by Dave Edlund
In five seconds everyone was out. The SGIT team, Peter, and Diaz all jogged across the campus to the chemistry building.
A few Marines were scattered about the campus; Peter counted six by the time they entered the battle-scarred chemistry building. Diaz engaged in a conversation with another Marine while Peter followed the SGIT soldiers into the building. Already the bodies of the slain Delta operators had been slipped into black body bags and removed, soon to begin the long, solemn flight home.
Inside, the hall still reeked of fire and death, the walls scorched in front of the library. Bullet holes riddled the walls. Looking down the long hallway toward the main entrance, Peter saw large bloodstained swaths of tile flooring, but the bodies of the militiamen had all been removed.
“Which way?” Jim asked.
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “Our tour was interrupted by Gorev before it began. We’ll have to search door to door. I think the upper floors are all offices, so let’s start here and then go to the basement.”
“Bull, organize the men and get the supplies Peter needs to build another EMP bomb. Iceberg helped before, so he should know what to get. You have the list?” During the short flight in the Osprey, Peter drew up a list of the necessary items. The power supply was the big question as he wasn’t confident the SGIT soldiers would know what to take from the storeroom, so he told them to grab anything that even remotely looked like a power supply.
Moving quickly, Peter and Jim started down the hall checking each door. Fortunately, none were locked. As they reached the end of the hallway, almost at the destroyed lobby, Peter opened a door and found what he was seeking. “This is it.” He entered, turned on the light, and Jim followed.
The room was small, only about 150 square feet, and had no windows. Occupying the center of the floor was the large, gleaming white electron microscope. An office chair was resting in front of a console with many buttons and panel-mounted lights. To the left was a stainless steel vacuum chamber—a horizontal pipe with bolt-on flanges resting on a smaller section of vertical pipe. The vacuum pump was running, making a rhythmic thumping sound.
An old-fashioned cathode-ray-tube monochrome monitor was located to the right. At the moment it displayed a moving pattern, the logo of the company that made the delicate instrument.
Peter sat in the chair and studied the controls. “Let’s hope that the explosions didn’t damage the electronics.”
“And if they did?” Jim asked.
“Then we’re screwed,” Peter answered somberly.
“What can I do to help?”
Peter set the expandable file folder on the console and gently removed the samples. He scooted to a side table with a Styrofoam holder lined with small metal buttons, each button connected to a metal post. Sharing the table was another machine with a clear squat cylindrical top about six inches in diameter.
Peter tapped it with his finger. “This is a sputterer. It deposits a thin coating of metal on the samples.” Jim listened intently.
Lifting one of the metal buttons, Peter placed a small piece of double-sided tape on the button. Then he removed a cotton swab from one of the envelopes. The white cotton held darker specks of foreign material lifted from the case hinge. He rolled the cotton across the sticky tape, leaving the particles behind.
“Place the sample stage inside the sputtering chamber.” Peter showed Jim how to do this. “Then turn on the vacuum pump and watch this vacuum gauge. When the needle is here,” Peter pointed, “flip this switch and an electric discharge will cause metal from the target to coat the sample stage.”
The entire process was over in about three minutes. Peter turned a valve releasing the vacuum inside the chamber, and then he removed the prepared sample. “Now, you get the next sample ready while I load this inside the vacuum chamber of the microscope.”
“What’s the purpose of the metal coating?” Jim asked as he was repeating the manipulations.
“Metals conduct electricity, right?”
“Sure, of course.”
“Well, this instrument will shoot a stream of electrons—electricity—at the sample. The electrons will generate an image that can be magnified electronically. If the sample is not conductive then electrical charge builds up and blurs the image.”
Peter loaded the sample while he was talking, and the chamber was pumped down.
“You know how to operate this microscope?” Jim asked.
“It’s very similar to the one at my company. Same manufacturer, but an older model.” He pressed some buttons on the console and then turned a dial to sharpen the image on the CRT. He turned three other dials to move the sample in the x axis and y axis, and to magnify the image.
