“Where there are two, there are more,” Hansen said.
“Agreed. Let’s check this level and regroup here.”
Over the next half hour they each searched their assigned zones and found more of the same: experimental equipment and supplies. Noboru was the last to report in: “Sam, come down to ballistics.”
“Coming. Everyone else regroup.” He got three “rogers” in reply. As he had with Hansen, Fisher found Noboru standing outside the main entrance to the level 2 ballistics zone. Fisher stepped through. Instead of finding four areas divided by hallways, he found a man-made cavern. Measuring roughly two football fields in length and width, the area was filled with row upon row of engine-test scaffolding ranging in size from a VW Beetle to a commercial bus and each equipped with truck-sized tires. Fisher did a rough count and came up with thirty-six units. Four of them still held rocket motors.
“Check the far end,” Noboru said.
Fisher got out his binoculars and zoomed in as best he could with the night-vision goggles. Near the east wall, more than an eighth of a mile away, were what looked like four garage-sized concrete sewer pipes lying on their sides and spaced evenly across the width of the space. The wall behind the pipes was charred.
“Blast funnels for rocket exhaust,” Fisher guessed.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, but I’m not talking about that. See the dark lump between the second and third funnel?”
Fisher panned the binoculars and zoomed in. It took him a few moments to realize what he was seeing — a pyramidal stack of military-grade Anvil cases. “I’ll be damned.” Then, over the radio: “Everybody converge on ballistics.”
38
There were twenty-eight cases ranging in size from footlocker to armoire. All were secured by the same Sargent & Greenleaf 833 padlock they’d found on the door to the hut.
“This isn’t all of it, is it?” Gillespie asked.
“No. Unless Zahm’s inventory was wrong, I’d say this is about a third.”
“They’re pretty well sealed,” Valentina remarked, running her hand over one of the cases. “Sure the Ajax bots can get inside?”
“We’re talking about a fraction of a hair’s width,” Fisher replied. “They’ll get in. Everybody get behind me and back up.” Once they were a safe distance from the cases, Fisher pulled Noboru’s makeshift Ajax pistol from his pack and loaded a dart. He took aim on the ceiling above the Anvil cases and fired. The pistol emitted a barely audible
They stood in silence for a full minute. While Fisher hadn’t expected fireworks, the dispersal of the Ajax bots was nonetheless anticlimactic.
Standing behind Fisher, Noboru stared at his OPSAT screen. “Nothing yet.”
“Wait for it.” Grim had said it could take up to five minutes for the Ajax bots to fully disperse and infiltrate.
“What if there’s no power for them to gravitate to?” Hansen asked.
“Just about every weapon or system on the inventory list is equipped with some form of EPROM — erasable programmable read-only memory — a low-power battery for housekeeping functions like date, time, and user settings. And if it doesn’t have an EPROM, it’s not one of the higher-end items. If we lose it, no disaster.”
Noboru said, “I’ve got action. Something’s pinging in there. Another one… three more…” He looked up. “I’d say our first live-fire exercise is a success.”
They gave the area one last quick search, then headed for the door. From inside one of the blast funnels Gillespie called, “Check this out.” They walked through the funnel to where she was standing. “Watch your step,” she said. “It’s gotta be extra venting for the engines.”
Fisher stepped forward and looked down. In the darkness they’d failed to see the gap between the funnels and the wall. It was hard to judge depth through the night-vision goggles, but he suspected the vent extended to the lowermost level.
Back at the ramp, Fisher pulled Noboru and Valentina aside and whispered, “The guards are yours. Knives if you can manage it; PSS pistols as backup.”
The both nodded.
Again Fisher led the staggered column down the ramp. At the halfway point he called a halt, gestured for Hansen and Gillespie to take up overwatch positions, and then gave Noboru and Valentina the nod. Grozas slung and secured, they continued down the ramp. Fisher crept to the railing to watch their progress. He slung his own Groza and drew his PSS and extended the barrel through the railing, making sure he had a clear line of fire on each guard.
As trained, Noboru and Valentina moved with exaggerated slowness, pausing between each heel-to-toe step until they were within ten feet of the guards. In unison, they stopped. Stepped forward. Stopped. When they were each within an arm’s reach of their targets, they stood up, took a fluid step forward…
Hands clamped over mouths and knives came up. The guards slumped down, dead. Noboru and Valentina dragged the bodies back up the ramp to where Fisher was crouched. He nodded to Hansen and Gillespie, who came forward and took the bodies the rest of the way up the ramp. They were back five minutes later.
“Stashed them in medical,” Hansen whispered to Fisher.
“Apt,” Fisher replied.
They kept going, pausing only briefly at the next ramp’s railing so Fisher could check the next level. He pointed to his eyes and his ears and shook his head, then gave the split-up signal. Over the next ten minutes Gillespie, Noboru, and Valentina checked in. Fisher ordered them back.
Noboru crouched down and said, “Found another stack of Anvil cases. They’re tagged.”
“How big?” Fisher asked.
“About the size of the first one.”
“Two down. One to go.” Fisher radioed Hansen: “Status report.”
“Stand by.” Two minutes passed, then: “Coming back.”
When he rejoined the group, his face was red and flushed. “We’ve got company. Medical’s been turned into a barracks. I counted a couple of dozen beds, all occupied.”
“The attendees?” Noboru guessed.
Fisher nodded. “The hosts wouldn’t be bunked with the guests.”
“Maybe he’s not here yet,” Valentina offered.
“Maybe. We’ve got one more level to check. With any luck, we’ll tag the last batch of cases and be back to Severobaikalsk for breakfast.”
Behind them, a familiar voice broke the silence: “Not gonna happen, dickheads.”
Even before Fisher turned around, the expressions on Valentina’s and Gillespie’s faces confirmed what his ears had told him:
Valentina muttered, “He’s got a grenade.”
“Armed?”
“Can’t tell.”
Fisher whispered, “Distance?”
“Sixty feet,” replied Gillespie. “He’s right on your six o’clock.”
It was a long shot, especially off a quick heel turn, but not impossible. Still, having never used the Groza before, Fisher put his chances at only 70 percent.
Ames said, “Don’t even think it. Don’t even turn around. I go down, so does the grenade. No way you’ll cover the distance in time.”
