Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (18 page)

I turned to the right corner of the base, as it was when standing from the bottom of the stairs and proceeded there. I took off my backpack, placed it on the ground and shone my torch in to it and retrieved a couple of blocks of C4, a detonator and timer. I concealed the explosives as I planted them. I placed two blocks of C4 in the extreme corner with their detonators. I set the timer to 05.00hrs. A sense of grim satisfaction came over me as I planted the first of the C4 which would put these despicable Persian plans to an end for good. I began to walk to the very far corner, which would require me to walk the length of the base along one of the walls. My torch caught a glimpse of a small metallic box on the wall about five feet from the ground. I opened this box, which was slightly larger than a shoe box in its dimensions and brought the beam of my torch to bear on its contents to reveal just what I had been hoping for – light switches! Perhaps I was being paranoid, but what if the Persians on the surface could detect the lights being switched on? The oppressive nature of the dark; coupled with its restrictions on my movements were dispiriting. The box contained ten switches in two rows of five. I flicked the two on the left and waited. Nothing happened!

“Oh Christ!” I swore aloud in vexation. In a fit of pique I brought my open palmed hand over the switches and in a decisive downward motion switched them all to the “
On” position and resolved that I would just have to live, or if fortune had it.....die by the consequences.

CHAPTER 23 – ILLUMINATION, INFAMY & CAPITULATION.

I waited with baited breath. Such was my apprehension that I had begun to perspire; coupled with the dampness from the rain, it was I reflected a fine way to catch a chill. After waiting for several seconds nothing happened. I gave it up as a lost cause and resumed walking to the furthest corner. As I took a few paces, suddenly I could hear a sound; I stopped dead in my tracks and listened. First I could not make it out; and listened again. It was a whirring sound – the sound of a generator? I reflected that once it had built up enough power the lights would come on. In the meantime I was not going to waste any more time. I got to the far corner of the base and proceeded to plant the explosives as discreetly and as quickly as I could. I had to be single minded in this at least. As I laid and set the C4 in the final corner, I raised myself off my haunches and looked down at it with satisfaction and a modicum of relief.

The whirring had continued throughout and I had by now become rather inured to it. Still no lights, so I decided to leave and made for the stairs down which I had come; as I started climbing the first flight the whirring sound suddenly got louder. I stopped and then all of a sudden and rather belatedly the lights came on with a “blink blink” sound you hear when strip lights flicker on. After the darkness I had had to endure, the sudden illumination caught me unawares - I raised one arm to partially shield my eyes from the glare and switched off my torch. I blinked and then lowered my arm as my eyes began adjusting to the light. Only about one in every three of the lights throughout the complex had come on. Consequently, the cavernous interior was only dimly illuminated, but sufficiently for me to be able to see the scope and ambition of the Persians. I was immediately struck by the sight of what could only have been a missile silo towering above me. I looked over in the distance and saw in the centre of this vast chamber a tall cylindrical structure several storeys high. At the base of this structure there was a rectangle shaped wall about 4 metres high and 4x6 metres long on each side. This could only be one thing – the silo from which a missile, possibly armed with a nuclear warhead could be launched. The dimensions suggested that the silo had been designed for ICBM’s, as the Major had feared. This cavernous area was much bigger than a nuclear launch facility need be. It was possible that our assumptions and our intelligence were wrong. Everything about it aroused one’s suspicions of diabolical Persian designs. I looked up to the top – towards the ceiling which must have been about seven floors in height above us. And although lit it was quite dark up there, there were several beams of what I presumed were steel. I studied this unconventional ceiling for a moment. There were staggered layers above these beams and large cantilever supports coming out from two opposing walls to support the retracting ceiling further. This looked to me not just any ceiling but a heavily reinforced concrete one – designed to withstand a missile strike. To have it retract as well was quite an engineering feat. These Persians were not to be underestimated I thought, as much in approbation as in rebuke.

