Down? “How far down?” she asked.
“Below the surface? Not far. This lot is all built up on reclaimed land—if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She nodded. “Suppose it’s not deep at all, in fairyland. Suppose it’s on the surface. They could just waltz in and plant a bomb. Nobody would notice?”
“It’s not that simple,” said Dr. Rand, taking her by surprise. “Let’s get you a hard hat and jacket and head down to the site.”
“You’ve already opened it up?” she demanded.
“Not yet, we were waiting for you.” He grinned unnervingly. “Step this way.”
All railway stations—like all public buildings—have two faces. One face, the one Herz was familiar with, was the one that welcomed commuters every day: down the stairs into the MBTA station, through the ticket hall and the steps or ramps down to the platforms where the Blue Line trains and Green Line streetcars thundered and squealed. The other face was the one familiar to the MBTA workers who kept the system running. Narrow corridors and cramped offices up top, anonymous doors leading into dusty, ill-lit engineering spaces down below, and then the trackside access, past warning signs and notices informing the public that they endangered both their lives and their wallets if they ventured past them. “Follow me, sir, ma’am,” said the MBTA transit cop Rand was using as an escort. “It’s this way.”
From one end of a deserted Blue Line platform—its entrance sealed off by police tape, the passengers diverted to a different part of the station—he led them down a short ramp onto the trackside. Herz glanced up. The roof of the tunnel was concrete, but it was also flat, a giveaway sign of cut and cover construction: there couldn’t be much soil up there. Then she focused on following the officer as he led them alongside the tracks and then through an archway to the side.
“Wow.” Judith glanced around in the gloom. “This is it?” Someone had strung a bunch of outdoor inspection lamps along the sixty-foot stretch of platform that started at shoulder height beside her. It was almost ankle-deep in dirt, the walls filthy.
“No, it’s down here,” said Lucius, pointing.
She followed his finger down, and realized with a start that the platform wasn’t solid—it was built up on piles. The darkness below seemed almost palpable. She bent down, pulling her own flashlight out. “Where am I supposed to be looking?” she asked. “And has anyone been under here yet?”
“One moment,” said Rand. “Officer, would you mind going back up for the rest of my team? Tell Mary Wang that I want her to bring the spectroscope with her.”
Herz half-expected the cop to object to leaving two civilians down here on their own, but evidently someone had got to him: he mumbled an acknowledgment and set off immediately, leaving them alone.
“No, nobody’s been under there yet,” said Rand. “That’s why you’re here. You mentioned that the person behind this incident had some disturbing habits involving trip wires, didn’t you? We’re going to take this very slowly.”
“Good,” said Herz, suppressing an involuntary shudder.
The next half hour passed slowly, as half a dozen members of Rand’s team made their way down to the platform with boxes of equipment in hand. Wang arrived first, wheeling a metal flight case trailing a length of electrical cable behind. She was petite, so short that the case nearly reached her shoulders. “Let’s see where it is,” she said encouragingly, then proceeded to shepherd the case along the platform at a snail’s pace, pausing every meter or so to take readings, which she marked on the platform using a spray can.
“Where do you make it?” Rand asked her.
“I think it’s under there.” She pointed to a spot about two thirds of the way down the platform, near the rear wall. “I just want to double-check the emission strength and recalibrate against the reference sample.”
Rand glanced at Herz and pulled a face. “Granite,” he said. “Plays hell with our instruments because it’s naturally radioactive.”
“But Boston isn’t built on—”
“No, but where did the gravel in the aggregate under the platform come from? Or the dye on those tiles?” His gesture took in the soot-smudged rear wall. “Or the stones in the track ballast?”
“But granite—”
“It’s not the only problem we’ve got,” Rand continued, in tones of relish that suggested he was missing the classroom: “Would you believe, bananas? Lots of potassium in bananas. You put a bunch of bananas next to a gamma source and a scattering spectrometer on the other side and they can fool you into thinking you’re staring at a shipping container full of yellowcake. So we’ve got to go carefully.” Wang and a couple of assistants were hauling her balky boxful of sensors over the platform again, peering at the instrument panel on top with the aid of a head-mounted flashlight.
