by Joe Buff
Jeffrey and Clayton threw concussion grenades down the stairs, then clambered into the basement. They took a bend in the debris-strewn concrete hallway, then came to a door.
Clayton examined it carefully. "It's solid steel, no lock we can reach, the hinges are on the inside."
"Crap," Jeffrey said. "They'll be trying to signal for help."
Clayton turned to his men. "Get the thermite lances!"
SEALs Eight and Nine came down, carrying rods
three feet long, and wearing asbestos gauntlets. They
put on dark goggles, then donned their gas masks, then
pulled out igniters for the rods. The rods began to burn,
a hissing, brilliant white. Eight and Nine held the rods to the door, starting to burn their way through. Soon Nine said, "It looks like three-inch armor plate." He and Eight kept working. SEAL Two set up a battery-powered fan on the steps, for ventilation.
"Two and Seven," Clayton said. "Police up the bodies outside, dump them in the workshop. Establish perimeter security, the amphitheater, the road." The two men nodded and left.
"This'll go faster if we help," Jeffrey said, then he coughed from the fumes. He and Clayton put on their gas masks and lit two more lances. Above the thermite's eager, potent hiss Jeffrey heard Ilse working upstairs, the squirting sound of extinguishers.
They were all on their third set of lances, the last they had. They were almost done making a hole at the base of the door, big enough to run through at a crouch.
"This is the exciting part," Jeffrey said, sweating in the built-up heat. "We know the biosafety four containment's at the other end of this level. We don't know what else is down here or how many personnel."
"I'm worried they'll have school kids," Clayton said. "Experiment subjects, for hostages."
"This thing ain't over," Jeffrey said.
"We're just about finished," Nine said. A small lip in the middle of the top cut held the square chunk of door in place. SEALs Nine and Eight held the lances to the side. The thermite kept sparking and smoking, and the air stank from burned steel.
"We can fit the peeper through here," Eight said. "It's cool enough now, LT." He pointed to one spot where the jagged gap flared slightly.
Clayton went to the door. He bent the tip of the fiber-
optic wand and pushed it through the cut. He looked through the viewer. "The lights are on inside, but I don't see people or weapons. The front walls and partitions are heated and insulated. They're opaque to IR. . . . I don't see any booby traps, but I can't be sure."
Jeffrey took Clayton's place at the viewer. He twirled the wand between thumb and forefinger, to make the lens pan around.
"You're right," Jeffrey said, "more shielding. Another layer of security, even in there."
Jeffrey could see worktables covered with papers, different kinds of cabinets, big black binders on bookshelves, a few desktop PCs. Then he saw a TV monitor, hooked to a VCR.
Something was showing on the screen, but the angle was too oblique. Several chairs were grouped in front of the set, empty, one knocked over, as if people had been sitting and watching and then scattered with the attack. That meant they were still down here somewhere, farther in. Jeffrey saw a central corridor with doors off to both sides. The corridor ended in some kind of air lock with a porthole. Through the porthole he saw stainless steel. Above the air lock a red light was flashing.
Behind Jeffrey, Ilse came down the stairs. "The fires are out," she said. She smelled distinctly of smoke. She crouched on the concrete floor, her black wet suit snug around her thighs. She clutched her pistol in both hands, pointed toward the overhead. She looked incredibly sexy.
"What now?" Ilse said.
"Look through the viewer, get oriented," Jeffrey said. Ilse put one eye to the ocular. "
Memorize what you see," he told her. "Visualize going in."
"Okay," Ilse said. "I'm ready."
Jeffrey let the two SEALs take a peek. "Everyone change to hollow point only," he ordered. "No armor-piercing rounds near the containment." He pulled from his vest an ammo clip color-coded green, with distinctive ribbing. He cleared his pistol and reloaded with the clip. Ilse and the others did the same.
"Finish the cut," Clayton said. "After we go through, fan out. Don't damage computers or notebooks. Shoot only when you have targets, kill everyone you see. If they have a child, he won't make much of a shield. Aim for the bad guy's eyes, like we trained. His fingers'
ll go slack instantly."
