by Dave Edlund
“Sir, General Gorev is commanding the militia and, we suspect, Spetsnaz soldiers as well.”
“Not surprising that Russian regular units are directly involved,” Jim said.
“There’s something more. We have a possible link to the smallpox virus.”
“What?”
“Professor Dmitri Kaspar—Ian Savage is collaborating with him—overheard Gorev talking to some other officers.” Lacey relayed the information Peter had shared.
“If that machine is designed to disperse weaponized smallpox as an aerosol,” Jim said, “it’ll be drawn into the air intakes and infect everyone in the building. That’s why they haven’t moved the hostages. Gorev doesn’t plan to kill them, he plans to infect them and have them spread the disease.”
“Yes, sir, that’s our conclusion as well.”
“But why not just disperse the smallpox in the room where the hostages are held? This plan seems too complicated, too risky.”
“We’ve considered that. Once the hostages are released, following infection, they’ll report that the militia didn’t deploy any weapon—they won’t know about the release on the roof. Plus, Ross and Williams ran a rudimentary computer model to predict the size of the fallout zone. From the rooftop, with a favorable wind, the aerosol will spread over at least two square miles, exposing up to 100,000 people. Shortly after sunrise, as the air is beginning to heat, a gentle breeze will pick up—ideal for spreading the virus across the most densely populated part of Minsk. That’s why Gorev hasn’t already released the aerosol.”
“And President Pushkin will blame the U.S. Gorev’s plan was to let the Delta team insert, so he had evidence of American forces on the site, ground zero for the release.”
“Sir, I’ve worked through several scenarios with my team. We believe Pushkin will claim that the U.S. is attempting to use biological weapons to kill ethnic Russians. At the very least, it will provide an excuse for a direct invasion by Russian forces. Assuming this smallpox virus matches the genetic fingerprint of former U.S. stockpiles, Pushkin is guaranteed to win popular support around the world. America will be perceived as the aggressor and in violation of treaties banning the use of biological weapons.”
“We had this all wrong. Gorev never was planning to kill the hostages—not directly.”
“No, sir,” said Lacey.
“I’ll brief the team. Our mission priority has changed. We’re going to disable that machine before it releases the aerosol. Inform Colonel Pierson, and suggest he communicates this information directly to the Joint Chiefs and President Taylor ASAP.”
After Jim terminated the call to Ellen Lacey and briefed his team, he updated the aircrew with the new intel and possible threats.
The navigator conferred with a digital map of Minsk and the surrounding area, overlaid with the flight plan. “Closest approach to the airport is about 30 miles. At 35,000 feet we’ll be outside the effective envelope of any medium range SAMs. But with that launcher at Independence Square, we’ll be cutting it close. Could take us down with a lucky shot.”
The pilot turned to Jim. “Can your team insert from a greater standoff distance, say 24 miles?”
“Negative,” Jim replied. “I’d need another 4,000 feet of altitude to get that much glide.”
The pilot shook his head. “This bird won’t go that high. We’re already squeezing everything we can out of her.”
This wasn’t news to Jim. He knew as much about the capabilities of their one-of-a-kind aircraft as the flight crew. “Captain,” Jim addressed the pilot, “those AIM-7X missiles strapped to our wings will home in on radar emissions. I’d like to suggest that the weapons officer power up two of those missiles as we approach the drop point. As soon as you get painted with a targeting radar, fire on it and destroy the launcher preemptively.”
“I like your suggestion,” the pilot said.
Looking over the shoulder of the weapons officer at the city map, Jim asked if the satellite images had uploaded. The EWO punched a couple buttons and a new image was overlaid on the map. He zoomed in on the BSU campus and surrounding blocks.
“These bright spots are heat signatures,” the EWO explained. He rolled a tracker ball and zoomed in tighter. In remarkable detail, the bright spots became ghostly images of tanks, APCs, and the missile launcher. Four tanks were stationed within line-of-sight of the chemistry building.
“Captain, those tanks could represent a serious problem to my team,” Jim explained. “We’ll land on the roof, and if we can’t enter the building quickly, they could easily shell our position. Can you also target those four tanks? They’re stationary, so the AIMs should track to the GPS coordinates.”
