by Joe Buff
Ilse heard a muffled electronic tone.
"It's coming from that guard," Clayton said. Montgomery went to the concealed body bag and opened the zipper. He lifted the walkie-talkie; a light on it was blinking.
"LT," Montgomery called to Clayton, "it's some kind of general broadcast, like a message download. I think if I push this button we'll hear it."
"Do it," Clayton said.
Ilse listened. A computer-synthesized voice announced that a highest-level security alert was being sounded. An Army squad had been found killed several miles away. It might be a diversion, for some sabotage or espionage. Surface, naval, and airborne patrols were being strengthened. Lab work was to continue as normal. Perimeter security was being increased.
Ilse translated.
"I'm sure this manhole counts as part of the perimeter," Jeffrey said sourly. He glanced at his watch. "The computer worm expires any second. We're on our own."
"I think I'm supposed to press this button to acknowledge receipt," Montgomery called, holding up the radio.
"Do it," Jeffrey said.
"How long till they realize he's missing?" Ilse said, indicating the dead guard.
"Not long."
"Now what?" Clayton said. "The coolant discharge access hatch was supposed to be our way out, with this one, the inlet, as our backup. Do we just go ahead and blow the bombs, and kill us and the Turks?"
"If we have to," Jeffrey said, "that's exactly what we'll do."
Clayton's jaw set. He nodded.
Jeffrey waved for Montgomery. The chief walked over. "Chief, ask Salih exactly what ARBOR told him we're supposed to be doing here."
Montgomery talked to Salih. The chief came back. "Spying." That made sense, Ilse realized. ARBOR would've thought along the same lines the SEAL team took now.
"Okay," Jeffrey said, "let's keep him on a need-to-know basis…. Ilse."
Ilse turned to face Jeffrey.
"Get cleaned up and dressed and put on your makeup."
* * *
Ilse walked down the busy, carpeted corridor, one level below the utility space. Since the lab structure was dug into the ground, its basement, in effect, was at the top. The deeper Ilse went, the more helpless she felt. She was supposed to find her way around, see what was going on, try to gather intelligence, and report back to Jeffrey and Clayton. Because of ARBOR's arrest, Ilse had been drawn into this. Because of the Turks, things had gotten even more complicated. Ilse told herself wryly that a suicide mission, at least, had the advantage of simplicity. Now, with help from Salih in ARBOR's place, there might or might not be an upside: survival, and hard data on the Mach 8 missile project to bring back to Allied lines.
Ilse glanced up. The lab's massive armored roof, all of twelve meters — forty feet — thick, didn't make her feel safe. It made her feel trapped.
The overhead fluorescents had a bluish tinge. Ilse realized these were grow lights, to help the staff stay healthy and alert, to make up for the total lack of sunlight. Most of the people Ilse passed were men. Most of them, including the women, wore navy uniforms. They must have joined up — or been drafted — en masse when the war broke out. Their postures and gazes weren't very military. They acted more like engineers and scientists — without the lab coats and pocket protectors.
Ilse herself wore a white silk blouse, with navy blue jacket and knee-length skirt. Her shoes were plain black flats, with rubber soles. All had South African labels. Her clothes were wrinkled from being in her pack — but this was part of her cover story. Around her neck she wore a chain from which dangled her smart ID card, loaded with a digital photo and retinal scan and other data. She lugged a briefcase, the big boxy kind that opened with flaps at the top. The briefcase was fine maroon leather. Inside were files and books concerning fluidics control, her alleged specialty.
She leaned to one side from the weight of the briefcase, and kept having to change hands to relieve the cramping in her fingers. She looked forward to being able to get rid of it — the case was heavy; someone should have thought to put it on wheels. Concealed in the middle, behind special plastic shielding to block gamma rays and neutrons, was a nine-pound hollow sphere of pure plutonium-239, surrounded by implosion lenses, a power supply, and arming circuitry.
A briefcase atom bomb.
* * *
On the upper level, amid the drab maintenance corridors, Jeffrey and Clayton and Montgomery followed Salih's lead. Actually, Salih shuffled behind them, and murmured directions in German to Montgomery as needed.
