“But, they didn’t relieve him. If that is what they normally do, why didn’t they relieve him?”
Duncan stood, lifted his seabag, and threw it across his shoulder. “I think it is because of the North Korean invasion on the other side of the world, HJ. We lack the senior officers to command two major conflicts; so, for the time being, Admiral Cameron stays here. I have read some of the editorials and newspaper articles that lay the blame directly on his lack of leadership. I would submit anyone in the same position would still have been caught with his or her pants down. We had no warning, no idea the attacks were coming. If we had, he would have been ready.”
“Why didn’t intelligence warn us? Where were the CIA when we needed them?” HJ asked, lifting her seabag.
“Staring at their computer terminals, probably,” Duncan said. “It’s not like we have the intelligence apparatus we had at the end of the twentieth century. Too many funding and personnel cuts.”
Beau folded the top down on the sack. “Empties,” he said to them.
Beau grabbed his seabag. “Empty,” Duncan said and tossed his can into the trash before starting toward the door marked Departures.
“No. All he has gotten is a little time. When this winds down enough, they’ll come for him. According to the chief of staff, Rear Admiral Pete Devlin, the former commander, Task Force Sixty-seven in charge of Naval Air Forces in the Mediterranean, has been fleeted up to deputy commander. United States Sixth Fleet. Captain Dick Holman turned over command of the USS Stennis to his XO and has assumed Devlin’s old title.
The chief of staff of CTF Sixty-seven, she has been given command of all the shore and support responsibilities. So the changes they are occurring and, taking a step back and looking at them, those changes don’t bode well for Admiral Cameron.”
Duncan opened the door. “Well, team, should we go sign up for our scenic flight back to the fleet? And remember, there are no bathroom facilities on the COD, so get rid of that beer you drank before we board, or you’re going to have a rough ride out.”
FOUR
Alqahiray stopped abruptly. He glanced behind him.
Sergeant Adib and his soldiers had the two intelligence officers sandwiched between them, shoving and pushing the two down the lighted corridor. What a great opportunity to see how his expensive Russians had paid off. He turned and continued his walk, enjoying the sounds behind him.
Two hundred yards farther down the corridor, Alqahiray stopped at the door to a gigantic freight elevator. A divided steel door opened in the center, with the top half drawing up as the bottom half slid into a receptacle. “I thought we would take this one since there are so many of us. I would hate our two guests to be forced into a smaller elevator without much company. Not that I believe they would try to escape, being loyal Libyan soldiers. Right? After all, we are already a couple of hundred feet underground.”
“No, Colonel, not me,” a high, trembling voice replied.
Alqahiray looked at the whimpering prisoner, who nearly tripped drawing back. He chuckled. “No, I don’t believe you would.”
Even when he was shot, Alqahiray believed he maintained his composure.
Bravery and honor ran together. Cowardice and dishonor were unforgivable, two states to which no military officer should ever succumb. He thought of Walid and Samir, and a fresh wave of anger flooded him. His shoulder still ached from the abuse he allowed himself to indulge: beating Mintab and slapping the prisoner.
They crowded into the freight elevator. Alqahiray reached forward with a small key and turned a lock on the controls. He withdrew the key and pressed the button for the lowest area of the compound. The keys should have been the one thing Walid took when they confined him to his house.
Walid knew about the keys, but he never demanded them or tried to take them. Alqahiray considered it just one more sign of incompetence on the part of his former aide. Four floors down, the elevator stopped, and they stepped into another white world — a white world dominated by the sweet pine smell of disinfectant.
Across from the elevator, four large double-paned observation windows, reaching from a foot above the floor to the ceiling, ran along the corridor, allowing the visitor to look without entering. On the other side of the windows, six men in long, white frocks moved silently around the laboratory. Long, white rubber gloves reached past their elbows, and each wore protective helmets that snapped seamlessly onto the white frocks. Microscopes, centrifuges, and a bunch of unknown scientific devices decorated the numerous tables.