“Right there, see that?”
Jim nodded, looking at the screen while the next sample was being sputtered.
“I’ll magnify the particle and then aim the x-ray beam at it.” Peter manipulated the controls until the speck of dust was a green image filling the CRT. A cross was superimposed on the image, the point of analysis. In a moment the magnified image was replaced by a white screen displaying a chart.
“There it is. That’s the elemental analysis of that particle.”
Peter printed the list of chemical elements and percentage in the sample. Then the process was repeated over and over until all nineteen samples had been analyzed.
Finished, Peter looked at the printed elemental composition tables for each sample. “There’s a pattern, all right. See this?” He pointed to a series of names and numbers on the paper. “Sodium, potassium, lead, copper, zinc… all in relatively high concentrations.”
Peter set the paper aside and studied a second printout. “Excellent. This is a control sample obtained from the top of a door at the hotel in Minsk. See? No copper or zinc or lead, and very low levels of sodium and potassium.”
Jim studied the data while Peter moved to another printout. “And this control sample is dirt from the grounds in front of the hotel. As before, no lead, copper, or zinc. Moderate sodium, almost no potassium. This pattern is repeated over and over. The samples from inside the case are very different from the control samples.”
“I agree they’re different in chemical makeup, but how does that prove the aerosol machine was assembled in Sary-Shagan?”
“At the moment, it doesn’t prove anything. We need to fax or email these printouts to Lieutenant Lacey for comparison to dust and mineral records from the shore of Lake Balkhash.”
“I know she’s been working on it. I’ll check again, maybe we have that information already.” Jim reached into a cargo pocket and removed a handheld electronic device. It had a screen like a cell phone, but was twice as thick to accommodate the extra circuits for encrypting voice, text, and email communications. He tapped the screen to illuminate the list of recently received messages. The device had no chime or ring tone, a failsafe to ensure the sound could never occur at a compromising moment.
“Lacey sent a text twenty minutes ago.” Jim pulled up the short message and read it. “Says she is still trying to get representative data on dust composition from the area north and west of the lake. But the region is known for dust storms. Since the lake is gradually shrinking with water from the feeding rivers being diverted for agriculture, the shoreline is saline. Also, copper, zinc, and lead are mined in the region, and processing the ore has yielded contamination by these heavy metals over a broad area. Seems the Kazakhs are not overly concerned about environmental pollution.”
“That pretty well explains the chemical makeup of our samples.”
“Is that the message you want me to give Colonel Pierson and the President?”
Hundreds of times, Peter had performed exactly this type of routine analysis. But this time was far different. His conclusion could very well encourage President Taylor to authorize military action. Against who? Peter thought. An outdated Russian base at Sary-Shagan? Maybe against military or research facilities within the Russian Federation? And what if I’m wrong?
“We have the chemical fingerprint connecting dust contamination from the case to an area like Sary-Shagan. Plus, the quality control markings and other notations in Kazakh, and the symbol for the Jambyl Oblast. The only logical conclusion is that the machine was assembled, if not manufactured, in Kazakhstan.”
Jim placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder, understanding the burden that he felt. “You did a good job here, I know it’s difficult.”
Peter’s expression was severe as he looked deep into Jim’s eyes for some measure of reassurance and comfort.
“I just have one question,” Peter said.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“What if I’m wrong?”
Chapter 41
Minsk
WITH THE UPDATE COMMUNICATED to Colonel Pierson and the President, Jim gave the sheath of data printouts to Bull, who transmitted them over an encrypted data link using a scanner in one of the Humvees. Once done, the stack of papers, along with the samples, were neatly placed into a pouch where they would remain safely inside Jim’s rucksack.
The rain had stopped and Peter was glad to be outside, away from the retched, acrid smell and carnage. He was inspecting a small pile of wire, metal boxes, and pipe next to one of the Marine Corps Humvees. Two others were parked nearby.
