Operation Doomsday

by Paul Kenyon

  "A couple of weeks, maybe. There'll be rumors, of course. But we'll leave the press alone. We won't step on any toes until the virus gets out of Russia into Europe. Then we close our borders."

  "But we have…" Penelope looked at her watch "…less than forty-eight hours to snatch that capsule away from the Russians. Right?"

  The Director stared at her soberly. "We've bought you a little extra time. The President's been on the Hot Line again. The Russians still don't believe us. But they've agreed to play it safe."

  "From what I heard in there, there's no way to play it safe."

  The Director nodded. "There isn't. But they'll delay cracking the capsule until they work out what they believe will be adequate decontamination procedures. That's a few more days or a week."

  "And?"

  "And they've changed the rocket's course. They're not going to bring it down in Kazakhstan as planned. They're bringing it down in a remote area above the Arctic Circle instead."

  "Where?"

  "They have a… certain facility on the Kanin Peninsula, bordering the Barents Sea. They think they can adapt it into a special, strict quarantine, lunar receiving laboratory."

  "What kind of facility?"

  He gave her a bleak look. "It's a germ warfare laboratory."

  * * *

  They were back on the Baltimore-Washington Expressway, heading south, when the bug went off. It was one of the upholstery buttons in the back seat. The Marine who parked the limousine must have planted it.

  "We found a dead man in the lavatory," it buzzed in the Director's voice. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Coin?"

  "Check him out," Penelope said.

  "We know about him. A CIA plant."

  "Check him out some more. I wouldn't be surprised if this plant has Russian roots."

  Farnsworth said. "What are you going to do?"

  The bug hummed. "There'll be a highway accident after the briefing. The body will be found in the wreckage. Crushed larynx and other injuries, poor devil."

  Penelope said, "Goodby, General." She plucked the button out of the upholstery and crushed it between her fingers.

  Chapter 5

  Chu Fei got out of the car and told the driver not to wait. The driver, a lumpy peasant from Szechwan, nodded and pulled across to the official car stand across the street for his midday nap.

  Chu was a wiry, ascetic-looking man in his thirties, with cropped hair and a long, careful face. He wore a nondescript wrinkled blue tunic with a tight collar and a discreet badge bearing the Mao quotation, "Serve the People."

  He nodded briskly to the two PLA soldiers guarding the steps of the building, their AK-47 machine guns held negligently in the crooks of their arms. The plaque at the side of the door said No. 15 Bow String Alley. A vertical red sign identified the building as the Social Affairs Department.

  If Chu had had a sense of humor, he might have smiled at the sign. The Social Affairs Department was a polite euphemism for the powerful central bureau that controlled both internal security and foreign intelligence operations for the People's Republic of China.

  He mounted the broad stone steps to the third floor headquarters for the International Liaison Department. The soldier on duty recognized him and passed him through without comment.

  The door at the end of the corridor was unmarked. A buxom girl with braids and a bulging tunic sat at a little table just outside.

  "Comrade Liu is expecting you," she said.

  He nodded and went inside. The room was a pale institutional green, badly in need of paint. The furnishings were Spartan — some old filing cabinets, a few uncomfortable chairs, the obligatory portrait of Mao on the wall. He sat down in the visitor's chair, lit a cigarette and waited.

  The man behind the desk finished making notations on a stack of reports and looked up. He was gaunt, almost emaciated, with skin like dry parchment. Liu's health, Chu knew, had been ruined forty years before when he contracted a case of liver fluke during the Long March with Mao. He was one of the few old comrades of Mao to have survived the intervening years.

  "You're a northerner, I believe, Comrade Chu," Liu Hung-Fu said.

  "Yes, Comrade. I was born in Foshan."

  "Good. Then you should be used to cold. And Russians."

  Chu's pulse quickened. A new assignment! An important one! He fought to keep his face impassive.

  Liu was shuffling through a jen yuan dossier "And you have served as chief security officer for the Ten Beautiful Thoughts Biological Research Institute at Tsinghai?"

  "Yes, Comrade."

