by Sean Ellis
“But why keep these?” inquired Hussein, gesturing with his bandaged hand at the pile of containers.
“I’d say this was their answer to throwing it away.”
“If I may,” Chiron interjected. “There may be another explanation. Camouflage.”
“You think there’s something behind all this refuse?” Kismet sighed and resignedly began shifting the cartons out of the way. It was painfully clear that the French scientist would not be satisfied until he had explored every possibility. Nevertheless, the stacked containers did look a little like a facade, set up to give the illusion that the space beyond was entirely filled up, and he wasn’t surprised at all when, after clearing three vertical layers out of the way, he revealed another laboratory workspace. He continued digging at the barrier until the opening was large enough for them to pass through single file.
The space that Kismet now thought of as “Laboratory Two” appeared to have nothing at all to do with the development of biological weapons. Rather, it looked more like a machine shop, with drill presses and metalworking lathes, and a large supply of metal ingots. He picked up one experimentally and found it to be lighter than expected. “Aluminum?” he speculated aloud. No one answered.
A large worktable occupied the center of the area, and spread out across its surface were the pieces to some kind of device. Kismet studied the fragments, trying to imagine what they would look like if assembled. A spherical casing in the middle of the puzzle gave it away.
He sucked in his breath suddenly and glanced at his companions. Both Marie and Hussein seemed only mildly curious about the items on the tabletop. He sensed no recognition from either of them. Chiron had given the device only a cursory glance before continuing his explorations, but Kismet wasn’t fooled. Chiron knew what it was. He had to know.
There were three hard plastic containers, each about half the size of a coffin, stacked at the end of the table. One was open, but the cavity inside was filled with packing foam, cut out to cradle a torpedo-shaped object. The exterior was marked with the seal of the French Ministry of Defense and what seemed to be an identification code: CER 880412. The other two cases were similarly labeled, though with a different six-digit code. Extruded plastic seals, resembling tiny yellow padlocks, were threaded through the clasps. These containers had never been opened.
Kismet nonchalantly moved closer to Chiron, who was presently examining the contents of a workbench. He kept his voice low. “There’s something over here you need to see.”
“The detonators?” Chiron seemed to understand the need for discretion. “I saw. Do not worry, my friend. They are not armed.”
“How can you tell?”
“Many years ago, my government foolishly agreed to exchange certain technologies for oil leases. It was their belief that the Iraqis would never be able to successfully reverse engineer the devices or refine the nuclear fuel to make them operational.” He gave a half-hearted smile. “In this at least, it would seem they were correct. Saddam Hussein’s nuclear program never got off the ground.”
Kismet realized that the object Chiron was inspecting was a partially assembled version of the same item that lay exploded on the table. But unlike the latter, this device seemed rougher at the edges. This fourth atomic detonator had been manufactured here in Laboratory Two, rather than in the Centre d’Etudes du Ripault.
Because he was a nuclear scientist, Chiron’s grasp of the intricacies both of atomic weapons and the politics of exchanging such technologies far outstripped Kismet’s, and the latter had no reason to question his old mentor’s appraisal. Nevertheless, the idea that he was looking at a nuclear bomb, or rather the detonator—the component that used a shaped charge of plastic explosives to bombard a core of plutonium with neutrons, thereby triggering a catastrophic fission reaction—was just a little unnerving.
Chiron turned away from the workbench. “This isn’t the relic we seek. Let’s continue looking, shall we?”
Their counter-clockwise circuit of the laboratory complex moved, not to the third such stainless steel room, but to a tunnel situated at the end of the rectangular cavern opposite where they had entered. After the artificial symmetry of the first two rooms, the passage through which they now moved seemed wholly organic, as if carved out by the forces of nature. It was in fact more likely that the original dimensions of a naturally occurring fissure had been improved with excavating tools and explosives. Yet the workers had not seen fit to work the walls smooth or bore the tunnel in a straight line. It wended back and forth, ascending steeply for more than one hundred meters, before emerging into a larger open chamber.
Kismet flicked off his flashlight and waited for the others to catch up before announcing: “I think we just found the back door to this place.”
The opening, through which indirect daylight was streaming in, was situated more than twenty meters off the cavern floor. It was large enough to fly a helicopter through, which apparently was exactly what someone had done. At the bottom of the chamber, hibernating like a tired old dragon, was a Russian-made Mi-25, NATO designation HIND D. A combination of gunship and transport, the Hind had gained recognition during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan in the 1980s. Beneath a five-bladed rotor, the Hind’s fuselage was aerodynamically thin, like the body of an insect, with stubby outriggers on either side—the wings of the wasp—supporting multiple weapons platforms.
The helicopter appeared to have been well maintained and kept ready for action. Only a thin layer of dust had accumulated on its exterior. Nearby, several drums of aviation fuel were arranged in a neat formation. Kismet slid back the door and briefly inspected the fuselage. “This was somebody’s ‘Plan B’. They kept it ready to go right up until the end.”
