Section 8

by Bob Mayer

  Moreno grimaced as he pushed through a spiny bush. The Americans lied. They bombed and invaded at will, yet acted like they were protecting the world.

  Moreno paused in the cover of the bushes as four pairs of men crawled up to the fence and began snipping the links with bolt cutters. He looked left and right and was satisfied that his flank security sections were doing exactly as they had been trained. There was no sign of any guard, which he found surprising and a bit disconcerting. He could not believe the Americans would leave what was supposed to be in the bunker unguarded. Had the intelligence they’d bought at such great price been wrong?

  They made four holes in the fence. The lead scouts crawled through. Moreno forced himself to hold back and let the scouts do their job. A minute passed. Another. Then a dark figure reappeared near the fence, gesturing. Moreno led the rest of the force out of the bushes and through the fence. The force deployed around the bunker as he and four men went to the large steel doors.

  It was as the source had said. A lock was bolted in place on a thick hasp. One of the men shrugged off a backpack and removed a bottle of powerful acid. The others stepped back as the man donned a breathing mask, then opened the bottle and began to drip the acid on the lock. They had timed this on the same grade and amount of steel, and it would take fifteen minutes. But it was quiet, as opposed to the quick work an explosive charge would make of the lock.

  As one poured the acid, other men checked the outside of the doors, searching for any alarm systems. There were none. The arrogance of the lack of security systems only played into what Moreno already believed about the Americans.

  He could feel the tension mounting among his men as each minute passed. They had expected to meet at least one guard. If there were none posted, then there was a good chance there would be a roving patrol. The last thing they needed was gunfire or any sort of alarm to be given. Everything relied on stealth. Moreno’s men were all armed with suppressed weapons, but the guards would certainly not be. One shot and the plan would unravel. There were contingencies, but Moreno preferred not to have to use them.

  With a startling clank the lock fell off.

  Moreno and the others stepped forward. One man slid open the hasp, then grabbed the handles for the heavy doors. With a slight squeak of protest, the doors swung wide open. The interior of the bunker was pitch-black. Half of the group edged in, the other half staying outside. The doors swung shut and flashlights were turned on.

  Moreno let out a slight sigh, not enough to be noticed by others, but enough to release the tension that had been building ever since he noted there was no guard on the bunker. The target was there, the only object in the large cavernous space. Set on a cart were four large, stainless steel canisters, each five feet high and two feet in diameter. Prominently displayed on the side of each was the warning triangle for a deadly chemical agent.

  The U.S. government had long claimed it had destroyed all toxic agents in its inventory at the plant here on Johnston Atoll. As with many other things, Moreno knew for certain now that it was a lie. In those four canisters was a classified nerve agent, a variation of the extremely dangerous VX, which had been designated ZX.

  He directed his special handling teams forward. Four men to each canister. They removed the four canisters and placed them on stretchers. They strapped the canisters down and gathered near the large doors. The flashlights were turned off, the doors opened, and the group exited.

  They carefully made their way through the holes in the fence and back to the Zodiacs. The rubber boats were shoved off and they headed back toward the submarine. There was still no sign of any alarm being raised.

  Moreno sat in the bow of the lead boat staring at the steel canister that rested in the center of it. Not only was information about ZX a highly held secret, the fact that it had been developed before its sister agent, VX, was something very few people were privy to. According to most sources, VX was developed in 1952 by the British. In fact, ZX was developed in early 1945 by the Japanese at Unit 731. The formula for it was appropriated by the Americans when they gathered several of the lead scientists from 731 under the auspices of Operation Paper Clip. The information was shared by the Americans with the British, who developed a less lethal version they designated VX.

  All this information had been gained by the Abu Sayef at great expense and effort. Bribery, torture, and murder had blazed a trail to these truths. While VX was considered by many to be the most lethal chemical agent in the world, it had half the lethality of ZX. Anyone exposed to just five milligrams of ZX died. Each of these canisters contained the potential for two million lethal doses. What made ZX very different and much more dangerous than VX—besides the higher lethality—was while the latter was in liquid form and difficult to make into a gas, ZX was already in a compressed gas state inside the tubes.

  They arrived at the submarine, and looking toward shore, saw no sign of any alert or activity. With great care they hauled the canisters on deck. They slid three of them through the deck hatch into the sub, securing them in the forward torpedo room in place of the longer weapons. Moreno remained on deck with the fourth. Where a three-inch gun had once been bolted, there was now a device that resembled a gun with an oversized barrel that flared out to a four-foot-wide nozzle.

  The fourth canister was slid into a rack at the base of the erstwhile gun placement and tied down. Moreno then ordered everyone else off the deck except one man. He was their chemical expert and wore a protective suit and mask. The man glanced at Moreno, waiting for him to leave also. The elder man shook his head. He wanted to set an example and make sure everything was done exactiy right. He gestured for the expert to continue.

  The man shrugged, then connected a hose to the back of the tube. As he was doing this, Moreno climbed up the outside of the conning tower and took his position on the small space on top. He held onto the railing with one hand as he picked up the mike with the other. He issued orders for the submarine to get under way, setting a course that would bring it closer to the atoll.

