Carl read the name of the target.

“Is this for real?” he asked.

“Yes. Security is lax there. They’ve observed who enters and exits and they’re certain we can pull this off. Is that good enough for your Uncle Wady?”

“Whew! This will light their fire!”

“I’ll bet,” I thought, resenting Carl’s enthusiasm. I felt as if I’d just lost one of those arguments that often threatened our friendship.

“It’s a rain . . . ny night in Georgia” Carl began singing from Brook Benton’s song.

I laughed, but I was totally unprepared for what followed. Fewer than thirty days later, Carl was notified back through his family when, where, and how the materials would arrive. I was astonished, having thought it completely out of reach for them. Moreover, his uncle had secured their provision in accordance with our Musket ideological limitation against civilian strikes, which left me with no further credible opposition.

The shipment was smuggled in through Westport, Washington, concealed in the hull of a fishing boat. Five small containers of plutonium and eight of powdered cesium were welded inside hollow steel members. They had been overlaid with wood afterward to make them seem normal timbers.

Carl showed me an email–God knows how they provided for that to remain untraceable–informing him that a quantity of another substance, technetium, was needed. What blew my mind was the tip they provided. Their “intelligence sources” knew of a pending shipment en route to Nevada for disposal by rail. With my agreement, Kicks Iron and Christof dumped an entire truckload of concrete atop an iron grid work welded to the track at a remote location. Colliding with the dried reinforced concrete mass, the train derailed. No one died. With the help of other M-Montana covert members, the most radical of any–including my brother, Robert–they absconded with all the technetium except the contents from a single container. Some of this, they scattered about, then blew the remainder and empty containers with enough C-4 to create an airborne plume, dispersing it down-wind across the terrain. By the time rescue and DOE teams arrived, it appeared “those reactionary Nevadans” opposed to reactor waste disposal in their state had derailed the train and blown up the shipment. Thus, the technetium ceased to exist as far as anyone but a few Muskets knew.