Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke

by Martin Caidin

  He was wrong. They were still cruising at 22,000 feet when Sam began pulling the string.

  “Double-team security is the kind of system that works a couple of ways,” Sam began suddenly. “We’re moving the bomb into Atlanta today.”

  Just like that.

  “We’ve got security people all over the place.”

  So that’s why the extra people on this thing with us . . .

  “We got more than that nuke in Atlanta. We got a couple of other surprises for the people. You, moon man, are one of our specials.”

  Don’t quit now, Sam. Keep talking, for God’s sake . . .

  “We also have a ship in the harbor at San Francisco. You know, it takes in Frisco and Oakland Bay. There’s more than a hundred big ships in there at this moment and one of them is carrying a ten megatonner. That is our insurance.”

  Sam broke off suddenly, studying the navigation instruments. “How far out from West Palm?”

  Steve watched the DME needle. “Little less than two hundred.”

  Sam nodded. “Start your letdown in five, Austin. We’ll do it by the numbers.”

  “Right.”

  “Ever since three days ago nobody in this thing has blinked his eyes without being watched by two men assigned to him. That includes you. And me. And everyone else. Your two friends, Austin, are behind us in the bird right now.”

  “Interesting.”

  Sam laughed. “You’re going to get real chummy with them, moon man. You see, we’re going to leave the four of you together in Atlanta.”

  The four of us? What the devil can he—

  “You, your two shadows, and the bomb.”

  My God . . .

  “And we’re arranging for you and the guards, right along with that big ugly thing, to be captured.”

  Steve glanced at Sam, who was watching him. “You don’t look so good. I don’t know whether you’re confused or just plain shook.”

  “Try some of both.”

  “I’ll fill in the rest.” He paused to watch Steve roll in nosedown trim. The DC-6B began a long, flat descent. Their flight plan called for them to take her on down to fifteen hundred feet twenty miles due east of West Palm Beach before turning west and penetrating the ADIZ. It was all normal enough. They’d be in radar and radio contact all the way through the Air Defense Identification Zone. “Keep her twenty miles off the coast,” Sam reminded him.

  “Twenty it is,” Steve answered. He wondered why Sam was so insistent on details today. He brushed aside the question for another that hammered through his brain. The bomb was going into Atlanta today. But how, and where was it right now? It couldn’t be aboard the DC-6B because they were going through Customs and those people hadn’t let off an inch in their scrutiny of the cargo.

  “So we set it up for the government to get their hands on you, your two shadows, and the bomb,” Sam said. “Now, there are rules to every game, and the rules for this one are that none of you, or the nuke, can be touched. How’s that for frustration!”

  Steve busied himself for a moment with the throttle quadrant before he spoke. “All right, Sam, let’s consider it next week and time for another thrilling episode. What happens after they get hold of us?”

  “Once we have three-way confirmation through Sperry that the government has paid off the billion, that’s when we let them know where you are.”

  “You’re losing me, Sam.”

  “Sorry, I got ahead of myself. We set you and the bomb in Atlanta, right? Now, how do they know the bomb is the real article? Simple. It used to be one of theirs. When we contact them we give them its serial numbers. No questions, they know the bomb is missing. Hell, they’ve been looking for it, and now it turns up in their back yard.

  “And what about the moon man? How do they know he’s authentic? First, they receive a set of your fingerprints. They get photographs of you—and we’ve taken plenty of them these last few weeks—and they get a good look at that clean-cut, All-American face of yours. But how do we prove you’ve been right here in Atlanta? We tell them to get the tower voice tapes, you know, the automatic recordings they keep for a month at every control tower in the country. We tell them what times we’ve flown in here. You’ve talked to approach control and the tower. So we tell them to get the tapes and play them back, and then, to get the tapes of your voice when you were flying as a test pilot and an astronaut. They do a voice ID. They check one against the other. What do they find? That ‘Mike Arnold’ is really their moon man who took off against God and country. Steve Austin himself. There’s no question, none at all.”

