Richter 10

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “I don’t know… an hour or so to get everything set, then the time to get out, get some distance. Remote trigger, you know.”

  “Let’s get everybody out of here and do it now.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Hill walked closer. His eyes peered wildly at Crane. “Because they’re watching us, is why. They’re just hangin’ back, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for us to let our guard down.”

  “Who is?”

  “Them!” Hill said loudly. “Can’t you feel them? Their eyes crawling over us?”

  “You’re off your medication, aren’t you, Burt?”

  “I been off my medication for three years, Doc,” he said loudly. “I’m telling you that if we’re going to blow this thing, let’s get everybody out of here and blow it now!”

  Hill had been a strong right arm for ten years, but the strain down here was getting to all of them, Crane decided. He’d hired Burt for his paranoia. Maybe it was time to listen to it. “Okay, let’s do it,” Crane said. “I’ll start moving the party out of here, while you take the service shaft up to ground level. Check around up there. Search the barracks and the other buildings. Tell the G to do a security sweep. When you’re satisfied, get back down here. You and I will set up. We’ll trigger when we get the urge. Fair enough?”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Hill said. “I’m on my way.”

  The second Burt left, one of the panel lights went to red with a quiet buzz, Crane bringing up the status report on the screen. Tube #61 in B Corridor was leaking a small amount of radiation, nothing serious, but a good enough excuse to clear the place out.

  He found himself liking the idea, anxious now to get on with it, excited, in fact.

  Abu Talib stood next to a Joshua tree. Through infrared binocs strapped to his head he watched the G moving around the outer perimeter fence of Crane’s project three miles away. There were forty men with him, tucked in the San Bernadino foothills unseen, waiting for the right moment.

  An avalanche of thoughts tumbled through his head. Lanie, her child, Crane, the Foundation—all producing a jumble of conflicting emotions. God, if only it could have been otherwise. Right. Wrong. Love. Hate. Loyalty. Abu Talib had no idea of what these words even meant anymore. The thrust of his life had become simple forward momentum, a ball rolling down an inclined plane.

  He pulled off the binoculars and hung them on a Joshua branch. Strange how this desert tree, small and skeletal with clumps of leaves on the ends of the branches, reminded him of immature cotton plants. Or was the comparison farfetched, and he thought of the cotton because he’d much rather be in New Cairo preparing for harvest than here preparing a military action?

  They were protected in a small gully, their three trucks, affixed with cattlecatchers, nearly invisible beneath desert camouflage.

  Brother Ishmael walked up, handing him a cup of coffee. “Anything?” he asked.

  “No,” Talib said. “The guests are still there; the protesters have gone home; the G isn’t alert.”

  “Good. Let’s check the aerial view, then do the last briefing.”

  They moved back to their men, who were dressed in black and had on pulldown masks peeled up now to rest on their foreheads. The desert night was clear and cold with a brilliant full moon; the men, sitting on the ground, huddled together for warmth. A small screen that leaned against one of the Joshuas received its feed from Ishmael’s condor, sweeping lazy circles in the sky over the Imperial Valley Project.

  They saw a quiet compound with a parking lot full of cars and helos. Most of the permanent workers lived a few miles away in Niland. When they left tonight, all the cars would go with them. A lone man seemed to be methodically going through the outbuildings and speaking with the guards.

  “Who is that?” Ishmael asked.

  “His name’s Burt Hill. He’s Crane’s ramrod and security chief. Only doing his job.”

  “Good. Allah guides our path tonight.” Ishmael turned to the others. “As soon as the guests leave the party, we move in,” he announced. “Put on your goggles and turn to the C fiber.”

  There was a groan from a platoon of men who’d gone through these steps many, many times in the last two weeks. They dutifully put on their goggles, Talib juicing the disk he had copied the day he’d inspected the underground abomination.

  A virtual layout of the cavern appeared on the screen. The view moved past the computer room and down the stairs to the main room.

