Cryptonomicon (57 page)

You could probably work it out, given the right data:

N
_n
= number of Negroes per square kilometer

N
_m
= number of milchcows

A
_A
= Area of the Atlantic Ocean

. . . and so on. But wait a sec, neither Negroes nor milchcows are randomly distributed, so the calculation becomes immensely more complicated. Far too complicated for a Kapitänleutnant to mess around with, especially when he’s busy trying to effect a dramatic reduction in
N
_n
.

The Trinidadian steamer is brought up short by a shell fired across her bows from the U-boat’s deck gun. The Negroes gather on the decks, but they hesitate, just for a moment, to launch the lifeboats. Perhaps the Germans are going to give them a break.

Typical, sloppy, sentimental
untermenschen
thinking. The Germans brought them up short so they would hold still to be torpedoed. As soon as they realize this, the Negroes stage an impressive lifeboat drill. It’s remarkable that they even have enough lifeboats to go around, but the calm, practiced skill with which they launch and board them is truly phenomenal. It’s enough to make a German naval officer reconsider, just for a moment, his opinions about the shortcomings of darkies.

It is a textbook torpedoing! The torpedo is set to run nice and deep, and as it passes underneath the ship, the detonation circuit senses a change in the magnetic field and triggers the explosive, neatly snapping the ship’s keel, breaking its back, and sending it down with incredible speed. For the next five or ten minutes, bales of brown stuff erupt from the water, released from the cargo holds as the ship plummets towards the bottom. It gives the whole scene an unexpectedly festive air.

Some U-boat skippers would not be above machine-gunning the survivors, at this point, just to let off a little steam.

But the commander, Kapitänleutnant Günter Bischoff, is not yet a card-carrying member of the Nazi Party and probably never will be.

On the other hand, Bischoff is wrapped in a straightjacket and blasted half out of his mind on drugs.

Acting
commander of the U-boat is Oberleutnant zur See Karl Beck. He
is
a card-carrying National Socialist, and, in other circumstances, he might be game for a bit of punitive machine-gunning, but at the moment he’s exhausted and pretty badly shook up. He is intensely conscious of the fact that he’s probably not going to live very long now that their location has been reported.

So he doesn’t. The Negroes are jumping out of the lifeboats, swimming to the bales, and clinging to them with just their heads out of the water, realizing it would take forever to hunt them all down. OL Beck knows the Liberators and the Catalinas are already airborne and vectored towards him, so he has to get the hell out of there. Since he has plenty of fuel, he decides to head south for a while, planning to double back north in a day or two, when the coast might be a bit clearer. It is the kind of thing that KL Bischoff would do if he had not gone crazy, and everyone on the boat has unlimited respect for the old man.

They run on the surface, as they always do when they are not making a positive effort to sink a convoy, so they can send and receive radio messages. Beck gives one to Oberfunkmaat Huffer, explaining what has just happened, and Huffer gives it to one of his Funkmaats, who sits down in front of U-691’s Enigma machine and encrypts it using the key for the day, then taps it out on the radio.

An hour later, they get a message back, straight from U-boat Command at Wilhelmshaven, and when the Funkmaat runs it through the Enigma, what he comes up with is: CAPTURE SURVIVING OFFICERS.

It’s a classic example of military commandsmanship: if the order had come in a more timely fashion it would have been easy to obey, but now that they are an hour away it will be extremely difficult and dangerous. The order doesn’t make any sense, and no effort is made to clarify it.

Given the time lag, Beck figures he can get away with giving this one a half-assed try. He really should swing round and approach the wreck on the surface, which would get him there faster, but which would be nearly suicidal. So in
stead, he closes the hatches and descends to periscope depth as he draws closer. This cuts the U-boat’s speed to a crawling seven knots, so it takes them about three hours to get back to the atoll of bobbing brown bales that marks the site.

A damn good thing, too, because another fucking submarine is there, picking up survivors. It is a Royal Navy submarine.

This is so weird it makes the hairs on the back of Beck’s neck stand up—and there’s a lot of hair there, because like most submariners, Beck hasn’t shaved in weeks. There’s nothing weird, though, that can’t be settled with a single well-placed torpedo. Seconds later the submarine explodes like a bomb; the torpedo must have touched off her munitions. Her crew, and most of the rescued Negroes, are trapped within, and don’t have a chance of getting out even if they survived the explosions. The submarine drops off the surface of the ocean like the wreckage of the Hindenberg tumbling down on New Jersey.