"What do we do with the hostage?" SEAL Nine said. "We'll worry about that if it happens," Jeffrey said. "Any second now," Eight said, working his torch. "One, Six,"
Clayton called. "One, Six, how you mak-
ing out?"
There was a pause. "Six, One, I'm cold, and thirsty."
"Pull up your wet-suit hood," Clayton said. "You'll feel warmer. And drink from your canteen. If you need more water, just call me." Clayton sounded choked up.
"One, Four," Jeffrey said. He had to clear his throat. "You did a great job going in there.
We're on the next-tolast phase now. We'll be back to you soon. Hang tough."
"Yeah," One said, obviously in pain.
"Two and Seven, Six. Any outside activity?"
"Six, Two, negative."
"Six, Seven, no unusual radio traffic, nothing at all from the lab. . . . I think the rain might be stopping."
Ilse watched SEAL Nine give the metal slab a shove. It fell inward with a clank. Eight dashed in, Nine followed. Jeffrey went after Clayton, then Ilse duck-walked through.
Jeffrey held back, protecting Ilse now as the rest of the team moved forward. Ilse pulled empty equipment bags and two digital cameras from her pack and started rifling the desks. The SEALs advanced, covering each
other methodically, shouting "Clear" as they checked each office in turn.
"Shit," Ilse said, eyeballing several computers. "The backs are off. They took out the hard drives themselves."
"I don't see any floppies or CD-RWs either," Jeffrey said. He pointed to empty spaces on the desks, where disk holders had probably been. Bullets hit the door and Ilse and Jeffrey ducked.
"They've been destroying the evidence," she said, "the whole time we were breaking in."
"You're the expert, Ilse. What do we do?"
"I don't see any lab notebooks either." More bullets clanged off the door and the TV
monitor imploded.
"Shaj," Jeffrey shouted—inside the lab his radio was jammed. "Shaj! We need to take a prisoner!"
"Look for an older bald guy!" Ilse yelled at the top of her lungs. "I have a feeling he'll be in charge!"
"Come on," Jeffrey said. He and Ilse dashed forward, pistols drawn. They passed two dead Boer soldiers, one with sergeant's stripes. They caught up with the SEALs.
"No one else in sight," Clayton said. "We searched all the offices, and this whole wall's shielded. . . . The encapsulated diesel generator's over there."
"Keep it running," Jeffrey said. "We need the power in the bunker."
Ilse peered around. "They've wrecked every PC and took the laptops with them. They must have gone through the containment air lock."
"Wouldn't they be killed?" Jeffrey said.
"No," Ilse said. "This outer lock's a precaution. Up to level three's a shirt-sleeve environment. You only need space suits in BL-4."
"How do we get this thing open?" Jeffrey said. Ilse worked the air lock.
"Let's go," Jeffrey said. He yanked the handle of the
inner door and pushed. The door gave a fraction and stopped. He put his shoulder to it.
Nothing. "It's barricaded," he said.
"The Halligan tools," Clayton said. SEAL Eight pulled two special crowbars from his pack. Eight and Clayton jammed the forked ends into the crack. Using all their strength, they forced the door open an inch, then lost their points of leverage.
"Jaws," Clayton said. SEAL Nine handed him the tool. Nine worked the hydraulic foot pum
p while Clayton held the expanding tips to the jamb of the door. Jeffrey covered the opening from above Clayton's head while he worked, using Nine's weapon. Eight covered the opening from floor level, aiming between Clayton's legs. When there was enough clearance, Clayton dashed through. Again Ilse went last.
A floor-to-ceiling freezer rested against the door. It was unplugged, but her visor told her everything inside was still frozen. The team was in an area of marble-topped lab benches, centrifuges, polymerase-chain-reaction machines. They double-checked under the tables—the area was clear. "Keep going!" Ilse shouted.
The wall in front of them was shielded. They went through another door, with no barricade this time. Two men in white lab coats turned to face them, unarmed. Four others fed diskettes and papers into fires blazing in the exhaust hoods of biosafety three.
SEALs Eight and Nine made them move aside.
"Save whatever you can," Jeffrey said. Eight and Nine closed the hoods to smother the fires.
In the middle of one wall was another air lock, much
heavier and with a different mechanism. A big red 4 was
painted on the hatch. Jeffrey looked through the porthole.