  “Remember, there are carts at the bottom of the stairs,” Talib said. “You are to use them. Red Team will take the corridor to the left… see it? That’s A corridor. This was not a structure meant to stand for long, so it’s unstable. Red Team will plant the satchel bombs on all the pillars in that corridor. Blue team will do the same in B corridor. The rest of you will carry three satchels each, everything set to blow in an hour. You’ll drop your satchels down the tubes containing the bombs.”

  “And you’re sure that throwing the satchels won’t set off the nukes?” Ishmael asked.

  Talib sighed. “You’ve asked that question a dozen times, and I have told you a dozen times that it takes a huge effort to set off a nuclear bomb, Brother. Our little bombs won’t accomplish that. What they will accomplish is radiation leaks. Once we bring the place down, we want it to be so hot in there that no one would or could go back—ever. I’ll get us in and handle the computer room. The truck bomb will take care of the shaft once we’re done. Remember, if we handle this right, nobody gets hurt.”

  “The guests should leave very soon.” Ishmael walked over to the tan-and-pale green camouflage cover and lifted it from one of the trucks. He got into the back and emerged with two heavy suitcases. He set them down and opened them. Weapons. Weapons he began to distribute to the Fruit of Islam.

  “What is this?” Talib asked, following Ishmael to the back of the truck where a crate of ammo sat on the edge.

  “You told me there’d be no violence,” Talib whispered harshly.

  Ishmael went back to the suitcase and pulled out a small submachine gun which he slung over his shoulder. “Brother Abu,” he said. “We’re getting ready to blow up an entire underground complex, and you set it up. That’s violence in my dictionary.”

  “But the guns,” Talib said. “We made a deal that no one would get hurt, that we’d only do this when the place was cleared.”

  “Do you hear that, my friends?” Ishmael said loudly. “Our brother wants us to fight a war with no casualties.”

  “Me, too!” someone shouted. “At least no casualties for us!”

  Everyone laughed as they filled the ditty-bags hanging on their belts with extra clips of ammunition.

  “Wait!” Talib said, grabbing Ishmael’s arm. “This wasn’t the deal we made.”

  Ishmael jerked his arm out of Talib’s grasp. “You’re a dreamer, Abu, without the guts to see your dreams through. How the hell do you expect us even to get on the grounds, eh? Ask the nice G if they’ll invite us in for tea?”

  “I just thought, I… don’t know what I thought.”

  “Right,” Ishmael said, donning a bandolier full of shotgun shells to go with the sawed-off weapon he carried in his free hand. “Remember, Brother Talib: Thinkers prepare the revolution; bandits carry it out.”

  He addressed his men. “Once we’ve committed, there’s no turning back. We either succeed or die trying. We fight the Great Satan himself tonight and if we have to, we fight to the last man. Shoot to kill anyone or anything that gets in your way. We probably won’t all make it back. If I get to Paradise first, I’ll prepare the way for you by trying out the houris!”

  The men cheered, holding their weapons in the air. Confusion paralyzed Talib. The event was suddenly upon him, happening fast. It wasn’t talk anymore.

  Ishmael jammed a pistol into his hand. “Here,” he said. “You’ll probably need this.”

  Talib looked morosely at the gun, then stuck it into the waistband of his black drawstring trousers.

  C
rane and Charlie waved good-bye to partygoers as they climbed onto the elevator, calling out their final congratulations. The radiation alert bleated gently in the background. As the doors closed, Lanie walked down the hall from computer control. She took Charlie from Crane. The boy immediately rested his head on his mother’s shoulder and closed his eyes, thumb in his mouth.

  “Sure you don’t want to go with them?” Crane asked. “I may be a couple of hours here.”

  She shook her head. “Charlie can sleep in the computer room,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of work there to prepare for tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “We’re thinking along the same wavelengths. Burt and I decided to go ahead and rig the detonation now, no reason to wait. I’ll get to it as soon as I check that leak in #63.”

  “It’s a good-sized bleed-off,” she returned. “Enough to be dangerous in a few hours’ time. Did you tell anyone to send the elevator back down once they reached the top?”

