by Dave Edlund
Peter looked at his surroundings. The room was of moderate size with a row of shelving running down the center of the floor and additional shelving lining all four walls. There was a door at the opposite end of the storeroom in addition to the one they entered through.
“These chemicals are mostly for the undergraduate labs, but some of the graduate research programs also purchase solvents and reagents through the store. In the adjoining room are the glassware, hot plates, and other laboratory supplies, including customized apparatus. We’re fortunate to have a professional glassblower on staff.”
Peter hadn’t really been listening, but this last comment caught his attention. “Glassblower. Let’s take a look.”
Dmitri led Peter through the far door and into the adjacent room. This time he stuffed a lab coat at the threshold of the outer door before turning on the lights. This room was even larger than the chemical supply room, and in the center was a long, charcoal-gray counter. Peter tapped it with his fist. “Soap stone.”
An array of gas torches with rubber hoses connected to the gas valves were spread across the counter. There were also short lengths of glass tubing in different diameters, evidence of past projects. Peter turned slowly, mentally taking inventory. Shelving along the wall hosted a range of materials from batteries and coils of copper wire to large power supplies.
“Dmitri, how are your glassblowing skills? Can you make some glass balls from that tubing?” Peter was pointing to a rack well stocked with tubes ranging from small to large diameter.
“Just spheres? It’s been some time since I did any serious glass work, but yes, I can do that.”
“Good. If you will get started, I’ll find the chemicals we need. Make the balls about the size of an apple. And leave a section of tubing a few centimeters long. I’ll use that to fill the balls and then you can seal them.”
Dmitri smiled. “I think I know what you are planning. I’ll get to work.”
What Peter really wanted was explosives. Given enough time, he was confident he could make black powder and flash powder from chemicals he’d likely find on the shelves, but time was in short supply. He went to the solvents first. The large four-liter glass bottles were placed in two yellow-steel cabinets, standard precaution for flammable liquids.
Peter passed over the nitromethane—although explosive it was difficult to detonate. Instead, he grabbed a jug labeled hexane. Closing the metal doors, he continued his search. The chemicals were organized alphabetically, and Peter found what he wanted in the B section. He put the bottle in his pocket and continued his search—not in the C section. Of course not, that’s the English name. He thought for a minute, trying to recall a specific chemical structure and the corresponding technical name for the compound. “Pentamethylene diamine,” he whispered. “Ah, there it is.”
With the glass bottle in one hand and jug of hexane in the other, Peter returned to check on Dmitri’s progress. He already crafted three glass spheres and was busily creating a fourth. Peter set the chemicals several feet away from the gas torch. Dmitri lifted his cobalt glasses—heavily shaded blue lenses that filtered out the yellow light from the molten glass—and examined Peter’s find. “I thought you were going to make an explosive, maybe RDX or TNT?”
“No time. Plus I’d need detonators.”
“Mercury fulminate? I know there is picric acid on the self.”
Peter shook his head. “No, too dangerous. I have a better idea—less bang but still ample to persuade our guests to leave us the hell alone. Where can I find a mortar and pestle?”
“Over there, next to the beakers.”
“Can you make six more balls?” Peter asked.
“Sure.” He lowered the dark glasses and went back to work.
Peter removed one of the ceramic mortar and pestles and returned to the chemical storeroom where he quickly found potassium nitrate and powdered sulfur. Grinding first a quantity of potassium nitrate, he then cleaned the mortar and dumped in some sulfur for grinding. The yellow sulfur flour was combined with the potassium nitrate powder and carefully mixed before Peter poured a small amount of the concoction onto a paper towel. He spread the pale yellow powder into a long narrow line and then rolled the paper around it, like a long, thin cigarette. But no one would want to smoke this. He finished his handiwork with a twist and then a strip of clear tape to keep it from opening.
With three of these long fuses made, Peter returned in time to see Dmitri blowing air into the glass tube, the far end a glob of orange molten glass surrounded by a yellow fireball. Dmitri’s cheeks puffed out as he forced air through the tube, expanding the fluid glass into a near-perfect sphere. Once removed from the torch flame the glass ball rapidly cooled and Dmitri cut the tube stub with a file and an experienced snap.
“I surmise you fabricated fuses,” Dmitri said, pointing to the twisted lengths of paper towel Peter laid on the counter. “But, you said we don’t have explosives. So what are we making—incendiaries?”
Peter smiled. “Incendiary chemical weapons. We’re about to violate the Geneva Convention.”
Chapter 21
Washington, DC
PRESIDENT TAYLER HAD JUST been briefed by Colonel Pierson. Present were Howard Hale, Paul Bryan, and General Hendrickson. At the suggestion of Secretary of Defense Hale, also participating in the meeting were Air Force General Collins and Marine Corp General Hopkins.
“How confident is your assessment, Colonel?” President Taylor asked.
“High degree, Mister President. Based on the description by Dr. Savage—”
“He’s one of the American hostages who escaped the group held captive, is that right?” Howard Hale asked.
“That’s right. He’s been our eyes on the ground.”
“Are you sure the information he’s feeding you is genuine, not misinformation provided intentionally by the Russians?”