"Someone's in there," Jeffrey said. "He's putting on a suit."
"He'll try to lock himself in," Ilse said, "then wait until we leave. Let me get this thing open." She peeked
through the porthole, then worked the door mechanism and yanked the handle. Suction fans began to roar.
The bald man took hold of the inner door. "Get back or I'll open it."
"You can't," Ilse said, "not while this one's ajar. The interlocking won't let you."
The Boer turned. "You," he said, staring at her. He held the space-suit hood under one arm.
"Otto," Ilse said, covering him with her gun. "I somehow knew you'd be behind all this."
The man grabbed a ring hung by a chain from the ceiling and pulled. Nothing happened.
"Come on, Otto," Ilse said, "use your head. The alkali hot bath won't work now either. . .
. Or do you use liquid nitrogen?"
"How did you get here?" Otto snapped. "Who did you come with, the Special Air Service? A parachute drop on the airstrip?"
"No," Ilse said as Jeffrey and Clayton came up behind her. "U.S. Navy SEALs."
"I should have known," Otto said, dripping venom. "You always were too close to American culture." "Come out of the air lock," Ilse said.
"No," Otto said. "You'll have to kill me first."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Ilse said. "Another martyr for the cause, and all your secrets die with you. . . . Not a chance."
Jeffrey and Clayton went past Ilse and grabbed Otto by the arms. He struggled, but Nine moved in and gave him a shot of morphine in the neck.
"You filthy sons of bitches," Otto cursed. "You racially polluted scum!" He looked right at Ilse. "You miscegenating whore! I'll tell you nothing!" His voice was already slurred, his eyelids drooping.
"No, Otto," Ilse said, patting him on the shoulder as he slumped to the floor. She gave him a great big smile.
"You don't know U.S. Naval Intelligence. They have ways to make men talk."
"Commander, Ilse, check this out," SEAL Eight said. He was still covering the other prisoners with his machine pistol. Jeffrey and Ilse came over. Eight pointed to another TV monitor and VCR.
"It's a kid," Jeffrey said. "He's having convulsions." "The archaea," Ilse said. "This must be what they were watching."
"Get the tape," Jeffrey said. "At least we'll have it as data."
"Wait a minute," Ilse said. "It's on record, not play. This is live feed we're seeing."
"It's happening now?" Jeffrey said.
Ilse turned to the air lock. "Somewhere in there."
SEAL Eight handed Ilse a partly burned research diary, then did a radar scan through the wall. "Yeah," Eight said, "in there. No one else, he's alone."
Ilse eyed the pages, the binding scorched and still warm through her flameproof gloves.
Base gene sequencing homology, initiation codons GUG, UUG, CUG, and so on. Grams dry weight per mol-hour culture growth rates, and substrate uptake kinetics.
"Isn't there something we can do?" Clayton said, staring at the monitor.
"Nothing that would save him," Ilse said. "See the way his face looks melted, how his limbs flop? He's lost all muscle tone. The infection's far advanced."
"Can't we . ," Jeffrey said. He had to clear his throat. "Can't we go in and help him? You know, a morphine overdose, anything?"
"The procedures to get in there safely," Ilse said, "the decontamination afterward . . ."
The child was shivering and writhing, more like a rubber dummy than a human. Pink foam oozed from his
mouth, and his chest heaved erratically. He made animal grunting sounds that came over the speakers in stereo.
"Christ," Jeffrey said, "his eyeballs keep jerking in different directions. They aren't even in sync."
"He's in some kind of inner chamber," Ilse said. "Look."
The child was strapped to a bare metal gurney, under robotic grapnels hung from the ceiling. He soiled himself once more and the upper-intestinal effluent dripped to the floor. There was a sump in the white tile floor, in one corner next to autopsy tools—hoses, saws and knives, retractors. Beside them were the mechanical hands and thick viewport of a glove box.
"It makes sense," Ilse said, "a higher biosafety zone past BL-4. Biosafety level five."
"We just have to watch this?" Jeffrey said.
"What do you want me to do?" Ilse snapped. "Suit up and go through the air lock, move the stretcher to the waldoes with the grapnels, then reach in and grab a scalpel and cut his throat? He can't last long now anyway."
