It was a short jog through the ice-covered snow to reach the roll-up door of the nearest metal building. Next to the roll-up door was a regular entrance door. Morris tried it, found it locked and gestured to Pinky Williams. Pinky flashed out his tools, picked the lock and opened the door.
It was a dimly lit high-bay area, probably used to load trucks by the look of the weight-handling monorails alongside the roll-up door. Local time was zero three hundred, and the loading area was deserted. It was
also useless to them. Morris and the platoon headed through the far door, a hallway, checking the rooms on either side.
It took a half-hour to work through the wing to the brick building, and the search had found nothing. The entire wing was devoted to mechanical assembly, machine shops, sheet-metal fabrication, a small foundry. Not even any assembly drawings for weapons. The whole facility had the dusty look of disuse.
The door to the main building led to a cinder-block corridor that ran the length of the wing. Morris’s platoon turned right and began on the east end, hitting pay dirt. The northeast-corner office was large with windows on two walls looking out at the mountain view. Probably the director’s office.
Morris had expected the office to be full of stacks of papers and binders. But the desk and table tops were clean and tidy, the bookshelves filled with bound and old volumes, the titles Arabic, French, German, occasional English. The few that were legible in English were texts on physics, sub atomic particles, fluid mechanics, gas dynamics. Morris didn’t bother with them since they were all published texts.
He was looking for three-ring binders full of scribbled or typed data, lab notebooks, piles of graph paper, design drawings. In the director’s
office there was none of that. There was, however, a computer perched on the table behind the large chair. A European model, fairly new. Morris waved his men on to the next office and took the monitor off and unplugged the main processor unit, snapping his fingers for Monkey Max to unpack a tool bag. Max slapped a screw driver into Morris’s hand with the efficiency of a surgeon’s nurse. Thirty seconds later the unit’s cover was removed.
Morris was no whiz at computers, but the hard disk drive was easy to find, particularly since it was labeled. He unplugged two cords and severed the power wiring, wrapped the unit in bubble wrap while Max taped it, the unit vanishing into Morris’s backpack. Morris didn’t bother to reassemble the unit. Soon the whole complex and the entire UIF would know they had been there. He rifled the drawers of the office, finding a half-dozen floppy disks that he taped together, bubble-wrapped and tossed in the backpack.
Morris and his platoon covered the six offices that surrounded the director’s, finding only two lab notebooks but removing the computer drives. Farther down the hall second platoon had found a mainframe computer unit and a network file server, the data-storage units of both being packed for carrying. An old tape-drive unit was set back against the wall, unplugged and unused, several shelves of tapes next to it, more data tapes than they could hope to carry. Morris decided to ignore it. Anything on the tapes would be a few years old by the looks of it.
They were more concerned with current data.
Third platoon, on the west end, was going slowly through two chemical labs, finding several boxes of lab notebooks, Morris directing them to take the most recent of the pile.
Fourth platoon was harvesting an alcove devoted to design work, an open bullpen of a dozen drafting tables, three of them the computerized CAD tables. The CAD file server’s disk drive was already removed and packed in one of the seal’s packs. Several original vellum drawings were being pulled from the manual drafting tables and rolled up for carrying out.
The harvest was nearly complete. Morris checked the other platoons in the metal building wings, some units finding nothing, some finding some interesting prints. In the corner of one of the wings was a room behind a heavy door, with a vault behind another heavier door. A secret material repository. Two of Morris’s men finished a cut with a torch, finding shelves and file cabinets full of material. Morris was unimpressed since most of the material was old and dusty, relics of the ages before the offices were computerized. Still, there was the odd file that the men pulled, a few large files of drawings.
