Dragon (59 page)

“I hate that word,” Giordino said, holding his head in his hands. “The mere thought of it gives me a rash.”

Sandecker gave him a curt look and continued. “After landing in the sea, you’ll settle to the bottom, still using the chutes to slow your descent. Once you are mobile, you drive to the B-Twenty-nine, remove the atomic bomb from inside its fuselage, carry it to a designated area, and detonate it.”

Giordino went as rigid as a man seeing a ghost. “Oh, God, it’s far worse than I thought.”

Pitt gave Sandecker a glacial stare. “Don’t you think you’re asking a bit much?”

“Over fifty scientists and engineers in universities, government, and high-tech industries joined together on a crash program to develop Arizona, and take my word for it, they’ve created a perfect diagram for success.”

“How can they be so sure?” said Giordino. “No one has ever dumped a thirty-five-ton deep-sea vehicle out of an aircraft and into the ocean before.”

“Every factor was calculated and evaluated until all probability of failure was worked out,” said Sandecker, eyeing his expensive cigar in Giordino’s mouth. “You should hit the water as lightly as a falling leaf on a sleeping cat.”

“I’d feel more comfortable jumping from a diving board into a dish rag,” grumbled Giordino.

Sandecker gazed at him with forbearance. “I am aware of the dangers, and I sympathize with your misgivings, but we can do without your Cassandran attitude.”

Giordino looked at Pitt questioningly. “What attitude?”

“Someone who predicts misfortune,” explained Pitt.

Giordino shrugged moodily. “I was only trying to express honest feelings.”

“Too bad we can’t ease Big Ben down a ramp off a ship and let it drift to the bottom with variable pressure tanks, as we did with Big John over Soggy Acres.”

Sandecker said indulgently, “We can’t afford the two weeks it took to get your DSMV here by sea.”

“May I ask just who the hell is going to instruct us how to remove an atomic bomb from tangled wreckage and detonate it?” demanded Pitt.

Sandecker handed them both folders holding forty pages of photos, diagrams, and instructions. “It’s all in here. You’ll have plenty of time to study and practice procedures between now and when we reach the drop zone.”

“The bomb has been under water inside a mangled aircraft for fifty years. How can anyone be certain it’s still in any condition to be detonated?”

“The photos from the Pyramider imaging system show the fuselage of the B-Twenty-nine to be intact, indicating the bomb was undamaged during the crash. Mother’s Breath was designed to be jettisoned in water and recovered. The armored components of its ballistic casing were precision cast with machine finishing and fit together with tolerances that were guaranteed to keep the interior waterproof. The men still living who built it swear it could remain on the bottom of the sea and be detonated five hundred years from now.”

Giordino wore a very sour look. “The explosion will be set with a timer, I hope.”

“You’ll have an hour before detonation,” Sandecker answered. “Big Ben’s top speed has been increased over Big John’s. You should be well away from any effects of the blast.”

“What’s well away?” Pitt pursued.

“Twelve kilometers.”

“What is the end result?” Pitt put to Sandecker.

“The concept is to induce a submarine earthquake with the old atomic bomb and cause a set of circumstances similar to the one that destroyed Soggy Acres.”

“A totally different situation. The explosion on the surface may have caused a sub-bottom quake, but our habitat was wiped out by a resulting avalanche combined with thousands of kilograms of water pressure. Those forces don’t apply on ground above the surface.”

“The water pressure, no. The avalanche, yes.” Sandecker tapped his finger on the chart. “Soseki Island was formed millions of years ago by a long extinct volcano that erupted just off the coast of Japan and spewed a river of lava far out into the sea. At one time this immense lava bed was an arm of the Japanese mainland, rising above the water to a height of two hundred meters. It rested, however, on soft layers of ancient sediment. Gradually, gravity forced it down into the softer silt until it fell beneath the water surface with only its lighter and less massive tip remaining above sea level.”

“Soseki?”

“Yes.”

Pitt studied the chart and said slowly, “If I get this right, the bomb’s shock waves and resulting submarine quake will shift and weaken the underlying sediment until the weight of the island pushes it under the sea.”

“Similar to standing in the surfline while the wave action slowly buries your feet in the sand.”

“It all sounds too simple.”