  Moreno glanced down at the deck. The expert gave him the thumbs-up.

  When Moreno nodded, the man walked to the bottom of the tower and stripped off the protective suit, then joined him on the bridge. Johnston Atoll was now less than two kilometers away.

  Moreno and the expert went into the sub. “Seal all hatches,” Moreno ordered.

  When the board showed all green, Moreno turned to the expert. “Do it.”

  The man held a small remote. He pressed the red button.

  It was anticlimactic, Moreno thought, as he went to the periscope. The sub was still on the surface. “Turn to course one eight zero, maintain slow,” Moreno ordered.

  He shifted the periscope as the sub turned and ran parallel to the atoll. Moreno could see no sign of the agent being sprayed, so he had to trust that the job had been done right. He glanced at the expert, who was watching a stopwatch.

  His attention back on the periscope, Moreno saw they were now even with the island. He watched as it slowly slid by. He turned the periscope and glanced at the expert. The man clicked the watch and gave a thumbs-up. Moreno looked one more time at Johnston Atoll. Still no sign of anything unusual. He snapped up the handles.

  “Dive,” he ordered. “Course one-one-four degrees, full speed.” He looked at the digital clock in the control room. “We must make the rendezvous in three hours and six minutes exactly.”

  *****

  On Johnston Atoll death came on the air, unseen and odorless. Some of the buildings in the main complex had been designed to handle Level IV contaminants, but these buildings with their complex filtering systems were designed to keep biological and chemical agents inside, not prevent outside agents from entering.

  The first to be affected was the lone guard on duty at the airstrip control tower. The ZX was borne in from the ocean by the wind, carried across the runway. He had been reading a novel while the raid was conducted a kilometer and a half away. He was still reading as the f
irst molecules of ZX arrived. He blinked as he felt unexpected tears form in his eyes. Two seconds later his throat constricted and he gasped for breath. His mind was desperately trying to figure out what was happening as it passed from consciousness to unconsciousness.

  Which was fortunate for him. Every muscle in his body began to convulse as the agent spread, the ZX binding to the acetylcholinesterase enzymes at the end of each synaptic membrane. This made the AChE inactive, which then made it impossible for the nerve endings to stop firing, thus the uncontrolled muscle activity. Which quickly led to paralysis and death as the lungs stopped working.

  All of this happened within thirty seconds.

  The gas floated into the main complex, sucked in by the air-conditioning units in all the buildings and spewed out into the rooms inside. The results were the same. Most of those on the island were contaminated while they slept, and went from sleep to unconsciousness to death in half a minute without any awareness. The few others who were awake had those few moments of awareness that something was wrong. Then they too died.

  Nine hundred sixty civilians and 250 military personnel were dead within five minutes.

  The generators, amply fueled, continued to run, and the lights on the island continued to glow in the darkness.

  Jolo Island

  Vaughn looked up and could see the first stars. He tried to count the days back to the failed raid. He had to assume his brother-in-law’s body was back in the States by now. Most likely even in the ground. A military funeral. And he hadn’t been there for his sister or to pay his respects. He looked up at the shaft still blowing hot air out. The one who was responsible was in there.

  “You all right?” Tai asked.

  Vaughn was startled. He’d forgotten all about his partner. “I wish we hadn’t lost our NVGs on the jump. They’d be real helpful in there.”

  Tai’s dark eyes regarded him for several moments. “What were you really thinking about?”

  “A military funeral.”

  “I don’t think we’ll get one with this outfit.”

  That brought a slight smile to Vaughn’s lips. “Not for us. I plan on us getting out of this in one piece.”

  “That’s a good plan,” Tai said. “Let’s hope everyone else is on the same sheet of music.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tai grabbed her ruck and slid the shoulder straps on. “Nothing.”

  “Ladies first,” Vaughn said.

  “Don’t go bullshit on me now,” Tai snapped.

  In reply, Vaughn grabbed the edge of the tunnel and pulled himself up and in. It was about five feet wide, which meant they couldn’t stand upright but wouldn’t have to crawl. It was made of corrugated metal and sloped upward at about a twenty-degree angle.

  Vaughn pulled his red lens flashlight off his combat vest and clicked it on. The light penetrated ahead as far as he could see, about twenty meters. And the tunnel showed no end at that distance. He felt Tai’s presence behind him. She put her free hand on his shoulder and he began to move forward, crouching slightly.

  He held the MP-5 in one hand and the flashlight in the other. Vaughn tried to keep a pace count as they went up the tunnel but knew it had to be off because of the awkward way he was walking. He estimated they had gone over one hundred meters when the pipe changed angles and went level. The blow of warm air continued unabated as they moved onto the level part and faced their first decision. The large pipe split into two smaller ones, each about four feet in diameter.

  “This keeps up, we’re gonna be on our bellies,” Tai whispered as Vaughn shined the light up each passage. Both went level and straight as far as he could see.

