Gauntlet (37 page)

O
N THE OTHER SIDE of the globe, in Long Beach, Ethan Byron and two of his engineers were once again reviewing the specifications Kumar had given them almost three weeks earlier. Ethan ran one of the smaller workshops at Pacific Western Submersibles, taking care of design and construction projects that Kumar didn’t have the time or inclination to do himself. He and his crew were the best of the best in the company, and had been called on by Kumar to build this particular device, which he said was for studying whales. Already, the structure was almost finished. The base was completed, and the upper saddle portion had been machined. Now came the more difficult chore of putting the different layers of metals along the various surfaces.

It was a head scratcher all right. Why in the world was Kumar insisting that a full 50 percent of the device be made of molybdenum? And why a thin layer of copper? And down the center, did he really want gold? A strip of honest-to-God gold? Like you could just go to Home Depot or Wal-Mart and pick up a brick or two? They’d used 100 pounds of it, more or less, at a value of more than $1 million, before machining. And then tempered steel, and another layer of titanium alloy. It was as though a metallurgist had gone completely mad. The tolerances were incredibly precise, and different metals had to be layered inside one another to within a tenth of a millimeter. And then Kumar wanted an inverse hyperbolic curve to the molybdenum layer, with the gold along the central horizontal axis. The molybdenum was to decrease in thickness, with its greatest mass being along the outer edge, and its least mass where it connected with the central gold strip.

Ethan had reached for the telephone more than once to say sorry, Kumar, so very sorry, but we can’t do this one. It’s too weird, too complicated for us local guys. But he persisted, partly because he valued their friendship and business relationship, but mostly because he and his men had been promised a very substantial raise and a bonus for taking care of this bit of business.

Ethan and his engineers had started by creating a three-dimensional computer model of the device and then using some of their digital numerical routers to chisel a small model out of hardwood, just so they could physically see, in miniature, the device that they were building.

“What the hell did he say it was going to be used for?” asked the software engineer.

“Kumar said it was some kind of device they were going to use to communicate with whales,” answered Ethan.

“My ass. You don’t spend two or three million bucks to do that. Nobody does. Nobody,” scoffed the shop chief.

“Well, the Federal Government does. I mean they can spend $1 billion for a Navy toilet, or some such BS. They’re the Feds. Money has no meaning to them,” said a second engineer. “If it costs less than a few hundred billion, no one notices.”

“He’s got a point,” said Ethan. “But it’s a damned weird thing, anyhow.”

“You know, Ethan, I know where I’ve seen that type of thing before,” said the engineer. “It’s like the head of a flashlight, you know, the part where you have the reflector, with the bulb in the center, and a glass cover across it. It’s kind of like a lens. Yeah, that’s it. Maybe to focus sounds at different frequencies over long distances. Maybe that’s what it’s designed for. But I’ll be damned if I know why they want that ribbon of gold across the central axis. That makes absolutely no sense at all.”

Y
OUSSEFF DISEMBARKED from the plane feeling energized and refreshed. The news Kumar brought him was good — the final pieces were ready. Preparation and planning were now over. It was time for the execution.

“Take me to the plant. I want to see the new submersible. Are all of the alterations done?” he asked.

“Yes, Youss,” Kumar answered quickly.

“The rails? The supports?”

“Yes, Youss. It is all done.” Kumar felt the edge of adrenalin pumping through his system, just as in the old days, when they set out to try a new device. It would be a big moment for him when Yousseff saw the completion of his new design. He rushed Yousseff into his truck and drove him back to the workshop.

Yousseff was impressed every time he walked into the PWS manufacturing facility. It was large enough, he’d always joked, that one could build a 747 in there. The main facility had more than 120,000 square feet under one roof, and an enormous gantry crane that moved along roof rails. Complex metalworking machinery occupied most of the floor space. At the moment, six of the exotic submarines manufactured by PWS were in the lifts, in various stages of construction. Kumar had come a long way since the Karachi days with KDEC.

“A tourist company in Cancun has bought those two,” said Kumar, motioning to the two units that were almost completed. “The US Navy wants those two, and National Geographic wants the fifth. No one has bought the last one yet, but the Canadian Armed Forces have expressed an interest.”

A seventh, larger craft was sitting at the far end of the line.

“Is the far one ours?” asked Yousseff.

“Yes, that’s the PWS-14. You can see the initial stages of the weight platform on its roof.”

“On its roof?” Yousseff repeated.

“That’s the only way we could think to transport the Semtex,” replied Kumar. “Do you see the two large beams on either side?”

“Yes, I see them,” said Yousseff.

“They contain a telescoping rail system, similar to the rails that we built into the
Haramosh Star.
Those rails will extend forward 20 feet. That’s far enough to transfer the explosives to the exact point the Egyptian engineers asked for. If it doesn’t work, it won’t be because of us,” said Kumar.

Yousseff quickly moved on; at this point, failure was no longer an option. “What about the defense systems that we discussed?” he asked sharply.

“We’re working night and day on those, to get them just right. You haven’t given us much time, Youss,” protested Kumar.

