Thunder In The Deep (02) (28 page)

A guard entered the utility space. He approached the manhole, casually at first. He noticed the wet footprints. He reached for his walkie-talkie mike. Jeffrey pulled his K-Bar and charged the man. The guard turned and raised his carbine. Montgomery charged from the other direction, also knife in hand. The guard turned toward Montgomery.

Jeffrey was on the man in a flash and Montgomery grabbed him from the other side. Simultaneously they plunged their fighting knives into the base of the German's' neck, Jeffrey from the left and Montgomery from the right. Jeffrey flicked his K-Bar one way to sever the spine and the other way to cut the heart in two. He withdrew his knife the same time Montgomery pulled out his. Montgomery lowered the body to the floor, holding the head by the hair so blood wouldn't drip.

Montgomery flashed Jeffrey a grin. "Now who's who with knives, Skipper?"

"Any life-signs sensor?" Jeffrey snapped.

"We're clear."

Jeffrey and Montgomery wiped their knives on the guard's uniform blouse. From the uniform, Jeffrey could tell he was German naval infantry—not a marine, but a sailor who guarded a shore activity.

Clayton pulled a body bag from his pack; the team came prepared. "Help me get him in this. We need to lock in the body fluids and smells."

Jeffrey did as he was told. Around him, utility equipment whirred and hummed. He smelled steam and ozone and lubricant, hot metal and warm oil-based paint.

"Trouble," SEAL One said. More footsteps, more tentative than before. A security alert?

Everyone took cover. Again Jeffrey watched from his hiding place, using the dental mirror.

A man came around the corner. He wore a dirty orange coverall. Over his shoulder he carried a black plastic garbage bag. A point man in camouflage? A decoy?

The man saw the wet footprints. He knelt, and Jeffrey saw him notice drops of blood. Montgomery charged with his K-Bar.

Jeffrey charged out, too. "No!" Jeffrey waved his arms at the chief. Montgomery pulled up short.

There was something odd about this man. He was old, and shuffled stoop-shouldered, more like a prisoner than a guard—he wore plastic sandals like beach clogs. He had a thick black mustache, so large and bushy Jeffrey wondered how he could eat or drink. In fact, the man looked malnourished. Strangely, he had a dark suntan. No. His skin was brown. Jeffrey studied his face.

He's a Turk, Jeffrey realized. A Gastarbeiter, a so-called Guest Worker. . . . So the Germans are using forced labor after all.

The man said something in fluent German. Montgomery responded, barking questions. The man put down the garbage bag and stepped back. He gestured for the chief to open it. Montgomery covered him with his rifle, and told him to do it himself. Clayton ordered everyone else to stay behind cover. It might be a bomb.

The man knelt and untied the bundle. Out, poured blank ID cards, a portable retinal scanner and a digital camera, a floor plan, two sausages, and a pretzel. SEALs One and Nine defended the bend in the corridor while the rest of the team parleyed. The Turk squatted on the floor; there was no place to sit except on bare concrete.

Montgomery spoke out of earshot of the man. "He says there's about a hundred of 'em in here. A lot of them lost their relatives in the big earthquake in Turkey in the nineties. They came to Germany to get away and find work."

"But why?" Clayton said. "The Axis keeps claiming they're not racist; they say even in Africa they're restoring law and order. Turkey's neutral, like in World War Two. Why would Germany possibly take the chance on antagonizing them like this?"

"Let me try," Ilse said. She walked over and sat down next to the Turk.

"Wie heissen Sie?" she said. In formal address: What's your name?

"Gamal Salih. Und Du?" And you?

He used Du, not Sie, a sign of affection in German. Ilse felt drawn to him at once, as to a kindly uncle, in

spite of his tattered dress and smell. The Turk seemed remarkably poised, surrounded by commandos armed to the teeth. Up close, he didn't look as old as she'd first thought.

"Ilse," she said, touching her chest. "Ilse Reebeck."

"Sud Afrikaner?" South African?

He picked that up right away. "Eine guter Afrikaner." A good South African. Jeffrey came over. Salih pointed to the rest of the team. "Kampfschwimmer?"

"Ja." Then Ilse said slowly in English, "U.S. Navy SEALs." Salih nodded, as if they'd passed some kind of test.

"Why do they keep you here?" Ilse said in German.