Electrodes were taped to the boy's forehead and over his heart. Ilse ransacked the level three work area near the monitor, trying to find the readouts. She gasped when she saw his EEG traces—his brain waves were wild, chaotic and jagged.
As Ilse flipped through more research papers, Clayton turned to the prisoners. "Did you do this to him?"
No one answered.
"Did you do this to him?" Clayton screamed.
"He told us to," one Boer said, pointing to Otto asleep
on the floor. "The whole project was his idea." "They threatened our families," another pleaded. "Did they?" Ilse said. She'd seen enough in the notebooks. "I don't believe you, any of you. You all look too
well fed, too pleased with yourselves. You were burning the records too eagerly." The way their posture slumped showed she was right. "You're all guilty of war crimes."
None of the Boers spoke.
"What do we do with them now?" Clayton said.
There was a gurgling scream from the monitor. The child had chewed through his tongue. Blood spurted from his mouth—he was drowning in it, and his skin was gray, not brown. His eyebrows and jaw worked violently and his lips and nostrils flared and spasmed, a caricature of someone making silly faces. He couldn't be more than ten.
"Commander Fuller," Ilse said. "These notes clearly document systematic efforts to genetically engineer a lethal strain of archaea. Successful efforts. Are you satisfied by what you see? Have the rules of engagement been met?"
"Yes," Jeffrey said quietly.
An electronic tone sounded. Ilse looked at the monitor. The child lay totally still. Ilse glanced at the life signs equipment. His electrocardiogram was flat.
Ilse turned to the enemy scientists. "This is for him and my brother." She opened fire at the Boers, shooting each of them twice in the head.
INSIDE THE MISSILE BUNKER
Jeffrey watched as Clayton studied the South African nuclear physics package. Clayton used a handheld fluoroscope and an ultrasound probe, leaning over the access hatch near the front end of the missile. SEAL Eight took pictures with a digital camera and took notes for Clayton. Clayton's instruments were hooked up to a laptop they'd brought with them, kept a safe distance from the fluoroscope emitter. Imagery flickered on the la
ptop screen.
"This the first enemy warhead you've ever seen?" Jeffrey said. He had to bend his head down while he stood, because of the low bare concrete overhead in the bunker.
"This is the first one anybody's seen," Clayton said, "so far as I know. Okay, here we go.
. . . One sophisticated design. Compact, lightweight, uses very little fissile material.
Eight, write this down in case the laptop's damaged later."
Jeffrey saw Clayton glance again at SEAL One, being ministered to by SEAL Two and Ilse at the other end of the bunker. "Commander," Clayton said, "you pay close attention also. In case I don't make it back."
"Understood," Jeffrey said.
Clayton cleared his throat. "The active ingredient,
the fissile material, is a seven-centimeter hollow sphere of uranium 235." He ran some calculations. "That would weigh five kilograms."
"That's all?" Jeffrey said.
"This design achieves critical mass by density compression."
"What's the fuel enrichment?" Jeffrey said.
Clayton eyed a special radiac. "Ninety-three percent." "That's high," Jeffrey said.
"Higher's more efficient."
"Did we guess right, three KT?"
"I'll tell you in a minute," Clayton said.
Jeffrey glanced at the laptop screen. He saw the different warhead layers: initiator at the very core, tamper, shock buffers, neutron reflector. "What's this shading here, around the edges of the image?"
"The next layer out," Clayton said, "a coating of boron. That's to stop stray neutrons on the atomic battlefield, prevent a fizzle from predetonation."
"Okay," Jeffrey said, "which is one problem you don't have underwater. H20 blocks neutrons." Jeffrey eyed the sonogram. "Now comes the firing system, outside the boron."
"Yup. . . . Again, ultrasophisticated. The inner portion's a fast-detonating high explosive, surrounded by slower-detonating hollow cones, with foil slappers at the apex of each cone, wired to the krytrons."
"The krytrons are what give perfect simultaneous ignition at all the apexes," Jeffrey said.
"Correct. The firing current vaporizes the metal foil, like when a house fuse blows. Each slapper functions as a tiny rifle."