“As confident as we can be, Mister Secretary,” Pierson said. “Voice print confirms it’s Peter Savage, and the information he’s provided regarding armor and missile batteries around the BSU campus is confirmed by satellite imagery.”
“Please continue Colonel,” the President interjected.
“Yes sir. I was saying that the description of the machine—the term used by General Gorev—suggests it is an aerosol generator, designed to disperse powdered materials into the air.”
“Don’t you have any photos of it?” Bryan asked.
“It’s night time, on an open roof, surrounded by hostiles. Tell me, would you want to be taking photos?”
President Taylor stood and walked around the Resolute Desk, standing with his arms folded as he addressed the Secretary of State. “Never in my worst nightmares did I ever imagine President Pushkin would orchestrate such a heinous series of events.”
“He’s an ambitious man, sir,” Paul Bryan said.
Just then Colleen Walker was led into the Situation Room. “I got here as fast as I could, sir.”
“It’s fine Colleen, have a seat.” She settled into one of the black leather chairs arranged around the large mahogany table.
She didn’t look up at the faces gazing at her, choosing instead to open the file she carried and began reading. “FBI agents grilled Hanssen and Ames, but got nothing of value. And I have General Hendrickson’s assurances that no smallpox samples from Fort Detrick are unaccounted for. That leaves us with the CDC.”
She turned a page, still not looking up. “Go on,” the President said.
“This is where it gets interesting. In 1987 a sample of weaponized virus, a particularly nasty and lethal strain of hemorrhagic smallpox—lot number 87T-332, vial number two—was marked for destruction. It’s standard practice to incinerate biological samples to eliminate the hazard of accidental release. However, we cross-checked the records, and vial number two was not reported as destroyed. In fact, there are no subsequent records of this sample. It’s as if it just disappeared.”
“So what happened to the sample?” Paul Bryan asked.
>
“I can’t say definitively at this point in time,” she said. “But here’s the kicker. The genetic sequence was recorded, again standard procedure for purposes of tracking a possible release and infection. The genetic fingerprint of 87T-332 is a perfect match to virus samples from Georgia.”
“Perfect?” General Hendrickson said.
“As in identical,” she said.
“My God,” President Taylor muttered and cast his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Well, now we know where the virus came from,” Hale said. For a half minute the room was dead silent.
“Do we know how it got into the hands of the Russians?” President Taylor said.
“Not yet, sir. We’re still working on that. It will take some time. It’s possible we’ll never know.”
The President lowered himself into the leather chair and pulled himself up to the table. “Does this revelation have any bearing on Bright Star?”
General Collins glanced briefly at his boss. “Speak freely Bob,” Hendrickson said, confident he knew what his colleague would say.
Bob Collins began flying in Viet Nam in 1972, F-4 Phantoms. He had been shot down once, but escaped capture by the Viet Cong. Later he commanded a B-1 Lancer—unofficially called the “Bone” by crew members, slang for B-One—in missions over Kosovo. He was well respected at the Pentagon and considered a brilliant strategist, extremely bright but also bringing combat experience in both fighter and bomber aircraft.
“Mister President,” General Collins began, “this information strongly suggests that this is a state-sponsored action, not a simple case of a local terrorist group holding civilians hostage. If the Russians are deploying biological weapons, then they are certainly in league with the NPA militia.”
“What are the implications for your mission?” The President asked.
“Our strike aircraft will be picked up on Russian radar long before they enter Belarusian airspace. There is a squadron of Su-27 fighters stationed in western Belarus. Those fighters are state-of-the-art. If I were the Russian commander, I’d dispatch those aircraft to intercept our B-1s and shoot them down.”
“I thought our Raptor fighters would protect the bombers,” Taylor said.
“The Raptors are flown by the best attack pilots in the world, and they can handle the Flankers—”
Hale interrupted. “Su-27 fighters.”
“I’m following,” President Taylor said. “Continue General.”
“Our rules of engagement are to shoot back only if the enemy fires first. By the time those Flankers launch missiles, it’ll be too late. The electronic and other defensive countermeasures on the B-1 are good, but against a barrage of missiles there is a reasonable chance at least one gets through.”
Feeling a huge weight on his shoulders, President Taylor considered the obvious solution: change the rules of engagement to allow the Air Force to enter this mission on the offensive. But doing so would likely mark the U.S. as the aggressor, the party that fired the first shot in what could easily become a regional conflict, and possibly escalate to a European, if not global, war.
“General Hopkins, what is your assessment?”
First clearing his throat, the commander of the Marine Corp answered. “I agree with General Collins’ assessment. I have over 200 Marines depending on those B-1s completing their mission and taking out the air defenses at the Minsk airport.”
“The airport is heavily defended,” explained Hendrickson. “The Marines will be ferried in onboard Osprey transports—an easy target for missile and gun emplacements. Sir, we have to ensure the B-1 crews are able to drop their ordnance before the Ospreys are within range of the airport defenses.”
“And the SGIT team?” Taylor asked, addressing Colonel Pierson.