  “Burt’s up there,” Crane said, shaking his head. “He’ll ride it down.”

  “You’re going to trigger it tonight?” she asked, slowly rocking back and forth with Charlie.

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  “What made you decide to do it now?”

  “Burt’s antsy… I trust that,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re turning claustrophobic. And the thing’s as ready as it’s ever going to be. Why wait?”

  They started walking back down the hallway toward the computer room. “It’s fine with me,” she said, “but I’ve got a feeling there’s a ton of inspectors and officials—”

  “And demonstrators, and terrorists. If anyone’s unhappy with this, they can sue me.”

  Both of them laughed, Lanie giving him a lingering kiss when they reached the computer room door. “You seem happier already,” he said.

  “Are you kidding? You can’t imagine how happy I’ll be to get out of this place. I’m going to walk in that room, pack up my personal items, shut down the systems, arm the plastique, and kiss this place’s ass goodbye. Where do you want to trigger it?”

  He pressed her up against the door. “At home… while we’re making love. We’ll make the earth move.”

  “You already know how to do that, honey,” she said, kissing him again. “Let’s fly back to the Foundation tonight. Do we, uh… have another house somewhere?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe we should think about buying one. Charlie’s going to need to know at some point soon that he’s not the only child in the world.”

  “Noted,” he said. “In fact, there’s a lot of things we can do now that we’re finished here. Let’s take a vacation. We can go tomorrow. What’s to stop us? We’ll toss our wristpads and return to nature.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been on a vacation?”

  “I’ve never been on one,” he said. “Thought it might be fun to try.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You will see it. I promise.”

  Chapter 19: Danse Macabre

  IMPERIAL VALLEY PROJECT

  30 JUNE 2028, TWO MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT

  Abu Talib’s insides were in knots as he watched the guests emerge from the elevator tunnel and head toward their vehicles. He felt even worse than when he’d learned about Northwest Gemstone, understood it for the ruse it was, and forced himself to go public with scathing attacks on Crane.

  Several helos belonging to guests leapt into the night sky, flying northward; cars lined up to move down the strip from the parking lot to the front gates.

  “This is it,” Ishmael said. “They’ll hit us with nausea gas and disorienting soundwaves.” Years of rioting had taught him and his Fruit of Islam well. “The rebreathers in your masks will protect you. If any of you have aurals, turn them off. They’ll broadcast the sound right into your head if you don’t. Know your assignments and keep the deafeners in your ears. They’ve got electric water cannons, but we’ll be grinding them under our tires before they have the chance to turn them on. You know your jobs. Get to your vehicles!”

  Yelling and cheering, getting themselves up for battle, the men hustled to their trucks. Frozen in place, Talib could only watch.

  “If you don’t have the strength of your convictions, stay here,” Ishmael sneered at him.

  “Crane’s helo is still sitting in the yard,” Talib said, pointing at the screen.

  “Really?” Ishmael looked at the helo on the teev. “Allah blesses us. We can take care of the blasphemy and the blasphemer at the same time. Are you coming?”

  His paralysis suddenly broken, he shouted, “Damn right I am.” He hurried after Brother Ishmael to the deuce and a half. “We agreed: no killing.”

  Talib climbed into the passenger side of the heavy vehicle; Ishmael slid behind the wheel. In the distance, the line of headlights had snaked away from the gates of Crane’s compound and was moving southward.

  Brother Ishmael’s mask still sat atop his head; his eyes glinted hard in the starlight. He opened the focus, and the truck shot forward, its cowcatcher zeroed on the gates three miles distant. Ishmael’s jaw was set, his teeth bared. “They won’t even see us until we’re on top of them,” he said low.

  “Please,” Talib whispered. “Promise me you won’t hurt Crane if you find him.”

  “I won’t hurt him,” Ishmael said. “I will kill him.”

  “Ishmael—”

  “Savor it,” Ishmael said. “You are about to see justice in its purest form.”

  Ishmael reached up and hit a switch that activated all the cams they’d brought with them, including one in the truck. Both Ishmael and Talib, their faces exposed, were already flashing through the Net.

