by Anders Blixt
“The entry tunnel looks less sophisticated. The mine must have been excavated in two phases. That’d explain why the miners’ technology improved,” I said. “And recently the Russians put this elevator here.”
“What was that infernal bomb we saw up there?” asked Linda.
“I think the Russians have made a transuranium bomb. The physicist Leo Szilard claims that such a device would be equal to thousands of ordinary bombs.” In my mind I wished for his presence. He would know what to do with it.
“Why would the Russians put that weapon here?” said Linda.
“They really want to keep this place out of their enemies’ hands. We were incredibly lucky that those officers were killed before they could activate it,” I said.
Linda and I breathed heavily as we struggled to cross a long stretch of rubble in the partially ruined tunnel. Our bulky polar clothes and heavy backpacks hampered all movements. No ursine would have been able to penetrate this deep into the mine, because that had required climbing ladders.
The wound in my chest ached every time I used my hands for support and whenever the mittens touched stone, cold jabbed at my fingers. The beam of my torchlight searched in front of us for something that was not rock. A brief gleaming attracted my attention. “There is something metallic maybe thirty yards ahead,” I called.
Linda let her light beam probe in that direction.
Spindly, glittering – what is it? We put our backpacks on the ground and advanced. Worry burned in my belly. Nothing living should be down here, but what you don’t know is always more frightening than what you know.
Suddenly I was able to puzzle together the disparate impressions that my eyes had perceived in the darkness. “Dinosaurs or Martians … you were right!”
“Bože moi!” whispered Linda.
A metal spider, fifteen yards across – no, it’s a machine, a vehicle, I thought. This hasn’t been constructed in Prague or Paris, not in Magalhana, Africa or Alba.
The thing’s design was utterly alien – unknown creatures had long ago built a walking mining vehicle. Now it rested here, stiff and decayed, coped up behind long stretches of rubble. We also glimpsed scientific tools that its Russian discoverers had abandoned a few hours ago as they dashed away to man the barricades: ordinary cameras, notebooks, and pencils.
“What are we supposed to do?” My voice echoed in the dark.
“Look up there, the controls.” Linda’s torchlight guided me to the right spot on the machine’s back. “Help me up.”
I clasped my hands for her foot and hoisted her upward so that she reached the control nest. She slid into a place too cramped for a human operator.
Meanwhile, I scanned the ground with my electric torch. A few papers here and there, all in Russian. A sheet with Cyrillic letters in longhand next to aliens characters. I put them in my backpack.
Beyond the machine I reached a rough rock face: the end of the tunnel. It was pockmarked where drills had penetrated it, but those hollows had a dull texture. Millennia had oxidized the naked surfaces. A drill bit was still stuck in the stone. The machine must have broken down and been abandoned.
Food and hot beverage are essential in severe cold. Linda and I shared a bowl of meat soup cooked on our camping stove while we recapitulated what we had discovered.
“The driver was no more than five foot tall, but with very long arms,” said Linda and made an estimate between her outstretched hands.
I could not imagine what the machine’s designers had looked like. “Hmm, like a big gibbon. Are you sure that the operator had only two arms?”
“No, I’m not,” said Linda. “Something else. The metal pieces have fused together. Nothing can be moved. That’s a process that would take a lot of time. I think this machine has been here for more than a hundred thousand years.”
It was certainly advantageous to let a skilled mechanic investigate such matters. “There were no civilizations on Earth in those times … claim those archaeologists that have been digging all over the world for more than a century.”
“Rubbish … so it seems.” Linda, too, sounded overawed by the discovery.
“What the hell do we tell Lee?” I dithered between lying and speaking the truth.
Linda did not hesitate: “The truth. Someone else will tell him sooner or later.”
“The obvious facts, yes. But we should keep our conclusions and hypotheses to ourselves. Let him figure that out by himself. Our faked ‘ignorance’ might serve as a card up the sleeve,” I said.
Linda interrupted me: “Listen here. Russians don’t commit suicide. They probably planned to disassemble and remove that spider machine and then blow the mine to smithereens.”
She is right; the Japanese kill themselves for their emperor, but not the Russians, I thought. “Skilful of them to keep this matter secret for so long. That indicates that they only have uncovered a few other archaeological artefacts.” I switched subject. “I have found a piece of paper that may contain the bomb’s activation code.”
Linda nodded and emptied her mug. “We’ve got to return to the Proteo before we get too exhausted from the cold.”
We slept for hours in the warm Proteo to regain our strength. When I woke, I had had enough of Alba. No more icy plains, no more cold air grating in my lungs. When will I rest on a sunny beach where children play in the waves?
Linda’s hand touched my scalp. “I’ve cooked some food. Mr Lee is awake, too.”
Lee held a cup of coffee in his hand. “Good morning Mr Bornewald. Now I’d like to know what’s hidden inside that mountain.” The voice was clearer and the eyes sharper, but the face remained stiff. The pain in his leg had not subsided, I concluded.
No beating around the bush, I thought, “A big red metal cylinder labelled ‘the tsar’s thunderbolt’ in Russian and a huge mining machine of indeterminate age, manufactured by an unknown civilization.”
