by Sean Ellis
Nothing more was said on the subject and a few minutes later the discussion was forgotten as the group reached the terminus of the tunnel. There was an abrupt transition from the smooth, symmetrical tube through which they had walked into a vast cavern hewn by nature but reinforced by human engineers. The discovery of the cave must have been a serendipitous event for the excavators of the tunnel, who had evidently chosen it as the place to begin the next phase of the project. As Kismet played the light into the recesses of the grotto, he saw what the tunnel had been leading up to.
The cavern had become a subterranean warehouse. Vehicles and medium-sized shipping containers lined the nearby wall, while several neat rows of pallets, each loaded with various crates and cardboard boxes, occupied the middle. Three crude shacks had been erected along on the far edge of the area, but their doors were secured with padlocks. These discoveries however were insignificant alongside the one other feature of the cavern that was also the work of men. Commencing at the center of the underground chamber and cutting across the floor at a forty-five degree angle when viewed from the mouth of the tunnel, were two parallel rails of iron, which disappeared into a second passage bored into solid rock.
“I’ll be damned,” whispered Kismet. “They built a subway.”
The group advanced with cautious curiosity to stand at the railhead. A gunmetal gray control box stood adjacent to the enormous shock-absorbing bumper which established the absolute end of the line. Kismet played the light over the green and red switches, absently noting the almost uniform layer of dust on the operator’s panel. “No one’s been down here in a while. I’d say this facility was abandoned weeks—maybe months—before the start of the war.”
“Can you tell where it leads?” Chiron inquired.
Kismet shook his head. “Hussein?”
The young scholar shuffled forward, and after a momentary assessment, leaned over the panel and blew across its surface. A cloud of dust lifted from the neglected control buttons, the motes dancing eerily in the artificial brilliance of the electric lantern. When the air cleared, he surveyed the tableau. Behind him, Kismet could now clearly distinguish the delicate Arabic script which marked several of the buttons and LED indicators, as well as a numeric ten-key push button pad. The letters were incomprehensible to him, but the universal numerals required no translation.
“These are simply controls for summoning and operating the tram,” Hussein explained after a moment. “It does not indicate what the final destination is, or how far away.”
“It would have to be a significant distance to warrant construction of a train,” intoned Chiron. “Otherwise they would have simply continued to utilize trucks.”
Kismet stepped away from the group, playing the beam once more onto the tracks. Still curious about the control box, Chiron directed Marie to break out two Cyalume sticks and a few moments later, the area around the dull metal panel was bathed in a surreal yellow glow. In the stillness, their conversation echoed tinnily from the cavern walls.
“Is it still operational?” Marie asked.
“The power indicator light is off,” Hussein explained.
Kismet’s eyes followed the parallel rails to the point where they disappeared into the tunnel. The unreadable darkness offered no clues to the train’s opposite terminus, but for the first time since discovering the railway, he noticed the overhead wires which were suspended at intervals from the ceiling of the excavated passageway. The lines appeared to be uninsulated power lines, designed, he surmised, to deliver non-stop energy to a trolley car. If Hussein’s assessment was correct, those lines were presently dead. Without being able to utilize the railway, the feasibility of continuing the underground journey was in doubt, an outcome that was by no means unwelcome to Kismet. Especially since the disastrous foray into the desolate treasure vault beneath the Esagila, he had come to believe that no more answers would be found in the tunnel, and did not share Chiron’s enthusiasm for pursuing the search literally to the last dead end. A disapproving scowl crossed his face as his old mentor’s next question reverberated through the cave.
“Is there any way to turn it on?”
Hussein’s answer was not audible and Kismet did not turn back to see if the injured scholar was attempting to follow through on Chiron’s request. Despite his reticence, Kismet could not help but be curious about what clandestine operations or discoveries had been so important as to motivate the former Iraqi dictator to undertake such a colossal construction project. He was mildly surprised to find himself speculating about the destination of the railway and wondering if perhaps other palaces concealed similar entrances. Perhaps Saddam Hussein had built an elaborate, nationwide subway system in order to move swiftly and secretly through his domain.