  Sam paused to jockey the controls. Steve glanced at him, cigar clenched in his teeth.

  “Well, that’s how it goes,” Sam said. “All leaves no doubt in their pointed heads that we’ve got the goods and we’ve got you. There are some other details, Austin, but they don’t concern you. They’ll work, don’t you sweat it. You just sit tight with that big pineapple while we negotiate. Think of it as a vacation. You don’t have to do a damned thing except play nursemaid.”

  So my real job, Steve thought, is establishing credibility for the basis of their monstrous blackmail operation. And if it goes wrong, well, I’m just another casualty. Good old Sam . . . a real romantic—with somebody’s else’s life . . .

  “They pay off,” Sam went on, lighting a fresh cigar, “and they get a roadmap telling them where to find you. They find you, they know we’ve leveled with them so far. They also find the bomb. You’re in their hands, but not really. They disarm the nuke. And that, friend, when they’re all relaxed and putting on clean shorts, is when you tell them about the device aboard that ship in Frisco harbor. What do they do now? They send you and the boys on your way, safe and sound, right? When you’re safe and have been swallowed up somewhere in the world, they find out where the bomb is in Frisco.”

  “It’s quite a scenario. I wonder if they’ll buy it.”

  “They’ll make it a best seller. Listen, you’re forgetting who you are, what you stand for. But if that isn’t enough they’ll have thirty-two million tons of hell in the living room with them. They’ve got to believe that. And that kind of belief is our double insurance. Because if they decide to play games . . . Frisco and Oakland disappear. And they won’t know how much more they might lose. That’s where keeping our word comes in. We’ve got to play it straight, and we will.”

  He shifted in his seat and slid closer to the controls. He held his hands over the yoke and turned to Steve. “Time for me to earn my pay. I’ll take it down.”

  At fifteen hundred feet he rolled the DC-6B to the left and came out on a heading that would bring them precisely seventeen miles north of the airport at West Palm Beach. Steve noted the darkening sky. Until now their time of arrival had meant little to him. Suddenly it seemed important, a part of the awful fabric Sam Franks was weaving. They pounded through light turbulence at their same altitude, Sam talking to the air traffic controller at West Palm, knifing through the ADIZ exactly on schedule, and being called off from the ground. Sam switched radio frequency to radar approach at West Palm and got his acceptance to continue to the field. They passed over the shoreline and Sam began the wide pattern to the south. He kept looking to his right and Steve followed his gaze.

  “You see it?” Steve asked. Another plane, coming in toward them.

  “I got ’em,” Sam said. He suprised Steve by reaching to the control panel and switching their lights on and off five times. Steve kept the other plane in sight and saw bright landing lights flash on exactly five times.

  “Right on time,” Sam said.

  They were well to the west of the airport now, and down to less than a thousand feet. Sam kept going down and leveled off finally at four hundred. Steve started to comment on their low height but thought better of interfering.

  The other airplane kept closing in on them. Steve couldn’t believe it. The other ship was an exact duplicate of their own DC-6B, right down to the serial numbers and the huge stain along the side and
belly of the fuselage.

  He knew then what was happening. It was quite a move. The other airplane slid into tight formation. Anybody following them on radar (and they were almost too low for that) would get only a single blip painted on a scope from the transponder of the second airplane. Exactly as intended.

  Steve slipped his headset over his ears. He knew what would happen next and he wasn’t disappointed. The pilot in the second airplane, using the same numbers as their own ship, using the same company name, called in to the tower for landing instructions.

  “Three Six Six Delta, maintain wide left base. Report turning final.”

  Even as the words came in from the tower operator, Sam knuckled the yoke forward. The DC-6B dropped to a breathless two hundred feet and roared away to the west in a tight turn. The second airplane eased back to eight hundred feet, coming in clearly now on the radar scope at West Palm. As that ship went on to land at West Palm—ostensibly on the flight from Brazil—Sam flatted his plane to the west over open swampland.