“Are you getting old? My God, Kumar, I remember the old days, floating up and down the Indus. I would say build me a small submarine. It’s got to be this big, and this long, and be able to stay under water for three hours, and should have a set of arms, and grapples and things on it, to transfer a pallet of product this big, from the hold of one ship into the hold of another, and you would have it done in an hour. Horse shit. Horse and camel shit. Mountains of dung. You’re getting old, my man,” said Yousseff, chuckling over the image.

“Not fair,” Kumar protested. “I was 20 back then. I could do all of that at the same time as getting bedded by a river queen. But I have slowed down a bit. For you, Youss, and only for you, I can still do this. You want both systems?”

“Yes. Always a backup. The metal mesh is important. It will slow the torpedoes, if there are any, and confuse their guidance systems. It could get into the propellers. And the second system, to eject a second skin off the rear of the craft. It will confuse anything pursuing the sub still more, and will likely cause torpedoes to explode prematurely. We may not need this, Kumar. But I have been researching the length and breadth of the American Intelligence apparatus. It is a huge, monstrous, multifaceted beast, sucking hundreds of billions of dollars every year out of the American taxpayers. By the time we get this thing to where we want it to be, most of that multibillion-dollar beast will be looking for this very machine. They will find it. We must have these systems in place to protect it when they do.”

“For you, I will have it, Youss. But only for you. Consider it done.”

“Good, thank you,” said Yousseff. “Now where are the two operators?”

“You mean Massoud and Javeed? They’re in the simulator. You’ll like this, you haven’t seen it yet.”

By this time they were standing on a catwalk above the factory floor. At least 60 men were working on the PWS-13 units still under construction. The sound of drills, riveters, and metal saws filled the plant. The floor was a beehive of activity. Kumar turned and walked off the bridge.

“Come with me,” he said. “The simulator is behind my office.”

They headed in the direction of the office — Kumar’s base of operations, where he planned and oversaw the workings of Pacific Western Submersibles. From there they entered the simulator room. A large metal container, arranged on springs and cantilevered arms, was rocking back and forth as they entered. Kumar pressed a large red “stop” button on the wall, and the unit stilled. Then he opened a door in the compartment. Two young boys were sitting within, one of them holding a rectangular steering mechanism that controlled the direction of the unit in three dimensions on a screen in front of them.

Kumar made the introductions in their native Urdu. These boys were Massoud and Javeed, the two youths handpicked by the Emir to carry out his attack on the United States. They had been with Kumar for three weeks, logging many hours in the simulator, learning exactly how to handle and operate the sub in which they would carry out their mission. Now Yousseff did his best to comfort and distract the boys with an account of how things were in their homeland, making up stories about Afghanistan as he went along.

Before long, he sighed and shut the door. “Why must they always be so young?” He turned and looked to Kumar. “Tell me about these children,” he said. “What has brought them to this point?”

“Do you really want to know, Youss?” asked Kumar, hesitating. “It is hard enough for me, and I’m not the one pushing the buttons, so to speak.”

“No, I do not really wish to know,” Yousseff sighed. He had been struck by the dull, lifeless eyes of these young
jihadists
. He knew that their stories would be sad, and much like the stories of thousands of other young men from his country. And though he wished it were otherwise, and that he himself didn’t have to send these boys to their deaths, he knew that they had decided on their fates many months ago, when they joined the Emir. There would be nothing else for them. “I know that they wish they were dead, Kumar,” he said. “I suppose that is all I need to know. If it were not this mission, they would find some other way to reach Paradise. We are not responsible for their deaths.”

Kumar gazed long and hard at his mentor. He wondered how much of the speech was meant for him, and how much was meant for Yousseff’s own conscience. “But how many others will die in this war the Emir is waging, Yousseff?” he asked quietly. “How many?”

“Very few,” Yousseff replied casually, shaking off the gloom that had engulfed him for a moment. “This will be an economic blow. It will fracture the nation’s economy, and we will take advantage of that. This is a situation created by the Emir. If we hadn’t taken the job, some other group of terrorists would have. This event was cemented when the Semtex was stolen in Libya. We are not responsible for what will unfold, Kumar. None of us are. We just have advance notice. We will take advantage of it. But we are not responsible.”

“I am not sure, Youss,” Kumar said softly. “Do you really want to be involved in something like this? Is this really who we are? Who you are?”

“Look at it this way. We stand to make billions because of this deal. Because we know what is coming. That money will be used to build schools, homes, and hospitals in Afghanistan. That I will promise you. Thousands in Afghanistan will live, and just a few Americans will die. Weigh the scales, Kumar, and calm your conscience. Have you done as I asked, and liquidated our holdings here?”

Kumar looked a little glum. “It’s done. The money is already in escrow accounts. It closes tomorrow.”

Yousseff knew that selling this business, along with the real estate it covered, was painful to Kumar, even as leaving the Karachi Harbor had been so many years ago. “Kumar,” he said, “when we are back home you will have a business many times this size. We will buy the whole inner harbor in Karachi.”