“Gott in Himmel,”
Beck mumbles, watching this all through the periscope. He’d been pleased by the success, until he’d remembered that he had specific orders, and that killing everyone in sight was not one of them. Will there be any survivors for him to pick up?

He takes the U-boat up onto the surface, and climbs up on the conning tower with his officers. First thing they do is scan the skies for Catalinas. Finding none, they post lookouts, then begin to nose the U-boat through the sea of bales, which by now has spread out to cover at least a square kilometer. It is getting dark, and they have to bring up searchlights.

All looks rather dismal until one searchlight picks out a survivor—just a head, shoulders, and a pair of arms reaching up clenching a rope around a bale. The survivor does not move or respond as they approach, and not until a wave rolls the bale over is it revealed that everything below the man’s solar plexus has been bitten off by sharks. The sight sets even this hardened crew of murderers to gagging. In the quiet that ensues, they hear low voices echoing across the calm water. With a bit more searching, they find two men, evidently talkative sorts, sharing a bale.

When the searchlight picks them out, one of the Negroes lets go of the bale and dives beneath the surface. The other just stares calmly and expectantly into the light. This Negro’s eyes are pale, almost colorless, and he has a skin condition: parts of him are turning white.

As they draw closer, the pale eyed Negro speaks to them in perfect German. “My comrade attempts to drown himself,” he explains.

“Is that even possible?” asks Kapitänleutnant Beck.

“He and I were just discussing that very question.”

Beck checks his wristwatch. “He must want to kill himself very badly,” he says.

“Sergeant Shaftoe takes his duty very seriously. It’s kind of ironic. His cyanide capsule dissolved in the seawater.”

“I am afraid that all irony has become tedious and depressing to me,” Beck says, as a body breaks the surface nearby. It is Shaftoe, and he seems to be unconscious.

“You are?” Beck asks.

“Lieutenant Enoch Root.”

“I’m only supposed to take officers,” Beck says, casting a cold eye in the direction of Sergeant Shaftoe’s back.

“Sergeant Shaftoe has exceptionally broad responsibilities,” says Lieutenant Root calmly, “in some respects exceeding those of a junior officer.”

“Get them both. Fetch the medicine box. Revive the sergeant,” Beck says. “I will talk to you later, Lieutenant Root.” And then he turns his back on the prisoners, and heads for the nearest hatch. He is going to spend the next week trying very hard to stay alive, in spite of the best efforts of the Royal and United States Navies. It’s going to be quite an interesting challenge. He should be thinking about his strategy. But he can’t get the image of Sergeant Shaftoe’s back out of his mind. His fucking head was still underneath the water! If they weren’t about to fish him out of the ocean, he would have succeeded in drowning himself. So it was possible. At least for one person.

A
S THE VANS, TAXIS, AND LIMOUSINES PULL INTO THE
parking lot at the Ministry of Information site, the members of Epiphyte Corp. are greeted by smiling and bowing Nipponese virgins wearing, and bearing, gleaming white Goto Engineering helmets. The time is about eight in the morning, and up here on the mountain the temperature is still tolerable, though humid. Everyone mills around before the cavern’s maw, carrying their hardhats in their hands, as no one wants to be the first to put his on and look stupid. Some of the younger Nipponese executives are mugging hilariously with theirs. Dr. Mohammed Pragasu circulates. He has an authentically used and battered hardhat which he whirls absentmindedly around one finger as he strolls from group to group.

“Has anyone simply asked Prag what the fuck is going on?” says Eb. He rarely uses English profanity, so when he does, it’s funny.

The only member of Epiphyte Corp. who does not at least crack a smile is John Cantrell, who has been looking distant and tense ever since yesterday. (“It’s one thing to write a dissertation about mathematical techniques in cryptography,” he said, on the way up here, when someone asked him what was bothering him. “And another to gamble billions of dollars’ worth of Other People’s Money on it.”

“We need a new category,” Randy said. “Other, Bad People’s Money.”

“Speaking of which—” Tom began, but Avi cut him off by glaring significantly at the back of the driver’s head.)

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re(3) Why?

Randy,

You ask me to justify my interest in why you are building the Crypt.

My interest is a mark of my occupation. This is, in a sense, what I do for a living.

You continue to assume that I am someone you know. Today you think I’m the Dentist, yesterday you thought I was Andrew Loeb. This guessing game will rapidly become tedious for both of us, so please believe me when I tell you that we have never met.

——BEGIN ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

(etc.)

——END ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re(4) Why?

Damn, after you said you did it for a living, I was going to guess that you were Geb, or another one of my ex-girlfriend’s crowd.

Why don’t you tell me your name?