I then glanced towards the long wall of the base, on the side nearer Khazali’s Mound; an archway with a double door wide enough for a car to pass through was visible. I went up to it opened the door and shone my torch to reveal a long uphill tunnel only dimly lit. It had the width of two cars and a height of almost 3 metres. Based on my orientation of the surrounding geography, this tunnel lead deep into Khazali’s Mound – but to where? There was of course only one way to find out! As I started walking along this uphill tunnel, I felt strangely exhilarated with suspense. Within this tunnel were sets of doors at periodic intervals that were wide open and made of solid metal. The frames for these doors appeared to provide a hermetic seal when the door was closed, which one had to step over when walking through each door way. As I continued, I noticed that the gradient got even steeper. After nearly a hundred metres I saw an end to the tunnel in the form of a closed metallic door. I marvelled at the engineering and logistical challenge of building such a tunnel at this depth. I turned the large handle and pushed with both hands - the door opened slowly, such was its weight. I entered. It was distinctly colder here, which was no doubt indicative of its proximity to the surface. There must be air ducts. There was some secondary lighting on the walls. This enabled me to discern the size of this chamber as being about half the size of the first chamber containing the silo, from whence I had just come. The walls were made of solid rock, right in the middle of Khazali’s Mound. What a feat! I began walking around this cavernous entity, wondering what its purpose was. And then before my very eyes as they adjusted to the light, I could see a Nuclear Reactor! In the middle of this chamber the floor was metallic, made up of a grid like plates in a square shape about eight metres wide on each side. In the centre of this surrounded by a metal safety fence there was a structure which towered several metres above the ground, with a diameter of 4 metres which ended in a dome shape. This was the reactor itself, into which Uranium rods would be placed for the purpose of irradiation. I suddenly recalled Solomon telling me in his hotel room about taking delivery of a substance known to him as Beluga CC238 from Forsyth Landor – the yellowcake! This is where at least some of it was intended to end up. After this process the resultant Plutonium is separated from the rest of the spent rods by dissolving them in nitric acid. For that a reprocessing plant is required, requiring large amounts of water.

I walked slowly towards the reactor, whilst both admiring and detesting the genius and deceit of the Persians. If it had not been used before as I suspected, then it would not be long before it was; and all without the rest of the world being any the wiser. In this solid rock chamber, radiation was unlikely to escape if I blew up the reactor - except in small quantities. And if it did escape I reflected grimly, it would be as nothing compared to the destruction wrought from a nuclear missile fired with plutonium derived from this reactor. It would be the lesser of two evils I decided! I rummaged around my backpack and found the last two blocks of C4 and a detonator and concealed them at the base of the reactor and set them for 05.00hrs. My bag was now devoid of anything incriminating.

I had barely enough time to make my rendezvous at 0100hrs. So I turned back and ran down the tunnel, past the silo and ran up the stairs. The lighting on the stairs was on, which was a pleasing sight as it would assist me in making a faster ascent to the surface. I took flight after flight as I got inexorably higher and thus closer to the exit. When I reached the level containing the control panel which I saw on my way down, I knew that I was near the surface. Out of an insatiable curiosity - which prevailed over my sense of prudence I wanted to see it again - but this time in the light. I walked briskly past the alcove that I had seen on my descent and then saw that the corridor gave way to my right, into a large area containing rows of long metal desks. I switched on the lights. The desks had recessed screens imbedded in them periodically every metre or so, with switches, buttons and keyboards at each work station. Above the desks hanging down from the ceiling were banks of televisions, positioned so as to be easily visible by those who might be standing or sitting at the desks. On one wall on the left there was a large electronic map of a grid with small lights. All the screens were of course switched off. I estimated that there was enough space here for a dozen scientists to monitor and control the reactor and missile launch capability. All the doors in the tunnel that connected the two now made sense – it was to protect one from the other.

