Pandora's Ark (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Moscow
, Russia

It was night, and the old man sat
alone in the darkness of his apartment with the threadbare shades pulled wide
so that he could see the wonderful lights cast upon the domes of St. Basil’s
Cathedral.

He had conceded,
telling al-Ghazi that he would commit himself “to put the demons back into the
box.” He was no magician, not a conjurer, not even a man who could urinate
without a burning sensation that caused him a pain far greater than the
arthritis that was plaguing his bones in the cold Russian weather.

In truth
al-Ghazi was right, he considered. As beautiful as it was outside his window,
the way the lights lit upon the colored domes of the cathedral,
his
Mother Russia was forever gone.

During the
latter part of the Cold War, Leonid Sakharov was a pioneering savant in the
field of nanotechnology—leap years ahead of Russia’s most brilliant scientists.
In the mid-eighties when nanotechnology was in its genesis stage, the Russian
and American tactical war departments realized that the use of nanobots, or
nanoweapons, was the future of the arms race with far more devastating
repercussions than nuclear devices. Billions of programmed molecules, unseen
and indefensible, and with no need of special equipment to produce, could serve
the military’s needs in several ways.

Sakharov’s
duties were to conceive nanoweaponry such as nano-scouts, bots so small yet
capable of transmitting data from foreign sources that went undetected and
unseen. Other military applications were nanobots that acted as poisons or a
force field. More measures taken into consideration by the Kremlin were the use
of nanoweaponry such as mind erasers, whereas nanobots would settle in an
insurgent’s brain as micro fields, then fire off as small brain bursts that
would wipe away sections of memory, and then reprogram it with new commands,
new memories, and new ideologies suited for communist rule.

Additional
applications such as nano-needles and water bullets were scrapped because of
their non-lethal relevance that would ultimately achieve the Russian means to
rule by military dominance, which was to kill from a distance with something
one-billionth of the size of a man. But more importantly, to do so with something
that was highly programmable.

It was just
another matter of the race game between Russia, the United States, and the United Kingdom. But Russia had Leonid Sakharov, a brilliant physicist who realized that
molecular nanoweapons were the
next great superweapons. In order to get funding in a Russian economy that was
slowly being whittled away by the war in Afghanistan, he explained in detail
that the weapons were simple molecules converted by their own atoms, and then
those atoms would insert themselves into atomic systems which would transform
molecules into tiny computers that raced through space like submicroscopic
viruses capable of finding the enemy, and then destroy them. After lobbying
effortlessly for the sake, safety and cause of Mother Russia, he got the
funding.

However, his research did not
come without tribulation.

Progress was slow at first—baby
steps, really—a stagger here and a stagger there, the frustration worming its
way into his core until he took to the bottle to take off the edge. And then
gains became strides, strides became leaps, and Sakharov was elated at the
advancement made toward the evolution of the atom.

He would spend nights on end
with little or no sleep—his only true companions beside his underling
associates were his own colossal ego, and a bottle of the finest vodka rubles
could buy.

But one night, in one of his
celebratory moods after making a breakthrough, Old Man Sakharov took to lack of
caution and, against the advice of associates, initiated a start-up program after
he was warned about the consequences, since no pre-tests were conducted to
determine the hazardous effect of the nanobots under controlled conditions. But
the old man gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand, his ego and the
influence of liquor now the driving forces behind his decisions, and engaged
the program with the push of a button. 

As he sat at a monitor behind
a bomb-proof resistant glass wall, he watched his associates as they examined a
monkey that was isolated in a separate room behind another glass wall. At first
there was nothing, the old man becoming flustered, angry, not understanding
what went wrong. And then a waspy hum sounded over the mike as the monkey
became agitated. Within moments the hum grew in intensity, the nanobots replicating
faster than anticipated. And then the monkey began to scream at a pitch that
none of the scientists had ever heard from any animal.

