Operation Doomsday

by Paul Kenyon

  They'd rerouted all other incoming traffic at Washington National Airport and cleared the north runway for her. She came in low over the Potomac, her tail tucked under, the swing nose pointed down for a subsonic approach. The Baroness could see the cluster of service vehicles waiting at the runway's southeast end, and the barriers keeping away the crowd of curious onlookers. The arrival of a Concorde was something special.

  "What time is it, Tommy?" the Baroness said.

  "Nine forty-five in the morning, Washington time, Sumo said.

  She skimmed low over the vehicles and touched down with a gentle bounce. The big bent-nosed bird skidded as she hit the brakes; they hadn't left her much room. She taxied to the far end of the runway and waited.

  A long gray limousine with opaqued windows detached itself from the group of vehicles and drove down the runway toward her. It moved heavily, as if it were carrying a lot of armor plate. A jeep full of Marines with automatic weapons followed it.

  The man who got out of the limousine and stood waiting under the wing was not John Farnsworth. It couldn't have been. John Farnsworth was lean and trim. This fellow had a disgusting paunch. John Farnsworth had a handsome, distinguished-looking face with an aristocratic beak of a nose. This fellow was puffy and sallow, with a bulbous snout and wide nostrils. John Farnsworth had a clipped gray military mustache. The man who waited for her on the runway had a bare, if somewhat thick, upper lip.

  "Slob," was Paul's verdict.

  The slob who was John Farnsworth stood waiting, hands on his hips, for the agent named Coin to emerge. He was obviously one of the crude outside operative types whom the ivy league gentlemen at CIA and NSA turned their noses up at. You could even see the unforgivable bulge of a large caliber revolver at his waistband.

  The Baroness opened the hatch and let down the ladder.

  "Stay with the plane," the Baroness told her crew.

  The person who climbed down the ladder was a thick-bodied man in a double-breasted suit. He was fairly tall — just short of six feet He had wide shoulders and meaty forearms. He had a flat, rather brutal, face, and he needed a shave.

  "Where's the briefing?" he said in a rough bass voice.

  "Fort Meade," the slob said. "You're right on time, Coin."

  They climbed together into the back seat of the limousine, after giving the Marines orders to keep everyone away from the plane. It was possible to see out the opaqued windows from the inside. The slob pushed a button, and a thick glass partition went up between them and the driver. It was opaqued too.

  "Amazing!" John Farnsworth said. "How did you do it, Penny?"

  The other man said: "It's a body mask, John. Shoulders to crotch, with padded arms. It gives just like flesh, in case anyone grabs me by the arm or pokes me in the chest while they're talking."

  "But the face…"

  "Plastic flesh. Applied layer by layer over my own facial contours." She rubbed her whiskers. "The beard's a nice touch, don't you think? If CIA's got an observer at the briefing, I'm going to let him watch me shave it off in the men's room."

  "Speaking of men's rooms…"

  The Baroness gave a deep rumbling laugh. "The body mask comes equipped with some realistic plumbing, John. I'll take a break with the rest of the boys."

  "Let me see your hands."

  She held out her hands. They were thick-fingered with black hair curling down to the knuckles.

  "More plastic flesh?"

  "That's right," she said.

  "And the voice?"

  "There are two flat discs taped to my throat under the plastic flesh." She laughed again. "You may have noticed that I have a very thick neck — positively bull-like. I'm talking silently, of course. They pick up the vibrations from my larynx, like a throat mike. There's a small computer in this rig that alters the vibrations — lowers the pitch and gives them male characteristics. The sound comes out a little loudspeaker under my necktie. Think anyone'll notice that I don't make a breeze when I talk?"

  "I didn't." He wrinkled his nose. "The garlic rather puts one off."

  "Part of my uncouth image. It keeps witches and CIA men at a distance."

  It was Farnsworth's turn to laugh. "I saw the last CIA report on you. It describes Coin as a tall, handsome, fair-haired man. Apparently they got a description of Eric on that Moscow caper. This will really throw them."