Finally there was nothing to be done but wait for the second harvest and wire up the demolition charges. Morris’s watch read 0535 local time. Any minute. At 0600, the first person arrived for work, a short heavyset
Iranian man in a long overcoat and furry-eared hat and a large briefcase, looking annoyed at the absence of the sentry. He came into the lobby and found the light switches near the door. The main hallway lights came up as he stepped in the door to the east-west hallway. He turned toward Morris, his eyes wide in shock. Morris took the briefcase as his seals taped the man’s hands behind his back with duct tape, the tape also wrapped around his mouth and his ankles. He was led to an office and seated in a chair. Morris checked his watch again, deciding to give it another half-hour. In any lab the work horse scientists were there hours before the official starting time and hours after quitting time, the op-order read. The second harvest of scientists would be gathered at dawn and removed to the assembly area.
A phone rang from the east end of the building. Morris couldn’t wait too longthe caller would be alerted that no one was answering, especially since the phones probably rolled over to the sentry at night. By 0645 no one else had arrived. Morris called the withdrawal code on the VHF, grabbed up his pack and the scientist, the duct tape on his legs cut, and moved out to the south, out of the metal building he’d come into, across the complex yard to the fence cut.
He ordered the men on, pulling out a radio trigger from his vest while the platoons continued toward the rendezvous point. Morris took one last look at the complex before uncovering the toggle switch and clicking it on. The complex blew apart as two dozen high-explosive charges
detonated.
There was not a great deal of HX brought in, the idea more that secondary lab chemical fires and paper-fed flames would level the facility. The plan had worked; three secondary explosions sounded from the lab end of the brick building, filling the dawn sky with a bright rising mushroom cloud. Morris turned and ran in the snow up the ridge, veering away to the assembly area once he was over the peak.
He caught up to the others, soon able to hear rotors, hoping the Marines would wait, hurrying the Muslim scientist, the frightened man offering little resistance but walking too slow. Morris motivated him with the muzzle of the MAC-10. He pulled the tape off his mouth and let him breathe. The assembly area came into view, the idling V-22’s rotors whipping up tiny shards of ice in the increasing light of morning. The scientist struggled when he saw the plane, but another hit got him in the door. The aircraft interior seemed hot and airless as the door came closed, the noise level drilling into Morris’s ears as the rotors spun up and the plane lifted off, the ground shrinking away as the rotors spun up and the plane accelerated. Morris stowed his backpack, pulled off his sweaty balaclava and parka and gloves, the earpiece of the radio feeling waxy, the lip-mike wet with his sweat. The scientist was looking out one of the oval windows, his body stiff from fear or cold or both.
Morris found the coffee um and poured a cup, tasted it and found it
fresh, poured a cup for the scientist nodding at Bart to free his hands. The man took it, his hands wrapped around the cup to gather its warmth. The plane climbed over the mountains to be joined by F-18s. Hours later, when the rotors tilted to the horizontal for the approach to Coalition-occupied Minab, the hostage scientist was asleep.
When the rear door opened, the plane was mobbed by HQ types unloading the stolen data and taking custody of the scientist. Morris walked to the debriefing, whistling tunelessly, his mind moving on to the next mission.
Wednesday, 1 January eastern atlantic, west european basin USS phoenix Kane stood looking over Mcdonne’s shoulder as the executive officer dialed in a speed change for the assumed solution to Targe
t One, the Destiny’s designation. Kane had been steadily driving a target-motion analysis wiggle in the UIF sub’s stem ever since returning from periscope depth twelve hours before. Mcdonne’s solution showed target speed somewhere between twenty-five and thirty knots. The Destiny had been moving at that high speed since a few minutes after reacquisition. Kane’s data showed it capable of speeds up to forty-five, maybe even fifty knots. If the sub went at its max speed. Phoenix would be unable to keep up with it.
But at the speed it was going it was making considerable noise.
The Destiny was on the way somewhere, in a hurry but not in such a hurry that it needed to go full throttle. Too fast for a routine transit, since the speed did risk detection. What was he doing? The chart’s track of their progress since emerging from the Strait of Gibraltar had been a great circle route leading to the southern tip of Greenland. The HP computer’s projection had the Destiny in the Labrador Sea between Canada’s Newfoundland coast and Greenland in another seventy hours. Three days. And why in hell would Sihoud be visiting Greenland?