Quickly, the rhesus’s fur
began to slough off by the handfuls, the monkey waving and swinging its hands
wildly at something unseen. And then its flesh began to disappear as if eaten
away by patches, revealing the muscle and gristle underneath, then bone. The
rhesus raised its head in agony, its eyes dissolving within their orbital
sockets, and then it shuddered one last time before falling. Within moments,
like a time-lapse reel of a movie running in fast forward, the monkey dissolved
into skeletal matter. But it didn’t end there. The bone quickly became
polished, and then cracked, revealing the marrow that soon disappeared. And
then there was nothing, not even the outline of dust. Everything that was carbon
matter was gone.

And Sakharov smiled. “There
you have it, gentlemen,” he said over the intercom. “The future is finally
here.”

But the celebration was short
lived. 

The hum of the nanobots
sounded like a hive gone mad, growing louder, the speakers sounding off as if
the volume was being turned up.

No! No! No! They’re
replicating too quickly
!

Sakharov’s mind began to go
into panic mode, his two associates looking at him through the glass from the
lab, wondering what was wrong.

And then the noise ceased, the
waspy hum cut off as if on cue.

Not a collective breath could
be heard as the two scientists stood as still as Grecian statues.

And then the glass that
separated the two scientists from the rhesus lab began to crack. At first it
was just one spot, a pinpoint with spider-web cracks that blossomed into full
designs. And then a second and third pinpoint, the cracks trailing across the
pane until they met other cracks, the window becoming compromised, and then it
blew outward with an explosive force, the hum now sounding like a freight train
speeding through a tunnel.

Sakharov’s associates began to
slap at their coats, at their faces, as if swatting away annoying gnats or
insects. And then the material of their coats began to disappear, and then
strips and slabs of flesh. Their faces simply disappearing: the skin, the
muscle, ultimately revealing the curvature of bone underneath and the empty
sockets where their eyes once were. Their tongues no longer lolled, the meat
stripped away, vanished. And in a last act of self-preservation they clawed at
the window that separated them from their mentor with the bony tines of their
fingers, the digits of bone clearly seen as they ticked against the glass in
macabre measure. 

What have I done?

Sakharov watched with
paralytic terror as the men slid down the glass leaving bloody trails against
the pane.

And then a silence that was
complete and absolute followed.

Sakharov looked at the
speakers.

Not a sound.

And then it came as a single
tick against the glass that separated him from his associates’ lab. The glass
divide between his room and his associates took on a single pinprick hole that
was beginning to web out with a series of meandering cracks.

Acting quickly, Sakharov
lifted the plastic emergency shield that covered a red button and slammed his
palm down. A titanium wall came down and covered the glass. And then he pressed
the button again. This time initiating a failsafe program that ignited the lab,
burning everything within the room at more than three thousand degrees.
Everything, including the nanobots, was incinerated.

Nevertheless, Sakharov was hailed
by the Kremlin as a hero, whereas his associates were looked upon as collateral
damage. But he knew differently. He had become drunk to the delight of his own
ego, casting aside all precautions and believing that nothing could have gone
wrong when, in fact, everything had gone horribly wrong. And it wasn’t too long
afterward that he came to the realization that such nanoweaponry was far too
dangerous. According to an article by Eric Drexler, whom he considered to be
his “near” equal, replication was much too fast if not contained. And within a
week the bots could exponentially grow to such numbers that the entire surface
of the Earth would be consumed by matter Drexler termed as “grey goo,” which is
to say everything alive on the planet would be devoured and anything to come
within its gravitational pull would be consumed as well.

But the Kremlin didn’t want to
hear this side of the scenario. What they wanted were results, so funding was
extended with expectations that Sakharov would be able to program the molecules
to keep from replicating themselves, and to better devise a way to control them
from a computer monitor.

When Sakharov told them that
such science was decades away, they simply told him that the “first” second of
the first decade just ticked away; therefore, he wasn’t to waste another
moment.