——BEGIN ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

(etc.)

——END ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re(5) Why?

Randy,

I’ve already told you my name, and it meant nothing to you. Or rather, it meant the wrong thing. Names are tricky that way. The best way to know someone is to have a conversation with them.

Interesting that you assume I’m an academic.

——BEGIN ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

(etc.)

——END ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re(6) Why?

Gotcha!

I didn’t specify who Geb was. And yet you knew that he and my ex-girlfriend were academics. If (as you claim) I don’t know you, then how do you know these things about me?

——BEGIN ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

(etc.)

——END ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

Everyone now turns to look towards Prag, who seems to be having trouble with his peripheral vision today. “Prag is avoiding us,” Avi snaps. “Which means it will be completely impossible for us to reach him until after this is all over.”

Tom steps towards Avi, drawing the corporate circle in closer. “The investigator in Hong Kong?”

“Got some IDs, struck out on others,” Avi says. “Basically, the heavyset Filipino gentleman is Marcos’s bagman. Responsible for keeping the famous billions out of the hands of the Philippine government. The Taiwanese guy—not Harvard Li but the other one—is a lawyer whose family has deep connections to Japan, dating back to when Taiwan was part of their empire. He has held down half a dozen government positions at various times, mostly in finance and commerce—now he’s sort of a fixer who does jobs of all sorts for high-ranking Taiwanese officials.”

“What about the scary Chinese guy?”

Avi raises his eyebrows and heaves a little sigh before answering. “He’s a general in the People’s Liberation Army. Equivalent to a four-star rank. He’s been working their investment arm for the last fifteen years.”

“Investment arm? The Army!?” Cantrell blurts. He’s been getting uneasier by the minute, and now looks mildly nauseated.

“The People’s Liberation Army is a titanic business empire,” Beryl says. “They control the biggest pharmaceutical company in China. The biggest hotel chain. A lot of the communications infrastructure. Railways. Refineries. And, obviously, armaments.”

“What about Mr. Cellphone?” Randy asks.

“Still working on him. My man in Hong Kong is sending his mug shot to a colleague in Panama.”

“I think that after what we saw in the lobby, we can make some assumptions,” Beryl says.
^*

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re(7) Why?

Randy,

You ask how I know these things about you. There are many things I could say, but the basic answer is surveillance.

——BEGIN ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

(etc.)

——END ORDO SIGNATURE BLOCK——

Randy figures there’s no better time to ask this question. And because he’s known Avi longer than anyone else, he’s the only one who can get away with asking it. “Do we really want to be involved with these people?” he says. “Is this what Epiphyte Corp. is for? Is this what we are for?”

Avi heaves a big sigh and thinks about it for a while. Beryl looks at him searchingly; Eb and John and Tom study their shoes, or search the triple-canopy jungle for exotic avians, while listening intently.

“You know, back in the forty-niner days, every gold mining town in California had a nerd with a scale,” Avi says. “The assayer. He sat in an office all day. Scary-looking rednecks came in with pouches of gold dust. The nerd weighed them, checked them for purity, told them what the stuff was worth. Basically, the assayer’s scale was the exchange point—
e where this mineral, this dirt from the ground, became money that would be recognized as such in any bank or marketplace in the world, from San Francisco to London to Beijing. Because of the nerd’s special knowledge, he could put his imprimatur on dirt and make it money. Just like we have the power to turn bits into money.

“Now, a lot of the people the nerd dealt with were incredibly bad guys. Peg house habitues. Escaped convicts from all over the world. Psychotic gunslingers. People who owned slaves and massacred Indians. I’ll bet that the first day, or week, or month, or year, that the nerd moved to the gold-mining town and hung out his shingle, he was probably scared shitless. He probably had moral qualms too—very legitimate ones, perhaps,” Avi adds, giving Randy a sidelong glance. “Some of those pioneering nerds probably gave up and went back East. But y’know what? In a surprisingly short period of time, everything became pretty damn civilized, and the towns filled up with churches and schools and universities, and the sort of howling maniacs who got there first were all assimilated or driven out or thrown into prison, and the nerds had boulevards and opera houses named after them. Now, is the analogy clear?”

“The analogy is clear,” Tom Howard says. He is less troubled by this than any of them, with the possible exception of Avi. But then, his hobby is collecting and shooting rare automatic weapons.

No one else will say anything; it is Randy’s job to be troublesome. “Uh, how many of those assayers got gunned down in the street after they pissed off some psychotic gold miner?” he asks.

“I don’t have any figures on that,” Avi says.