His eyes followed the power line out of the tunnel and through the air to one of the upright stanchions which reached out over the tracks, suspending the line at a constant height. The design was similar to mass transit street cars in many cities, though notably different than the third rail system used by the New York transit authority, with which Kismet was more familiar.
His gaze was then drawn to a smaller brown wire which ran the length of the main line. It was basic sixteen-gauge, two-conductor stranded wire, often called “speaker wire” because of its use in home audio systems. Kismet knew it wasn’t good for much else. Cheap and thinly insulated, the copper strands could only conduct a very low voltage current. He followed the wire along its path, wondering if it was part of some kind of intercom system. There was only one other application he could think of that did not involve the transmission of electrical impulses for purposes of sound amplification; stranded wire was also used for triggering blasting caps.
“Hussein, wait—”
His admonition came a moment too late. Even as he shouted, he heard the click of a circuit breaker being thrown on the main panel, but the expected detonation did not occur. His relief was short-lived, however. In the relative silence that followed his warning, there was a faint, modulated tone, oscillating at intervals of exactly one second.
It was a countdown.
Eleven
Kismet muscled past the paralyzed forms of his companions and scanned the control board. Directly above the numeric keypad, an LED display ticked off the seconds remaining until whatever ugly surprise hard-wired into the security system was revealed, with what he now had little doubt would be explosive consequences.
24…23…22….
A thirty-second countdown, he realized. But thirty seconds—now twenty—to do what?
“Run!” he rasped. “Get out of here, now!”
As he moved to heed his own advice, he saw Hussein and Marie following suit. Chiron however hesitated, then leaned over the control board, his gnarled fingers hovering above the buttons. Kismet half-turned and shouted over his shoulder.
“Pierre, leave it! It’s wired to blow!”
“I can’t.” The old man’s voice was pleading. “I’ve come too far. There’s got to be a way to turn it off.”
“Damn it.” Kismet’s rage was mostly self-directed. He knew that he wasn’t going to surrender Chiron to his fate, and that meant he was going to have to figure out a way to defuse the bomb or die trying. He wheeled around and came up to the platform alongside the other man. The count was down to eighteen seconds. “Don’t touch anything.”
He located the wire strand where it disappeared into the control box. One hard yank on the wire might be enough to rip it free of the timed trigger. Or it might complete the circuit and blow the detonators. In fifteen seconds, it would cease to matter.
He looked at the dust-covered ten-key buttons again. Their significance was now obvious. Anyone attempting to summon the train would first have to enter a security code. Failure to do so would quite literally bring down the roof. “Impossible,” he muttered, reaching for the wire. “There must be millions of combinations.”
He stopped again. 12… 11….
On an impulse, he leaned close to the nu
meric keypad and blew away the fine coating of dust. About half of the numbers remained partially obscured by an accumulation of particles adhering to a film of skin oils. Curiously, these buttons—seven, four, one, and zero, along with the asterisk and pound symbol—formed an L-shape. The significance of this was not lost on Kismet. These six characters alone had been used whenever anyone wished to disarm the security system.
9…8….
“Hussein! What was Saddam’s birthday?”
“What?” The young man’s voice was faint, whether because of distance or the venom-induced illness, he could not say. “Twenty-eight, April. 1937.”
Kismet shook his head. “That’s not it. Any other important dates in April, January, July—”
“Fourteen, July! The revolution!”
4…3….
He quickly punched the asterisk, followed by 1, 4, 0, 7 and then the pound sign. The beeping tone abruptly changed to a long single note then fell silent. The numeric countdown likewise ceased.
Kismet sagged against the console, his extremities feeling numb from the surge of adrenaline. When he could breathe again, he looked over at an ashen Chiron, and enunciating slowly and clearly as he might with a wayward child, said: “Don’t touch anything.”
