Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (66 page)

Under the watchful eyes of the First Officer, gantry cranes lifted the logs from trucks and lowered them into the built-for-the-purpose holds. The process was remarkably speedy. Automation of cargo-loading was probably the most important development in the commercial shipping business. George M could be fully loaded in less than forty hours, and off-loaded in thirty-six, allowing the ship to return to sea very rapidly, but denying her crew the chance to do very much in whatever port they might be visiting. The loss of income for waterfront bars and other businesses that catered to sailors was not a matter of great concern to the shipowners, who did not make money when their hulls were tied alongside the pier.

“Pete, got the weather,” the Third Officer announced. “Could be better.”

The First Officer looked at the chart. “Wow!”

“Yeah, a monster Siberian low forming up. Gonna get bumpy a couple of days out. It's gonna be too big to dodge, too.”

The First Officer whistled at the numbers. “Don't forget your 'scope patch, Jimmy.”

“Right. How much deck cargo?”

“Just those boys over there.” He pointed.

The other man grunted, then picked up a pair of binoculars from the holder. “Christ, they're chained together!”

“That's why we can't strike 'em below.”

“Outstanding,” the junior man observed.

“I already talked to the bosun about it. We'll have them tied down nice and tight.”

“Good idea, Pete. If this storm builds like I expect, you'll be able to surf down there.”

“Captain still on the beach?”

“Right, he's due back at fourteen hundred.”

“Fueling complete. ChEng will have his diesels on line at seventeen hundred. Depart at sixteen-thirty?”

“That's right.”

“Damn, a guy hardly has time to get laid anymore.”

“I'll tell the captain about the weather forecast. It might make us late in
Japan
.”

“Cap'n'll love that.”

“Won't we all?”

“Hey, if it screws up our alongside time, maybe I can . . .”

“You and me both, buddy.” The First Officer grinned. Both men were single.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Fromm asked. He leaned down, staring at the metallic mass through the Lexan sheeting. The manipulator arm had detached the plutonium from the spindle and moved it for a visual inspection that wasn't really necessary, but the plutonium had to be moved for the next part of the finishing process anyway, and Fromm wanted to see the thing close up. He shone a small, powerful flashlight on the metal, but then switched it off. The reflection of the overhead lights was enough.

“It really is amazing,” Ghosn said.

What they looked at might easily have been a piece of blown glass, so smooth it appeared. In fact it was far smoother than that. The uniformity of the outside surface was so exact that the greatest distorting effect came from gravity. Whatever imperfections there might have been were far too small to see with the naked eye, and were definitely below the design tolerances Fromm had established when he'd worked the hydrocodes on the minicomputer.

The outside of the folded cylinder was perfect, reflecting light like some sort of eccentric lens. As the arm rotated it around the long axis, the placement and size of the reflected ceiling lights did not move or waver. Even the German found that remarkable.

“I would never have believed we could do so well,” Ghosn said.

Fromm nodded. “Such things were not possible until quite recently. The air-bearing-lathe technology is hardly fifteen years old, and the laser-control systems are newer still. The main commercial application is still for ultra-fine instruments like astronomical telescopes, very high-quality lenses, special centrifuge parts . . .” The German stood. “Now, we must also polish the inside surfaces. Those we cannot visually inspect.”

“Why do the outside first?”

“This way we can be sure that the machine is performing properly. The laser will control the inside—we know now, you see, that it is giving us good data.” That explanation wasn't really true, but Fromm didn't want to give the real one: he truly thought this beautiful.
The young Arab might not understand.
Das ist die schwaize Kunst. . . .
It actually was rather Faustian, Fromm thought, wasn't it?

How very strange
, Ghosn thought, that something so wonderfully shaped could . . .

“Things continue to go well.”

“Indeed,” Fromm replied. He gestured to the interior of the enclosure. When run properly, the lathe trimmed off something almost like metallic thread, but thinner, visible mainly because of its reflectivity. A singularly valuable thread, it was collected for remelting and possible future use.