“It’s here!” she called, pointing straight down. “Whatever it is,” she added conversationally, “but it sure looks like a pit to me. Lots of HEU in there. Could have come right out of one of our own storage facilities, it’s so sharp.”
“Nice work.” Rand eased himself down at the side of the platform and lowered himself to the track bed. He looked up at Herz. “Want to come and see for yourself? Hey, Jack, get yourself over here!”
Judith jumped down to the track bed beside him. Her hands felt clammy. Is this it? she asked herself. The sense of momentous events, of living through history, ran damp fingertips up and down her spine. “Watch out,” she warned.
“No problem, ma’am.” Rand’s associate, Jack, had an indefinite air about him that made her think, Marine Corps: but not the dumb stereotype kind. “Let’s start by looking for lights.”
Another half hour crept by as Jack—and another three specialists, experts in bomb disposal and booby traps—checked from a distance to ensure there were no surprises. “There are no wires, sir,” Jack finally reported to Dr. Rand. “No IR beams either, far as I can tell. Just a large trunk over against the wall, right where Mary said.”
The hair on Judith’s neck rose. It’s real, she admitted to herself. “Okay, let’s take a closer look,” said Rand. And without further ado, he dropped down onto hands and knees and shuffled under the platform. Herz blinked for a moment, then followed his example. At least I won’t have to worry about the dry-cleaning bill if Jack’s wrong, part of her mind whispered.
Jack had set up a couple of lanterns around the trunk. Close up, down between the pillars supporting the platform, it didn’t look like much. But Rand seemed entranced. “That’s our puppy all right!” He sounded as enthusiastic as a plane spotter who’d managed to photograph the latest black silhouette out at Groom Lake.
“What exactly is it?” Herz asked warily.
“Looks like an FADM to me. An enhanced storage version of the old SSADM, based on the W54 pit. Don’t know what it’s doing here, but someone is going to catch it in the neck over this. See that combination lock there?” He pointed. “It’s closed. And, wait…” He fell silent for a few seconds. “Got it. Did you see that red flash? That’s the arming indicator. It blinks once a minute while the device is live. This one’s live. There’s a trembler mechanism and a tamper alarm inside the casing. Try to move it or crack it open and the detonation master controller will dump the core safety ballast and go to detonate immediately.” He fell silent again.
“Does ‘detonate immediately’ mean what I think it means?” asked Herz. It’s been here for months, it’s not going to go off right away, she told herself, trying to keep a lid on her fear.
“Yes, it probably does.” Dr. Rand sounded distracted. “Hmm, this is an interesting one. I need to think about it for a while.”
You need to—Herz wrenched herself back on track. “What happens now?” she asked.
“Let’s go up top,” suggested Rand.
“Okay.” They scrambled backwards until they reached the track bed, and could stand up. “Well?” she asked.
“I got its serial number,” Rand said happily. “Now we can cross-check against
the inventory and see where it came from. If it’s on the books, and if we can trust the books, then we can just requisition the PAL combination and open it up, at which point there’s a big red OFF switch, sort of.” A shadow crossed his face: “Of course, if it’s a ghost device, like the big lump of instant sunshine you stumbled across in Cambridge, we might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble? Tell me everything. I’ve got to tell the colonel.”
“Well…” Rand glanced from side to side, ensuring nobody else was within earshot. “If it’s just a pony nuke that’s been stolen from our own inventory, then we can switch it off, no problem. Then we get medieval on whoever let it go walkabout. But you remember the big one? That wasn’t in our inventory, although it came off the same production line. If this is the same, well, I hope it isn’t, because that would mean hostiles have penetrated our current warhead production line, and that’s not supposed to be possible. And we won’t have the permissive action lock keys to deactivate it. So the best we can hope for is a controlled explosion.”
“A controlled—” Herz couldn’t help herself: her voice rose to an outraged squeal—“explosion?”