“Do you have what you need?” Jim asked.
“This is the best power supply,” he said. “We’ll take this one. Looks like sufficient wire. Is there a bag or something we can put all this into?”
Ghost dropped a worn canvas bag taken from the back of the truck and then placed all the items inside while Peter held the bag open. The last item to go in was what looked like the same piece of plastic pipe Peter had used on the roof to wind the wire.
“What about the explosive?” Peter asked, while Ghost gently laid the bag in the back of the truck.
“Magnum has C4 and detonators.”
“I think we should pack the copper pipe now, and you can show me how to set and insert the detonator.”
Jim raised an eyebrow at Peter, considering his request. “Look, we don’t know what we’re going to run into, but it is the KGB Headquarters building. My guess is they won’t give us visitor’s badges and an escort to the roof.”
“You have a valid point. Magnum!”
It took Magnum less than two minutes to stuff a partial brick of C4 plastic explosive within the copper pipe while Peter watched. Care was taken to avoid air pockets; it was essential that the explosive detonate with uniform force along the length of pipe.
Finally, Magnum showed Peter how to insert the detonator—a short metal rod with two wires extending from the back end—and how to set the timer. It was a small digital device, powered by a 9-volt battery. “Remember to give yourself time to get well clear of the blast.”
Peter stuffed the detonator and timer into a pocket, and placed the copper pipe into the duffle bag.
“Is that it?” Jim asked.
“Yes, that’s everything.”
“Diaz commandeered these three Humvees,” Jim said. “We’ll drive up Independence Avenue to the KGB Headquarters. It’s not far—maybe a mile or so.”
“Ready, sir?” Diaz asked. All of his men, except for Washington and Nolty, were ordered to secure the BSU campus.
Then another thought came to Peter. “Just a minute!” He turned and dashed back inside, leaving Jim with a questioning look. A minute later he returned with his flamethrower in hand. He heaved it in the back next to the duffle bag.
“That’s it. I’m ready,” Peter said.
s
The trio of Humvees was passing between Independence Square and the Belarusian State University on Independence Avenue. This main thoroughfare would lead directly to the KGB building, a massive stone and concrete structure with an imposing facade. Although the exterior was frequently photographed, sightseers were not welcome, and the only way to get a tour was to either work there, be a high-ranking member of government, or be arrested for crimes against the state. The later was definitely not a favored option.
Jim was riding shotgun in the lead vehicle, with Peter in the back, and Ghost on the .50 caliber machine gun. He had the weapon loaded and cocked, ready for action. “How far, sir?” asked Nolty from behind the wheel.
“About 1,300 meters,” replied Jim. “It’ll be on the left. A large stone building with four huge stone columns at the main entrance. It’s the tallest building around.”
Staying close behind the lead, Washington was driving the middle Humvee with Diaz on the TOW launcher. The TOW missile was a wire-guided anti-armor weapon ideal for taking out tanks and armored personnel carriers. Taking up the rear position was the third truck armed with another heavy machine gun with Iceberg on the trigger. The lack of traffic on Independence Avenue gave the military vehicles easy passage, and so far there was no opposition.
That changed as they drew within sight of the massive KGB building. Parked on the broad sidewalk to either side of the stairs leading up to the huge wood doors were two Russian tanks, sitting parallel to the building, engines idling. The tank commanders were standing with the upper portion of their bodies above the turret to take advantage of the fresh air. One commander appeared to be smoking a cigarette. Clearly, the tank crews were not expecting trouble.
Jim radioed the trailing Humvee at the same time Nolty pulled to the right. “Diaz! Two tanks ahead; take ’em out!”
Barely a second elapsed when the whoosh and white smoke trail passed on the left of Jim’s vehicle. The guided missile struck the closest tank, low on the turret at the cusp where it rests on the chassis. The detonation set off sympathetic explosions inside the tank. White flame and heavy smoke rocketed upward thirty feet through the open hatch.
