Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“I don’t know the type of warhead,” reminded the ballistics expert. “Maybe what’s inside it is new to us, too.”

They didn’t need the floor plan, which was Cowley’s FBI contribution. Through a gaping hole that spread from a distorted window frame, the East River was clearly visible to their right, where the corridor that bands the skyscraper at every level curled away. The wrecked offices were ripped open for examination on their left. Two internal walls were collapsed, their remains barely supporting the falling-in ceiling, which looked to have burst an outside wall. An internal door was bowed but unbroken by the pressure of debris from above. Another door had disappeared, leaving only its buckled frame. The wind, which hadn’t seemed strong at ground level, whined through the gaps in the outer wall, constantly swirling papers and documents, many of which were slowly leaking out to drift over the river. All five men jumped at the sound of a telephone from one of the open-doored offices behind them.

Burgess said, “Damned double-glazing salesman!” and Hamish laughed.

Schnecker said, “Let’s pass on the comedy,” and led the way forward until they reached the fourth office. The door had crumpled inwards and faced them with jagged splinters, like a medieval animal or man trap. None of the intervening walls remained, and a domino fall of cabinets, all their drawers burst open, seemed to mark the passage of the disjointed missile that lay in front of the hurriedly discarded police camera. To their right there was virtually cleared space to the gaping hole through which the rocket had entered.

The five bodies were in the farthest office, although that of one of the cleaners wasn’t to be discovered beneath the collapsed roof for another week. The rocket had totally decapitated the two clerks. The body of the other cleaner appeared to have suffered no visible injury. Neither had that of the fourth clerk, who still remained upright on a chair.

“Poor bastards,” said Hamish. “It would have been instantaneous, though.”

Cowley realized that, incredibly, the missile had entered perfectly through an actual window, the glass of which would have presented no obstacle and probably accounted for the warhead remaining intact. All the other damage would have been caused by the peripheral shock waves. He said so and Schnecker agreed. Cowley was glad an astutely intelligent observation would go on record. He was at once embarrassed at the reflection in the close proximity of the dead people.

There were creaks of further settling masonry and a slight fall of dust and grit from what had once been an adjoining office. Schnecker said, “Don’t touch anything that might be a support. It wouldn’t take much to bring the roof in on us.”

Hamish edged in first with his camera, keeping as far away as possible from the needle points of the shattered door. He turned off the police camera and said, “It is a first. Nothing like it in any of our manuals. Double-aligned canister warhead, estimated meter in length, estimated fifteen millimeters in circumference-”

“Damaged,” Schnecker broke in. “Indentation to the left nose cone. We’ll test before moving them. We can record the specifics from the pictures.”

Burgess and Pointdexter stooped side by side, clicking their meter controls through test sequences. It was Pointdexter who said, “At nine thirty-two the warhead appears to be intact, with no evidence of leaking.”

“Affirmative,” confirmed Burgess.

Slowly, spacing the words, Schnecker said, “I am now going to move the warhead for the lettering to be deciphered. From the visual appearance, it looks as if it has snapped from the mountings of its delivery system, the fins and body of which are badly crushed and distorted. Hank …?”

“Providing it is structurally safe to do so, I intend examining what could be the entry trajectory,” took up Burgess. “I agree from what external examination is possible that at the soft point of impact, through the window, the device spun into reverse and that the inert delivery section of the missile and residual shock caused the damage.”

“Which had the effect of shielding the nose cones and preventing the warhead from exploding to release whatever the contents are,” completed Schnecker. “Ready with the detectors?”

“Affirmative,” replied Pointdexter and Burgess in unison. They set their meters side by side, against the nearest canister edge.

From a bag he shrugged from his shoulder, Schnecker took matching, rubber-encased long-nosed pliers the mouths of which were adjustable by a shaft-mounted control knob to fit the diameter of an object. The team leader connected each grip individually to the top and bottom of the warhead, locking the jaws in place. He said, “Ten-oh-five. I am starting to lift. There appears to be no triggering attachment linking the warhead to its delivery rocket … no resistance from anything not externally visible … no register on any of the three detectors …. I am now turning the head, for the lettering to be visible …”

“Gorki,” read Cowley, at once. “Plant 35. Numerals in spaced groups: 19 gap 38 gap 22 gap 22 gap zero. And sarin. The word is sarin, on the head nearest to me. Then comes the words poison, highly toxic. And an emergency telephone number: 8765323. The date is January 1974.” He strained, as Schnecker slowly rotated the warhead now totally removed from its pod. “It says Gorki on the second arm. Plant 35. Different numeral markings: 20 gap 49 gap 88 gap zero gap six … and anthrax. The word is anthrax. The same date as on the first. And the same poison and toxicity warning. The same emergency telephone number. Definitely sarin on one, anthrax on the other.”

In front of him, Pointdexter and Burgess finally calibrated their detectors to the chemical and biological agents. Pointdexter said, “There is no leak.”

“Affirmative,” said Burgess.

For the benefit of the relayed recording, Schnecker said, “We have recovered intact a dual-headed missile of a design unrecognizable to us. Manufacturing designation is Gorki, Russia, Plant 35. With the missile separated from its delivery rocket, it is possible to see at the base to which the head was originally fixed what appears to have been intended puncturing detonator pins.” The team leader moved slightly for Hamish to bring his camera in closer. “Both are bent, one snapped completely off and lying on the floor below … I am now removing the warhead, separate from its delivery mechanism, from where it might be crushed by the further collapse of ceiling or room debris …. Technician Burgess will independently remove the delivery system.”

Hamish said, “We don’t have a neutralizing container it’ll fit.”

“We’ll have to take it as it is-” began Schnecker, jerking to a stop at a rasping, tearing noise and then a burst of dust from the most badly damaged, river-fronting office as more ceiling fell in. “All out, slowly,” he started again. “You really need that trajectory trace, Neil?”

“I’ll be careful,” the ballistics expert replied.

Everyone except Hamish walked back to the safety of the area immediately outside the elevator bank. Once there, Schnecker and Pointdexter transferred the warhead to a rubber-meshed carrying sling.

Schnecker said, “I’d like to get this back and safely locked away without any Washington detours.”

“There’ll be a lot for me to do here in New York, so I’ll stay,” said Cowley. Where should I begin? he wondered.

Everyone turned at Hamish’s exit from the shattered offices farther along the corridor. At the empty door of the room in which the bodies lay, the man briefly crossed himself before coming toward them, patting the camera in satisfaction.