Jeffrey and the SEAL team leaders wore gray workmen's jumpsuits from their packs. Clayton also wore a full welder's mask, with a flameproof scarf, and welding gloves. Clayton carried arc-welding gear, including a portable transformer that ran off the standard German 220-volt three-prong outlet supply. Jeffrey lugged a heavy toolbox, of high-impact plastic with a matte beige finish. Montgomery's hands were free; he was the foreman of the work gang. Clayton's welding equipment was real, all of German manufacture. The tools in Jeffrey's toolbox were real and German metric, too, except that under the top tray was the other one-kiloton nuclear device.
The threesome all wore their ID cards, except Clayton, whose photo was actually of SEAL Nine, who was hiding with the other enlisted SEALs; Nine was Caucasian. The intruders' military haircuts fit in well. As long as Clayton didn't have to remove his welding gear while a German watched, there was no way someone would know he was African-American.
Under his welding helmet Clayton wore night-vision goggles. Instead of being half blinded by the dark window of the mask, he could see very well.
Several times, Jeffrey's group passed lab personnel or guards, who hardly noticed them. After all, an Untertmensch janitor and a handful of maintenance people weren't worth attention. They also passed more Turks, in their orange overalls, carrying pails from the employee cafeteria. Salih made a quick greeting and gestured to get back to work. Then he whispered to Jeffrey that, for the main body of Gastarbeiter on the night shift, those leftovers were breakfast. The lucky ones, Salih explained, worked as dishwashers.
The team came to an Automated checkpoint, and everybody's ID cards worked perfectly — they'd uploaded themselves into the system using a modem socket in the utility space. Clayton faced away from the video camera and lifted his welding mask and visor, and looked into the retina scanner. Salih had an ID card, too, though he said his access was very limited.
* * *
Ilse had to stop and put the briefcase down to rest. She still had a pounding headache, and massaged the side of her temple where the bullet grazed her helmet. Her heart sank when she spotted a heavy door blocking her progress.
The sign on the door said TEST SECTION: UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY FORBIDDEN. Next to the door was a card reader and surveillance camera.
Near the reader was a water cooler alcove.
Ilse took two ibuprofen — made by a German company, in case she were searched. She turned around and bumped into a man in uniform.
"Excuse me," the man said distractedly. He looked her up and down, and seemed puzzled. "I haven't seen you here before."
Ilse's heart pounded. Was there something wrong with her outfit, her bearing? Was her huge briefcase a giveaway? Had they found the dead guard?
She looked the man in the face, searching for words. He wore a naval officer's dress blues, with three stripes on his jacket cuffs: a full commander. He wore decorations: a real commander. He was handsome, blond, tall, and slim, in his mid-thirties.
"I'm, I'm new," she said in her best German.
"South African?" he said at once. He reached and examined her ID card — it didn't have her real name. "What department?"
"Huh?"
"What department are you assigned to?"
"Um, fluidics control."
"The pepper subproject?" At least she thought that's what he said.
"The what?"
"Haven't you been briefed?"
"Um, no. I just got here tonight."
The office
r chuckled. "Forgive me. You do look rather frazzled. What did you do to your head? Came in through Russia, did you?"
Ilse nodded. "By way of the Pakistan coast, then up through Iran on trains and buses. The food was terrible."
The commander chuckled again. "Everybody says that. We eat much better here, you'll see."
Ilse relaxed. He was good at putting her at ease. He had that command presence, like Captain Wilson. A certain charm and infectious upbeat mood, backed by a steely self-confidence that could turn ice cold in an instant.
"How did you get to Pakistan? By submarine?"
Ilse nodded dumbly. She knew that was the main way Germany and South Africa traded strategic personnel and resources — their war economies were each rather self-sufficient: Germany with all of Continental Europe's plunder, plus trade with Russia; South Africa from its long experience of trade embargoes under Old Apartheid.
"We have a Boer submariner here right now," the German commander said. "Arrived just a few days ago. I'm surprised, in fact, that they didn't send you through together."