Marie offered the only response. “I wonder why it was never used?”
“Like everything else down here, what was the point? There was no way one helicopter, or some incomplete weapons research or a stockpile of munitions, would have made an iota of difference.” Kismet turned away from the Hind and rejoined his companions. “And it’s not going to do us much good either.”
They returned back down the passage and moved toward the third stainless steel laboratory. Of the three they had so far encountered, this one seemed to most resemble the sobriquet Kismet had applied to the facilities. The neatly ordered space was equipped with stainless steel tables, computer terminals attached to gas chromatographs, centrifuges and autoclaves, and racks of glass beakers and test tubes. There was even a glass alembic, looking like a prop from an old mad scientist movie, on one of the tables. Additionally, there were two sealed glass chambers with airlocks and glove ports, and a bank of empty cages large enough to hold a variety of animals. The back wall was arrayed with shelves and cabinets storing glass and plastic containers of various chemical compounds. There was nothing resembling an archaeological discovery—no holy relics. Kismet turned to Chiron. “Well, let’s look behind door number four.”
But Chiron was not there.
“Pierre?”
There was a sudden rasp of metal, then the guillotine gate slammed shut with a forcefulness that sent a tremor through the room, shattering several glass containers. Marie shrieked reflexively and rushed to the solid barrier, along with a stunned Hussein. Kismet hastened to join them and peered through the narrow view port.
“Pierre, I told you—”
Chiron stood just beyond the doorway, his finger still on the large red button that had activated the emergency measures, which had sealed the lab. He raised his eyes slowly to the window and spoke. Although the thick glass completely muted his voice, Kismet had no trouble reading his lips. I’m sorry, Nick. Then he turned away.
Kismet felt numb. Marie and Hussein began frantically searching for some means to open the door, but Kismet was looking for something else: comprehension. Try as he might, his mind could not put the pieces together. The man he thought of as one of his closest friends had intentionally trapped him inside a chemical weapons lab, deep under
ground, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why.
And then he noticed something else about their situation that forced him to leave off wrestling with the riddle of Chiron’s actions. “It’s getting hot in here.”
***
When Pierre Chiron hit the switch, he did more than simply lock his companions inside Laboratory Three. The large red button controlled a fail-safe mechanism designed to protect the rest of the facility from an accidental release of biological or chemical contaminants. Under normal operating conditions, each of the four laboratories would have been monitored by an officer from the Republican Guard with a single order: at the first hint of danger—if a researcher dropped a test tube or if a Rhesus monkey, whether infected or not, escaped its cage—he was to hit the button.
Rihab Taha al-Azawi al-Tikriti, the scientist known to Iraqis as ‘Doctor Germ’, had designed both the laboratories and the fail-safe mechanisms with grim efficiency. The door was composed of a thick panel of lead, sandwiched between equally dense sheets of steel, and was held in place only by two stubby bolts. When the system was triggered, a tiny explosive charge would blast the bolts out of their recesses, allowing the gate to drop. There was no device in place to raise the barrier, which was nearly as heavy as a railroad car. Once a laboratory was deemed compromised, there was no reason for anyone to ever enter it again.
Between the steel walls and floor of the laboratory, and the solid stone of the cavern, there were several bands of granular magnesium. The same impulse that blew the door bolts also ignited these strips of flammable metal, causing them to burn with a brilliant white intensity. By the time the fuel supply was exhausted, the temperature inside the laboratory would approach 1600 degrees Celsius, at which point the stainless steel would become molten and collapse, releasing the final measure: an almost equivalent volume of sand and rock suspended above the laboratory that would drop down and completely bury the thoroughly sanitized remains of the laboratory.
Anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the laboratory would of course be completely incinerated long before the catastrophic denouement.
Part Three: Exodus
Twelve
Rebecca Gault jumped down from the moving rail car as soon as it entered the laboratory complex, dropped into a tactical crouch and brought her machine pistol to the high ready. Her team imitated her actions and before the tram could bump to a halt, they had formed a defensive perimeter and were scanning for possible targets. The holographic reflex sight on Rebecca’s weapon illuminated the center of Pierre Chiron’s chest with a red dot. There was no one else visible in the spacious cavern. The scientist was seated on a bulky object, covered with a large nylon sack bearing the seal of the United Nations and UNESCO. It looked eerily like a body bag. Without lowering the gun, she rose to her full height and advanced on him.
“Where are they?” she asked in their shared tongue.
Chiron gestured toward Laboratory Two. “I think you’ll be pleased. Two of them are still in their shipping containers. The third was disassembled for research, but all the important parts are there.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” The old man winced guiltily, but straightened, assuming a supercilious air. “That’s not your concern. You won’t be bothered. Have your men load this onto the tram.”
She regarded him with barely concealed distaste, but two members of the team hastened forward, following his orders without her verbal direction. There was no question of who was really in charge. The heavy parcel was hefted onto the rail car bed.
“What is that?”