  The Ten Beautiful Thoughts Institute was the major biological warfare facility for the People's Republic. It had been one of Chu's most important jobs.

  "Good," Liu said. "Then you know about germs." "I know how carefully they must be handled. And how dangerous they can be. It was necessary, for me to carry out my duties for the People's Republic."

  Liu put down the dossier. His unhealthy, yellowish eyeballs fixed on Chu's face. "Comrade Chu," he said, "the Social Affairs Department has a new assignment for you. The most important assignment you will ever have. It has been authorized by Party Central, tang chung yang, at the express suggestion of the Chairman himself." "I am ready to serve, Comrade."

  "Good." Liu got painfully to his feet and shuffled over to a wall map. "Were you aware that the Russians landed an unmanned rocket on the moon two days ago?"

  "No, Comrade." Chu wrinkled his brow. What was this about?

  "They are sending back a load of yueh shih. Moonstones."

  Chu remained silent, waiting.

  Liu picked up a pointer and indicated a spot on the map. It was in Northern Russia, bordering the Barents Sea, due east of Finland and the Kola Peninsula. A small finger of land protruded into the ocean, well above the Arctic Circle.

  "The Russians will land their rocket here, instead of their usual landing site in Kazakhstan. They agreed to do this after the most urgent representations from the Americans."

  Chu pricked up his ears. This was getting interesting. "The President of the United States himself spoke to the Russian leaders." His lip curled. "I can only describe his demeanor as that of a begging dog. He told the Russians a fantastic story. The Russians don't believe a word of it. Or so they say."

  It was more than interesting. So the Social Affairs Department was now able to listen in to Hot Line calls between Washington and Moscow! Chinese electronic technology had come a long way since the technological break with Russia in 1960.

  "The Russians don't believe them," Liu went on. "But we do."

  Chu was unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "What did the Americans say, Comrade Liu?" he said.

  Liu tapped the map again. "Do you know what is here?" he said.

  "No, Comrade."

  "This is where the Russians have their germ warfare laboratory. Like our own Institute at Tsinhai."

  Chu was puzzled. "But what has this to do with moonstones?"

  "The stones are contaminated with a new germ. One that never existed on earth before. The Americans are terrified of it. They say it cannot be controlled — that it eats through solid walls. And that if it gets loose, it will mean the end of the world."

  Chu smiled. "Obviously the Americans are simply trying to keep the Russians from getting their hands on it. They must be working with this moon germ in their own laboratories."

  "That is exactly what the Chairman and Party Central think."

  "I would venture to guess that the Americans went to great lengths to manufacture false evidence that would convince the Russians that the germ was too dangerous to handle."

  "You are correct, Comrade. You are an astute man. You are resourceful. Your record is impressive. That is why you have been chosen to lead the expedition."

  "Expedition?"

  "You will take a picked military force into the Arctic and land it here, in Cheshkaya Bay on the eastern shore of the Kanin Peninsula." He tapped the map for emphasis. "You w
ill proceed inland. It is a remote area. There are few people — just nomadic savages under the nominal control of the Russians. You will kill everyone you encounter to keep them from betraying your presence. The Russians maintain the usual security force at their biological laboratory. You know about such things. You will be authorized to requisition any materials and men you need to overwhelm them swiftly. You must find the moon rocks and escape with them to the Arctic before Moscow can react."

  Chu sat; stunned. "Anything is possible, Comrade, but…"

  "You are correct," Liu said stonily. "Consider Mao's words on the Foolish Old Man Who Moved The Mountain. Anything is possible with sincere effort and the power of Mao's thoughts, is it not so?"

  Chu was sweating. "I will do my best, Comrade Liu."

  "Good." Liu became brisk. "Preparations have already begun. You and your force will be airlifted to an ice floe in the Arctic, well beyond Russia's security perimeter. A freighter with false Norwegian registry is already on its way there. It will sail you close enough to the Russian shore for you to float the rest of the way in on a small floe that will not alert Russian coastal radar. We are providing muffled propulsion units to push the ice without being detected by sonar."

  Chu thought it over. It might just work.