For years he worked on methods
and theories, having diagrams of buckyballs with scribbled notes wallpapering
the walls. He worked effortlessly, truly believing that he could be the next
Nikola Tesla, the Serbian genius.

As months and years drew on,
as the wall crumbled in 1991 and with it communism, the new leadership refused
Sakharov any true freedoms and placed him under the auspice of the new
Directorate S, an updated version of Kremlin bureaucracy. 

With pressure mounting and
with Sakharov struggling with the bottle, his work went well beyond stressful
and gains were minimal. With more pressure being asserted by the powers that
be, Sakharov finally snapped and erased almost ten years of data from all
computers and their banks, leaving nothing to be retrieved.

This earned Sakharov nine
years in the prison system where he watched inmates die around him in the most
horrific conditions.

But he did not blame Mother
Russia. He blamed himself, knowing that his ego was paramount and that his
downfall and failures was of his own doing.

He still loved his country,
even though it was a marginal facsimile of what she used to be.

But he survived Vladimir
Central. And by the time he was released, Russia had a new political face. And
it turned up its nose at him by telling him that he was aged and forgotten.

But my mind is as sharp as
it always was.

He smiled because this was
true.

In Vladimir Central he would
draw diagrams and formulas in the mud, then commit them to memory before
erasing them at the approach of the guards. Now that his mind wasn’t addled
with drink, he could think, configure, and institute new measures of control if
given the opportunity to do so. He would be diligent and careful. And though he
quickly found a reason to purse his lips around the mouth of a bottle the moment
he was released from Vladimir Central, he would gladly give it up to prove to
himself that he was not the failure Mother Russia believed him to be since she
discarded him like yesterday’s news.

He then raised the glass of
vodka to his lips and drank, the alcohol going down much cooler than the urine
that often left his body.
You’re coming apart, old man
. But he smiled at
the thought.

Regardless, he had lived a
good life, developing weaponry he believed would serve as a deterrent against
the United States, for which they would fear retaliatory strikes derived from
Sakharov’s wares. The old man truly believed that he was once the front line of
his nation’s defense, when, in fact, he was just a cog in the scheme of
Russia’s massive operation that was well beyond his comprehension.

He sighed. He stared. He
thought. And he drank; knowing once he left this apartment, once he left for Iran, and despite the promises of reliving his glory years, Leonid Sakharov knew his time
was limited.

Again he smiled. And then he
lifted a full glass of vodka and extended his hand toward the lights of St.
Basil’s Cathedral and proposed a toast. “To my beloved Mother Russia,” he
whispered. “I have missed you so. And I promise to make you proud.” And then he
drank until the glass ran empty.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tehran
, Iran
, Three Days Later

Deep in the center of Iran’s capital, by far the largest urban city with a population of over eight million
people, al-Ghazi found it easy to hide within the bustle of the major
metropolis. After meeting with Leonid Sakharov, he took an immediate flight
back to his central base.

The weather was
hot and dry, the sky a deep blue, a cloud not to be seen. The stink of a big
city was evident with the smell of fumes and exhaust permeating the air as if a
sandstorm had swept through the streets, the atmosphere cloyingly thick with
haze the color of desert sand. People milled about the bazaars where animal
meats hung from hooks. And al-Ghazi took it all in as he sat at a table outside
an eatery enjoying a Sharbat, a sweet drink prepared from fruits and flower
petals. As always he was impeccably dressed in a shirt so white that it cast a
glowing radiance, whereas everyone around him wore the traditional
Shalvars
or
Sarbands
.

Patiently, while
at leisure with his drink, al-Ghazi waited. His contact would be prompt, as
always. So at noon when his phone rang he knew exactly who it was.

He recognized
al-Zawahiri’s voice right away.

“There is no doubt the Americans will eventually come after
me since they murdered Osama,” said al-Zawahiri. “After today I will stay in
contact through couriers, since I must now go into exile.”

“I understand.”

“Do you have the physicist?”

