Thunder In The Deep (02) (30 page)

"Now I understand. Penetration probability enhancement research: PEPPER. . . . Does that team work here in the test center?"

"Oh, no. All that work's done in the computer-aided design-and-engineering lab."

"Where's that?"

"In the other half of the installation, near the mainframe." There were two labs?

"They're almost ready now," Gaubatz said. "Put on your headphones." Jeffrey glanced over his shoulder as the interlock's second blast door closed behind. They were in the other half of the installation now. No one was following them, and no one was in earshot.

"You're good," he said to Montgomery "Remind me to never play poker with you, Chief. You bluff too well."

"Like I told them, not all loyal Germans were privileged to grow up in the Fatherland. It'

s not my fault I'm half-Irish, too—the English-hating kind. I know how to weld, and the Kaiserliche Marine needs skilled welders bad."

"What were you arguing about with that one guard?"

"First she asked me how we got inside, since there was no trace in her computer of me checking in."

"Oops. What'd you say?"

"We came in by truck, through the heavy shipping interlock. Didn't she have a record of any trucks? Then she wanted to see the work authorization. I told them we talked to Human Resources, and the place was a zoo. So, sorry about the lack of paperwork. Did they want the sewage system fixed or not?"

The floor began to shake, enough to tingle Ilse's toes.

"Wind tunnel start-up!" the engineer-in-charge announced on the loudspeakers. A big group of officers and civilians jostled closer to the viewing window, but they left her and Gaubatz room.

Through her headphone protection Ilse could hear a rushing sound, getting louder and higher pitched. She watched a big digital readout next to the window. It was up to Mach 0.80 already, rising steadily.

Gaubatz leaned closer and lifted one of Ilse's ear cups. "We're dispensing with a booster for the test. Any second now."

The number went to 0.90.

"All telemetry feeds nominal!" the engineer shouted. "Commencing the test!" Suddenly there was another sound, a deep-toned tearing.

"Scramjet ignition," the engineer said. The test staff, seated at the 'consoles, grew more intent on their displays.

The model missile rose from its pedestal. It wobbled slightly and steadied, facing into the wind tunnel slipstream. Ilse saw a subtle blue glow coming from the missile's rear—air molecules ionized by the searing hydrogen flame, itself invisible.

"Transition to supersonic!"

The meter read Mach 0.98, 0.99, 1.00, 1.01. . . . Ilse actually saw the air at the missile's tip seem to solidify for a moment, the bow shock as it broke the sound barrier—while also standing still. The fire suppression nozzles in the test chamber retracted into recesses. The pedestal retracted into the floor.

"Ramping up to hypersonic!"

The Mach number mounted quickly, 2, then 3, then 4, then 5. The missile's leading edge glowed dull red, from friction with the air. The noise was very loud now, a rumbling buzz and whining whistle. Ilse felt deep vibrations in the core of her gut. The missile continued to fly in place, untethered, maintaining position perfectly. She leaned to Gaubatz and tapped his shoulder. "Is it radio-controlled?" she shouted.

"Nein! It's completely self-guiding, on smart autopilot!" Ilse was impressed, and frightened. The precision of control was remarkable. Air rushed by the missile at thousands of miles an hour, yet it flew rock steady, varying hardly a centimeter against the orange-and-black position grid marked on the far test chamber wall.

"Going for full flight regime!" the engineer yelled. Mach 6. Mach 7. Mach 7.9. Mach 8. The missile body glowed hot orange, some spots even yellow—Ilse felt the radiant heat through the glass. Its exhaust was much brighter, too; a series of harsh blue rings streamed backward. These were standing shock waves, Ilse knew, perfectly stable and symmetric. They implied amazingly efficient fuel combustion and harnessing of thrust.

"Beginning active test of on-board artificial intelligence threat-evasion routines! . . . Threat simulations commencing! . . . Infrared, on target vector!" A make-believe interceptor's heat signature, as it approached the missile head-on. Heat flares flashed. The missile jinked and dipped.

"Tracking radar, forward sector!"

A tiny phased-array antenna dropped from the test chamber overhead, outside the slipstream, and scanned the missile.

The missile zipped to one corner of the chamber, dashed back the other way.