Salih shrugged. "Labor shortage," he said in English. "The white Germans go to the Army. White Germans, they don't like cleaning garbage, washing toilets, sweeping floors. Instead, we wipe up their lubricant spills, pick up the shav ings from their lathes." He made a gesture with his fingers, as if to say Ouch. Ilse realized the metal shavings must be razor sharp.

"So you're like janitors?" Jeffrey said.

"Slave janitors."

"They don't let you out?" Clayton said.

"Never." Salih grew angry. "My father was born in Germany. So was I. We were citizens. I was a building engineer, at an office tower in Frankfurt."

"Your English is good," Jeffrey said. "What did you expect? Everybody studies it in school. Then I went to technical college. .

. . You don't speak German?"

"No," Jeffrey said. "Just Arabic, and Russian." "Prepared for the wrong wars, didn't you?"

"How'd you end up here?" Ilse said.

Salih sighed. "German antiaircraft winged one of your Tomahawks. It crashed near my house. . . . My family .. . They're all gone now."

"How'd you survive?"

"I was at the office."

Ilse hesitated. "I know how you feel, Mr. Salih. The survivor guilt, for being alive when they're not. I lost my family, too. Executed, or disappeared, for fighting the Johannesburg regime."

Salih nodded. "They said they were hiring us, for good money. Instead we're starved and beaten. Betrayed, by my own so-called countrymen." Ilse winced at his bitterness.

"Didn't you complain?" Jeffrey said.

"Yes, we complained. They hanged the spokesmen and made the rest of us watch. Now, we don't complain."

"But ARBOR—I mean the woman who is, was, helping us—she spoke with you?"

"She knew, how do you say it, internal security was getting close. She knew I was a sort of imam for the others." "Like a priest?" Clayton said.

"More like a teacher. Turk Muslims, we're so-so observant. I'm forty-five, have my degree. Most of the others here, they're kids really, did menial work before the war. I'm the unofficial elder now, like it or not."

"Of the Gastarbeiter?"

la. ARBOR, as you keep calling her, swore me to secrecy. She has a name, you know. Erika Rainer. She was six months pregnant. Did you know that?" Ilse blanched. "What happened to her?"

"No one's been told. . . . She said you might still come, and I should try to help. I hope these ID things are helpful."

"They're not inventoried?" Jeffrey said.

"She wrote them off. She said she spilled coffee on them. She told me she altered their electronic serial numbers so they'll still read as valid when you use them." Jeffrey gestured for Clayton and Ilse to follow him to a far corner, well away from Salih.

"We have a big problem, folks."

Clayton nodded, reluctantly. "We nuke this place, we'll kill a hundred innocent people."

"Wait a minute," Ilse said. "If this guy's telling the truth, then ARBOR knew all about the Turks. Why didn't she get word out?"

"Oh, boy." Jeffrey rolled his eyes. "Maybe she did, and Mossad decided not to tell us. They want this lab destroyed, real bad. Israel has no defense in depth, Ilse, the country's so small. A barrage of these new missiles could wipe out the whole population, Jews and anti-Axis Arabs both."

"So they withheld information?" Clayton said.

"I wouldn't put it past them. . . . Give me Salih's floor plan." Clayton handed it over.

Ilse watched Jeffrey study it carefully. She translated some words for him.

"We have another problem," Jeffrey said. "According to this, the missile lab is subdivided into two hardened independent sections—one for the heavy test equipment and machine-tool manufacturing work, the other for the computer installation and offices and dormitory."

"Dormitory?" Clayton said.

"People must be working round the clock. This way they can grab some rest, then get right back at it. Besides, it's safer than living topside, right?" Clayton studied the map. "So, we need to plant one bomb in each section." He glanced around the utility space, and eyeballed the overhead, the walls, the structural beams, the fire suppression system. "Based on what I'm seeing, this place is stronger inside than we thought... . With the aggregate volumes enclosed, the yields of our special items should just do the job, but . . . we can't put them just anywhere." Jeffrey frowned. "That means we need to penetrate much further into the installation than we thought. . . . And we're still left with the problem of the Turks." Ilse saw Jeffrey grimace, then start massaging his left leg. His old wound was acting up.

"Maybe we don't tell Salih what we're really up to,"

Clayton said. "Let him think it's a spy mission or something. When the bombs go off, it's not like they'll feel anything. The atmospheric overpressure alone . . ." Jeffrey glanced at Salih, still squatting on the floor. He was eating an energy bar from one of the SEALs. Salih looked at Jeffrey and smiled.