  Two hundred feet. Then a hundred, and still he eased the big airplane down. The altimeter was useless. Palmetto and scrub brush whipped crazily toward them, racing by. They were off the radar screen. No way for radar to follow them. Not this low. Sam had to keep this up for only a few more minutes and then he could start a gradual climb. No one would ever know about the connection between the two airplanes. No one would ever suspect there were two planes with identical appearance. It was neat. Customs would check out an airplane they believed had come in from Brazil. Everything would be in order.

  And meanwhile Sam Franks would be delivering a hydrogen bomb to Atlanta.

  They landed in Atlanta on a flight plan filed with Ormond Beach, Florida, just north of Daytona Beach, as the point of departure. No tower at Ormond Beach, no need to be suspicious. They taxied to the familiar cargo area, but there all familiarity with past operations ended. Several trucks rolled up to the plane, effectively screening it from any intruders. Steve was certain that every man there was heavily armed. He waited in the cockpit while Sam personally supervised unloading a heavy crate onto a truck. He called to Steve to join him in the vehicle, and almost at once they rolled from the airport, the middle truck in a convoy of three.

  It was dark as they pulled up before a three-story apartment house somewhere in Atlanta. The truck went into a garage and a team of men were at work immediately opening the crate. Steve and Sam watched as a heavy metal container was rolled to the center of the living room on the first floor.

  “We took over this building four months ago,” Sam explained. “No one pays any attention to the trucks. They’ve been coming and going around here all that time. Now, watch.”

  Nothing left to chance. The metal container weighed, Steve estimated, somewhere between 180 and 200 pounds. A section of the ceiling was removed, and a winch sling and hook placed about the container. An electric motor raised the container to the second floor, where it was rolled into a bedroom. The ceiling—the floor for the second-floor apartment—was put back in place and the winch removed to the truck in the garage. Moments later the truck rolled away.

  That left six men in the apartment. Steve, Sam Franks and two guards—now openly displaying submachine guns—for each of them. Two guards stayed in the bedroom and the other two took up position elsewhere.

  Sam opened a heavy toolbox and laid out on the floor an array of special tools and instruments. He connected testing devices to the container, triple-checking every move he made, and calling on Steve to provide a fourth check.

  “Got it?” Sam finally said to Steve.

  Steve nodded. His throat was dry, his voice rasping. “Got it. The device is checked out. It can receive its detonate signal on two primary channels. You’ve removed four of the six safety interlocks.”

  “Anything else?”

  Steve swallowed. “Only one of the two remaining interlocks is part of the auto system. The other is manual.”

  “Which I will release,” Sam told him, “before I leave. I’ll trip it and that leaves one. Which is, well—you know.”

  An hour later it was done. Steve had his instructions. The apartment was well stocked with food, medical supplies and whatever was necessary for a week’s stay.

  “There’s a telephone here,” Sam explained. “This way we can always reach you if we need to. But don’t—and I repeat do not—make any calls out of here on that thing. It’ll blow up in your face, Austin. The two guards stay here with you. One watches you at all times while the other breaks.”

  Steve looked at them. Sloppy, in greasy clothes, stubble on their faces, beer cans lying around. Each beer can was capable of an explosive release of Mace.

  “No one leaves this building,” Sam said, “until you get word to do so.”

  “Which is when?”

  Sam handed him an envelope. “Your instructions are in there. You open this thing four hours after I leave. Everything you need to know is in there, Austin. And that envelope is like the phone. Don’t open it in less than four hours. Its got a timed-decay acid inside and it’ll blow up in your face if you touch it before it breaks down and becomes harmless.”

  He handed Steve the envelope, clasped his hand and looked at Austin for a long moment. Then, strangely, he nodded and left, followed by his two watchdogs. A door below closed and Steve heard a heavy metal bolt slam.