  "Well, I'm still tall. Three-inch soles in these brogans, and a fake instep so the soles won't look thick."

  He shook his head in wonderment. "How in the world did you whip all that up in less than five hours?"

  "Sumo and I have been working on the body mask and the voice alteration device for months. We had to rip out some of the passenger stereo equipment on the Concorde to finish up the voice adapter, though. Incidentally, you haven't done too badly yourself."

  "Standard disguise kit from Fort Meade's special effects department," he said deprecatingly.

  She looked out the window. They were already on the Baltimore-Washington expressway, heading northeast. The flat Maryland countryside stretched outside.

  "We haven't much time, John. Perhaps you'd better tell me what this is all about."

  "It's big, Penny. You're a last resort. They don't expect you to succeed. They're throwing you into the game because you're the only other card this country has to play. But their real money's on something they call Project Doomsday."

  "Project Doomsday?"

  "It's under the direction of the Secretary of Defense. That'll show you where we're at. A huge national effort is being mobilized, cost and civil liberties be damned. Billions of dollars in unauthorized funds will be siphoned off to pay for it Anybody finds out too much — or asks too many questions — finds himself under house arrest That includes senators and Supreme Court justices. The news media will print what they're told, or else. All to prevent any public panic that might interfere with Project Doomsday. It's Armageddon, Penny."

  "And what is Project Doomsday, John?"

  "All-out mobilization. A vast program to try to save a few thousand selected people to start life on earth again… afterward."

  "Afterward?…" Her eyes, masked by muddy brown contact lenses, swung toward him. "It's really all that serious, then?"

  "This morning they started herding cattle and other domestic animals into pressurized underground caverns with air filtration systems. They're going to send plant seeds into orbit as insurance, to be brought down later. There's a rumor that they're even going to shoot a couple of Adams and Eves into orbit to wait out the next couple of weeks. But most of the worthy ones will go underground, in the sealed caves, along with our government leaders. The computers are already picking out the punch cards of the lucky few potential survivors. They won't be told about it until the last moment, of course. Then they'll be put under military arrest and escorted to the caves."

  "What in God's name brought this all about, John?"

  Farnsworth clasped his hands over his foam rubber paunch. "You've heard about the latest Russian space spectacular?"

  "Yes. They landed a Lunokhod. It collected some rock samples. They're returning the samples to earth. So what? They've done it before. Not with a Lunokhod, of course."

  "But that's the point"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The previous Russian samples came from soil that had been sterilized by the landing rockets. But Lunokhods rove. This one roved to a place that had been contaminated by man."

  "The Apollo 17 landing site?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you mean — contaminated?"

  Farnsworth looked suddenly old, even behind his makeup. "It seems that one of our astronauts had a virus."

  * * *

  The Marine guard at the gatehouse opened the car door and gave them a hard, unfriendly look. He inspected their iridescent green ID badges and took his time over the papers that Farnsworth showed him.

  "All right, gentlemen," he said finally. "You're to go directly to the auditorium in the main building. You
r car stays here. You'll have an escort to take you there."

  The outer gate closed. There were buzzes and flashing lights from some kind of electronic apparatus. When the device was satisfied, a gate opened in the second of the three fences. This one was made of five-strand electrified wire. There was another security check. Then a gate in the inner fence opened and two armed Marine sentries fell in step behind them.

  "They're nervous today," the Baroness said in her deep male voice. She squared her shoulders and strode forward, taking long masculine steps. The hard shell of the body mask flattened her breasts uncomfortably. She was carrying a hell of a lot of weight around, with the special shoes and the battery pack for the computer-operated voice adaptor. But she managed to make all her body movements look easy and natural. Natural for a big, thick-bodied man with a face like a wrestler's and a build like an ape's.

  The NSA Building had no windows. It was a steel and concrete structure laid out like a huge A, with a boxy nine-story annex nestled between the jutting arms. They walked across a couple of acres of asphalt parking lots to get to it, the Marine guards treading at their heels.