“That also is not your concern.” Chiron gave a sigh, and then softened his tone. “Suffice it to say, I found what I was looking for. Now, let’s finish this business and be away from here.”
Rebecca nodded and secured her weapon. In the corner of her eye, she saw the scientist following her, but made no effort to acknowledge him. Her reaction to the man was not based on any sort of personal dislike. She barely knew him. Instead, she was troubled by the fact that he was there at all, right in the middle of a very delicate and important mission. The situation was further complicated by the fact that he was, nominally, at least, in charge.
The complicity of the French government in sustaining the hegemony of Saddam Hussein was arguably no worse than that of any other Western nation. Even the United States had turned a blind eye to the internal atrocities and human rights abuses of the Baathist dictator in order to cultivate an ally first against the growing Soviet influence in the region, then against the perceived danger posed by Iran. The French government in the mid-1980s had gone a step further by loaning the war-beleaguered nation three nuclear detonators in exchange for future oil leases. Because the deal did not include the plutonium cores necessary to arm the weapons, nor the technology to process that element, it seemed akin to giving a child a gun with not only the bullets but also the firing pin removed. It was perhaps not the wisest thing to do, but certainly posed no imminent threat.
In fact, no peril had arisen from the transaction. Saddam had not produced a nuclear weapon for use against Iran, Israel, or the allied nations during the first Gulf War. With the eyes of the world upon him, the dictator could not openly pursue nuclear refinement technologies. But the weapons now posed a new sort of risk to the French government. If the inspectors from International Atomic Energy Agency found the detonators, it would be scandalously embarrassing to the French government. And now that victory in the war to oust Saddam ensured that every corner of the country would be scoured for anything relating to weapons research, such a discovery seemed inevitable.
But help had come from an unexpected source. An atomic scientist and UN official named Pierre Chiron, who had always been a thorn in the side of the Defense Ministry for his opposition to ongoing testing of France’s nuclear arsenal, had approached his long-time nemeses with a conciliatory offer. He believed he could locate the missing detonators, and with help from a commando team, secure or destroy them. The matter was given over to the Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure (General Directorate for External Security) who in turn handed the assignment to one of their top field officers: the woman who now called herself Rebecca Gault.
Rebecca immediately recognized the shipping containers. The numbers stenciled on each were identical to codes she had been given, but that was only the first step toward verification. She leaned close to the scattered pieces until her eyes fell on twin hemispheres, the disassembled halves of the primary detonator. The primary was essentially a conventional bomb: a layer of plastique, held in place by interlocking hexagons of solid titanium. However, the detonation alone would not be enough to initiate a critical reaction. Between the explosives and the solid plutonium core was a layer of neutron rich beryllium. In the instant of the blast, the metal skin of the ball would focus the energy inward, driving the neutrons into the core, where they would shatter the reactive plutonium atoms to trigger a runaway fission reaction. Without the core, the primary was still a dangerous explosive device, albeit one of relatively low yield, but plastique was relatively stable. She felt no trepidation as she lifted one of the hemispheres and turned it over. Each hexagonal plate was stamped with a unique serial number, verifying what she already knew to be true: this was unquestionably one of the detonators from the Ripault research center.
She broke the seals on the remaining cases and repeated the process with both detonators. “Mission accomplished,” she announced. She spent another two minutes packing blocks of Semtex from her combat pouch around the detonators. Into each square of the pliable explosive compound, she carefully inserted a three-volt blasting cap, all of which were linked together with spliced sections of speaker wire. When she was done, she walked backwards, spooling out the wire as she went, to link up with her comrades outside the laboratory.
In the time it had taken for her to authenticate the three nuclear devices, her team had set charges throughout the facility. She added her wire to the web, and connected th
em all to a single electronic timer. “Half an hour should be enough time for us to reach the surface again.” She directed her words to Chiron. “You will be returning with us?”
He nodded.
Rebecca bit her lip. She didn’t care what fate had befallen the scientist’s companions, or at least that’s what she kept telling herself. But she couldn’t bring herself to believe that the old dodderer had coldly killed them, which suggested that they were probably still alive somewhere, perhaps bound and gagged. It was Chiron’s intention to leave them here to be buried alive when the charges they had planted eventually went off.
Oh, well. It’s on his head.
***
His worst nightmare had come true. He was in the desert, surrounded by his enemies, and he was going to die here.
Saeed sighed wistfully and closed his eyes, trying to remember his villa on the French Riviera, but the memory was an elusive chimera. The gravity of his present situation was too strong for the magic of daydreams.
It had been a long night. After leaving their hiding place on the banks of the Euphrates, he and Farid had rendezvoused with a dozen of his brother’s most trusted compatriots. To a man, they despised Saeed. No doubt they had heard of his earlier life as an intelligence agent and minion of the hated dictator. But their hatred of the new enemy, the American invaders, was greater, and the old proverb held true: the enemy of their enemy was now their friend. Saeed had given them a target for their rage, and so he was to be tolerated, if only temporarily.