“Please, calm down! It’s not as bad as it sounds. We know the geometry of the device, where the components sit in the casing. These small nukes are actually very delicate—if the explosive lens array around the pit goes off even a microsecond or two out of sequence, it won’t implode properly. No implosion, no nuclear reaction. So what happens is, we position an array of high-speed shaped charges around it and blow holes in the implosion assembly. Worst case, we get a fizzle—it squirts out white-hot molten uranium shrapnel from each end, and a burst of neutrons. But no supercriticality, no mushroom cloud in downtown Boston. We’ve got time to plan how to deal with it, so before we do that we pour about a hundred tons of barium-enriched concrete around it and hollow out a blast pit under the gadget to contain the fragments.” He grinned. “But these gadgets don’t grow on trees. I’m betting that your mysterious extradimensional freaks stole it from our inventory. In which case, all I need to do is make a phone call to the right people, and they give me a number, and—” he snapped his fingers “—it’s a wrap.”
“But you forgot one thing,” Judith said slowly.
“Oh, yes?” Rand looked interested.
“Before you do anything, I want you to dust for fingerprints around the lock,” she said, barely believing her own words. “And you’d better hope we find prints from source GREENSLEEVES. Because if not…”
“I don’t under—”
She raised a hand. “If these people have stolen one nuke, who’s to say they haven’t stolen others?” She looked him in the eye and saw the fear beginning to take hold. “We might have found Matt’s blackmail weapon. But this isn’t over until we know that there aren’t any others missing.”
Rudi hung above the forest with the wind in his teeth, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face (what little of it wasn’t numb with cold) and the engine of the ultralight sawing along behind his left ear like the world’s largest hornet. The airframe buzzed and shuddered, wires humming, but the vibration was acceptable and everything was holding together about as well as he’d hoped for. Unlike a larger or more sophisticated airplane, the trike was simple and light enough for one world-walker to shift in a week of spare time: and now Rudi was reaping his reward for all the headaches, upsets, reprimands, and other cold-sweat moments he’d put into it. “On top of the world!” He yelled at the treetops a thousand feet below him. “Yes!”
The sky was as empty as a dead man’s skull; the sun burned down, casting sharp shadows over his right shoulder. Hanging below the triangular wing, with nothing below his feet but a thin fiberglass shell, Rudi could almost imagine that he was flying in his own body, not dangling from a contraption of aluminum and nylon powered by a jumped-up lawn mower engine. Of course, letting his imagination get away from him was not a survival-enhancing move up here, a thousand feet above the forests that skirted the foothills of the Appalachians in this world—but he could indulge his senses for a few seconds between instrument checks and map readings, saving the precious memories for later.
“Is that the Wergat or the Ostwer?” he asked himself, seeing the glint of open water off to the northwest. He checked his compass, then glanced at the folded map. One advantage of using an ultralight: with an airspeed of fifty-five, tops, you didn’t wander off the page too fast. A few minutes later he got it pinned down. “It’s the Ostwer all right,” he told himself, penciling a loose ellipse on the map—his best estimate of his position, accurate to within a couple of miles. “Hmm.” He pushed gently on the control bar, keeping one eye on the air speed indicator as he began to climb.
The hills and rivers of the western reaches of the Gruinmarkt spread out below Rudi like a map. Over the next half hour he crawled towards the winding tributary river—it felt like a crawl, even though he was traveling twice as fast as any race-bred steed could gallop—periodically scanning the landscape with his binoculars. Roads hereabout were little more than dirt tracks, seldom visible from above the trees, but a large body of men left signs of their own.
That’s odd. He was nearly two thousand feet up, and a couple of miles short of the Ostwer—glancing over his left shoulder at a thin haze of high cloud that looked to be moving in—when a bright flash on the ground caught his eye. He stared for a moment, then picked up his binoculars.
Out towards the bend in the river—after the merger that produced the Wergat, where the trees thinned out and the buildings and walls and fields of Wergatfurt sprouted—something flashed. And there was smoke over the town, a thin smudge of dirty brown that darkened the sky, like a latrine dug too close to a river. “Hmm.” Rudi leaned sideways, banking gently to bring the trike round onto a course towards the smoke, still climbing (there was no sense in overflying trouble at low altitude on one engine), and took a closer look with his binoculars.