Just then I abruptly heard the sound of several pairs of boots coming down the stairs and voices’ talking loudly and agitatedly in what I presumed was Farsi. I uttered an expletive and made to conceal myself. Just as I began to move, two of the IRG armed with machine guns ran into the control room and saw me. I froze on the spot. It had all happened so quickly that I didn’t even have time to draw my Glock. It was just as well I told myself, for it would have been no match for their machine guns. There was nothing for it but to raise my hands and be taken prisoner. They were breathless, as much from running down the stairs as from the excitement of catching me and nervously held their weapons. They both had beards neatly trimmed; one wore a jacket and the other a black anorak. The one in the jacket cursed me in Farsi and then shouted questions at me with such vehemence that he involuntarily spouted saliva towards me. I said not a word with my hands still in the air, attempting to look as meek and unthreatening as I could as I shrugged my shoulders.

Just then another three Persians joined us, two of whom also had automatic weapons. Of the three who had just arrived the unarmed one appeared to be in charge. He was thin, tall, bearded and in his late forties. He started barking questions and orders to the others in Farsi. One of the two men with whom he had just arrived, ran off. The thin tall one looked me up and down, with a look of enmity and suspicion, whilst the others just watched.

“Who are you?” he asked in halting English.

“.....I’m very sorry”....I stuttered.... “But I think I’m lost,” I bumbled sheepishly.

He then muttered something to one of the guards who then slung his weapon over his shoulder and produced metal handcuffs. I was made to take off my backpack after which I was handcuffed with my hands in front of me. I daren’t protest as I watched one of them search my backpack - knowing they would find nothing incriminating. It was now 00.35hrs. I noted stoically that I would now be a “no show” for my rendezvous at 01.00hrs. I was then marched in the direction of the stairs from where we climbed up towards the entrance, accompanied by all four of my captors, whilst regularly being shoved and manhandled on the way. We came out as I had entered, through the heavy metal door. I noticed immediately that all the floodlights had been switched on; and that there was a flurry of activity, with armed men from the JFF and the Revolutionary Guard in abundance. It occurred to me that this might all be attributable to me. It seemed that there was a General Alert on. Many of them turned to look at me as they ran past; some just stood and stared – for I was the enemy - possibly in their eyes sent by the “Great Satan”
himself. I betrayed no emotion, as I was led away, my hands bound in front of me. Trying to be positive despite being in a bit of a pickle - I noticed that the rain had stopped.

We walked away from the base to where it was less well lit. I noticed that here the Valley floor widened out and over yonder to our left a little way off I saw, despite the darkness, a familiar site - but I could barely believe my eyes. It was Gulbador Hekmatiar’s Caravan of whores, with their wagons and camels and a couple of fair sized tents erected close by. Suddenly my mind was cast back to that pleasurable night in my tent just a few evenings ago. As I turned to look again at this bizarre Caravan I saw a man running out of one of these tents towards the direction of the base, adjusting his trousers. How odd I thought! I looked ahead in the direction to which we were headed and then heard voices in the distance behind us. I turned around and saw coming out of the Portacabin, where I had earlier seen three of the Guard standing outside before I had descended into the base, none other that Hekmatiar, that fat jovial rogue chaperoning a couple of his girls. I could not help but let out a delicious chuckle of irony as it all made sense. One of my guards looked across at me grimly. Now I realised why there were no guards around the base when I approached in the rain. Now that they were out of Persia and away from their Mullahs and the strictures of Iranian society, these IRG had allowed their urges to overcome them. It just shows you that men are men; and all regardless of religion and attempts at celibacy, have carnal appetites that they are wont to satisfy. These ostensibly pious Shiites! The self flagellation of the zealot one minute and then whoring the next! Hypocrites! I on the other hand made no pretension of religiosity. No hypocrite I, although I did “worship” at the altar of a women’s “citadel.” I made a mental note just then that if I ever got out of my present predicament I would make a point of “worshipping” fervently and frequently, at whatever “churches” would permit me entry into their “citadels.”