  The three speeding trucks were abreast now, separated by thirty yards, bouncing on the uneven ground as the perimeter warning lights flared brilliantly white, lighting them to daylight. Added to this visual excitement was a prerecorded, carefully crafted speech by Ishmael explaining the objective and purpose of the holy mission they were undertaking.

  “Here we go!” Ishmael yelled. He activated the sound blockers in his ears, pulled down his mask, and jerked up the hood of his burnoose.

  Talib fumbled with his gear, his mind numb, heart racing, sweat pouring off him.

  Gas!

  They were driving blind, through roiling clouds of noxious gas, both men pulling down their goggles and going to infrared. Talib was shaking uncontrollably, his mouth dry. What was he doing here? What madness had put him in this truck?

  They hit the razored fence with a loud clang, chain link hooking on the catcher, then whipping back to smash their windshield, turning it into a kaleidoscope of spiderwebs in the thick smoke.

  He turned to Ishmael, who’d picked up his shotgun and set it against the windshield, then pulled the trigger and blew out the vestiges of the windshield. Suddenly a man stood before them. The catcher hit him at knee level, cutting him in two. His torso bounced onto the hood; his head punched through Talib’s side of the windshield. The still-living man bled through the eye and mouth holes of his smiling FPF mask as his arms flailed wildly on the other side of the shattered glass.

  Talib was screaming inside his own skull.

  Burt Hill had just gone into the equipment shed to return a shovel he’d found on the grounds, when he heard gunfire popping like fireworks. He cautiously looked through a small window in the door to see three trucks in the compound.

  The perimeter guards went down within seconds, their defensive systems useless against such a savage, surprise attack. One truck veered toward the barracks; the other two headed straight for the elevator building.

  Explosions wracked the barracks. The first truck to reach the elevator plowed through the concrete-covered walkway leading to it. Chunks of concrete flew in all directions; screams mixed with the sounds of gunfire at the barracks.

  Burt’s finger went to his pad to hit Crane’s emergency fiber, then froze. They’d be scanning for transmissions. If he c
ommunicated with Crane, they’d know Crane and his family were down there. They’d know where he was. There was nowhere to hide below except in the tubes themselves. Silence was his ally right now. He’d take the shaft service elevator down and make his stand in the tubes.

  Shovel still in hand, he moved to the back of the equipment room and voiceprinted into the small elevator that serviced the shaft coils for the main lift. He climbed in, grimly determined, and hit the down button. This elevator wasn’t as fast as the main lift, but it would get him there soon enough.

  Abu Talib jumped out of the truck, yanked up his mask, and vomited. The G who’d come through the window had finally died, but not before pumping most of his blood through the carotid artery onto Talib. The dead man still lay on the hood of the truck. Talib shimmered with blood, dark heart blood, his clothes heavy with it.

  Smoke drifted through the compound, and alarm horns blared. Automatic weapons fire finished off the rest of the G in the barracks. Talib was in shock.

  The masked men, loaded down with satchels and weapons, poured out of the back of the truck into the thick of the rubble in the elevator entryway. At Ishmael’s signal, everyone with an aural deactivated his sound blocker.

  “God is great!” Ishmael shouted. “And we are His instruments!”

  Ishmael grabbed Talib by the arm and pulled him to the entry security controls. “What does it take?” he asked. “Quickly!”

  “Eye scan,” Talib said. “Uh… uh… fingerprints. Sorry, I’m—”

  “Bring the prisoner!” Ishmael called. The third truck screeched to a halt and a G was dragged to the big sliding door.

  Ishmael ripped off the smiling mask on the G to reveal a woman, her lips moving soundlessly, her eyes listless. Blood bubbled out from under her slick white uniform. Ishmael slammed her face against the scan screen as Talib stuck her right thumb on the plate. The controls went green; the big door popped open to cheers from the Fruit of Islam.

  Ishmael heaved the woman aside. She slid down the wall to a sitting position, and he kicked her body into the doorway to keep it from closing.