“This way,” Alqahiray said to everyone, knowing he was the only one of the group to have ever been here. Only a few trusted sources knew this secret. Walid and Samir had been two of the trusted ones.
They moved down the corridor. Inside the laboratory, one of the scientists moved parallel with them until they reached the end. When Alqahiray disappeared behind concrete walls, the man entered the cleansing cell and turned the knobs on the controls. A strong jet of steam blasted him from several different directions, killing anything that might be on his protective suit. It shut itself off automatically after a half minute. The scientist opened the shower door and immediately stepped into another shower stall. Green foam shot out from several nozzles strategically located to cover every aspect of the suit.
The man shut his eyes as ultraviolet lights saturated the small room for forty-five seconds. The suit kept the strong, acrid smell of disinfectant from burning his nostrils. Of course, the mild sulfuric acid would have burned him without the protective garment. When the ultraviolet lights went out, he opened his eyes, reached up, took a mobile showerhead off a hook, and self-administered the disinfectant into the hard-to-reach spots such as the crotch and under the arms.
Satisfied, he hung up the showerhead and moved to the third stall.
Pressurized air blew against him, forcing the air back toward the second stall, keeping the air from the laboratory trapped inside the entryway.
The scientist waited until the door shut between him and the first two stalls. Jets of steaming water came on automatically and washed the green solution off. Finished, he stepped out of the shower to a nearby bench and began methodically removing his outfit. The protective clothing went onto the floor, leaving the man in his underwear. Another scientist standing nearby, wearing thick plastic gloves, reached down and tossed the gear into a nearby container.
“Don’t want that to remain here long, do we, Vasilev?”
Vasilev Malenkomoff removed the underwear and tossed it into the same container.
Alexei tightened the cover and stepped back. “A quick shower, and you can join our friends,” he said.
Vasilev stepped into a normal shower stall. He turned on the shower, slapped the dispenser lever several times, took the soapy antibacterial solution, and lathered himself from head to toe, not forgetting between his legs, his butt cheeks, and his toes. Carefully, he scrubbed every inch of his body before washing his hair thoroughly three times. Only then did he step out of the shower into a dressing room, where his normal clothes waited. Ten minutes it had taken to shower down. Five minutes later, he walked out of the sterilization chamber and down the same corridor where Alqahiray had disappeared. A few seconds and two doors later, he turned the knob and stepped into the conference room to find Alqahiray and the others staring at the chart hanging across the front of the room.
Vasilev had studied the charts thoroughly in the six months they had been quarantined deep underground. In that time, none of them had seen the sun, watched television, or made a telephone call to the loved ones left behind. If it had not been for the chess set and the well-stocked library, every one of them would have been slobbering idiots by now.
Vasilev was glad Popov was still in the laboratory. His quick observation of the Libyan colonel convinced him that the plan to confront Alqahi ray about their imprisonment — which is how they had come to think of it — would be very dangerous right now.
The chart showed the location of underground tunn
els that ran the length and breadth of Libya, a tribute to Qaddaff’s paranoia. The Libyan tyrant had built tunnels running from Libya’s eastern border to its western border with smaller branches spanning points south and detouring to the cities of Benghazi and Tobruk. A single set of railroad tracks ran along the right side of the main tunnels. Turntables at the end allowed the two trains assigned to the military underground complex to turn around quickly. The main tunnel ran from the eastern border with Egypt to within two miles of the western border with Tunisia. A small, two-lane road paralleled the railroad tracks to permit military vehicles as large as tanks to transverse unseen. Solar energy powered the lighting and the ventilation, but conventional gasoline and diesel engines powered the trains and the vehicles. He imagined the atmosphere inside the tunnels thick with exhaust fumes, regardless of the ventilation scheme.
“Professor Malenkomoff, how are you, my kind friend?” Alqahiray said, stepping forward, his hands clasped behind his back. He ignored the outstretched hand of the Russian scientist. “Very well, Colonel,” Vasilev Malenkomoff replied, wiping his hand on his white smock. “We heard you were wounded and not doing too well. It seems what little information allowed down here has been somewhat misleading.” He smiled.