Lee was quiet for some time before responding with a question: “Concerning that last claim, are you sure?”
“Both of us are.” I stressed the word both, because Lee’s habit of addressing me as if Linda was not present irritated me.
“Can we get that machine out of the mine?” he asked.
“No. Too much rubble in the way,” I said.
“Who …?” he said.
“No idea,” I said.
“How old?” he said.
“The passage of time has fused its metal parts together,” I said.
He grunted and sipped some coffee. “An eon … that was the old Greeks’ word for a god’s life span.”
May God help me, I thought. How do I manoeuvre in this minefield?
“That red cylinder … what can you tell me about it?” Lee asked.
Linda’s quick response made him turns his eyes in her direction: “It’s labelled ‘Hazard. The unit contains explosives. The unit contains substances that emit ionizing radiation. The unit contains toxic substances. The unit may only be handled by authorized specialists.’”
As soon as she stopped talking, Lee’s gaze return to me. “What does that indicate?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” His calm rudeness annoyed me, but I forced my voice to be level, because I knew what was at stake. “I don’t know.”
Lee voice rose. “Hah, now we’ll be able to kick the tyrants in the …” He stopped before a foul word crossed his lips. “That’s a Russian transuranium bomb.” He knew surprisingly much, but his employer surely had good sources. Lee emptied the cup in one gulp. “To use a Norse metaphor: we will make Surtr dance in Alba. The despots will face their worst defeat ever.”
Linda looked at me.
“Surtr is a fire demon in Scandinavian pagan legends,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Lee. “Hephaestus Mons will spew death and destruction over the tyrants’ holdings in Acheron. The transuranium bomb will blast that slumbering volcano into life.”
Unleashing Götterdämmerung – insanity! I thought. “How?” The u
nderlying question was rather: How do we stop his mad scheme? I also realized that he would kill Linda and me at once when he was done. No witnesses to reveal his titanic crime.
“We’ll drop the bomb into its crater,” said Lee.
“So you’ll pick a large aeroplane out of the hat, just like that? And it will fly there without getting shot down by the Danes?” I asked.
“Yes, just like that. Don’t underestimate me. Do you know how important Alban resources are for Russia and the Empire in the war?” he said.
Linda glanced back and forth between Lee and me. I nodded to indicate that I listened.
He continued: “There are no republican military forces here, just us spies who work with ursines that hate Russia. If we knock out most of the tyrants’ operations in Alba, we will strike a mighty blow for the ursines’ cause and at same time improve the republics’ prospects in Europe.”
His hate has no limits, I thought. “Mr Lee, I do not underestimate you.” My statement addressed his madness, but he would interpret it in another way.
“Good,” said Peter Lee. “Miss Connor, go and fetch Rlishi. We have to load the bomb in the Proteo at once and return to base. No time to waste.”
Chapter 13
“Johnny, wake up.”
I opened my eyes in the darkness of our room in the ursine base. Pain and nausea: once again a Maxidin hangover. I had no idea what time it was, because I had collapsed in the bed as soon as we had returned here with the Russian bomb in the Proteo.
Linda whispered in my right ear: “I had a nightmare. They killed us. We have to get out of here before they dispatch that bomb.”
“If they suspect we’re up to something, they’ll kill us straight away,” I said.
“How can we survive?” she said.
“Peter Lee is doing the same mistake all the time,” I said.
“You mean that he treats me all the time like I’m stupid.” Linda voice got sharper.
“Yes, that. And he looks down on me because of my skin colour. He thinks people like you and I can’t be bright, brave and persistent. Also, he underestimates us because we don’t carry guns. He thinks that his problems can be blown to pieces. And he is all wrong.” Composing that statement in my miserable condition took time and I stuttered at several words.
“So that’s why you’re not carrying a gun?” said Linda.
“No, that’s rather because an armed person is liable to get shot at by other armed people. If one looks harmless, it’ll be easier to solve problems with guile. Anyhow, Lee doesn’t realize how capable you and I are and we’ll turn that against him. For instance, he doesn’t know that I am a competent pilot,” I said.
“Why haven’t you told me that?” Linda sounded annoyed.
“Because it hasn’t been important before. Anyhow, back home young aristocrats are expected to know how to fly. I got my first license when I was sixteen.”
“Good. We should hijack Lee’s aircraft and escape,” said Linda.
“I agree. But we’ll probably have to kill both Lee and the crew. And then we’ll need to find a safe landing spot down in Acheron. We can’t touch down with a stolen plane at any airfield. But we ought to be able to handle that if I only get hold of a colleague. Are you ready to kill several people in cold blood?” I tried to sound calm and confident. Should we really discuss murder like they were a simple business proposal? I had no answer to that question.
“Yes, I am. They plan to destroy my home! What about you?” Linda asked.
“I have few qualms right now.” That was a lie. I did not want to kill again. “We kill to save the lives of innocent people. So be it, but let us never think that the ends would justify the means that easily.”
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Ave Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Ave Maria,” Linda prayed and crossed herself.
I whispered a response: “Grant us courage and strength to block this foul plan. Amen.”