  Inside was an enormous corridor, almost a thousand feet long and wider than a city block. It was lined with a watchful army of Marine sentries, protecting the rows of doors along both sides.

  The place made CIA headquarters look like a doll-house.

  The auditorium was filling up when they arrived. The door was locked behind them. There were a couple of hundred people scattered among the seats or wandering around. The air conditioning was struggling with an overload of cigarette smoke. It was a noisy hubbub, with small knots of men talking excitedly to one another.

  Penelope and Farnsworth took seats near the rear. A few men nearby looked at them curiously, then turned away to continue their conversation.

  "Isn't that Dr. Lionel Barth, the Nobel Prize winner?" Penelope said.

  She pointed her whiskered chin at a frail, ascetic man with a shock of white hair.

  "You're right. He became embroiled in a germ warfare controversy four years after winning the prize. The academic community found out that he'd accepted a research project from the Fort Derrick biological warfare laboratory. His fellow biologists disowned him. Tried to have his Nobel Prize rescinded."

  "Interesting."

  "More than interesting. The man he's talking to is Hans Kolbe, the epidemiologist. Between the two of them, they probably know more about plagues and pandemics than anybody on earth."

  A lean military-looking man in sports jacket and slacks was working his way down the aisle toward them, pausing to exchange words with various people along the way. He was the most powerful intelligence executive in the world, Farnsworth's and Penelope's putative employer, the director of the National Security Agency.

  "Hello, Key," he said to Farnsworth when he got to them. "The last time I saw you, you had red hair, freckles and a case of galloping hyperthyroidism." He peered at Farnsworth's badge number. "You are Key, aren't you?"

  Farnsworth slouched, still playing slob. "You ought to know, General. One of your gate guards planted an FM body tag on me when I was being frisked."

  The Director gave him a bland stare. "Everybody here today is wearing a body tag. We're going to keep track of them all until the crisis is over."

  Penelope said, "There are too many people here for security. You're going to have to lock up the blabbermouths."

  The Director turned shrewd eyes on her. "You must be Coin."

  Penelope watched his eyes. There was no sudden widening of the irises that might indicate that he had recognized the nature of her disguise.

  "I must be," she said.

  "I never thought the day would come when I'd meet you."

  "You still haven't," she said.

  "I just came over to warn you that we've got CIA in the room. They know you're here. They're going to try to get a line on you."

  "We'll take care of it," Penelope said.

  He nodded and passed on to another group of people. The auditorium was about filled up. A solid-looking man in a dark business suit stepped to the podium. It was the President's national security advisor.

  "Gentlemen, ladies," he said into the microphone. "Will you kindly take your seats. We're about to begin."

  People moved and found places. The chatter of voices gradually died down. Penelope noted that all of the auditorium doors had been locked. Uniformed Marines stood along the walls and blocked the aisles.

  The President's Man rapped for attention. "All of you are here because you have a need to know about Project Doomsday. Some of you will play important parts in it. I need not emphasize that your silence and discretion are strictly enjoined."

  His face assumed a pained, mournful expression. "For the time being, I'm afraid, your constitutional guarantees are suspended. We hope and pray that this extraordinary state of affairs will last only a few days. But in the meantime, I can assure you that the penalties for any infractions of security will be swift and severe." He peered over the tops of his horn rims. "There will be no exceptions. None."

  A mutter of indignant voices was heard.

  The President's Man nodded meaningfully, and three men stood up to let the audience see them. Penelope recognized the majority and minority leaders of the House and the minority leader of the Senate. The Senate majority leader was conspicuously absent.

  Farnsworth leaned toward Penelope. "The big boys have decided not to make a fuss. They must have scared hell out of them."

  The briefing was begun by a space agency official. He showed them slides and films of the Russian lander and the activities of the Lunokhod. There was a fuzzy close-up, blown up from a TV image, of the Lunokhod scooping up samples of whitish crystals and filling a capsule strapped to a rack.

