Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke

by Martin Caidin

  “What?”

  “Go ahead, Austin. The sooner you’re aware that you are bound with cable and that breaking loose is impossible, the sooner we will get out matters settled.”

  Cable, all right. He strained, twisted. Just enough. Then he slumped.

  “How long have Sam Franks and Pentronics been working for the American government?” She was obviously fishing.

  “You know the man longer than I do. You know he wasn’t working for—”

  “Please, Colonel.”

  “But you said you believed Sam was working for the American government. That’s ridiculous. If they ever get their hands on him they’ll—”

  “Austin, we are wasting time and words. You know what we learned of your friend Schiller and his connection with the CIA. We have reason to believe there’s much more to your relationship with OSO than we can prove. We know you have spent time with a man by the name of Oscar Goldman. And Goldman is the right arm of Jackson McKay. Certain things are obvious. We are convinced you were sent by your government to bring Sam Franks back into service. And the entire Pentronics organization with him. And very convenient that would be for the American government.”

  “Convenient?”

  “Pentronics is well known to certain political leaders, to governments, to industrial groups. It is a lethal power, dangerous in its own right. But most important is that it is known. With Sam Franks working again for the American government, Pentronics becomes a most valuable instrument for the United States. With the scars of Vietnam so deep in your people, they would hardly agree to any more similar wars. Yet the United States must interfere in the affairs of other governments. I admit it’s an excellent arrangement. Pentronics is recognized for what it is—an international paramilitary organization. But with a key operative in your employ, it can do things for the U.S. it wouldn’t dare do itself. And without fingers being pointed. What we do not know, however, is if and when you succeeded in your mission—”

  “Oleg, for God’s sake,” he broke in, “if all this were true, then what the hell am I doing playing nursemaid to this damned bomb?” He nodded toward the metal case in the room. “That thing is real. You must believe that. It’s thirty-two megatons waiting to go off, and if we were playing games with Franks I sure as hell wouldn’t be here.”

  She studied him for a moment before speaking. “There are ways to—”

  Screech.

  The signal knifed through her words, froze her where she stood. She moved around the bomb and stared at the flashing red light, then turned to Steve bound to his chair.

  “How much time is there?”

  “Here’s your chance, Oleg, to go out in a blaze of glory.”

  The needle gun almost leaped into her hand.

  Steve laughed. “Just what are you going to do with that thing? Go ahead, pull the trigger. You’ll be there with me soon enough.”

  The gun was slowly returned to her purse. “I do not think so. If the bomb goes off, then this city dies. And everyone with it. I will wait.”

  “Checkmate,” he said. Since he was immobilized, he had to give her the numbered sequence or risk blowing up Atlanta. “The numbers. Two, nine, four. In that sequence. Don’t get excited. You’d never get away in time.”

  She moved to the panel and punched the buttons. The tone went silent and the steady green light came on. “When does it happen again?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “It is enough.” She went quickly to the large footlocker with the tools and electrical equipment. He watched her in silence, glad he’d given no demonstration of his true strength. Not even the cables could hold him, he felt sure, but any struggle on his part to break free could hardly be successful before poisoned darts would be pumping into his body. And now that she had the numbered code for the bomb, to prevent detonation, she had no need to keep him alive—except for whatever information she felt she still had to get from him. At least there was no hope for her to punch the numbers on the bomb panel and still have enough time to escape. Twenty minutes would barely be sufficient and—

  Unless she had a helicopter ready close by—

  He cursed himself. She could have bought all the time she needed. And if she did have a chopper standing by then she could get from him what she needed, and leave in plenty of time to escape even the thermonuclear lash of that unholy device in the room with them.

  It struck him that his strength, God-given or man-created through his bionics systems, was of no real use to him. Michèle Oleg was something. She had managed to outwit Sam Franks and Jonathan Sperry and Hiroshi Kuto. Not to mention himself. She was a superb undercover agent, a practiced mime, a fighter pilot and, he was reasonably sure, had equal skills in electronics, weapons and God knew what else. He also had first-hand knowledge that she was a killer, and the only thing keeping him alive at this moment was that she believed she needed information from him more than she needed him dead.

  Which, he knew, was a short-lived situation.

  She knelt in front of him. With deft movement she stripped the ends off two electrical wires, secured the open wire to small alligator clips. The other end of the wire she connected to an electrical plug. Not a word was spoken by her. Steve remained silent, all too aware of what she intended. She busied herself for ten minutes, glancing occasionally at her watch. She was waiting when the tone signal and red light activated. She hit the buttons in sequence. Green shone steady.

  She stood, holding the wire end with the clips. “Is this going to be necessary?” Her voice was flat. He looked away.

  A knife in her hand, she bent, slashed away a trousers leg, tossed aside the fabric. One glance at his face and the knife swung.

  He felt the sharp, stabbing sensation of bionics-related pain. He looked down. Oleg had slashed deep into the plastiskin of his right leg. She cut again, tearing away the plastiskin to expose the intricate systems.

  The alligator clips went into the leg, were fastened to the bionics nerves. She went across the room. He strained to keep control.