“That’s an air-to-air weapon system, it wasn’t designed to bust tanks,” the EWO protested.
“True, but the missile will attack from above. Tank armor is thinnest on top. The 40-pound high-explosive warhead and tungsten penetrators will slice through the top armor, no problem.”
The EWO, pilot, and co-pilot considered Jim’s argument but could find no flaw in his reasoning. “Very well,” the pilot said. “But the remaining AIMs stay in reserve in case we get jumped by fighters.”
Chapter 20
Minsk
PETER LOOKED DOWN AT Dmitri. He was sitting with his back against the wall next to the access door. He looked tired, and the jovial, happy-go-lucky expression he had when Peter first met him was gone, replaced with… what? Remorse? Regret? Or maybe he was just resigned to his fate.
“How are you doing, my friend?” Peter tried to lift his spirits, even a little.
Dmitri shrugged. “This is not how I wanted to welcome you to Minsk.”
Peter chuckled, thinking it a joke. But Dmitri wasn’t smiling. Instead, he seemed to be contemplating deep thoughts.
“Well, you still owe me dinner. But first I’m buying the wine—the least I can do to thank you for your help. And for befriending my father.”
He looked up at Peter. “How can you be so different?” His question sounded genuine.
Peter shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“You and your father. You treat me with respect and courtesy. You call me your friend.”
“Sure, that’s what we do. You opened your home and your arms to welcome Dad. Why would I want to treat you any other way?” Peter didn’t expect an answer.
“Because of my name,” Dmitri answered in a low voice, ashamed, his head facing his feet.
Peter’s forehead wrinkled as he tried to decipher the cryptic response. Then it dawned on him. “Kaspar. That’s German, right?”
Dmitri nodded. “The Russians have a long memory.”
“You’re referring to World War II? That was a long time ago.”
“Not long enough.” Dmitri raised his eyes, locking Peter in his gaze. “Near the end of the war all persons of German decent were forcibly driven from their homes in Eastern Europe by the advancing Russian Army. Women, children, young, old—there were no more men of fighting age. Many of the women were raped by the soldiers as they walked hundreds of miles west to Germany. It was a brutal winter, and they were walking a gauntlet of sorts. Their possessions of any value were stolen. They were beaten like rabid dogs, even murdered for sport.”
“I didn’t know,” Peter said.
“No reason you should have. It was not important to the Allies, and has been all but forgotten by historians.”
Peter felt a wave of guilt for his ignorance. “I’m sorry. Your family—they settled in Germany?”
“Yes, before coming back to Minsk. Of course, their home was gone, taken by a Russian family. My grandparents worked hard to make a new start, and my parents did better. They afforded me an education.” Dmitri forced a smile.
Peter reached down and offered his hand to Dmitri. “Don’t worry about Gorev and the militia. If they want to get to you, first they’ll have to get past me.”
This time his smile was genuine, as was the solitary tear. “You would risk your life for m
e?”
Peter nodded. “That’s what friends do.”
Dmitri considered Peter, trying to understand and wanting to believe that people could be different from what he had grown up to know. But never in his life had he been treated as an equal by anyone outside his circle of family and friends—certainly not by a stranger. Dmitri felt hope for the first time in years. Not only for himself, but for humankind.
“What now?” Dmitri said.
“Let’s find this machine. Based on what you overheard, it should be near the air intakes. I don’t imagine it will be too hard to find.”
Dmitri shuffled behind Peter like a tired old man.
The air intake ducts were spaced between the exhaust stacks. They walked past the first six intakes without observing anything unusual, before Peter spotted the dark box. It was nestled snug against the next-to-last intake duct, and difficult to see in the darkness of night.
Wishing he had a flashlight, Peter resorted to using the cell phone as meager illumination. The machine was packaged in a hard case the size of a large suitcase. Four latches ran along the top edge, each secured with its own padlock. A chrome-plated key lock was embedded in the top of the case next to three buttons and what was probably an LCD display, although it was not illuminated. A long, narrow vent ran across the top, and another vent was evident on the side. Otherwise, there were no other distinguishing features on the case. Seeing no wires running from the case, Peter assumed that any power supply must be internal. He nearly picked up the case before recalling Lacey’s warning.