“A good stopping place,” Fromm said, turning away.

“I agree.” They'd been at it for fourteen hours. Ghosn dismissed the men. He and Fromm walked out, too, leaving the room to the custody of the two security guards.

The guards were not highly educated men. Selected from the Commander's personal retinue of followers, each was the veteran of many years of combat operations. Perversely, their fighting had been more against fellow Arabs than their putative Zionist enemies. There was a plethora of terrorist groups, and since each drew its support from the Palestinian community, there was competition for the limited pool of followers. Competition among men with guns not infrequently led to confrontation and death. In the case of the guards, it also proved their loyalty. Each of the men on duty was an expert shot, about good enough to be on a par with the new American addition to the organization, the infidel Russell.

One of the guards, Achmed, lit up a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He faced yet another boring night. Walking guard on the outside, or patrolling the block on which Qati slept, at least gave them a variety of things to observe. One might imagine that there was an Israeli agent behind every parked car or behind every window, and such thoughts kept one awake and alert. Not here. Here they guarded machines that sat dumbly still. For diversion, and also in keeping with their duties, the guards kept an eye on the machinists, following them around the room, to and from their eating and sleeping spaces, and even on some of their less complicated jobs. Though not well-educated, Achmed was a bright man, quick to learn, and he fancied that he could have done any of these machinist jobs, given a few months to learn the trade properly. He was very good with weapons, able to diagnose a problem or fix an improper sight as quickly and well as a master gunsmith.

As he walked around, he listened to the drone of the blowers for the various air systems, and on each circuit he looked at the instrument panels that reported their status. The panels also monitored the backup generators, making sure each night that there was sufficient fuel in the tanks.

“They are awfully worried about the schedule, aren't they?” Achmed mused. He continued his walk around, hoping the indicator light would blink off. He and his companion stopped to look at the same metallic bar that had so interested Fromm and Ghosn.

“What do you suppose that is?”

“Something wondrous,” Achmed said. “Certainly they are keeping it as secret as they can.”

“I think it's part of an atomic bomb.”

Achmed turned. “Why do you say that?”

“One of the machinists said it could be nothing else.”

“Wouldn't that be something to give to our Israeli friends?”

“After all the Arabs who've died in the last few years—the Israelis, the Americans, all the rest . . . Yes, it would be a fine gift.” They continued their walk past the idle machines. “I wonder what the rush is?”

“Whatever it is, they want it finished on time.” Achmed paused again, looking at the plethora of metal and plastic parts on the assembly table. An atomic bomb? he asked himself. But some of these things looked like . . . like soda straws, long, thin ones, wrapped in tight bundles and twisted slightly . . . Soda straws—in an atomic bomb? That was not possible. An atomic bomb had to be . . . what? He admitted to himself that he had no idea at all. Well, he was able to read the Koran, and the newspapers, and weapons manuals. It wasn't his fault he hadn't had the chance to have proper schooling like Ghosn, whom he liked in a distant and slightly jealous way. Such a fine thing, an education. If only his own father had been something more than a displaced peasant, a shopowner, perhaps, someone able to save a little money . . .

On his next circuit, he saw the—paint can? That's what it looked like. The metal shavings from the lathe were collected from the Freon sump. Achmed had seen the process often enough. The scrap—it looked mainly like very fine metallic thread—was collected mechanically and loaded into the container, which did look very much like a paint can, using a window and thick rubber gloves. The can was then placed into a double-door chamber and removed, taken to the next room, and opened in another similar chamber and put into one of those odd crucibles.

“I'm going outside for a piss,” his companion said.

“Enjoy the fresh air,” Achmed observed.

Achmed slung his weapon and watched his friend go out the double doors. He'd take a stroll soon himself, when it was time to check the perimeter security. He was the senior man, and was responsible for the outside guards, in addition to the security of the shop itself. It was worth it just to get out of the controlled environment of the machine shop. This was no way for a man to live, Achmed thought, stuck inside a sealed enclosure like a space station or submarine. He craved an education, but not to be an office worker, sitting down all the time and staring at papers. No, to be an engineer, the sort who built roads and bridges, that was an ambition he might once have held. Perhaps his son would be one, if he ever had the chance to marry and have a son. Something to dream for. His dreams were more limited now. For this to end, to be able to set his gun down, to have a real life, that was his primary dream.