***
It was nearly fifteen minutes before they heard a distant screeching sound of metal on metal issuing from the tunnel. There was a faint breeze as air was pushed ahead of the arriving mass, and a few moments later, a single flatbed rail car rolled out of the darkness and coasted to a halt against the bumpers. Perhaps owing to their most recent brush with disaster, no one approached the car until Kismet made the first move.
The flatbed was little more than a freight platform. The motors were situated near the wheels and the only part of the vehicle that rose above the flat surface was a metal tower that reached up to make contact with the power lines. There were no creature comforts, nor did there appear to be any means of regulating speed or direction.
“It’s all controlled from the main console,” Kismet deduced aloud. “There’s probably a computer in there to automatically slow it down when it gets to the end of the line.”
“Dare we get aboard and see where it leads?” asked Chiron.
“Since you’ve probably already determined to do that, I guess there’s no reason not to. Go ahead and climb on. I’ll get it started and run over to join you. Hopefully, there’s another control panel at the other end.”
“What if there’s not?” inquired Marie. “Should someone remain behind?”
Before he could weigh in, Chiron once again exercised his veto. “I don’t think that’s wise. Look what happened when we separated before. We should remain together. I trust that Nick is right. Logically, there must be a second set of controls.”
Kismet did not find his mentor’s vote of confidence especially gratifying, but the older man’s certitude seemed vaguely inappropriate. He felt a shiver of déjà vu and wondered once more what Chiron was really up to. “Well, if I’m not, it will be a long walk back. All aboard, everyone. Last call for the Helltown Express.”
Once Hussein, as the last member of the group save Kismet himself, had ascended the platform and secured one of the heavy nylon freight slings anchored around the perimeter, Kismet pressed the green button to activate the rail car motor. After a momentary delay, in which Kismet was unsure if he had selected the wrong control, the vehicle began to roll away from the bumper. Though it moved slowly, Kismet had to sprint to catch the car before it was once more swallowed up by the tunnel. He could feel its velocity increasing as the darkness swelled all around.
They activated several chem-lights to illuminate the journey but there was very little to see. Except for the overhead lines suspended at regular intervals, there was nothing but roughly worked black stone. The tunnel was a long, straight passage driving through the earth’s crust. The narrow dimensions of the tube reflected the noise of the motors and wheels in an endless cacophony that was comparable to a torture session with fingernails on a chalkboard, but amplified to monstrous proportions. Conversation was impossible, and Kismet was left alone with his thoughts which, given the circumstances, were not the best of company.
The featureless tunnel ended abruptly, much as it had begun, and the rail car rolled out into an open chamber similar to the depot at the opposite terminus. Before anyone could react to the sudden arrival, the car screeched to a halt.
Kismet jumped down first, eager to scout the area for further traps. A control panel was situated near the bumper assembly but the security keypad was conspicuously absent, as was the wire strand that might indicate that it was linked to an explosive device. As his companions moved closer, he expanded the scope of his survey.
The chamber in which they now found themselves was much smaller than the first and hewn into a rough rectangle. Although there were several pallets and containers near the tracks, most of the area was vacant. The walls parallel to the train’s approach were broken with stainless steel doorways—two on either side—bolted into the coarse stone and sealed with a thick seam of epoxy. At the end of the chamber opposite the tunnel entrance, a second cylindrical passage, large enough to permit only pedestrian traffic, led into the dark beyond. Kismet withheld comment, but gestured to the nearest framed opening.
At Chiron’s nod of assent, he began walking toward the doorway, but when he had crossed only half the distance, a torturous noise—metal shrieking against metal—caused him to start. He whirled toward the source of the familiar sound and was chagrined to discover that Chiron had held back. Only Marie and Hussein had followed along behind him while the Frenchman had gravitated toward the control panel. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of the rail car as it vanished into the tunnel.