“Not yet. But arrangements have been made for him to arrive
in Tehran shortly. My men will be there to pick him up.”

“There will be problems getting him through customs, yes?”

“Not at all,” he answered. “I have been given assurances by
custom agents at the I
mam
Khomeini International
 
Airport
that Dr. Sakharov will pass uncontested. If he does
not, then it is understood that consequences will befall those who stay his
passage.”

“Is he capable of doing the job? My sources tell me that
the physicist has grown infirm.”

Al-Ghazi took a sip from his
Sharbat, the outside of
the glass sweating.
“It appears that drink has taken
his body, al-Zawahiri, but not his mind. So what has become Russia’s loss is now Allah’s gain.”

“Then you’ve done well, al-Ghazi. Allah truly shines upon
you with favors.”

“I am blessed, yes.”

 “Quickly, tell me of your agenda and then speak no more of
it to anyone hereafter.”

“The good doctor will arrive tonight and be taken to a safe
house at the northern edge of the city where he will rest. On the following morning
he will then be taken to our base camp in the Alborz.”

The Alborz is a mountain range in the northern part of Iran stretching from the borders of Azerbaijan and Armenia in the northwest, to the Caspian Sea in the south. The range also borders Afghanistan to the east and seats the
tallest mountain in the Middle East, Mount Damavand, which is well over 18,000
feet tall.

The range is porous with caves, like Afghanistan. But unlike Afghanistan, the region is highly protected by President Ahmadinejad’s
forces since the area falls under Iranian sovereignty. To breach the area would
be difficult. To find the exact location of the lab site would be almost
impossible. And as far as al-Ghazi was concerned, he was untouchable.

“And you’re ready, I presume?”

“Quite. This facility is located deep within the base of Mount Damavand. President Ahmadinejad was kind enough to create a state-of-the-art laboratory
that will be activated by power cells.”  

“It appears that Ahmadinejad’s nuclear program has more
applications than just an energy resource as he claims. I’m sure he did not do
this from the goodness of his heart.”

“Of course not, but his stake is a simple one,” he said.
“In exchange for his use of the lab and his continued protection, he
respectfully requests that his team of scientists be given access to all data
regarding Sakharov’s nanotechnology.”  

There was silence on the other end.

And then: “We have no other choice?”

“The facility is well protected, al-Zawahiri. And the
equipment is something the good doctor may understand. Even with my schooling,
I have no concept as to what they do. They are truly state-of-the-art, which
gives us the promise of achievement that would bring us victory over the
infidels in a final assault that would give Allah his true station above all.”

“I may believe in you, al-Ghazi. And I may believe in Dr.
Sakharov. But I do not trust Ahmadinejad. I’m afraid once this is all set and
done, then he will take it all for himself.”

“There will be a fail-safe against that,” al-Ghazi returned
evenly.

“And what would that be?”

“If President Ahmadinejad should fall back on his
agreement, then I will make sure that the data will be compromised, rendering
the entire operation useless.”

“I see.”

“There is a solution for everything,” he said. “I will maintain
all data so that a lab in Pakistan has the chance to emulate the progress of
what we are doing inside Mount Damavand. If Ahmadinejad falls back on his word,
then at least you’ll have the necessary information to replicate the
technology.”

“You’ve considered your options well,” said al-Zawahiri.
“Impressive.”

“I’m a soldier of Allah’s army. I plan for every
contingency.”

“And what about the Ark of the Covenant?”

“It’s safe inside the facility in Damavand,” he answered. “Once
the nano project is complete, then the Ark will come into play.”

Although al-Ghazi could not see al-Zawahiri, he knew the
old soldier held a pleased look about him.

“
Allahu Akbar
,” the old soldier finally said.

Al-Ghazi nodded,
smiled. “
Allahu Akbar
.”

The line was
severed.

Al-Ghazi then removed
the SIM card from the phone, destroyed it, and quietly watched the people of Tehran mill about as he sat back and enjoyed his Sharbat
.