Sandecker shook his head. “That’s only the half of it. The shock waves alone aren’t enough to do the job. That’s why the bomb must be moved ten kilometers from the plane before it’s detonated.”

“To where?”

“The slope of a deep trench that travels parallel to the island. Besides producing a subocean shock, the magnitude of the atomic explosion is expected to tear loose a section of the trench wall. The tremendous energy, as millions of tons of sediment avalanche down the side of the trench in unison with the shock waves from the bomb, will create one of the most destructive forces of nature.”

“A tsunami,” Pitt anticipated the admiral. “A seismic sea wave.

“As the island begins to sink from the seismic shocks,” Sandecker continued, “it will be dealt a knockout blow by the wave, which will have achieved a height of ten meters and a speed between three and four hundred kilometers an hour. Whatever is left of Soseki Island above the surface will be completely forced under, inundating the Dragon Center.”

“We are going to unleash this monster?” Giordino asked suspiciously. “The two of us?”

“And Big Ben. It was a rush job, no way around it, but the vehicle has been modified to do whatever is demanded.”

“The Japanese mainland,” Pitt said. “A heavy quake followed by a tsunami smashing into the shore could kill thousands of people.”

Sandecker shook his head. “No such tragedy will occur. Soft sediments out to sea will absorb most of the shock waves. Nearby ports and cities along the coast will feel no more than a few tremors. The seismic wave will be small on the scale of most tsunamis.”

“How can you be sure of the ten-meter crest? Tsunamis have been known to go as high as a twelve-story building.”

“Computer projections put the wave crest that strikes the island at less than ten meters. And because Soseki is so close to the epicenter, its mass will act as a barrier and blunt the effects of the wave’s momentum. By the time the first mass of water reaches the coast, at low tide I might add, its crest will have diminished to only one and a half meters, hardly enough for serious damage.”

Pitt mentally measured the distance from the bomber to the spot marked on the slope of the underwater trench for the detonation. He judged it to be about twenty-eight kilometers. An incredible distance to drag an unstable forty-eight-year-old atomic bomb across rugged and unknown terrain.

“After the party,” wondered Pitt, “what happens to us?”

“You drive Big Ben onto the nearest shore, where a Special Forces team will be waiting to evacuate you.”

Pitt sighed heavily.

“Do you have a problem with any part of the plan?” Sandecker asked him.

Pitt’s eyes reflected an undercurrent of doubt. “This has to be the craziest scheme I’ve ever heard in my life. In fact it’s worse than that. It’s damn right suicidal.”

66

R
UNNING AT ITS MAXIMUM
cruising speed of 460 knots per hour, the C-5 Galaxy ate up the kilometers as darkness fell over the North Pacific. In the cargo bay, Giordino ran through a checklist of Big Ben’s electronic and power systems. Sandecker worked in the office compartment, providing updates on information and responding to questions raised by the President and his National Security Council, who were sweating out the operation in the Situation Room. The admiral was also in constant communication with geophysicists who supplied new data on seafloor geology, along with Payload Percy, who answered Pitt’s inquiries on the bomb removal from the aircraft and its detonation.

To anyone observing Pitt during the final hour of the flight, his behavior would have seemed most peculiar. Instead of a final attempt to cram a thousand and one details into his head or inspecting the DSMV with Giordino, he collected all the box lunches he could beg and buy from the crew. He also borrowed every drop of available drinking water, thirty liters, and the entire production of the aircraft’s coffee maker, four liters, and stashed it all in Big Ben.

He huddled with the Air Force flight engineer, who knew the C-5 better than anyone on board. Together they rigged up a cable used for tying down cargo and a small electric winch above the small compartment that held the crew’s toilet. Pleased with his unscrupulous handiwork, he entered the DSMV and sat in the operator’s chair and silently contemplated the almost hopeless mission ahead of him.

Cutting the bomb free of the B-29 and detonating it was bad enough, but attempting to drive twelve kilometers over unknown terrain to escape the blast was a very iffy proposition indeed.

Less than a minute after the Air Force transport landed at Langley Field, Loren and Mike Diaz were quickly swept away by a limousine with an armed escort and driven to the White House, while Suma and Toshie were hustled into a bland-colored sedan and driven to a secret destination in Maryland.