"Simulated overtaking antimissile missile lock-on!" Another antenna and heating element deployed from the floor, behind the missile this time.

The model did a corkscrew, a barrel roll, flew upside down.

"Ending test!"

The numbers wound down. The noise and vibrations diminished.

"Transition to subsonic!"

The Mach number held steady at 0.85 now. The pedestal rose up again.

"Scramjet shutdown!"

Robotic grapnels reached up from the pedestal, and locked onto the bottom of the missile. The missile engine

stopped. The Mach number quickly fell to 0. The missile rested, heat ripples rising from its body.

Technicians reported to the engineer-in-charge.

"Test successful," he announced. "Software upgrades validated. Improved fluidics control on spec. All performance thresholds met."

People began to applaud. Several of the men pounded each other on the back. Commander Gaubatz turned to Ilse and grinned. "We're on the way! An historic moment. This must have increased penetration probability by a solid ten percent."

"It's wonderful, sir," Ilse said weakly. German science marches on.

"Your job, for the next few weeks and months, my dear, is to help us get it up another ten percent."

Jeffrey and Montgomery searched and searched for Clayton and Salih. They tried to not look as hunted and furtive as they felt. The pair were supposed to have come through an air duct somewhere, here on the far side of the interlock between the two halves of the lab, but where were they?

"Sir," Montgomery said, "maybe you and I should split up."

"That would make things worse."

Jeffrey heard an announcement over the public address system. Before Montgomery could translate, a guard came around a bend. He spoke to the two men sternly. Montgomery said something. The guard responded, then moved on.

"So?" Jeffrey whispered when it was safe.

"The staff's ordered to attend a security briefing. Right now, in the main auditorium."

"Where's that?"

"It's in this lab half. Follow me."

When someone broke out bottles of French champagne, Ilse yawned, then excused herself. She left Gaubatz in the test section, and tried to find a stairway to the next level down.

She knew she had to plant the bomb under the test section, nearer the structure's solid foundation. Clayton had warned her to avoid a vibration-isolated area. He wanted both bombs going off together, no matter what. If the one the SEALs would plant in the other hardened lab-half was triggered by its antitamper protection, the shock had to reach the bomb on Ilse's side as well, and still be strong enough to trip its antitamper. For now, Ilse would just conceal the bomb. She wasn't allowed to arm it till she had met again with Jeffrey; he would give the rules-of-engagement go-ahead after she gave her report. Ilse felt a powerful craving for the team to somehow make it out of the lab, to get back to friendly lines, to carry a warning. From what she'd seen, this Mach 8 missile was a much greater threat than anyone realized.

There was an announcement over the loudspeakers, something about a security briefing. Attendance was mandatory for junior staff. Ilse ignored it. Good, fewer people around. She reached the lower level and started scouting for a good hiding place for the nuclear device. She ran into a pair of naval infantry guards. They scolded her for trying to skip the briefing.

Ilse said she was new. They directed her to the auditorium. It was in the other half. She said she was lost, which was true. One guard said he'd show her to the interlock. Now she had no way to hide her bomb.

Still carrying the briefcase bomb, Ilse lingered toward the back of the crowd waiting to pass through the blast-door interlock. Employees were sent through in batches. Ilse noticed the guards were checking people's briefcases and bags. She heard one guard say something about a murder—a body had been found sprawled in a utility space, stabbed repeatedly. The SEALs must have taken him out of the body bag, to conceal their presence and widen the list of suspects, knowing the corpse was certain to be found eventually.

When it was Ilse's turn, she ran her card through the reader and looked into the retinal scanner.

A female guard reached for Ilse's ID, and studied it skeptically.

"How did you get in here?"

"I just arrived," Ilse said. "I'm new," She tried to smile.

"I said, how did you get in here? There's no trace in the computer of you ever coming from the other section."

Ilse blanched. The employee entrance to the facility, she realized, was in the other half, and she'd never been checked in.

She thought of running. She glanced through the nearer set of blast doors. The far set, inevitably, was closed—the interlocking made sure they'd never be ajar together.

"I, er, I, I can't understand the problem. It's certainly not my fault." Ilse knew instantly that was the wrong thing to say, under the present circumstances. It was like pissing off a traffic cop at a roadblock—one who'd just lost a friend killed in the line of duty.