  "The crystals in that particular capsule are mostly feldspar," the space agency man said. "For the benefit of non-mineralogists in the audience, it's popularly known as moonstone."

  A slide flashed on the screen. It was a stunning color picture of a kaleidoscope of crystals.

  "It's a fairly common mineral here on earth," he went on, "and the opalescent variety is highly valued as a jewel. It's also a fairly common mineral on the moon." He made a weak joke. "So, appropriately enough, the moon seems to be full of moonstones."

  Another slide appeared. More crystals.

  "This is a sample from the first lunar rocks brought back by Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins. We found that the feldspar crystals were mixed with brightly colored pyroxene grains in the lunar basalt. There's nothing quite like it here on earth. For one thing, it's hot. Rich in radioactive elements."

  There was a close-up of a geiger counter reading on the screen.

  "It's also rich," the space official went on, "in potassium, rare earth elements and phosphorus."

  His face suddenly twisted. "And that's why we're in trouble." He stopped, unable to go on.

  The President's Man put a hand on his shoulder. "Dr. Payne has seen his friends die," he said softly. "I think we're ready for the next section of the briefing."

  The next briefer was Dr. Barth. The whispy Nobel winner stepped to the podium and waited for the noise to subside. He cleared his throat.

  "We began to suspect that the moon might hold some — dangers — after the Apollo 12 flight. Conrad and Bean brought back, among other things, the television camera that Surveyor 3 had left behind in 1967." He paused for effect. "We discovered that the camera insulation was contaminated with streptococcus minis. These germs are normally present in the human nose and throat. I assume that the technician who installed the camera in the spacecraft breathed on it."

  He looked round the auditorium. "These particular streptococci had survived 950 days on the lunar surface. Almost three years. They'd been exposed to vacuum, cold, heat, intense sterilizing ultraviolet radiation. But they flourished, surviving on nutrients found in the plastic insulation. They adapted."

  Somebody raised his hand. "But Dr. Barth, it was after Apollo
12 that NASA ended its strict quarantine procedures for returning astronauts. Why is that?"

  "We were overconfident. We simply ended the practice of bringing back samples from sites that had been contaminated by previous landings."

  There was a hubbub. Several academic types got to their feet and tried to speak. Dr. Barth waited until they'd quieted down, then continued.

  "We learned our lesson after Apollo 17." His voice shook. "We're now going to have films of what we've since come to call the Houston Disaster. The public was never informed of it. More than a hundred deaths were hushed up — and you can imagine the effort that went into that! Since that time, the emergency mobilization plan known as Project Doomsday has existed. Only a handful of people has known about it… until today."

  The lights in the auditorium dimmed further, and a movie appeared on the big screen. Penelope found herself looking at scenes taken in the Lunar Receiving Laboratory at Houston. Behind airtight glass, mechanical hands were busy with the moon rock samples, preparing microtome slices, performing mineralogical tests, adding minute pinches of ground-up rock to culture dishes to see if anything grew.

  "Something went wrong," a new voice said out of the darkness. "There must have been a leak in the air seal."

  On the screen, one of the white-coated technicians suddenly looked puzzled. He put a hand to his chest and felt it. Then he shrugged and went back to work.

  "It happened with incredible swiftness," the voice said. "At this point, the technicians had been working on the samples for only an hour or two. The site of infection in this case was the most accessible — the lungs. We've since found that the microorganism involved can gain entry anywhere — the mucosa of the eyes, nose, anus, sex organs. Cuts and scratches. Or simply eat its way through the skin. Once established, it multiplies with unbelievable rapidity."

  On the screen, there was a cut indicating a brief passage of time. The technician staggered and began gagging.

  "We were filming the usual documentary footage," the voice said. "We caught it all — till the camera died."

  You could see the technician's face turning purplish. His hands clawed the air. He fell to the floor, unable to breathe. Other white-coated figures went to his aid. The camera followed the action.