  “Any preference?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, Tai stuck her head in the left tube and cocked her head, listening as she sniffed. Then did the right tube.

  “The air is warmer in this one,” she said, pointing to the right.

  “And?”

  Tai smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know what it means. I was just mentioning it.”

  “That’s a lot of help,” Vaughn muttered. “All right. This way.” He led the way into the warmer tube. The only sound was their boots scraping along the metal and their breathing as they went farther into the mountain. After another fifty meters Vaughn paused. Tai bumped up against him and then also became still.

  There was the slightest of sounds. Rhythmic.

  “Air pump,” Tai finally said.

  Vaughn thought about the information he’d researched on underground bunkers. Where were the intake for the air handlers usually located? Above. That was good, he thought. It was always best to approach an objective with the higher terrain advantage, even if, as in this case, the terrain was inside a mountain. He continued forward, Tai close behind.

  The sound of the air pump grew louder and the blow of air seemed stronger, though Vaughn worried that was just his imagination working overtime. He froze when he saw a metal grate at the far reach of the red light, immediately switching the light off.

  He and Tai waited in the darkness, and gradually they began to see a faint light on the other side of the grate. Vaughn got down on his belly and crawled forward, careful not to make any sound. Tai was right behind him, her face scant inches from his boots.

  The light grew stronger as he got closer to the grate. He arrived at it and peered through. All he could see was a gray plastic tube that curved down. Warm air blew on his face, pumped up into the tube. The light was dimly coming through the plastic. The sound of the air pump was loud now, right ahead of and below them.

  Vaughn scooted as far to one side as he could, and Tai crawled up next to him. Their bodies were pressed together as they considered their situation. Vaughn looked at the grate. The metal strips were only about a quarter inch thick, spaced every three inches or so. He was sure it was designed more to keep animals from coming in than to prevent human entry. He reached out and tugged on it, and the entire thing gave about half an inch. He looked over at Tai and raised his eyebrows in question.

  She nodded and grabbed her side of the grate. Together they pushed inward until the metal gave and then popped loose. Twisting, they slid it over their heads and farther down the tunnel.

  “Hey,” Tai hissed, pointing to the left. Engraved in the metal were Japanese characters and a series of numbers. “So this was built during the war by the Japanese.”

  “Looks like,” Vaughn agreed. He pointed forward. “Take a look. I’ll hold you.”

  Tai scooted forward as Vaughn moved back, wrapping his arms around her thighs. She moved farther into the plastic tube, and he had to exert more effort to keep her from tumbling forward. Finally he felt her pull back and helped her, bringing her back into the steel tube.

  “There’s a damn big fan at the bottom of that thing, about eight feet down from the curve,” Tai reported. “We do not want to go into that.”

  Vaughn slid his knife out of its sheath. She nodded. He moved to the edge and put the tip of the knife against the plastic. Bearing down on it, he broke through the thin material and then began to cut. On the other side, Tai did the same. They met in the middle on the bottom, having severed the lower half of the plastic tube. Securing his knife back in the sheath, Vaughn grabbed the plastic and pushed it open. A dirty tile floor was about twelve feet below their position in a narrow space between the large machine holding the fan and the rock wall. The space was about two feet wide.

  Vaughn moved forward but Tai grabbed his arm. “How do we get back in here?”

  “If we need to leave this way,” he said, “we crab up between the wall and the machine.”

  Tai nodded, and Vaughn edged out, swinging his feet down. His toes scrambled for purchase, one foot on the wall, one on the machine. He flexed his legs, pressing outward, then began his descent. Within seconds he was on the floor. He quickly scooted to the edge of the machine and looked, half expecting to see some sort of custodian or engineer. But the ten-by-twenty-meter cavern was empty. At the far end was a
steel door.

  Tai was right behind Vaughn, weapon at the ready. He nodded toward the door and they moved forward.

  Okinawa

  Sinclair walked into the latrine and heard the sound of vomiting from one of the stalls. He walked over and, given that Kasen and Orson were still in the planning room, knew that it was Hayes occupying the stall.

  “You all right?” Sinclair asked.

  The noise had stopped and now there was a strange silence.

  “Hey?” Sinclair tapped on the door. “Hayes. You okay, man?”

  There was no reply. Cursing, Sinclair pulled his knife out and slid it between the door and the jamb, releasing the latch. The door swung open, revealing Hayes passed out next to the toilet, bloody vomit everywhere.

  “Goddamn,” Sinclair muttered. He reached down and grabbed the man. He pulled him out of the stall and then into the operations room. “Hey! We need a medic.”

  Orson and Kasen ran over as Sinclair put Hayes on one of the planning tables. Sinclair slapped his face a few times and Hayes’s eyes flickered, then opened.

  “What happened?” he muttered.

  “Clean him up,” Orson snapped.

  Sinclair grabbed some paper towels and dabbed off the blood and vomit on Hayes’s face while Kasen offered his canteen. Hayes weakly took the canteen as he sat up, his upper body wobbly. He took a swig, washed it around in his mouth, then spit to the side. Then he took a deep drink.