Uh-oh. "Really?"
"Yes. He's a junior officer, visiting to master our new weapons system. I'd be glad to introduce you."
Now Ilse's heart was really in her throat. She'd been a senior Boer submariner's lover before the war, and met some of his crew, and others as his date at parties and receptions. If this junior officer should recognize her, a known resistance fighter..
"What department is he?"
"Fuel cryogenics."
"Maybe tomorrow, then," Ilse said. Oh, shit, and I told Salih my real name. If they grab him… Now I don't have a gun, a knife, even a cyanide pill.
"By the way," the commander said, "my name is Dieter Gaubatz. I'm in charge of missile payload integration. Atomic bomb, nerve gas, germs — take your pick. My department's motto is this: Any warhead, any target, mass destruction, unstoppable. Like it?"
"Succinct," Ilse said. "Hard to misinterpret."
"I made it up myself. But I neglect my manners." Gaubatz shook Ilse's hand. His grip was bone-crushing. Ilse squeezed back, hard as she could, and met him squarely in the eyes. I may get turned into ionized plasma myself very soon, she thought, but boy, Commander Gaubatz, do I have a surprise for you.
"You're assigned to the night shift?"
"Er, yes."
"Good. The best people are."
"Strictly speaking, I'm not on the payroll till tomorrow"
"Then why don't you rest? You look exhausted. No offense, I hope? Jet-lagged, ja?"
Ilse wiped some loose strands of hair from her forehead. She eyed the TEST SECTION door longingly.
"I'm so excited to be here, I can't sleep. I thought I'd take a look around, to get acclimatized."
"That's the spirit," Gaubatz said. "Germany and South Africa, marching side by side, a new world order…. Where's your luggage and overcoat?"
"Um, in the dormitory section. I just piled them on an empty cot."
Gaubatz hefted her briefcase.
"Groess Gott." Good God. "What do you have in this thing?"
"Er, some work papers and references. I like to keep them near me. For security, you know, and I do love my work."
Gaubatz smiled warmly. "Good. You'll fit in well."
Ilse stayed respectfully silent. Let him fill the silence. On mental pins and needles, she prayed.
"It's nice to meet you. I must be going."
He moved to the door. Once more, Ilse's heart sank. She tried to stall him. "Er, Commander, what's in there?"
"The wind tunnel, machine shops."
"Can I take a peek?"
"Ordinarily…. But we're set up for a major test."
"Room for another observer?"
"Sorry. I don't think so."
"But I've come so far."
"I understand. Space inside is very limited." Gaubatz swiped his card and eyeballed the scanner. The heavy door clicked open. He grasped the handle.
Ilse felt her goal slipping away. On the other hand.. It amounted to double or nothing: If he were in there… "Are there any South Africans at this test?"
"Er, not to my knowledge."
"Shouldn't one be, if it's so important? It would be a wonderful way to start my stay among you."
Gaubatz smiled and held the door for Ilse. "All right, then. I think you'll find this very interesting."
* * *
Jeffrey and Clayton held back while Montgomery peeked around the next corner.
"Bad news, LT," Montgomery whispered. "They've got four guards at the blast interlock to the other half of the lab. Three men, one woman. All with pistols, plus two submachine guns on shoulder slings. They look jumpy."
"They must have found the dead guard," Clayton said. "I'll never make it — past them now."
Jeffrey nodded. The three of them had left all their weapons behind with the enlisted SEALs, because of the scanners and metal detectors. There was no way they could fight past these four naval infantry.
Salih watched Jeffrey from several yards away, pretending to wipe a spot on the floor with a rag.
"Shaj," Jeffrey said, "the chief and I can go through together, and leave you here."
"The problem's not me, it's the gadget. They may have sensors, you know, at that checkpoint. The box's shielding isn't good enough to sneak it by."
Salih tugged at Jeffrey's sleeve. "You need to sneak your box past the guards?"
Jeffrey nodded.
"You two go through here, say you're welders, ja? Me, I'll show the lieutenant the other way, through the air duct."