  "One other thing, Comrade Chu."

  "Yes, Comrade."

  "There must be no suspicion that the People's Republic of China is involved. We cannot afford a military confrontation with Russia. Not now, in the light of their detente with the Americans." He paused and smiled, showing brown stumps of teeth. "But perhaps we can destroy that detente."

  "But how, Comrade Liu?"

  Liu kept smiling. "We will see to it that the Russians blame the theft of the moon rocks on the Americans."

  * * *

  "We go in like this." the Baroness said.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the reindeer fur rug, the map unfurled in front of her, facing the others. She looked utterly and enchantingly feminine in the soft fawn cashmere pullover from Givenchy and the skintight ski pants. The embroidered wool cap she'd worn that morning on the slopes was pushed back, pixie-like, letting her rich black hair fall down to enclose her cheeks.

  "Just like that?" Skytop said. He sounded dubious.

  "Just like that."

  They were gathered in a semicircle around her: Skytop and Sumo and Wharton and Eric, with Inga a little off to the side, sprawled like a blonde Valkyrie on the floor between the two enormous white Russian wolfhounds.

  "And the Russians just sorta tip their hats to us when we cross the Finnish border?" the big Cherokee persisted.

  The Baroness laughed. She stabbed her finger at the map, toward the place where the Kola Peninsula faced eastward like a horse's head with Norway for its mane.

  "Nobody worries about Lapps," she said, "not even the Russians. They're still classified as a native people. The spring migration is about to begin. They'll be crossing all the borders — into Sweden, Norway and into their grazing grounds on Russian territory on the Kola Peninsula."

  "We don't look much like Lapps," Eric said. He was a long, lean, yellow-haired man in a black turtleneck, with a face that was a little too handsome. He was the top male model for the Baroness' firm, International Models, Inc. He was also one of her most resourceful agents.

  "You and Inga are Swedish ethnologists," the Baroness said. "You're specialists in Finno-Ugric languages. You've been assigned by the Swedish Academy to follow a Lapp tribe on its travels and make a report on the economy of the reindeer herds. It's all been fixed up. If anybody checks up at the Academy, the right files and dossiers are there. And the Finnish government is cooperating."

  Wharton whistled. "That was fast. It must have taken some doing."

  "John Farnsworth arranged it, with a little assist from Washington. If the Finns knew what we were really about, there'd be hell to pay."

  "Hey, Eric," Skytop said, "do you really talk those whatchacallit languages?"

  Eric looked up soberly. "My father taught me Norwegian. And my mother taught me Swedish. And I can get along in a couple of the Lapp dialects. No one will catch on. There are so many dialects that a Lapp from Jaemtland can't understand a Lapp from Karesuando."

  "What about me?" Sumo said. "I can't pass as a Swede. Neither can Chief."

  The Baroness laughed again. "No, but the two of you can pass as Lapps of Mongolian or Samoyed stock. There's a lot of intermarriage. Just keep your mouths shut."

  "That won't be easy for Joe Skytop," Inga said dryly. She ruffled the fur of one of the borzois.

  Wharton was studying the map. "Okay," he said. "We follow the reindeer herds to their crazing grounds on the eastern shore of the Kola Peninsula. The Russians don't bother us because we're a familiar sight this time of year. And there's nothing that strategic on the Kola Peninsula. But we've still got to cross forty miles of open sea to get to the Kanin Peninsula. And that is strategic. The germ warfare laboratory's there. The shore is guarded by radar, and the Russians make regular overflights across the Mezen Bay." He spread his hands helplessly. "Anything — even rubber boats — is sure to be spotted."

  "Tommy," the Baroness said.

  Sumo got up and crossed the rough plank floor of the hunting lodge to a stack of wooden crates against the chinked log wall. He picked up a small pry bar and forced open a lid.

  "We cross underwater, in these," he said.

  He drew out something that looked like an oversize white plastic laundry bag. There was a rigid ring around the mouth, topped by an irregular block of foam that looked like ice.

  "Man, I'm from Oklahoma!" Skytop bellowed. "I'm not getting my ass frozen in that thing!"