Worse was the fact that he could enlist no other minds to solve the riddle. Communication, though possible physically, was impossible tactically. To rise to periscope depth meant low speeds of five or six knots to avoid breaking off the antenna and periscope, the masts too delicate to withstand higher forces from hydrodynamic drag. The slowness of PD ruled it out, at least for HF radio transmission. It would be easy to zip up to PD and transmit a UHF burst comm to a satellite and dive deep again; even with the Destiny driving at thirty knots. Phoenix could catch up, but to spend any more time at PD meant losing the Destiny. Kane was unwilling to risk losing the UIF vessel, now more than ever, since the mystery of its destination had to have some at least tactical significance.
“XO, any questions?”
Mcdonne turned and looked up at Kane as if surprised to see him still
standing there.
“No, sir. I’ve got it.”
Kane had just finished briefing Mcdonne as command duty officer five minutes before. By stationing the CDO, Kane could enjoy the one time at sea when the captain relinquished a large chunk of his authority to someone else.
When in trail of a hostile sub the more routine decisions could be delegated to the XO/CDO so that the captain could get some minimum amount of sleep. His responsibility did not end, but the XO would act for him and leave him undisturbed unless there were a genuine emergency. Reluctantly, Kane left control and shut the door of his stateroom, tossing for an hour in his rack before sinking into a shallow sleep.
CNFS hegira Commodore Sharef went down the ladder slowly, leaning heavily on Tawkidi.
On the messroom table’s center was a rolled-out ship’s plan, an elevation view of the forward part of the ship from frame fifty at the aft portion of the command module to the nose-cone bow caps. Underneath the main ship’s plan were detailed drawings brought in by the ship’s mechanical officer and fourth in command—with al-Kunis dead, now third—Commander Ibn Quzwini. Sharef took his seat at the head of the
table. Quzwini stood at the outboard center of the table while Tawkidi sat at Sharef’s right hand where al-Kunis had once sat. There were only five other officers, the rest casualties or in the control room. Lt. At Ishak, the computer-systems officer, stood watch in control with Idrissi, the junior officer on the reactor-control console.
Lieutenant Kutaiba, propulsion officer. Sublieutenant al-Maari, sensor officer, and two junior officers completed the company for the briefing.
Sihoud and Ahmed now arrived. Sihoud still wore his shesh robe with ornate belt and ceremonial dagger. Ahmed had a bandaged head and foam pad around his neck. His submarine uniform, lent him by one of the junior officers, had one of the sleeves cut off where the doctor had sutured a long gash, the bandage ringed with clotted blood.
“Go ahead. Commander Quzwini,” Sharef began.
Quzwini looked at Ahmed, nodded and looked back down at the drawing spread out on the table.
“Since we recovered from the torpedo hit. Colonel Ahmed and I have tried to write a plan to install the Scorpion warheads in the Hiroshima missiles—”
Sharef interrupted. “Take this in sequence. First, are we able to
assemble the Scorpions without Dr. Abuiwafa?”
There was a part of Sharef that did not want to consider launching a weapon that would kill over half-a-million people from a week-long attack of radiation poisoning, even if they were from the same nation that had sunk the Sahand.
The American Navy was what he really wanted to attack.
Women and children and old men in Washington, D.C., had nothing to do with the attack on his frigate, and his submarine should have no business killing them. Even if it would win the war, a big if in his view, he had doubts he would want to do it.
Ahmed spoke up. “The Scorpions are already assembled.
Dr. Wafa left detailed instructions and the units were modular and required a minimum of tools. The danger was in the charging of chemicals and compressed gases to the prereaction chambers and the insertion of the plutonium and cobalt into the dispersion shell, but the risk is now behind us. We are ready to insert the warheads into the missiles.”
“We can bring the warheads to the middle level at the—”
“Quzwini!” The mechanical officer froze at the anger in Sharef’s voice.