“Damn it, Pierre. I told you not to touch anything.”
Chiron evinced guilt with a grimace. “I was looking for the overhead lights.”
Kismet shook his head in frustration as he reached the other man’s side. He toggled the switch that Chiron had used to activate the rail system, but nothing happened. The noise of the car on the tracks continued to diminish as it progressed away from the chamber. “Must be an automatic sequence. We’ll have to wait until it gets to the other end before we can call it back. At least I hope it works that way. Otherwise, we’ll have quite a walk.”
“Time enough to do some exploring,” replied Chiron with a wan smile.
“I suppose so,” Kismet conceded. “But I don’t think we’re going to find what you’re after in here. This looks like it might have been some kind of research facility.”
“Have a little faith, Nick.” Chiron gave his shoulder a paternal squeeze then moved toward the others.
“Faith?” Kismet’s repetition was barely audible and if Chiron heard, he gave no indication. Instead, the Frenchman took the lead, moving purposefully toward the opening, and Kismet had to sprint to head him off. “Pierre, remember. Don’t touch anything. If this was, as I suspect, some kind of weapon’s lab, not only will it probably be wired to a fail-safe, but there might also be some nasty things laying about.”
Chiron raised his hands by way of reply, but the meaning of the gesture was uncertain. Kismet shook his head again, then moved through the open portal. The lintel of the steel doorway concealed an overhead panel designed to drop like the blade of a guillotine and seal the chamber beyond. The thickness of the steel panel, a good thirty centimeters, was more than a little unnerving.Whether it was meant to keep something out or prevent something from escaping, Kismet knew he did not want to be caught on the wrong side of that door if it closed.
There proved to be little reason to continue beyond the threshold. The chamber was impassible, almost completely filled with a haphazard arrangement of metal vats. Some of the enormous containers were secured to floor along the perimeter, but most had simply been shoved in hastily. Kismet instantly recognized the tanks and divined their diabolical purpose.
“Well, either we’ve stumbled upon Saddam’s
answer to Anhauseur-Busch…” He trailed off in response to the blank looks he was receiving from his comrades. “They’re fermenters,” he explained. “A sealed environment where bacterial cultures can thrive and propagate. You use them in the final stage of brewing beer.”
Chiron nodded in dawning comprehension. “Ah, of course. Dual-use technology.”
“Exactly. You can also grown and harvest any number of bacteriological strains. Anthrax comes to mind.”
“Then this is a bio-weapons laboratory,” Marie gasped. “This is what UNMOVIC was looking for: proof of an ongoing program for weapons of mass destruction.”
Kismet glanced around again. “I’m not sure ‘laboratory’ is the right word. It doesn’t look like any of the equipment has ever been used. More likely this is the hole they shoved everything into so that the inspectors wouldn’t find anything.”
“Still, this would qualify as…what is your expression? A smoking gun, n’est pas?”
“That’s not for us to say,” reproved Chiron, but his tone and expression were distracted, as though the discovery was inconveniently timed. “But rest assured, we will report this to the correct agency. Come, let us continue looking. If they were using this place to hide secrets, then we may yet find the object of our search.”
The Frenchman again led the charge, forcing Kismet to hasten to catch up. The second opening, like the first, was equipped with an emergency gate. Beyond the doorway however, the scene was markedly different. The enclosure seemed to be a general storage area, and was cluttered with wooden crates and hard plastic shipping containers. The cartons rose before them like a wall, almost completely blocking access to the room beyond. Many of the boxes were stamped with stenciled Cyrillic characters, but a few were easier to decipher, with descriptions written in French, German and English. Without exception, the painted letters indicated the contents of the containers to be military munitions. A random inspection revealed only packing dunnage. “Just empty boxes,” Kismet observed. “Either this stuff was passed on to army units before the war, or it’s being stockpiled somewhere else by insurgents.”