  Steve looked about him. He was in an isolated building on the second floor with an explosives-rigged envelope of instructions, a telephone waiting to blow up in his face, and two well-trained killers.

  And a hydrogen bomb capable of destroying the city of Atlanta and all its suburbs.

  With only a single safety interlock to prevent just that from happening.

  CHAPTER 19

  He looked at his watch.

  Four hours and eight minutes. He decided to give the envelope an extra ten minutes before slicing it open. Insurance.

  During the wait, he had considered possible ways of breaking free from the apartment building. The guards would be rough, but his unexpected speed and the strength of his bionics limbs might well counter them. Certainly one guard wouldn’t be a problem. Getting both was still a question mark, and he hardly dared play with odds—however long in his favor—at such a time. If he were wrong the city of Atlanta, its inhabitants, surrounding suburbs and an area covering hundreds of miles downwind of the city could be called on to pay the ultimate price.

  The guards stayed well apart. They were experts in their job, and he didn’t for a moment underestimate their capabilities. What finally brought him to reject entirely the idea of taking them on, of chancing getting them both, was that it might accomplish exactly nothing. He knew enough of the workings of Franks’ mind by now to know that the two guards were only the most immediate security against any violation by him of Franks’ elaborately laid plans. Sam’s security cross-hatching would unquestionably include guards in the building across the street. If anyone from the building with the bomb showed up not according to plan or notification, hell would literally break loose.

  Steve didn’t have to inspect the rear of his building to be sure that every doorway and window was boarded up and barred. The apartment told him that—with the exception of the door leading to the hallway, every door in the apartment, including those for the closets, had been removed. Steve was always in direct view of at least one of his guards, even when using the bathroom.

  Sam had left nothing to chance.

  Steve opened the letter.

  Austin:

  Sorry it’s not the Hilton. You can expect to be stuck where you are for at least several days. At least now you know and can accommodate your routine to what you’ve got to do. I wouldn’t have anyone else handle it.

  First, let’s cover any emergency situations—unplanned ones according to Murphy’s laws of physics—such as fire, flood, electrical breakdown. No matter what happens, keep in mind you can’t repeat can not use the phone for outgoing calls. Getting half your head blow
n away can ruin your whole day. However, in event things do come unglued, your watchdogs have several emergency numbers to call. There’s a phone booth on the street corner two blocks east of your building. They each know what to do and who to call, and, more important, how to assure the authenticity of any call they might have to make.

  Outside of fire or an airplane landing in your lap there’s really no reason to leave the premises, which could be unhealthy. In case of fire, use the extinguishers you’ll find in every room. Except for some catastrophe external to the building, the odds in your favor of being left alone are something like a hundred thousand to one. I repeat, that’s in your favor. I thought you would feel better to know that number comes from a large and capable electronic brain.

  I don’t anticipate that anyone from this organization will see you at any time during the next several days to a week, until arrangements are made to bring you back to the airport. If we do need to visit you, be sure to accept such a visit only after you get full identification. The ID will be with my voice, either live or taped. You will hear, in this specific order, my full name, your full name, the names of the two spacecraft for your lunar mission, and, finally, the first, third, and fifth numbers of your blue suit serial number. I realize this sounds melodramatic to you, but it is secure—which is what we’re after. If anyone attempts entry without this preliminary, tell the guards to cut them down. And resist any temptation to play games. This handwritten letter has no copies—destroy yours—but the guards know the ID. If you try playing host to outsiders, they have their orders. I’m sure you understand the consequences not only to you but a whole city and its people.

  I know you’re not going to like what comes next, but it seemed the only safe way of handling this situation. Stay with me now, moon man. This gets a bit tricky.

  The bomb activates exactly five hours after I last adjusted the mechanism, so it’s just about coming to full life as you read this. When I eliminated that fifth interlock only one was left. I know that you’re familiar with the hardware, but another go at it can’t hurt.