“I know, Youss, I know. But I have built an organization here. I have friends, and contacts, who are close to me. None of the employees even know that this is coming. It’s difficult to justify.”

“Look at the other side of the coin for a second, Kumar,” replied Yousseff. “You will become fabulously wealthy. Beyond your wildest dreams. You wait. In any event, everything that you know here, all of the knowledge that you gained from this place, you can load onto a bunch of DVD’s. You can use it to rebuild what you have here, whenever you want.”

Kumar nodded quietly, giving up the fight. He looked again at the man he thought he knew so well, and wondered for the hundredth time where Yousseff was leading them, and why. He’d also begun to question why he and his friends followed this man so willingly, when he was taking them places that they did not wish to go.

A
T THAT MOMENT, things were taking a decidedly somber turn for Indy and Catherine. Indy was breathing heavily, fighting the overwhelming panic that accompanied his claustrophobia. The lights had been out for more than 12 hours now. The room was becoming stuffy. They had no flashlights — those had been in the belts and packsacks, which Dennis confiscated when he found them. They had but one cigarette lighter for light, and they were trying to use it sparingly. They had no food or water. The room was getting warmer, and they were both starting to ache with thirst. Catherine, for her part, was exhausting herself with endless mental calculations. Even if Devil’s Anvil was a major artery for the Asia-to-America heroin trade, it might be used only once or twice a month. The dealers would have to wait for a large shipment to arrive, in Vancouver or some spot up the coast, load it into a van, drive it to Fernie, and then take it south to the mine. It wouldn’t be a daily affair. Maybe not even a weekly one. Catherine thought that they could die of thirst in less than three days. So far she’d kept those calculations to herself. There were more immediate concerns for her to deal with. Indy was silent most of the time, fighting the demons of claustrophobia. Catherine tried to help when she could, but she didn’t have much experience with claustrophobia and wasn’t entirely sure how it could affect someone so dramatically.

“Would it help if you talked about it?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, maybe a bit,” replied Indy. “Maybe.” Her voice had a soothing effect, coming from just a few feet away in the coal-black darkness. They were underground, deep beneath Sawtooth Ridge, so there was no stray daylight to find its way through the cracks. Indy found that anything even remotely soothing was a welcome relief, and thought that it would probably be a good idea to continue talking.

“I wasn’t even 25 years old,” Indy began. “Just a kid, really. I was hot on the track of a large network of East Indian dealers. It was shaping up to be a major bust, and I was able to use my Toronto experiences with similar gangs to perfect advantage. I knew the lingo and the culture. But I got made.”

“How?” asked Catherine.

“A major buy was taking place on a large farming property up the valley. A huge buy. One of the purchasers recognized me. He and I had crossed paths in my Toronto days. Within a second someone had slapped cuffs on me. Someone kicked me in the groin, and once I was on the ground, someone else kicked me in the ribs a couple of times. Hard. I had a couple of hairline fractures. So I was on the ground, in a lot of pain, wondering what would come next.”

“I don’t even want to ask,” came the disembodied voice from a few feet away. “But tell me.”

“Things got ugly after that.”

“They weren’t ugly already?” she interrupted.

“Not in relative terms. Someone pulled out a gun and fired three or four rounds at me. Amazingly, I only got nicked by one bullet. Flesh wound in my leg — not that big a deal, although it hurt like hell and scared me even more. The leader of the gang got pissed with the shooter and told him he’d stuff the gun up his ass if he fired one more shot. Then he said that because I had betrayed the brotherhood, or his brothers, or whatever, my punishment should be a little more dramatic. A warning, he said, to anyone else inclined to undercover work in an East Indian gang.”

Indy paused for a second. The total darkness was wearing on him, and the air was getting close. He wondered if talking was using up their small supply of oxygen too quickly. It was hot, and he knew he was perspiring heavily. Catherine reached over until she found him, and put a hand on his knee.

“Go on Indy. I think it’ll help you if you tell me.”

“I’m not so sure about that. But anyway, we were on a farm up the Fraser Valley — a fruit farm of some sort. A trench had been dug for some culvert work that was in progress. So the gang leader says, ’Drop him in the ditch.’ There I was, on the ground, in excruciating pain from the bullet wound and everything else. I was still handcuffed. I was kicked and rolled over to the edge of the trench. Then they gave me a few more hard boots to my head and chest, and I fell over and hit the bottom of the ditch with a nasty crunch. To this day it feels like I must have fallen more than 20 feet. I think I lost consciousness. When I came to, my head was soaked with blood — I could feel it dripping down my face. Then they started to shovel dirt on top of me. Do you have any idea how much that hurts Catherine?”

Catherine slowly shook her head back and forth in the stygian blackness, then remembered that he couldn’t see her and answered. “I don’t think so. I don’t know if I want to know.”

“It’s pretty extreme. But the worst of it is clawing for air. And when you can’t get it, the certain knowledge of death.”

Catherine realized that he was having quite a bit of difficulty recounting the experience. She reached for his hand and found it, wondering now about the wisdom of ’talking about it.’ She gave his hand a little squeeze and waited.