  She plugged in the other end of the wire.

  A savage jolt went through his body, exploded in his brain. He had no control, no knowledge of what he was going to do. His body trembled violently.

  My God! The pain . . . impossible . . . I never knew . . .

  She removed the plug and he gasped for air, on the edge of uncontrollable muscle spasms.

  Before he could think she plugged in again. His body writhed with agony searing his brain. He felt his muscles standing rigid as steel. His heart pounded and he knew not much more could kill him.

  A third time she plugged in again. Through the horror he tried to think.

  “Enough!” he gasped, slumping in the chair. He could hardly breathe, fought for self-control, gasping. His tongue protruded and he tried to bring it back. He closed his eyelids, trying to calm himself.

  She knew her business. Nothing personal, of course.

  “Is it enough?” He opened his eyes. She sat before him, legs crossed. He nodded quickly, the picture of a man who can’t take any more. And it wasn’t an act.

  “Are you recruiting Franks for your government? Also Pentronics?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, Colonel Austin? It is so much easier this way, don’t you agree?”

  He nodded.

  “To whom do you report?”

  “Same office.”

  “Be specific, Colonel. I’d hate to—”

  “OSO,” he said quickly.

  “I thought so. It really is McKay, again.”

  He nodded, watching her glance again at her watch. She sat quietly for a minute, and he was grateful for the reprieve. He felt his strength coming back, and he knew no matter what he must not let that wire be plugged in again. The minute passed and the tone signal stabbed into his ears.

  Already? Where did the time go—

  She pushed the buttons and returned to the seat in front of him. “We are off to a good start,” she said. “How do you
report?”

  “Telephone, if safe. Or in person, if possible.”

  “Have you been in touch with OSO lately?”

  He shook his head. “No chance.”

  “The number, please.”

  He told her the OSO office number.

  “Not that one. That is in the confidential phone directory. Everyone has that. I hope we will not need—”

  “No. I didn’t know what you meant. It’s 858-6421. That’s the direct line for McKay.”

  “You are certain?”

  “I’m sure. Look, if you don’t believe me why don’t you—”

  “When I dial that number, if it is not the private line to McKay . . .” She looked at the wire still clamped to his bionics leg.

  “I swear it’s the number . . .”

  Disgust showed on her face. “If there is one thing I cannot tolerate, Austin, it’s a coward!”

  “Please. It’s the truth!”

  She rose to her feet.

  That’s it, Michèle. Just go to that telephone. Make that call. Make it . . .

  He would crawl or kiss her feet so long as she went to that phone and—

  She stopped and turned to him. “In just over one hour and ten minutes from now this bomb will explode. There will be no stopping it. Certainly you will be in no position to do so. Even if I wished to stop the explosion it is beyond my control. The radio signal to detonate the bomb will be sent automatically. No one need be there. We will have no more than another ten minutes together and then you will have another hour by yourself before it is over.” She glanced at the phone. “But if you have been lying to me you will, as you now understand, spend a most unpleasant last hour.”

  “Just call!”

  She went to the phone and lifted the receiver. Slowly, holding the telephone to her ear, ready not to miss a single click or sound, she dialed the Washington area code and started the number.

  He felt the sweat down his neck as the sounds of the telephone dial seemed to fill the room.

  Five digits.

  Six.

  The dial came around on the seventh number.

  The explosion went through the room. Something warm and moist was across his face. Ears hammering from the blast, he opened his eyes.

  She was still upright, and he watched, stared, as her body collapsed to the floor.

  For a long moment it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. His mind was partly there, in the room, but he also had a phantom view of a silvery MiG-21 rolling gracefully against a deep blue sky, and there was this strange, unbidden sense of loss—

  The feeling was abruptly gone as he felt something warm trickling down his face, and he knew it was her—not his—blood. He looked at the form on the floor. Reality pounded back at him.

  Sam had finally done him a favor . . .

  And now what, he thought. Little more than an hour before the bomb went off. If the negotiations didn’t work out as Sam planned. And if Oleg was right, the bomb was set to go anyway. Who to believe? Steve didn’t know, but he did know he’d better work on the most dismal premise—which was . . .

  Little more than an hour to go before the bomb went off—provided he still kept pushing the right buttons.

  The tone signal stabbed at him.

  Five minutes.

  CHAPTER 22

  The sound galvanized him into action. He took deep breaths, balanced himself as well as he could, and began to strain. He felt the cables pressing deeply into his arms, one human and one bionic.

  Another deep breath, and a tremendous effort to snap the cables or break them free from their knots.

  He gasped with the sudden pain.

  It wasn’t working.

  The realization stunned him. Then he understood. The left arm had ten times the strength of his right. But when he strained his arms and the bionics limb exerted its pressure, the right arm couldn’t stand the biting effect of the cable. Well before the cable snapped it would cut open his flesh and tear apart the arm itself.

  Your legs . . . Use your legs.

  Of course. He braced carefully, and strained.

  The cable seemed to stretch. But only barely. He tried again, this time thrusting with his legs—side to side, back and forth.