“Alpha Team will insert from high-altitude and glide to the BSU campus. They will land on the roof of the chemistry building. That is the hostage location. It’s also where Peter Savage is. The insertion will occur simultaneously with the attack on the airport, drawing attention away from their lone aircraft and insertion. Once they secure the safety of the hostages, they will sit tight and wait for the Marines to arrive.”
“Why not just send the Marines in right away to rescue the hostages?” the President said.
“The BSU campus is only ten miles from the airport,” General Collins said. “The air defenses there easily extend that distance. We can’t get aircraft in until those missile batteries and AA guns are removed.”
“You just lost me. What makes you think Colonel Pierson’s team can parachute in if the Russian missile defenses effectively extend over most of Minsk? Won’t his team be at risk of being shot down?”
“No sir,” Pierson replied. “Alpha Team is inserting by parachuting from high altitude. They can glide 20 miles using this technique and land on a pizza box. Their aircraft will never be in range of the air defenses at the airport.”
President Taylor nodded understanding. “But the Flanker fighters do represent a credible threat.” The President had caught up to the reasoning of his senior military advisors and was finding only one acceptable solution.
“Very well gentlemen. Thank you for your candor. I understand your concerns, and agree that this new development strongly implies a deep involvement on the part of Russia. Given that, I cannot, in clear conscious, send our men and women into this conflict without allowing them every opportunity to prevail.”
President Taylor brushed his hand across the mahogany tabletop as if he were brushing away imaginary specs of dirt, thinking through his decision one final time before voicing it. “I want each of you to understand that I am arriving at this decision reluctantly. However, I fail to see any acceptable alternative.”
His eyes swept across those of his Secretary of Defense and Joint Chiefs. “As of this moment, I am altering the rules of engagement. All American military forces operating in Bright Star are authorized to shoot first if—in their judgment—imminent threat is encountered. That use of force will, however, be limited to Russian military and pro-Russian militia forces and assets.”
“Yes sir, thank you, sir,” Secretary Hale replied. He glanced at his watch. “The assault will commence in twenty minutes with aircraft stationed in Germany. The SGIT transport has been en route for several hours.”
“Good. Keep me informed. Paul, do you think you can get Pushkin on the phone?”
“Given the circumstances, I think so.”
“Good. See what you can do.” Paul Bryan excused himself as he left the meeting.
“Colleen, if the Russians have cloned a sample of smallpox from our laboratory, is there any proof we can find of their involvement? Any way we can prove they are the ones who actually dispensed it, not us?”
“The best proof would be the contraption that Colonel Pierson’s inside man found on the roof of the chemistry building. If we could analyze its construction, I’d expect to find many telltale indicators that its origin is Russian.”
“Colonel, odds that your team can retrieve the device?” President Taylor said.
“If anyone can, they will.”
President Taylor nodded.
“Can we glean any evidence of Russian involvement from the samples from Georgia?”
“Perhaps, Mister President. I didn’t mention it before because the data is still preliminary. As you know the CDC is also conducting a detailed analysis of the samples. So far, they have nothing new to add to the report from the European Molecular Biology Laboratory. However, in two samples there are traces of foreign impurities, anticlumping agents. These chemicals are formulated specifically to preserve the smallpox virus as a finely dispersed powder, even after sitting for months, perhaps years, in an artillery shell. There are also microscopic residues of the bursting charge.”
“Bursting charge?”
“Yes, sir,” General Hendrickson replied. “It’s a relatively low-power, low-heat explosive intended to shatter the shell casing and disperse the contents. In this case, the weaponized
virus.”
“And you’re saying the analysis suggests this anticlumping agent and bursting charge are of Russian origin?”
“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Chapter 22
Washington, DC
“THAT’S CORRECT MISTER PRESIDENT.” Although Paul Bryan had an amicable relationship with the Russian Foreign Minister, Viktorovich Denisov, he had failed to persuade his counterpart to wake President Vladimir Pushkin for a conference with President Taylor. “Mister Denisov reminded me of the time in Moscow and said that I should call later at a more respectable hour.”
“President Pushkin is going to get a rather rude awakening shortly.Perhaps then he’ll agree to speak with me.”
“There’s still time, sir. I could phone Denisov and notify him that a joint NATO-U.S. training operation is about to commence over Belarus.”
President Taylor shook his head and held out his hand to calm Howard Hale before he launched into a rebuttal. “Thank you Paul, but no. We’ve covered this and I won’t risk harm to our aircrew by alerting the Russians. No, we’re going to slug it out if that’s what it takes, in which case the element of surprise will be to our advantage. Any news from the administration of President Yatchenko?”
“About five hours ago he spoke to the media from a heavily guarded police station. He and many of the elected representatives have vowed to resist what they have labeled as an invasion by Russian military troops. He also says he told Foreign Minister Denisov that Russia had 48 hours to withdraw all military personnel and machinery—most notably the half dozen Russian fighters stationed at Baranovichi Air Base. Since the Belarusian military has little power to enforce this edict, it’s more symbolic, but clearly signals his government’s displeasure with the Kremlin.”
President Taylor turned to General Hendrickson and wondered how it could be that his uniform always looked immaculate, even after a long day.
“General, remind me again of the timetable.”