“Well, I am not fully convinced that I really need this,” Randy says.

“We all need to decide that question for ourselves,” says Avi.

“And then vote, as a corporation whether to stay in or pull out—right?” Randy says.

Avi and Beryl look meaningfully at each other.

“Getting out, at this point, would be, uh, complicated,” Beryl says. Then, seeing a look on Randy’s face, she hastens
to add: “not for individuals who might want to leave Epiphyte. That’s easy. No problem. But for Epiphyte to get out of this, uh…”

“Situation,” Cantrell offers.

“Dilemma,” Randy says.

Eb mumbles a word in German.

“Opportunity,” Avi counters.

“. . . would be all but impossible,” Beryl says.

“Look,” Avi says, “I don’t want anyone to feel compelled to stay in a situation where they have moral qualms.”

“Or fear imminent summary execution,” Randy adds helpfully.

“Right. Now, we’ve all put a ton of work into this thing, and that work ought to be worth something. To be totally above-board and explicit, let me reiterate what is already in the bylaws, which is that anyone can pull out; we’ll buy back your stock. After what’s happened here the last couple of days, I’m pretty confident that we could raise enough money to do so. You’d make at least as much as if you had stayed home doing a regular salaried job.”

Younger, less experienced high-tech entrepreneurs would have scoffed bitterly at this. But everyone on this crew actually finds it impressive that Avi can put a company together and keep it alive long enough to make it worth the work they’ve put into it.

The black Mercedes cruises up. Dr. Mohammed Pragasu strides over to meet it, greets the South Americans in fairly decent Spanish, makes a couple of introductions. The scattered clumps of businessmen begin to draw closer together, converging on the cavern’s entrance. Prag is making a head count, taking attendance. Someone’s missing.

One of the Dentist’s aides is maneuvering towards Prag in lavender pumps, a cellphone clamped to her head. Randy breaks away from Epiphyte and sets a collision course, reaching Prag’s vicinity just in time to hear the woman tell him, “Dr. Kepler will be joining us late—some important business in California. He sends his apologies.”

Dr. Pragasu nods brightly, somehow avoids eye contact with Randy, who is now close enough to floss Prag’s teeth, and turns, clamping his hardhat down on top of his glossy
hair. “Please follow me, everyone,” he announces, “the tour begins.”

It is a dull tour, even for those who have never been inside the place. Whenever Prag leads them to a new spot, everyone looks around and gets their bearings; conversation lulls for ten or fifteen seconds, then picks up again; the high-ranking executives stare unseeingly at the hewn stone walls and mutter to each other while their engineering consultants converge on the Goto engineers and ask them learned questions.

All of the construction engineers work for Goto and are, of course, Nipponese. There is another who stands apart. “Who’s the heavyset blond guy?” Randy asks Tom Howard.

“German civil engineer on loan to Goto. He seems to specialize in military issues.”

“
Are
there any military issues?”

“At some point, about halfway into this project, Prag suddenly decided he wanted the whole thing bombproof.”

“Oh. Is that Bomb with a capital B, by any chance?”

“I think he’s just about to talk about that,” Tom says, leading Randy closer.

Someone has just asked the German engineer whether this place is nuclear-hardened.

“Nuclear-hardened is not the issue,” he says dismissively. “Nuclear-hardened is easy—it just means that the structure can support a brief overpressure of so many megapascals. You see, half of Saddam’s bunkers were, technically, nuclear-hardened. But this does no good against precision-guided, penetrating munitions—as the Americans proved. And it is far more likely this structure will be attacked in that way than that it would ever be nuked—we do not anticipate that the sultan will get involved in a nuclear war.”

This is the funniest thing that anyone has said all day, and it gets a laugh.

“Fortunately,” the German continues, “this rock above us is far more effective than reinforced concrete. We are not aware of any earth-penetrating munitions currently in existence that could break through.”

“What about the R and D the Americans have done on the Libyan facility?” Randy asks.

“Ah, you are talking about the gas plant in Libya, buried under a mountain,” the German says, a bit uneasily, and Randy nods.

“That rock in Libya is so brittle,” says the German, “you can shatter it with a hammer. We are working with a different kind of rock here, in many layers.”

Randy exchanges a look with Avi, who looks as if he is about to bestow another commendation for deviousness. At the same time Randy grins, he senses someone’s stare. He turns and locks eyes with Prag, who is looking inscrutable, verging on pissed off. A great many people in this part of the world would cringe and wither under the glare of Dr. Mohammed Pragasu, but all Randy sees is his old friend, the pizza-eating hacker.