"Air duct?" Jeffrey said. Of course, there'd have to be one. But… "Won't they have intrusion detectors?"
"I can open the grills with my ID — yours won't work, so don't try it. I have access, to crawl through sometimes, to clean out the dust. It's a fire hazard if you let it build up."
"I know. But won't they have motion sensors inside? They'll know there's two of you going through."
"The guards disconnected them. Too many false alarms. Mice."
"Mice?"
"I used a toilet float on a string. Rolled it in, then pulled it back. Drove the guards nuts."
* * *
"You'll need these," Gaubatz said. He handed Ilse a hearing-protection headset. "This whole area is sound-isolated, so we don't disturb our colleagues. It's a giant raft that floats on oil and rubber buffers, but the source level inside the chamber can exceed two hundred decibels…. And don't worry, this glass is armored and flameproof, just in case."
Ilse watched through the viewing port, fascinated, as technicians fueled the missile. The men wore rubberized protective suits. Frost formed on the hose they used. They stood on an antistatic mat. All their equipment was ceramic or plastic. Automatic fire-suppression nozzles ringed the test chamber ceiling.
"It's much smaller than I expected," Ilse said.
Gaubatz laughed. "This is a one-fourth-scale test article, made from the same materials as the full-size weapon."
Ilse blushed. "What's the capacity of the wind-tunnel?"
"Mach ten, though we won't go that high tonight. We do plan for the future."
"How do you get such a high speed in this confined space?"
"We've adapted magnetic rail-gun technology. It drives a system of rotary paddles in the high-pressure part of the loop."
"That must use a lot of power."
"It does. That's why we run these tests at night, when electric demand in the rest of the country is lower."
"What about the waste heat?"
"Tremendous heat, and also when the missile propulsion system runs. They just wrapped up a static test of the full-size engine. The cooling system was working hard."
"The missile's attached to that pylon?"
"Not exactly. You'll understand in a moment."
"The shape isn't at all what I expected." Ilse studied the missile, trying to memorize every detail. It wasn't a flying telephone pole, or a shark with wings. It looked like a giant chisel, with stubby
winglets near the back. Instead of a tail fin, control surfaces jutted from the edges of the winglets. Below the fuselage was a thin rectangular air intake. From this angle Ilse couldn't see the shape of the scramjet nozzles.
"Why isn't it painted?" The missile was mostly shiny silver or flat gray, but had patches in black or orange-gold.
"We didn't apply the ablative antiradar coating. It would make an awful mess, burning off in the test chamber…. The missile's defensive and targeting sensors are all conformal. They're liquid hydrogen-cooled, which at the same time preheats the fuel for optimum burning."
"Commander, where does the warhead go?"
"Weapons of mass destruction don't need to be at the front, do they? It's not like an artillery shell that actually hits the target. The payload bus is at the lifting body's center of mass, where the chisel widens."
The fueling technicians were finished. They withdrew. Others tidied up the test chamber. They left. On Ilse's side of the armored glass, engineers double-checked their instrumentation. The room in which she and Gaubatz stood was crammed with electronics cabinets and consoles, linked by fiber-optic lines and power cables.
"I have another question, Commander," Ilse said.
"Certainly."
"If this test is with a fourth-scale model, don't you have to adjust the results for the differences in air viscosity, and proportion the boundary layer turbulence, relative to the size of the full operational missile? That must be an extremely difficult calculation."
"Ach. Quite so." He smiled. "We've perfected the numerical methods involved. The work is done on our supercomputer. The results have already been validated, to a remarkable degree of accuracy."
"What's the purpose of this next test, then?"
"It relates to what you'll be working on. A key measure of weapon effectiveness is the probability of penetration to an Allied nuclear aircraft carrier through their entire layered defense, from long range. Live firing tests in the Baltic with full-size prototype missiles, and war-game simulations, also on our supercomputer, indicate that probability to be seventy percent."
"That sounds very good."
"It's remarkable, for expenditure of just one missile. But these missiles are very expensive, and even with mass production they'll be in short supply at first. We want to enhance the penetration probability to ninety percent."