Instead, he dialed the Lieutenant. She picked up on the first ring.
“Did you find it?” she asked, no longer concerned about possible eavesdroppers. At the moment, unambiguous communication was the top priority.
“I’m looking at it now.” Peter described the case, presumably containing the machine, as Gorev referred to it.
“It certainly sounds like it could be an aerosol dispersion device,” said Lacey.
“It wouldn’t make sense that this machine dispenses a cloud of poison or infectious disease,” Peter observed. “Gorev and his men will be killed, or at least sickened as well.”
“True, if it was poison—nerve agent or the like. But I don’t think that’s the plan. Based on other evidence, I’m certain this device will activate shortly after sunrise and spread weaponized smallpox virus spores.”
“But everyone will be infected, including the pro-Russian militiamen.”
“Getting exposed doesn’t mean getting sick.”
Then it dawned on Peter. “Of course not; you’re right. If Gorev and his men have already been vaccinated, they won’t contract the disease.”
Peter heard Lacey’s sigh over the phone. “You said the case is just sitting there?”
“That’s right,” Peter answered. “I can’t see anything tethering it in place. There’s probably a dumpster nearby. If I can get to it, I can just throw this case inside and close the lid. That should contain the spores.” Peter was reaching for the handle as he was speaking.
“No!” Lacey shouted the command, causing Peter to freeze.
“Why not? It’s the safest way to contain the threat.”
“Think about it. No, it’s too risky. Gorev would never allow the plan to be so vulnerable. The case is probably set with motion sensors and a small charge. If you move that case, even the slightest amount, it’s likely to explode and send the virus up in a cloud that will drift over the campus.”
“Well, if that was the plan, then why are there vents along the top and side of the case?” Peter said.
“The charge is a failsafe; it’s not intended to be the primary dispersion means. Even with low-power explosives, the pressure wave and heat will render much of the biological agent inactive. Slowly dispersing the agent as an aerosol is more effective. There will be an internal blower, battery operated, that will expel a plume of the smallpox agent over the course of an hour or so. The control mechanism is likely to be rather simple, although we’ve speculated the release could be triggered by favorable meteorological conditions.”
“So if it’s raining the device won’t activate. What a perverted use of science.”
“It’s likely it could also be set with a simple timing mechanism.”
“What do you want me to do?” Peter asked.
“Nothing. Boss Man will deal with it.”
“But I’m here! There must be something I can do to render the device impotent. Maybe I can douse it with flammable liquids and burn it.”
“Don’t touch it. Don’t even lightly brush against it. The motion detectors will be extremely sensitive. And if it gets too hot, that could trigger the explosive. Now that we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll come up with a plan to neutralize it. But for now, just leave it be.”
“I hear you.” Peter wanted to ask when help would arrive, but knew the answer would not be shared on an unsecured cell phone. “Call when you need my help.” He ended the call and looked at Dmitri. The man definitely looked his age plus ten.
“Come on, Dmitri. Let’s get back inside and see what we can do to beef up our defensive capabilities.”
“You have something in mind?” Dmitri said.
“I do. Can we get to the chemistry store room?”
“Sure. It’s on the second floor. But what if it’s guarded?”
“I’m betting they won’t post men there.”
Peter led the way back downstairs, rifle pointing the way and Dmitri close behind. Their luck held and no one was encountered in the stairwell. On the second floor, Peter cautiously pushed the door open and peeked in the hallway. Two guards were patrolling, walking away for the stairwell. He motioned to Dmitri with his index finger at his lips and mouthed “Shhh. Which way?”
Silently Dmitri pointed to the right. Good, away from the guards.
Peter looked again just as the guards rounded the corner. The hallway was clear. “Come on.”
Silently, but swiftly they left the stairwell and moved down the corridor. Then Dmitri tapped Peter and pointed to a solid wood door. Without a sound Dmitri used the master key to unlock the door. Once inside with the door closed and locked, Dmitri felt for the light switch and turned it on.
In a near panic, Peter quickly grabbed a lab coat hanging on a hook and stuffed it against the crack between the door and floor. “Sorry,” Dmitri whispered.
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.