Chapter 1: The Vanishing Core

Decades ago, before the world grew numb to danger, a single, shadowy figure nearly tipped the fate of America off its axis.

There’s something electric about Cold War stories—the way tension creeps into every corner, the ever-present hum of uncertainty, the metallic taste of fear in the air. In those years, the United States operated a clandestine facility tucked deep in the rugged Southwest, somewhere between the red canyons and pine-dotted mountains near the tri-state border of Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado. Insiders called it Plant 906, a place where atomic bombs were built and guarded with the highest secrecy.

Then, on an ordinary morning that would become anything but, something happened that sent shockwaves straight through the marble halls of the Pentagon and rattled every nerve in Washington. You could almost hear the frantic shuffling of papers in the West Wing, the hurried phone calls echoing down Pennsylvania Avenue, as the news hit.

A key atomic bomb component vanished without a trace, leaving not a single clue behind.

The thief had set off a chain of events, triggering a domino effect that reverberated from the plant’s steel gates all the way to the Oval Office.

In the crisp autumn of 1966, beneath a sky streaked with gold and purple over the high desert, Plant 906’s world was about to unravel. The air was dry, the scent of sagebrush mingling with the faint tang of machine oil, and the nearby town of Gallup was just waking up to another day. But inside the plant, disaster struck.

Alarm sirens blared, their piercing wails bouncing off canyon walls and rattling the windows of the plant’s concrete bunkers. Armed security guards sprinted to every entrance, slamming heavy steel doors shut and locking them tight, their faces pale with dread at the thought of the culprit slipping away. Even the jackrabbits seemed to sense danger, leaping from the brush as dust swirled in the dry wind around the chain-link fence. With thirty thousand workers inside, panic didn’t just spread—it rippled through the crowd, making hearts pound and voices crack.

The prized component, a year in the making and nearly ready for deployment, had been stolen in an instant.

This wasn’t just any piece of hardware—it was the kind of thing that could tip the balance of power, a device with the potential to rewrite the story of America.

With it, the nation could leap ahead in the race for atomic supremacy.

It was the heart of the bomb: the energy conversion fission container, known to the plant’s insiders as G-1107.

G-1107 was forged from platinum, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and its outer shell alone cost more than $25,000—enough in the 1960s to buy a new home in the suburbs or cover a year’s salary for a dozen factory workers.

In those days, $25,000 was a fortune, a figure that made jaws drop and eyes widen.

But the true value lay deeper: the countless hours poured in by scientists and engineers, the sleepless nights, the blueprints and prototypes, the sweat and hope invested in every tiny part. Its worth was measured not just in dollars, but in dreams and fears.

Why did the atomic bomb matter so much to America?

When the U.S. dropped the bomb on Nagasaki, the world recoiled—not just in Japan, but in every country that lacked the power of the atom. The devastation left scars that never faded, and the memory haunted every leader and scientist who followed.

The global race for atomic weapons was relentless. After the Korean War, America kept a wary eye on the Soviet Union, its arsenal always at the ready. When the Soviets cut off diplomatic ties and withdrew their aid in 1959, the U.S. pressed forward alone, determined not to fall behind.

America had the science, but every step forward was a battle—each breakthrough contested by rival powers, each secret guarded like gold.

The United States refused to be second-best. The bomb had to be built, no matter the cost.

So Plant 906 was born—a place with no nameplate, just a number, shrouded in mystery even to those who worked there. To this day, no one knows what '906' truly means.

Hidden in the thick forests where Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado meet, the plant was a world unto itself. Thirty thousand engineers, machinists, and laborers moved through its halls, each vetted and bound by strict codes. The place buzzed with life—lunch pails clanging, union chatter echoing in the break rooms, local radio playing rock and roll and news of the world outside.

Everyone pitched in, sleeves rolled up, hands stained with grease and graphite, working for a cause bigger than themselves. Coffee pots brewed non-stop, lunch breaks were brief, and the air was thick with the scent of metal and ambition.

But just before dawn, disaster struck—the core component vanished from the workshop, leaving the plant in chaos.

This was a crisis with no margin for error.

The plant’s leadership snapped to attention. Managers crowded into smoky conference rooms, voices low and urgent as they debated their next move. The Security Department mobilized instantly, launching a full-scale investigation.

G-1107 had disappeared moments after its final assembly, sent to the pressure testing room for its last check. The window of opportunity was barely a few minutes—the thief might still be somewhere inside.

Deputy Head of Security, Frank Delaney, wasted no time. He ordered every gate sealed and raced to the scene with his team, their investigation kits slung over their shoulders and police dogs—German Shepherds, noses twitching—at their side.

Frank’s boots echoed down the concrete corridor, the air heavy with tension. His team followed, faces grim, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. The two workers who discovered the loss—David Mendez and Carl Foster—looked shell-shocked, their hands trembling, eyes wide with disbelief.

Frank Delaney knew this was no ordinary blunder. A missing component like G-1107 couldn’t be explained away with paperwork or apologies.

He approached the shaken men, his voice steady but urgent, and asked them to recount every detail.

After a grueling year, G-1107 was set for its final pressure test that morning in the assembly workshop.

Normally, four operators manned the pressure testing room, but with half attending a mandatory training session, only David Mendez and Carl Foster were left to handle the task.

Time was ticking, and the stakes were sky-high.

Despite the short staff, the test pressed on. David and Carl worked without pause from sunrise to late afternoon, their nerves fraying with each passing hour.

But even the most dedicated workers have limits. Hunger gnawed at their stomachs, and fatigue blurred their vision—they needed a break, just for a moment.