  The cables held.

  Time was rushing away. He couldn’t break the cables. Not enough power left in that leg where she’d cut it open. He glanced down at the wire still leading from his bionics limb where she’d slashed it naked. He’d try both feet on the floor, get the weight on the balls of the feet.

  He almost cried out. The feedback from his slashed bionics leg was being interpreted by his natural system as a mutilated part of itself and danger signals—pain—were building up rapidly inside him.

  He threw everything into downward pressure, trying to jump. The mangled leg gave him only partial performance, but the left leg was strong as ever.

  He left the floor in a ludicrous hop-and-jump and twisted his body wildly as he felt the upward movement.

  When he came down it was at a crazy angle. But it was working.

  One chair leg came down with a splintering crack.

  It split, then broke.

  His right leg was still clamped rigidly.

  But not the left. He’d do it again.

  He braced himself. Balance. That was everything.

  All the weight was now on the left leg. This was the one that counted.

  Again that ridiculous lunge off the floor. He came down with a jarring crash. More wood splintered. He was on his side and kicked wildly. Wood broke into pieces.

  The cable was loose now.

  Staggering, he made it to his feet. But his arms were still bound. Had the cables loosened? Barely. He could move his fingers. It would have to do.

  He stumbled to the bomb, stared at the flashing red light. He’d forgotten all about the screeching sound that had gouged into his brain all these hours. He looked at the numbers. They were set up in the manner of a touch-dial telephone:

  1 2 3

  4 5 6

  7 8 9

  0

  He turned his back, tried to lean backward so his fingers could reach the numbers. Remember, he told himself, it’s all reverse now. He groped, his right arm numb. One number; the second; the third.

  He turned around.

  The yellow light was on.

  Three times his fingers groped, pushed.

  The tone signal. Yellow light stared at him as he turned.

  He refused to think. Turn.

  Feel the numbers.

  Two.

  Down to the bottom. That single number.

  Nine.

  One more, one more . . .

  There’s the first row. Now the second. There . . .

  Four.

  Silence.

  The relief almost gagged him. He sucked in air, told himself to be careful, not to hyperventilate. To take it slow, easy. Fifteen minutes before the next sequence . . .

  It took him five more minutes to wriggle free from the cables around his arms. Everything revolved around the fact that if it was to happen, a VHF signal would be used to detonate the bomb. Well, he’d handled enough nukes to disarm the thing. He’d done that before and—

  Don’t.

  There were built-in safeties that set off an internal explosive charge to wreck the bomb if someone tampered with it. He needed special tools. And if he knew Sam Franks, that normal disarm mechanism would do just the opposite of what anyone planned. It would most likely set off the nuclear weapon itself.

  What to do? Punching numbers every fifteen minutes was a career that soon wouldn’t have any meaning to it. At the least, failure to immobilize the device would leave Sam’s enormous blackmail ploy intact.

  Somehow he had to block that radio signal. There was no other way.

  Back to basics. He forced himself to think calmly. What he had to do was to attenuate the signal. To damp it out so completely that the VHF signal, or even a UHF signal, couldn’t get through to the bom
b.

  Remember: an antenna does not receive signals. It’s a passive device. Signals are sent to it. An antenna is a dumb creature. If you put it under the ground it doesn’t work well. Why? You’re attenuating the signal and it can’t get through to that dumb, waiting antenna.

  Well, he couldn’t get the bomb below the ground. And the antenna was built in as an integral part of the bomb casing. His problem would have to be solved right where he was.

  Okay, next. The next best thing was to cover the antenna with any conducting material that could be placed at ground potential, in other words, ground it.

  The VHF/UHF signal is a tight frequency. It does not penetrate the earth. Or water.

  Water?

  Oh, God . . . Of course!

  Sam had said they could be in the house a week. Even two weeks. Sam was a planner, a stickler for detail. He had the kitchen stocked. Well stocked. Which wouldn’t mean just food and liquids.

  He dragged his way into the kitchen, tearing open cupboards. There . . . beautiful. Nothing like being efficient.

  Three rolls of aluminum foil. He brought the packages back into the living room. He stopped for a moment, dropped the packages. He had to get the bomb into the bathroom. But the thing weighed some two hundred pounds. With that leg . . . what did he do now? He’d try. He’d better . . .

  It was shove and push and strain. He went back to the tool locker. A long plumber’s wrench. It would do. He managed to lift the bomb sufficiently to get the long wrench beneath. That gave him leverage. It took nearly ten minutes but by then he had the bomb in the bathroom.

  The red light.

  That signal.

  The buttons.

  Less than forty-five minutes.

  He had to get the bomb into the bathtub.

  He went to his knees, his right leg jerking spasmodically as he began to apply pressure. The wrench let him get his finger underneath. The side of the bomb was against the smooth facing of the tub.

  Pain moved through his thigh and into his hip.

  Move.

  He got his left arm under the bomb. He used his human arm for balance. He heaved with all his strength. The huge case came up, balanced on the edge of the tub. He slid it down with a crash.

  He slumped over, breathing hard, elated.