“Amen,” she said.
“You must find out at once how to detonate that bomb in a controlled manner.” Peter Lee was too weak to sit so he addressed that order at the rock ceiling.
“Of course,” I said. “Linda is on her way to the workshop to inspect the bomb.”
“Make sure she doesn’t foul anything up.”
“Certainly,” I said.
“When you two are done, I’ll make sure we have an airplane. I’ve got contacts, I know how.” Lee moaned with pain and tears filled his eyes.
Without further comments I left his room.
“Booby traps – that’s what worries me right now,” Linda said when she and I squatted next to the contraption of steel rods that held the red cylinder.
The workshop encompassed a wide area with benches and machine tools placed well apart to accommodate the ursines’ need for space. Half a dozen mechanics were busy with vehicles and machines. Occasionally they looked in our direction, but with little curiosity. They had no idea what the cylinder contained and they had probably been ordered to leave us alone. Maybe Peter Lee had not even told Rlishi.
Linda continued: “If I had designed this device, I would have installed a booby trap that is activated when someone tries to disassemble it after it has been armed. But the trap would be inactive before arming to make it possible to carry out maintenance. After all, there must be batteries inside for an ignition device and those need to be replaced or recharged every once in a while.”
“That sounds reasonable. Do you want to remove the top of the cylinder straight away?” I asked.
“No way. I don’t dare to assume that the Russian have reasoned like that. I need to peek inside the bomb before I open it. I am going to drill holes in the shell here, here and here.” A finger touched the flat top once and the curved cylinder surface twice. “I have tapped all over it and those spots seem to have nothing underneath. Then I will insert small lamps and use a thin periscope to inspect the innards.”
“Have you found a periscope here?” I asked.
“No, I’ll have to make one from scratch. What do you know of metalworking?” said Linda.
“Not much,” I said.
Linda looked into my eyes. “Well, I’ll make you an apprentice. Follow my instructions to the letter. Or you’ll kill us all.”
“Yes, sir!”
We spent one day making the periscope. To me it ought to be an easy task, because that instrument is based on simple principles. But Linda had exacting standards and knew what performance she wanted. She had to be able to rotate its front mirror, which would explore the interior of the cylinder, in several directions. And when you start with a long copper tube, a piece of glass mirror and lots of nuts, bolts and metal wire, you must work long hours to reach the goal.
On the second day, we assembled the devices that would illuminate the interior: electrical lamps attached to long metal rods that I would manipulate according to Linda’s instructions. That was an easier task and required only a few hours.
After lunch that day, Linda used a drill to open three holes in the cylinder casing.
“Insert the right lamp slowly and fix it. Then you do the same with the left one.” Linda issued orders in a flat voice while she inserted the periscope in the hole in the cylinder top. She had to lean forward in an uncomfortable posture, but she was the one who had selected the location of that hole.
She turned the periscope cautiously and manipulated its front mirror with a small lever. “Ah, now I see.” She moved the tube inward another four inches and wiggled it. “Good craftsmanship. Clever solution.”
After manoeuvring the telescope for ten minutes, she retracted it and sat down. Sweat covered her forehead. I rubbed her shoulders to alleviate the tension while I waited for her assessment of the situation.
“I need another session before I am content,” she said.
This time she worked for more than twenty minutes and ordered
me to move the lamps this way and that. Suddenly she extracted the periscope and leaned at the bomb rack. “The keyboard on the top lid is an electromechanical device. If the keys are pressed in the right order, a switch will be flipped, which activates a timer. There is a booby trap. If someone removes the lid after the activation of the timer, the bomb will detonate immediately.”
“Well done, sir.” I softly punched my fist at her left shoulder as a boyish salute. She smiled back.
“Let’s steel ourselves for the next step. Do you want to tell Peter Lee that you have the activation code?” she asked.
“It’d be better if you come up with a way of bypassing the keyboard. Then we can keep the code as an ace up the sleeve,” I said.
Linda nodded. “I’ll have to remove the lid first and inspect the timer. We must figure out how you set it. That step will take till tomorrow. I’m also going to seal the new holes to keep out dirt.”
“Good. When you’re done, I’ll have a talk with Lee and we’ll find out what he wants,” I said.
We proceeded during the afternoon by making a stand of steel rods. It was to be placed next to the bomb. Linda planned to detach the lid and carefully shift it to the stand. We would then pull it away from bomb about one and a half foot. That would enable us to keep all cables in place without stretching them too much. Then Linda would inspect the interior of the cylinder.
When we executed the plan the next day, we encountered no problems and when evening came, we were able to reattach the lid. The Russians had installed robust easy-to-use mechanisms in the bomb’s innards, so there was little risk for mishaps. Linda also understood how to set the timer and how to hotwire the keyboard. She had disconnected it and experimented with letter sequence I had found on the dead officer: it was the correct one, just as I had assumed. The bomb was ready for use – now we had to get ready for our escape.
“Mr Lee, we’ve completed the job.” I looked at an addled and dirty Peter Lee, who huddled on his bed. He shook the head slightly and focused his eyes on my face. The air stank of liquor and illness.