David Mendez headed for the break room, his mind on the ham and cheese sandwich waiting in his lunchbox, the sound of Johnny Cash drifting from a battered radio on the counter. Carl Foster ducked into the restroom, splashing cold water on his face and staring at his reflection, trying to shake off the exhaustion. Before leaving, Carl triple-checked the locks on G-1107, securing the pressure room door with three heavy padlocks, just to be sure.

Yet when they returned, the safe was open—and G-1107 was gone.

The shock hit them like a punch to the gut. David’s hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his sandwich, while Carl rubbed his forehead, voice cracking as he muttered, “Man, I should’ve just stuck it out. Five more minutes. What was I thinking?”

Frank Delaney’s mind raced.

Was it possible that, in the few minutes they’d stepped away, someone had slipped in, stolen the component, and vanished without a trace?

And left not a single sign?

He led the German Shepherd through the assembly workshop, the dog’s nose pressed to the ground. The team combed every inch, but the deeper they searched, the more puzzling it became.

Everything was intact—doors, windows, locks. The safe showed no signs of tampering.

No fingerprints. No footprints. Nothing.

What made Frank’s heart sink was the thief’s sophistication—they’d used chemical reagents, maybe something like ammonia or bleach, to mask their scent. The police dog circled, confused, unable to pick up a trail. It was a locked-room mystery straight out of a detective novel.

The culprit might still be somewhere inside. They had to act—fast.

If the thief escaped with G-1107, the consequences could be catastrophic. The fate of the nation was on the line.

This was a disaster that could cost lives. The plant director, deputy director, and operations manager huddled in a smoky conference room, the air thick with the scent of Lucky Strikes and burnt coffee. The ashtray overflowed, hands fidgeted with pens, and someone drummed nervously on the Formica table.

The tension was palpable, the stakes impossible to ignore. If enemy agents had stolen the component, the fallout would be unimaginable.

After intense debate, the leadership made a call.

They split into two teams.

The first—led by the plant director and head of Security—would fly to Washington, D.C., to brief the top brass and beg for guidance. You could almost picture the plane landing at Reagan National, the group rushing to a meeting in a smoky, wood-paneled office near the Capitol.

The second team would stay behind, racing against the clock to recover G-1107 within ten days.

Frank Delaney was handed the toughest job of his career.

He handpicked a task force from the plant’s ranks—men and women with backgrounds in public security, law enforcement, and prosecution. They gathered in a cramped, windowless office, Styrofoam coffee cups lined up on the table, the smell of Maxwell House lingering in the air. Faces were drawn, eyes red from worry and lack of sleep. Every inch of the plant had been searched, but G-1107 remained a ghost.

Aside from David and Carl, there wasn’t a single lead. The investigation was going nowhere fast.

Where to begin?

Just as hope began to fade, Lisa Nguyen, head of the Security Group for the assembly workshop, spoke up. Her voice cut through the gloom, her Texas accent giving her words a sharp edge. She suggested zeroing in on the workshop itself—it was probably an inside job.

There were no signs of an outsider breaking in. Whoever did this knew the plant like the back of their hand.

Frank nodded, but the prospect was daunting.

Every worker had passed strict background checks, their files thick with references and union paperwork. Accusing the wrong person could shatter lives and reputations.

The plant had been peaceful for years—no fights, no drama. Who would risk everything for a crime this grave? Most were college-educated, proud of their work, and loyal to the cause.

This was treason. If caught, the penalty was death.

Frank let out a long breath.

Still, it was the only lead they had.

He rose from his chair, voice steady and commanding:

“First, we question everyone in the assembly workshop. Face to face. Every person states where they were, who saw them, and signs off on it. No exceptions. We start now!”

Time was their enemy—the longer the case dragged on, the greater the risk.

The personnel list was pulled together in record time: 1,100 names. Three shifts, with over 300 on duty when the component vanished.

By the time the last interview wrapped up, it was well past midnight.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the walls. Investigators rubbed their eyes, drained another cup of bitter coffee, and tried to stay sharp. After hours of grilling, three names rose to the top—three suspects who didn’t quite add up:

Travis Young, a young operator from the lubrication section; Autumn Lee, a sharp-eyed technician; and Samuel Richardson, the seasoned director of Food Services.

Frank Delaney tapped his pencil against Samuel Richardson’s name, his mind whirring with questions.

Samuel Richardson wasn’t your average cafeteria boss.

He’d fought in Europe during WWII, earning medals for bravery. He’d served as a bodyguard for General Eisenhower and later guarded legends like George Marshall. Richardson had stories that could fill a dozen history books, and a Rolodex full of powerful friends.

To accuse him without proof would be reckless—bordering on slander.

This was treason. To point the finger at a decorated veteran could tear the plant apart.

Frank weighed his options, deciding to interrogate the other two first.

Travis Young and Autumn Lee were called in, each nervous, each with something to hide.

Instead of evidence, the team uncovered a secret affair—Travis, married, was sneaking around with Autumn. During the incident, the pair were locked away in a storage room, their alibi confirmed by a piece of brown paper found in the trash, stained with evidence of their rendezvous.

A couple of investigators snickered, exchanging knowing glances. It wasn’t the clue they’d hoped for, but it cleared Travis and Autumn of suspicion.

Frank had no choice but to turn his focus to Richardson. If the investigation landed on him, the fallout could be catastrophic.

He dug into Richardson’s records and found plenty to worry about.

Normally, Richardson was as reliable as clockwork—at his desk by 8, out the door by 5. But on the day G-1107 disappeared, witnesses saw him wandering through the workshop, far from his usual post.

Workshop Security Office

The fluorescent light flickered overhead, painting the room in a harsh, sterile glow. Frank Delaney leaned back in his government-issued chair, fingers steepled as he pored over the report. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock, its rhythm echoing in the quiet. Frank knew that if Richardson was the thief, the consequences would be devastating—not just for Plant 906, but for the entire country. The stakes had never felt higher.