Upon arrival, Loren and Diaz were ushered down to the Situation Room. The President rose from his end of the table and came forward.

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” he said, beaming. He gave Loren a light hug and a kiss on the cheek, then embraced Diaz as if the senator was a close relative.

The tense atmosphere lightened as everyone greeted the recently escaped hostages. Jordan moved in and softly asked them to step into an adjoining office. The President accompanied them and closed the door.

“I apologize for rushing you like this,” he said, “and I realize you must need a good rest, but it’s extremely vital for Ray Jordan to debrief you while an operation is underway to eliminate the threat of the Kaiten Project.”

“We understand,” Diaz said, happy to be back amid the tumult of political action. “I’m sure I speak for Congresswoman Smith when I say we’re only too glad to help.”

The President courteously turned to Loren. “Do you mind?”

Loren felt in desperate need of a good soaking bath. She wore no makeup, her hair was tousled, and she was dressed in pants and slacks a size too small that she had borrowed from an aircraft maintenance man’s wife on Wake Island. Despite that and the exhaustion, she still looked remarkably beautiful.

“Please, Mr. President, what would you like to know?”

“If we can skip the details of your abductions, your treatment by Hideki Suma, and your incredible escape until later,” said Jordan with quiet firmness, “we’d like to hear what you can tell us about Suma’s operations and the Dragon Center.”

Loren and Diaz silently exchanged tense glances that conveyed more fearfully than words the spectrum of menacing horrors that were being created in Edo City and under Soseki Island. She nodded in deference to Diaz, who spoke first.

“From what we saw and heard, I’m afraid that the threat from Suma’s bomb-car program is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Fifteen minutes to drop, gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the cargo bay speakers.

“Time to mount up,” said Sandecker, his face taut.

Pitt put his hand on Giordino’s shoulder. “Let’s hit the john before we go.”

Giordino looked at him. “Why now? There’s a waste system on Big Ben.”

“A safety procedure. No telling how hard we’re going to strike the water. Formula One and Indianapolis Five Hundred drivers always drain their bladders before a race to prevent internal injury in case they’re in an accident.”

Giordino shrugged. “If you insist.” He walked over to the closetlike toilet for the crew that was stationed behind the cockpit and opened the door.

He had no sooner entered when Pitt made a gesture to the flight engineer. A brief nod in reply and several strands of cable dropped and encircled the toilet and were then winched tight, sealing the door.

Giordino sensed immediately what had happened. “Dirk, no! God, don’t do this!”

Sandecker also realized what was happening. “You can’t make it alone,” he said, grasping Pitt’s arm. “The procedures call for two men.”

“One man can operate Big Ben. Stupid to risk two lives.” Pitt winced as Giordino’s efforts to escape the privy became more frenzied. The little Italian could have easily kicked out the aluminum, but the wrapped steel cable bound it tight. “Tell AI I’m sorry and that someday I’ll make it up to him.”

“I can order the crew to release him.”

Pitt smiled tightly. “You can, but they’d have to fight me to do it.

“You realize you’re jeopardizing the operation. What if you were injured during impact? Without Al, you have no backup.”

For a long moment Pitt stared at Sandecker. Then finally he said, “I don’t want the fear of losing a friend on my mind.”

Sandecker knew there was no moving his Special Projects Director. Slowly he took Pitt’s hand in both of his. “What would you like waiting for you when you get back?”

Pitt gave the admiral a warm smile. “A crab louis salad and a tequila on the rocks.” Then he turned and climbed through the DSMV’s hatch and sealed it.

The C-5 had been specially modified for aerial drops. In the cockpit the co-pilot pulled a red handle on his side of the instrument panel, activating the electric motors that swung open a large section of the cargo deck.

Sandecker and two crew members stood in front of the DSMV, their bodies harnessed to safety straps that clipped to tie-down rings. They leaned forward against the wind that swept through the massive opening, their eyes drawn to Pitt seated in Big Ben’s control cabin.

“Sixty seconds to drop zone,” the pilot’s voice came over the headsets clamped on their heads. “Surface wind holding at five knots. Skies clear with a three-quarter moon. Sea maintaining a slight chop with four-foot swells. No surface ships showing on radar.”