neutrons, was a nine-pound hollow sphere of pure plutonium-239, surrounded by implosion lenses, a power supply, and arming circuitry.
A briefcase atom bomb.
On the upper level, amid the drab maintenance corridors, Jeffrey and Clayton and Montgomery followed Salih's lead. Actually, Salih shuffled behind them, and murmured directions in German to Montgomery as needed.
Jeffrey and the SEAL team leaders wore gray workmen's jumpsuits from their packs. Clayton also wore a full welder's mask, with a flameproof scarf, and welding gloves. Clayton carried arc-welding gear, including a portable transformer that ran off the standard German 220-volt three-prong outlet supply. Jeffrey lugged a heavy toolbox, of high-impact plastic with a matte beige finish. Montgomery's hands were free; he was the foreman of the work gang. Clayton's welding equipment was real, all of German manufacture. The tools in Jeffrey's toolbox were real and German metric, too, except that under the top tray was the other one-kiloton nuclear device.
The threesome all wore their ID cards, except Clayton, whose photo was actually of SEAL Nine, who was hiding with the other enlisted SEALs; Nine was Caucasian. The intruders' military haircuts fit in well. As long as Clayton didn't have to remove his welding gear while a German watched, there was no way someone would know he was African-American.
Under his welding helmet Clayton wore night-vision goggles. Instead of being half blinded by the dark window of the mask, he could see very well.
Several times, Jeffrey's group passed lab personnel or guards, who hardly noticed them. After all, an Untertnensch janitor and a handful of maintenance people weren't worth attention. They also passed more Turks, in their orange overalls, carrying pails from the employee cafeteria. Salih made a quick greeting and gestured to get back to work. Then he whispered to Jeffrey that, for the main body of Gastarbeiter on the night shift, those leftovers were breakfast. The lucky ones, Salih explained, worked as dishwashers. The team came to an Automated checkpoint, and everybody's ID cards worked perfectly — they'd uploaded themselves into the system using a modem socket in the utility space. Clayton faced away from the videocamera and lifted his welding mask and visor, and looked into the retina scanner. Salih had an ID card, too, though he said his access was very limited.
Ilse had to stop and put the briefcase down to rest. She still had a pounding headache, and massaged the side of her temple where the bullet grazed her helmet. Her heart sank when she spotted a heavy door blocking her progress.
The sign on the door said TEST SECTION: UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY FORBIDDEN. Next to the door was a card reader and surveillance camera.
Near the reader was a water cooler alcove.
Ilse took two ibuprofen — made by a German company, in case she were searched. She turned around and bumped into a man in uniform.
'Excuse me,' the man said distractedly. He looked her up and down, and seemed puzzled. 'I haven't seen you here before.'
Ilse's heart pounded. Was there something wrong with her outfit, her bearing? Was her huge briefcase a giveaway? Had they found the dead guard?
She looked the man in the face, searching for words. He wore a naval officer's dress blues, with three stripes on his jacket cuffs: a full commander. He wore decorations: a real commander. He was handsome, blond, tall, and slim, in his mid-thirties.
'I'm, I'm new,' she said in her best German.
'South African?' he said at once. He reached and examined her ID card — it didn't have her real name. 'What department?'
'Huh?'
'What department are you assigned to?'
'Urn, fluidics control.'
'The pepper subproject?' At least she thought that's what he said.
'The what?'
'Haven't you been briefed?'
'Urn, no. I just got here tonight.'
The officer chuckled. 'Forgive me. You do look rather frazzled. What did you do to your head? Came in through Russia, did you?'
Ilse nodded. 'By way of the Pakistan coast, then up through Iran on trains and buses. The food was terrible.'
The commander chuckled again. 'Everybody says that. We eat much better here, you'll see.'
Ilse relaxed. He was good at putting her at ease. He had that command presence, like Captain Wilson. A certain charm and infectious upbeat mood, backed by a steely selfconfidence that could turn ice cold in an instant.
'How did you get to Pakistan? By submarine?'
Ilse nodded dumbly. She knew that was the main way Germany and South Africa traded strategic personnel and resources — their war economies were each rather self-sufficient: Germany with all of Continental Europe's plunder, plus trade with Russia; South Africa from its long experience of trade embargoes under Old Apartheid.
'We have a Boer submariner here right now,' the German commander said. 'Arrived just a few days ago. I'm surprised, in fact, that they didn't send you through together.' Uh-oh. 'Really?'
'Yes. He's a junior officer, visiting to master our new weapons system. I'd be glad to introduce you.'
Now Ilse's heart was really in her throat. She'd been a senior Boer submariner's lover before the war, and met some of his crew, and others as his date at parties and receptions. If this junior officer should recognize her, a known resistance fighter..
'What department is he?'
'Fuel cryogenics.'
'Maybe tomorrow, then,' Ilse said. Oh, shit, and I told Salih my real name. If they grab him… Now I don't have a gun, a knife, even a cyanide pill.
'By the way,' the commander said, 'my name is Dieter Gaubatz. I'm in charge of missile payload integration. Atomic bomb, nerve gas, germs — take your pick. My department's motto is this: Any warhead, any target, mass destruction, unstoppable. Like it?'
'Succinct,' Ilse said. 'Hard to misinterpret.'
'I made it up myself. But I neglect my manners.' Gaubatz shook Ilse's hand. His grip was bone-crushing. Ilse squeezed back, hard as she could, and met him squarely in the eyes. I may get turned into ionized plasma myself very soon, she thought, but boy, Commander Gaubatz, do I have a surprise for you.
'You're assigned to the night shift?'
'Er, yes.'
'Good. The best people are.'
'Strictly speaking, I'm not on the payroll till tomorrow'
'Then why don't you rest? You look exhausted. No offense, I hope? Jet-lagged, ja?' Ilse wiped some loose strands of hair from her forehead. She eyed the TEST SECTION door longingly.
'I'm so excited to be here, I can't sleep. I thought I'd take a look around, to get acclimatized.'
'That's the spirit,' Gaubatz said. 'Germany and South Africa, marching side by side, a new world order…. Where's your luggage and overcoat?'
'Urn, in the dormitory section. I just piled them on an empty cot.' Gaubatz hefted her briefcase.
'Groess Gott.' Good God. 'What do you have in this thing?'
'Er, some work papers and references. I like to keep them near me. For security, you know, and I do love my work.'
Gaubatz smiled warmly. 'Good. You'll fit in well.'
Ilse stayed respectfully silent. Let him fill the silence. On mental pins and needles, she prayed.
'It's nice to meet you. I must be going.' He moved to the door. Once more, Ilse's heart sank. She tried to stall him. 'Er, Commander, what's in there?'
'The wind tunnel, machine shops.'