“I am sure your background in glorious Russia has taught you the fickle nature of politics when making a new country.”
“That it did, Colonel. What brings you down here? We have not seen you in months. If we had known you were coming, we would have prepared.”
Alqahiray took a deep drag from his cigarette and noticed the Russian scientist wrinkle his nose. More and more these Westerners are beginning to think like Americans. A little smoke is good for the constitution, regardless of what Satan scientists say.
“Perfectly all right, Professor. I need to know how we stand on your project. Are we ready?”
“The final warheads were completed two weeks ago per our agreement, Colonel,” Vasilev replied. The scientist moved to the far wall and pressed a button. Blinds aligned along it slid smoothly upward, revealing a large hangar nearly two stories below them and stretching for a hundred yards. Two rows of missiles, tied down on flat trailers, faced each other. The ebony cones gave them the ominous look they deserved. Arabic numerals along the side of the missiles identified the serial numbers of each one. In sequential order, Alqahiray counted from one missile to the next.
“Twelve missiles, Professor?”
“We did have sixteen, Colonel, per your directions, but system checks revealed four with either definite or suspected malfunctions.
Considering what you want to do with them, I thought it best to exclude them from the final results. Your soldiers removed them weeks ago.”
Alqahiray looked at the scientist. What a dumpy little man, he thought, an ugly man with more hair on his eyebrows than on his head. A stupid one, too. Amazing what the promise of money could achieve.
Vasilev ran his hand through his thinning hair, ignoring the scrutiny of the taller Alqahiray. The colonel could think whatever he wanted. The ten million American dollars, safely squirreled away in a Swiss bank, waited for him or his wife to use their coded numbers. Though his wife and family had little idea where he was, he had no concern. This was not the first time he had disappeared. A scientist in mother Russia did what he or she had to do to make a living. He knew of others who had trusted fanatic Palestinian causes, and he knew two who disappeared while working for the radical Greek 17 November terrorist group. Every bit of the recruitment effort, including his role in bringing in the culture, had been transcribed and documented. The papers rested in a safe-deposit box in London. Someday he might need them to create a pension for himself and Valerie.
Professor Malenkomoff turned slightly to face Alqahiray. “And, you are thinking, Colonel?” he asked, risking the very confrontation he meant to avoid.
“I am thinking, Professor, how many of the missiles are ready?”
“They are all ready, Colonel.” Vasilev paused, bushy eyebrows turning into a prominent V as he pursed his lips. “Are you sure you want to use them, Colonel? I know what we agreed, but what these warheads carry has great potential for getting out of control. We have been very careful here, and still we lost one of my most valuable assistants for no other reason than a momentary lapse of judgment, a moment of carelessness.”
Blood rushed to Alqahiray’s face. Stupid foreigner. If the missiles were ready, then Malenkomoff and the others’ usefulness was over. These Russians had cost his country more money than they could afford to bring the biological culture to this laboratory. The knowledge these men possessed endangered the new nation. They would never be permitted to carry the knowledge of what they have done out of here, and he never intended to pay the remainder, anyway. Soon, Professor. Very soon.
At that moment, Vasilev saw the truth etched in the man’s face. They would never be permitted to leave. They knew too much.
“You have been well paid, Professor. What I do with what I paid is up to me, not you.”
Vasilev knew he walked a thin line of mortality along the wrong side of good sense with this madman, but he found himself unable to stop. He waved his hand as if shooing away a petulant child. ”s up to you, but I want to be out of the country before you use them.”
Alqahiray grunted and scanned the room. “Where is the testing chamber used for the animals we sent you?”
“Why do you want to see that, Colonel, if I may ask?”
“Just show it to me. It is obvious that if the Soviet Union had survived, a professor with your litany of questions would not have.”
Vasilev shrugged his shoulders and put his hands behind his back momentarily to hide the shaking. “Ah, the testing chamber, you want?