A male guard came over and fingered his pistol in its holster. Two other men quickly checked the rest of the crowd, then let them through. The blast door on this side swung closed, and stayed that way. Ilse was left alone with the guards.

"Your accent," the female said.

"I'm South African."

"Open your briefcase."

Ilse lifted it to the table, needing both hands. She unlocked the top, revealing the files and textbooks. She knew

the guards might just be giving her a hard time out of nervousness or boredom. But .. . The female guard hefted the case. "It's very heavy. What else do you have in this?"

"Urn, my laptop."

"Put it through the scanner," the woman said to the man.

"No," Ilse said, thinking fast. "You can't. It's, um, it's a special machine. They told me the scanner fields would ruin it."

"Show it to me," the female said.

Ilse's heart beat so hard she was sure they could see her chest pulsating, or maybe the arteries in her neck. She tilted the case, at an angle away from the guards. She took out the dummy files and made as confused a pile of papers as she could. She showed the keyboard and screen underneath to the guards.

The woman guard's eyes narrowed. "Turn it on."

SIMULTANEOUSLY.

The auditorium held three hundred people. As far as Jeffrey could tell, every seat was taken. He and Montgomery stood at the back, trying to blend with the other standees. A coarse fat man strutted onto the stage. He wore an expensive dark gray doublebreasted suit. He stood at a lectern with a microphone. The man began to speak. Jeffrey didn't understand a word.

Ilse always imagined she'd sweat at a time like this, or feel cold and have the shakes. Instead, she felt nothing, like a robot.

I haven't heard from Jeffrey, but with that test chamber demonstration I've seen enough. I can't let them take me, or let them take the bomb.

"It needs a special password. For security." She began to enter the arming code. The device accepted it. Instead

of starting the delay timer, she reached for the plastic shield that protected the instantfiring button. She lifted the shield; this also made the fissionable core preassemble. Something beeped. "Increased radiation reading," the male guard said. He looked at Ilse and drew his gun.

Can I push the detonator button thrice before he shoots me dead? Ilse fixed her eyes on the guard. She was surprised how calm she felt. She pushed the button once. Then again. Once more and . . .

She had an idea.

"The magnetic storm." She kept her finger on the firing button.

"What?" the female guard said.

"It must be the magnetic storm. It's powerful now." "You mean to tell me it broke your fancy laptop?" "No, er, I mean, the security computer. Maybe that's why it doesn't show me coming in, and the radiation reading." The male and female looked at each other.

Ilse took a breath. "Does your detector distinguish between alpha and gamma radiation?

Does it show beta and neutrons separate or together? What's the integration interval?

The alarm threshold? When was the last time you had it calibrated?" The male guard shrugged.

"You're a technician?" the woman said. "Then who's your boss?"

"I was just at the wind tunnel test," Ilse stated. "With Commander Gaubatz. You can call him if you like." Ilse tried to act blasé.

The guards, all junior enlisted, hesitated. The point was, Ilse realized, they weren't traffic cops. They were naval infantry, and she knew a commander.

"You go ahead and call him," Ilse said. "I have work to do."

"Better hurry," the male guard said. "You'll miss the meeting." Ilse left the weapon armed, just in case.

Ilse squeezed through a side door into the auditorium. It was crowded—she had to stand against the wall. She glanced across the crowd, and spotted Jeffrey and Montgomery. She looked away at once, in case they saw her and reacted and gave themselves away. She noticed someone else looking at her.

Oh, God, it's that Boer submariner. He knows he knows me.

Ilse waved—what else could she do? He nodded, but seemed puzzled, like he was trying to remember how they'd met. Now she started to sweat—the room seemed unbearably hot, and not from the body heat of the audience.

A fat man stood at the lectern. There was a vicious set to his mouth, and he had hard, pitiless eyes.

"I think that we can rest easier now, with closure on this most unfortunate incident. Erika Rainer has paid the price for her treason, unrepentant till the end, hanged by the neck until dead, convicted by a tribunal which I chaired. I can assure you, the circumstantial evidence of her guilt was overwhelming. . . . The entire execution was recorded." He gave the URL on the lab's infranet, so people could download and watch. Ilse saw many in the crowd write the website name down.