  "Can we survive in those?" Wharton said.

  "They've been tested by the Navy in the Antarctic," Sumo said. "There's a multi-layer foam lining with air space for insulation. There's a network of heating wires, battery-powered. Works like electric socks at a football game. We'll be warm as toast."

  "What happens if you spring a leak?" Eric said.

  "You die. In about four minutes. Arctic salt water reads at about 28 degrees Fahrenheit."

  Skytop shivered.

  Sumo pried open another crate and took out something that looked like a boomerang with four bullet-shaped fans protruding from its trailing edge. The whole assembly was less than four feet from tip to tip, and looked as if it couldn't weigh more than a few pounds.

  "This is what pulls us along," he said. "Remote controlled. We bob around just below the surface behind it in single file, on a long nylon line. We can do about ten knots. Cross the bay in four hours."

  "How did Key get that up here so fast?" Wharton said.

  The Baroness stretched and wriggled her toes in their thermal socks. "He has a lot of friends in Finland. He has a lot of friends everywhere. This lodge belongs to a Finnish industrialist. He thinks one of John's friends is having a honeymoon here."

  "What else did John send up?"

  The Baroness got up and joined Sumo. She took the pry bar from him and opened another crate. She took out a soft floppy package about the size of a knapsack.

  "Guess what this is?" she said.

  He furrowed his brow. "I haven't a clue."

  She laughed with delight. "A snowmobile!"

  "Looks more like a giant beanbag," Wharton said. "What are all those lumps?"

  "Some of the rigid parts," Penelope said. "The engine, front ski assembly, tiller and so forth."

  "But how…?"

  "You pull this ring. It releases a plastic foam that becomes rigid in a couple of minutes. It was developed by NASA for instant shelters on the moon. There's an earthbound version the construction industry is experimenting with. The foam forces its way between these tailored layers of fabric, takes its shape and hardens. Presto — instant snowmobile,"

  "That little lump can't be the motor. It's about the size of two coffee cans."

  "Another space agency invention. Runs on liquid hydrogen and oxygen heated in a titani
um combustion chamber by a flashlight-size laser assembly. We'll be sitting on a bomb, but it has a range of a couple of hundred miles before the hydrogen runs out. Enough to get us out — fast!"

  Inga shuddered. The two wolfhounds, responding to her mood, whined.

  "With a capsule of moon virus," Inga said. "I do not like that, Baroness. Suppose there is an accident?"

  Penelope said, "We don't take the virus with us. Too dangerous. We destroy it on the spot."

  "But how? They had to set off an underground nuclear explosion to dispose of the Houston virus. A hydrogen bomb!"

  Even Skytop looked worried. "Yeah. We don't dare crack the capsule. And it's not the kind of thing you pour gasoline on and set afire."

  "Tommy," the Baroness said.

  Sumo was already opening another crate. He removed an accordion-like disarray of louvered panels. Like some oriental conjurer, he spread it out into a large metal box the size of a child's coffin. There was a cylindrical housing at one end.

  "This will do in place of a hydrogen bomb," the Baroness said.

  "What is it?" Inga said.

  "A laser autoclave."

  "A sterilizer? But is it good enough to…"

  Penelope said, "The AEC released it to us from their hydrogen fusion research program. And added a few tricks stolen from the Plasma Physics Institute in Munich. It's top secret."

  Sumo looked like a child with a new toy. "We enclose the capsule in the box. We focus a laser pulse on a frozen pellet of deuterium and tritium — heavy hydrogen. There's a thermonuclear reaction for a fraction of a second. It should be enough."

  "A fraction of a second, man!" Skytop growled. "That doesn't seem like much."

  "How long do you think a nuclear explosion takes?" Sumo said.

  The Baroness cut firmly across the conversation. "The temperature inside the autoclave will reach something like fifty million degrees centigrade," she said flatly. "That's hotter than the surface of the sun."

  "Everything vaporizes." Sumo said. "The virus, the autoclave and a forty-foot circle of the Kanin Peninsula."