Follow me.” He dropped his hands and hurried past the despot as he moved down the hall.
“Sergeant Adib, bring everyone.” Alqahiray ordered.
They followed Professor Malenkomoff away from the observation platform, farther down the hall, until they reached a darkened laboratory. “Come on in. It’s safe. The testing chamber is on the other side of those windows,” he said, pointing across the room. “And those windows are double-paned with a vacuum separating the two plates. You are very safe here.”
He flipped several switches, and fluorescent lights flickered briefly before illuminating the room on this side and the testing chamber on the other.
Alqahiray moved to the double-sealed windows and peered inside. Two dead animals, a dog and a sheep, lay on the floor. He wondered briefly — something he didn’t do too much — how long they had been dead and imagined what the smell must be like inside the testing chamber. The head of each animal was pulled back, constricted in death. Bloody tongues lolled out of their mouths, and dried blood surrounded their eyes. The feet of the dog faced the window, and Alqahiray could see where the skin had ruptured on the paws and the white of bones showed.
Dried spots of blood dotted the floor where bloody paw prints marked the dying staggers of the collie-sized dog. “Not a pretty sight, Colonel?” Vasilev asked, watching Alqahiray’s face for some sign of reaction. His confidence grew in the familiarity of the laboratory. He noticed Sergeant Adib and his men move away from the windows. Alqahiray seemed to find the scene interesting.
“How long did it take for them to die?”
“The longest survivor was the sheep. The ewe lasted nearly two days. The dog took only six hours until the first symptoms appeared. He died less than twenty-four hours later.” Vasilev lied. He took a couple of paces down and lightly touched the window. “Convulsions, skin ruptures, involuntary eruptions of blood from the eyes, nose, ears, anus, and through the urine. All of that within eight hours. Both were blind by the first day. Ten hours, and they found it hard to move. No, Colonel, it was not a pretty sight.” He dropped his hand, and thoughts of his wife flooded his mind. The epiphany of what could happen to his wife and to mother Russia if — when — this bug was released caused Vasilev to reach out and steady himself. Whatever le
d him to believe his deadly work would remain in Africa or the Middle East? One word: money. Money he expected to get and realized now he would never see. His momentary confidence faded as a glimpse of his future flooded his consciousness.
“And the assistant who died?” Alqahiray asked, his eyes turning on Vasilev. “Professor, are you all right? I asked you about your assistant.”
“Sorry, I felt faint for just a moment.” He straightened up. “Karol’s first symptoms appeared within twenty-four hours. We thought it was a cold or influenza. By the time we realized what it was, it was too late.”
“How long did it take him to die?”
“Not too long. We administered a lethal dose of morphine and eased him out of his pain. By then, he was unconscious and unaware of what was happening. We bagged the body, and with the reluctant help of some technicians who came to check the missiles, we burned it in the furnace used for destroying biological waste. Once the symptoms appear, it is too late to stop the disease.” Vasilev paused for a couple of seconds as he considered carefully what he said next. “Colonel, I would appreciate it if you would see fit to award an honorarium for his family. Karol had a wife and three small kids. They live near Odessa.” He glanced at the colonel. “She doesn’t know, of course, what has happened to him.” Why ask such a question if he knew they were going to die? He hoped the answer would show he was wrong, and Alqahiray intended to live up to the Libyan end of the agreement.
“Thank you, Professor. I will consider it when this is over.” Alqahiray took a few paces away and tapped the glass. “Double glazed, you say?
Safe?”
“Yes, Colonel, double-paned. Perfectly safe. We even maintain a slight negative air pressure inside the room to keep anything airborne confined to the test chamber.”
“Your friend, what was his name? Kuri? Yuri?”
“Karol, Colonel.”
“You killed him, Professor? Your friend?” Alqahiray held up his hand to stop Vasilev’s protestations. “No matter, Professor. The truth is, we really have no idea how long it takes for this virulent strain of anthrax you developed to kill a human?”
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