"No," Jeffrey said. "This part's my decision. Leaving the Turks in the dark, and saving our own skins, that's cold-blooded murder. If it ever came out, which it will, it's terrible statecraft."

Ilse heard a muffled electronic tone.

"It's coming from that guard," Clayton said. Montgomery went to the concealed body bag and opened the zipper. He lifted the walkie-talkie; a light on it was blinking.

"LT," Montgomery called to Clayton, "it's some kind of general broadcast, like a message download. I think if I push this button we'll hear it."

"Do it," Clayton said.

Ilse listened. A computer-synthesized voice announced that a highest-level security alert was being sounded. An Army squad had been found killed several miles away. It might be a diversion, for some sabotage or espionage. Surface, naval, and airborne patrols were being strengthened. Lab work was to continue as normal. Perimeter security was being increased.

Ilse translated.

"I'm sure this manhole counts as part of the perimeter," Jeffrey said sourly. He glanced at his watch. "The computer worm expires any second. We're on our own."

"I think I'm supposed to press this button to acknowledge receipt," Montgomery called, holding up the radio.

"Do it," Jeffrey said.

"How long till they realize he's missing?" Ilse said, indicating the dead guard.

"Not long."

"Now what?" Clayton said. "The coolant discharge access hatch was supposed to be our way out, with this

one, the inlet, as our backup. Do we just go ahead and blow the bombs, and kill us and the Turks?"

"If we have to," Jeffrey said, "that's exactly what we'll do." Clayton's jaw set. He nodded.

Jeffrey waved for Montgomery. The chief walked over. "Chief, ask Salih exactly what ARBOR told him we're supposed to be doing here."

Montgomery talked to Salih. The chief came back. "Spying." That made sense, Ilse realized. ARBOR would've thought along the same lines the SEAL team took now.

"Okay," Jeffrey said, "let's keep him on a need-to-know basis. . . . Ilse." Ilse turned to face Jeffrey.

"Get cleaned up and dressed and put on your makeup."

Ilse walked down the busy, carpeted corridor, one level below the utility space. Since the lab structure was dug into the ground, its basement, in effect, was at the top. The deeper Ilse went, the more helpless she felt. She was supposed to find her way around, see what was going on, try to gather intelligence, and report back to Jeffrey and Clayton. Because of ARBOR's arrest, Ilse had been drawn into this. Because of the Turks, things had gotten even more complicated. Ilse told herself wryly that a suicide mission, at least, had the advantage of simplicity. Now, with help from Salih in ARBOR's place, there might or might not be an upside: survival, and hard data on the Mach 8 missile project to bring back to Allied lines.

Ilse glanced up. The lab's massive armored roof, all of twelve meters—forty feet—thick, didn't make her feel safe. It made her feel trapped.

The overhead fluorescents had a bluish tinge. Ilse realized these were grow lights, to help the staff stay healthy and alert, to make up for the total lack of sunlight. Most of the people Ilse passed were men. Most of them, including the women, wore navy uniforms. They must have joined up—or been drafted—en masse when the war broke out. Their postures and gazes weren't very military. They acted more like engineers and scientists—without the lab coats and pocket protectors.

Ilse herself wore a white silk blouse, with navy blue jacket and knee-length skirt. Her shoes were plain black flats, with rubber soles. All had South African labels. Her clothes were wrinkled from being in her pack—but this was part of her cover story. Around her neck she wore a chain from which dangled her smart ID card, loaded with a digital photo and retinal scan and other data. She lugged a briefcase, the big boxy kind that opened with flaps at the top. The briefcase was fine maroon leather. Inside were files and books concerning fluidics control, her alleged specialty.

She leaned to one side from the weight of the briefcase, and kept having to change hands to relieve the cramping in her fingers. She looked forward to being able to get rid of it—the case was heavy; someone should have thought to put it on wheels. Concealed in the middle, behind special plastic shielding to block gamma rays and neutrons, was a nine-pound hollow sphere of pure plutonium-239, surrounded by implosion lenses, a power supply, and arming circuitry.

A briefcase atom bomb.

On the upper level, amid the drab maintenance corridors, Jeffrey and Clayton and Montgomery followed Salih's lead. Actually, Salih shuffled behind them, and murmured directions in German to Montgomery as needed.