He was still several miles out, but he was close enough to recognize trouble when he saw it. The city gates were open, and one guardhouse was on fire—the source of the smoke.
“Rudi here, Pappa One, do you read?”
The reply took a few seconds to crackle in his earpiece: “Pappa One, we read.”
“Overflying Wergatfurt, got smoke on the ground, repeat, smoke. Guardhouse is on fire. Over.”
“Pappa One to Rudi, please repeat, over.”
“Stand by…”
Minutes passed, as Rudi checked his position against the river, and buzzed ever closer to the town and the palace three miles beyond it. The smoke was still rising as Rudi closed on the town, now at three thousand feet, safely out of range of arrows. He looked down, peering through binoculars, at a scene of chaos.
“Rudi here, Pappa One. Confirm trouble in Wergatfurt, cavalry force, battalion level or stronger. Cannon emplaced in town square, northeast guard tower on fire, tents outside city walls. Now heading towards Hjalmar Palace, over.”
“Pappa One, Rudi, please confirm number of troops, over.”
Rudi looked down. A flash caught his eye, then another one.
“Rudi here, am under fire from Wergatfurt, departing in haste, over.” His hands were clammy. Even though none of the musketry could possibly reach him, it was unnerving to be so exposed. He pulled back on the bar to nose gently down, gathering speed: the sooner he checked out the palace and got the hell away from this area, the happier he’d be.
Tracking up the shining length of the river, Rudi headed towards the concentric walls of the castle overlooking the Wergat. The Hjalmar Palace was an enormous complex, sprawling across a hillside, surrounded on three sides by water. It stood in plain sight, proud of the trees that clothed the land around it. Rudi raised his glasses and stared at the walls. From a mile out, it looked perfectly normal. Certainly the cannon stationed in Wergatsfurt hadn’t bitten any chunks out of those walls yet.
“Pappa One, Rudi, update please, over.”
“Rudi here. Approachi
ng Hjalmar Palace at two five hundred feet. Looks quiet. Over.”
“Pappa One, Rudi, be advised palace has missed two watch rotations, over. Be alert for—”
Rudi missed the rest. Down below, sparks were flashing from the gatehouse. Startled, he let go of the binoculars and threw himself to the left, side-slipping away from the tower. A faint crackling sound reached his ears, audible over the buzz of the engine. “Rudi, Pappa One, am under fire from the palace, over.” He leaned back to the right, feeling a bullet pluck at the fabric of his wing. This shouldn’t be happening, he told himself, disbelieving: the altimeter was still showing two thousand feet. How are they reaching me? A horrible suspicion took hold. “Pappa One, Rudi, they’ve got—shit!”
For a moment he glanced down at the shattered casing of the radio, blinking stupidly. Then he leaned forward, trying to squeeze every shuddering mile per hour that was available out of the airframe, fuming and swearing at himself for not bringing a spare transceiver.
His unwelcome news—that whoever had taken the Hjalmar Palace had also taken its heavy machine guns, and knew how to use them—would now be delayed until he returned to Castle Hjorth.
It took them two hours to stagger back up the track to the waypoints blazed on the trees, and another half hour to reach the marked transit point. Walking in near-darkness with early flakes of snow whirling around them wasn’t Huw’s idea of a happy fun vacation: but his sense of urgency pushed him on, even though he was halfway to exhaustion. We’ve got to tell someone about this, he kept reminding himself. Important didn’t begin to describe the significance of the door into nowhere. We might not be the only people who can world-walk—or even the most effective at it.
Eventually he staggered into the clearing where they’d pitched the tent—now a dark hump against a darker backdrop of trees, lonely and small in the nighttime forest. “You ready?” he asked Yul.
“I think you should go first, bro,” his brother rumbled. “You’re the one who understands that stuff.”
“Yes but—” He made a snap decision: “—Follow me at once, both of you. We can recover the camp later if we need to. I may need witnesses to back me up.”
The Merchants’ War tmp-4 Page 33