“Colonel Ahmed, why was this dangerous operation done without my permission?” “I gave Colonel Ahmed permission, Commodore,” Sihoud’s deep voice said. The general leaned back in the chair as if that were enough.
“General, the permission was not yours to give. As I told you, I’m in command of this submarine, and until I’m dead, I and I alone will give the orders that compromise ship safety. If you are unable to understand that, sir, I will lock you in your stateroom.”
Silence. Sihoud smiled slightly. “You were unconscious at the time. Commodore. I assumed responsibility. I am sorry if I have trespassed on your … turf.”
Sharef glared at him but let it pass. “Continue, Quzwini.”
“Yes sir. The two warheads weigh about 3000 kilograms.
Handling them from the lower level to the upper will be difficult.
I plan to cut a hole in the deckplates of this level centerline just aft of the door to the head. We will weld lifting lugs onto the steel deck of the upper level, then use chainfalls to bring the units into the head door, enlarging it if we have to, then remove the cosmetic partition obscuring the access hatch to the forward ballast tank.”
“That access hatch is not hinged, Quzwini, it’s welded shut,” Sharef said.
“We’ll torch it open, then reweld it shut when we’re done. The ship will remain submerged with the ballast tank full. We’ll be putting the Hiroshima missiles in tubes one and six. Number one is in the center of the tank, giving us the most fore-and-aft room to pull out the missile. Number six is in the first ring. Only one and three have cruise missiles loaded. Six is the best choice, it is higher up, which gives us a larger margin of error should the ballast tank flood during the operation.”
“What speed will we need for depth control with a ballast tank full of air?”
“We’ll need to be shallow to keep the pressure down, but speed will probably need to be fifty or sixty clicks so that the X-tail can compensate for the buoyancy using hydrodynamic forces. Unfortunately we could have a wake from shallow speeds near the surface, so I believe a compromise will put us at a depth of 100 meters.”
“That means you will be working in ten atmospheres of pressure,” Sharef said. “Your time is limited and you’ll need to depressurize slowly to avoid the bends.”
“We’ve thought of that, sir. Time to perform this op will be about ten
hours. Ballast-tank entry will last for another two to depressure by coming shallower. The two-hour depressurization will be timed to be at night so our surface wake will not be noticed by casual shipping or observation satellites. And even if it is, it’s a big ocean and n
o one knows where we went after we left Gibraltar, so a surface disturbance won’t be tied to us.”
“And how will you get to the warheads?”
“We thought about torching the after-part of the tube and pulling the missile out one module at a time to get to the warhead, then reassembling. That would take several days of disassembly and reassembly in a half-flooded ballast tank with poor lighting. It would not work.” “I know that,” Sharef said. It was the obstacle he’d tried to overcome since he’d been told about the mission. Short of opening a tube bow cap and withdrawing the weapon from in front of the ship, there seemed no way to get the warheads in.
“We’ll torch-cut the forward top ends of the tubes, right at the ring joint from missile to warhead. The metal will be re moved, the old warhead disassembled and the new one inserted. The main struggle will be handling the warheads and the metal pieces from the tubes. More lifting lugs and chainfalls.”
“Have you thought of what happens when you cut into a tube with a torch
directly above a live warhead?” Sharef asked. “You’ll blow a twenty-meter hole in the nose cone.”
“No,” Ahmed said, “We’ll get the high explosive out first.
We’ll drill a hole in the top of the tube with a titanium drill bit, continuing into the Hiroshima warhead. A second hole will be drilled on the side of the tube for insertion of a heating element to melt the explosive, which will be sucked out the top hole. We think we can evacuate ninety percent of the explosive mass this way. The rest will be neutralized with a nitrogen-bottle purge from the side hole through the top hole. The nitrogen won’t prevent burning the remaining explosive but it will keep a sustained fire from burning in the tube and lighting off the solid rocket-booster fuel.”
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