Without prompting, Bull shoved another TOW missile up to Diaz, who quickly reloaded the single-shot tube.
The Russian commander of the second tank dropped down inside the armor shell and locked down the hatch. As he called out the target, the turret began to traverse, the big 125-millimeter cannon tracing an arc through the air.
Diaz aimed, ignoring the impending danger. The shot had to be perfect; he and his crew would only get one chance. If the missile failed to kill the steel beast, their Humvee would be blown out of existence.
As before, he aimed at the junction of the turret and the chassis. This was a weak point in an otherwise heavily-armored construction. He held the cross-hairs…
Steady…
The canon barrel was just about lined up, and he was looking into its gaping maw.
“Fire!” Diaz shouted.
White smoke marked the path of the missile as it left the launch tube from the top of the Humvee at 300 meters per second.
Less than two seconds later the canon barrel stopped, having lined up on the Humvee.
A millisecond later the missile struck home and detonated in a blinding white flash that blasted the turret off the tank. It flipped over, landing in the street upside down. Intense fire raged within the turret-less chassis as propellant and fuel combusted in a hellish conflagration.
The two explosions, separated by about 40 seconds, violently shook the Humvees, and Peter felt an instinctive fear rising within.
The tanks were ablaze, destroyed before either could get off a single shot. But the element of surprise, which Jim was counting on, had vanished. Guards wearing black uniforms poured out of the KGB building, several leaning against the large stone columns and firing AKs at the approaching Humvees. Many more ran down the stairs to take up firing positions from the sidewalk and street, using parked cars and the shattered tanks for cover.
The heavy machine guns opened up, firing short bursts that sounded like deep, booming drum rolls, only ten times louder. To Peter it was feeling almost surreal. He was a passenger, with no role to play in the gunfight, watching it unfold from the safety of his front-row, armored seat.
The enemy was falling fast, and although they were hitting their targets,
attempting to shoot through the glass and body panels to kill the occupants, the trucks’ heavy protection of Kevlar, ceramic and steel plates, and bullet-proof windows rendered the rifle bullets harmless. Peter watched as two guards attempted to shoot from behind a parked sedan and .50 caliber bullets ripped through the entire width of the car, seeking, and eventually finding, the guards. As the Humvee passed Peter saw their bodies, clad in black, lying motionless in expanding pools of blood on the white sidewalk.
“Drive up the stairs and bust into the lobby!” Jim ordered the driver. Nolty shifted into low gear and floored the accelerator, speeding up the stone steps, the truck bouncing wildly. Ahead, the columns seemed to move closer together, threatening to close the gap.
“I don’t know if we’re gonna make it, sir!”
“Yes we are—keep going!”
Everyone was thrown around violently inside the truck as it traversed the stairs. Ghost was tossed like a rag doll in the gun turret, but somehow he managed to hang on. The nose shot into the air and then slammed down at the top, but the forward momentum never ceased, and Nolty skillfully corrected the steering and shot between the middle two columns. Screeching metal signaled that the driver was right all along, the opening was too narrow. Luckily, the vehicle’s unmitigated bulk and momentum carried it forward, gouging out chunks of stone from both columns.
The bumper of the Humvee slammed two guards into the ornate wood doors—each twelve feet tall—and then bashed the doors open, tearing them from their heavy iron hinges. The truck skidded to a stop twenty feet inside the lobby of the KGB headquarters.
Occupying one entire square block and constructed more like a fort than an office building, the structure had few windows; the limited light filtering in cast a dim glow supplemented by massive ornate chandeliers suspended from the 25-foot-high ceiling. Beautiful slabs of marble covered the floor, extending about a foot up the wall before transitioning to dark wood panels. Ahead was a bank of four elevators; wide staircases with marble handrails and posts were on either side of the elevators, a red carpet covered the marble steps. The newels also served as the base for sculpted bronze post lamps, each with five light globes.