But the Zionists had to die first.

Achmed stood alone in the room, bored to death. At least the outside guards could look at the stars. Something to do, something to do . . .

The paint can sat there, inside the enclosure. It appeared to be ready for the transfer. He'd watched the machinists do it often enough. What the hell. Achmed removed the can from the air lock and walked it into the furnace room. They put it inside the electric furnace, and . . . it was simple enough, and he was glad to be able to do something different, maybe something helpful to whatever project this was.

The can was light, might only have held air for all he could tell. Was it empty? The top was held on with clamps, and . . . no, he decided. He'd just do what the machinists did. Achmed walked to the furnace, opened the door, checked to see that the power was off—this thing got hot, he knew. It melted metal! Next he put on the thick rubber gloves they used and, forgetting to switch on the argon-flooding system, loosened the clamps on the can. He rotated the can backwards so that he could see what it looked like. He saw.

As he removed the top, the oxygen-laden air entered the can and attacked the plutonium filaments, some of which reacted at once, essentially exploding in his face. There was a flash, as though from a rifle primer, just a tiny puff of heat and light, certainly nothing to endanger a man, he knew at once. Not even any smoke that he noticed immediately, though he did sneeze once.

Despite that, Achmed was seized with terror. He'd done something he ought not to have done. What would the Commander think of him? What might the Commander do to him? He listened to the air-conditioning system, and thought he saw a puff of thin smoke rising into the exhaust vent. That was good. The electric dust-collector plates would take care of that. All he had to do . . .

Yes. He resealed the can and carried it back into the machine shop. His fellow guard hadn't returned yet. Good. Achmed slid the can back where it had been and made sure that things looked as they had looked a few minutes earlier. He lit another cigarette to relax himself, vexed with himself that he was as yet unable to quit the habit. It was starting to impede his running.

Achmed didn't know that he was already a corpse whose death had not yet been registered, and that his cigarette might as easily have been the breath of life itself.

“I can do it,”
Clark
announced, striding through the door like John Wayne into the
Alamo
.

“Tell me about it,” Jack said, waving to a chair.

“I just got back from Dulles, talked to a few people. The JAL 747s set up for Trans-Pac flights are arranged very conveniently for us. The upstairs lounge is set up with beds, like an old Pullman car. It helps us. The room is very lively acoustically, and that makes for easy pickup.” He laid out a diagram. There's a table here and here. We use two wireless bugs, and four broadcast channels."

“Explain,” Jack said.

“The wireless bugs are omnidirectional. Okay, they transmit to the SHF transmitter, and that one gets it out of the airplane.”

“Why four channels?”

“The big problem is cancelling out the airplane noise, the engine whine, the air, all that stuff. Two channels are interior sound. The other two are for background noise only. We use that to cancel out the crap. We have people down in S&.T who have been working on that for quite a while. You use the recorded background noise to establish what the interference is, then just change its phase to cancel it out. Pretty simple stuff if you have the right computer backup equipment. We do. Okay? The transmitter goes in a bottle. We aim it out of the window. Easy to do, I checked. Now, we will need a chase plane.”

“Like what?”

“With the right equipment, a business jet like a Gulf-stream, better yet an EC-135. I'd recommend more than one, have them form up and break off.”

“How far away?”

“As long as its line of sight . . . up to thirty miles, and doesn't have to be the same altitude. Not like we have to fly formation on the guy.”

“How hard to build it?”

“Simple. The hardest part is the battery, and that'll fit in a liquor bottle, like I said. We'll make it a brand that you usually find in a duty-free store—I have a guy checking that—one with a ceramic bottle 'stead of a glass one. Like an expensive bottle of Chivas, maybe. The Japanese like their scotch.”