Peter Hernon - 8.4

Operating Neutron’s control panel, Booker had the robot gently place the bomb on the floor of the tunnel about five yards from the edge of the drop-off. “I suggest we lower it two hundred feet into that hole,” he said. “That will put it at roughly the two-thousand-foot mark.” That was the depth Thompson and the other seismologists had calculated was needed for the weapon’s shock waves to achieve maximum effect on the fault.

“Will your climbing ropes support four hundred fifty pounds?” he asked.

“No problem,” said Murray.

First Booker had to arm the device, punching in the coding sequence, the same eight digits he’d used earlier to activate the bomb’s electronic circuitry. Then he flipped the red switch on the small control grid on the bomb’s hard case, the fail-safe companion to the green switch he’d already thrown.

“The bomb is armed,” Booker said quietly. He’d never done it manually before. Arming procedures at the NTS were carried out electronically, using cables that ran to the warhead, which usually sat at the bottom of an eight-hundred- to thousand-foot-deep borehole or in a tunnel carved into the side of a hill. This was definitely a first for him. He noticed that his hands were trembling.

He’d completed the first critical step. The second was to set the timer and firing mechanism.

Opening his backpack, Booker took out the capacitors and batteries. The four dry-cell batteries, taped together, would provide the electrical pulse needed to charge the capacitors, which, in turn, would activate the fuse and fire the warhead. The whole process would be triggered by a small, digitally programmed timer.

“Doctor Booker, that’s as far as we’re going with this.”

Atkins had been watching Booker. Turning, he saw Walt Jacobs, who was holding something in his right hand. It was hard to make it out in the dark. Then Atkins recognized it. A small pistol.

“Walt, what are you doing?” he said, not believing what he was seeing. The man had finally snapped. Atkins was angry with himself for letting it happen. It was his own damn fault. He should have seen it coming, should have kept him out of the mine. Without thinking, he took a step toward his friend.

Jacobs held up a hand. “Stop, John. I don’t want to shoot anyone. But I will if I have to. This bomb can’t be detonated. It could start an earthquake the likes of which we’ve never seen. I can’t allow that.”

Atkins’ head was swimming. He knew that he had to choose his words carefully, try to make a persuasive argument about why they had to risk it. But there wasn’t time for more discussion, and he could see that Jacobs was in no mood for it anyway.

“Walt, you’ve studied the data, the seismic reports,” Atkins said. “You know that strain energy is building up here. My God, you’ve felt the ground shaking. It’s been moving ever since we entered this mine. We’re going to have a big earthquake here. You know that as well as anybody.”

“You… can’t… do… this! Not a nuclear shot,” Jacobs said in a burst of anger. He was about five feet from Booker. He pointed the pistol at the physicist’s head.

“Put the capacitors and timer back into the backpack with your left hand,” he said. “Do it slowly and carefully. Then set it down next to me.” His voice was firm, deliberate. He moved a few steps closer to the edge of the fissure.

Atkins realized Jacobs was going to kick the bag over the side.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Walt,” Booker said. He sat down, both hands clutching the blue backpack to his chest. “I’m not trying to be brave or stupid. But you’ll have to shoot me to get this. Do you really want to kill me?”

Elizabeth was standing next to Murray and Wren. She gestured to the on-off switch for their headlamps. It was on the battery pack attached to their belts. They understood. So did Atkins, who’d noticed what she’d done.

Jacobs fired a shot at Booker’s feet. The explosion was deafening. The earsplitting echo blasted back through the tunnels.

“Put the pack down, doctor,” Jacobs repeated, his face hard-set. “I’ll shoot you if I have to.” The pistol practically touched Booker’s forehead.

Calmly staring at Jacobs, Booker continued to hold the backpack on his lap. gripping the sides.

“Fred, give it to him,” Atkins pleaded. He realized that Jacobs’ change of heart about a nuclear explosion had been a ruse. He’d gone to some trouble to pull this off. Shown a lot of nerve. He’d kill Booker. Atkins didn’t doubt it for a moment.

Booker said, “Are you completely sure you’re right about this, Walt?”

“For the last time. Give it to me,” Jacobs repeated.

Booker set the backpack down on the ground.

“Turn out your lights!” Elizabeth shouted.

Within seconds, everyone switched off their headlamps. Jacobs pivoted, trying to keep all of them in sight, but the sweeping arc of his light wasn’t wide enough for him to see everyone. He missed Atkins, who ducked down and crawled to his left, toward the collapsed man shaft.

“Stop right there!” Jacobs shouted. He’d heard movement in the darkness that pressed in around him. He turned just as Atkins lunged at him from the side, catching him hard around the waist and driving him to the ground.

The impact knocked Jacobs’ helmet off. The lamp disconnected. Atkins groped for Jacobs’ hands. He was trying to get the pistol. He couldn’t remember where the edge of the crevasse was. He sensed they were very close to it.

There was another shot, a ringing explosion close to his ear. Atkins gripped Jacobs’ gun hand. He felt the hot barrel of the pistol and was suddenly aware of light. Elizabeth and the others had switched on their headlamps. Atkins got a close look at Jacobs’ twisted face. His eyes were bulging with rage. He looked like someone else.

Something crashed against the side of his hard hat. Jacobs had hit him with the pistol. Atkins let go.

Jacobs scrambled to his knees, clutching the backpack.

They’d rolled to within a few feet of the crevasse.

Murray stepped toward Jacobs, who whirled and fired, the gun roaring. The shot missed him. Murray, everyone, dropped to the floor of the tunnel. Jacobs fired at the bomb. Then another, the bullets making a slapping sound when they ricocheted off the metal casing.

Atkins grabbed Jacobs around the legs. Jacobs swung down hard with the pistol, slashing at him, clipping him on the shoulder blade. The pain burned, but he managed to hold on. Jacobs chopped at him again, and this time Atkins grabbed his gun hand and bent it back sharply at the wrist.

Crying out in pain and anger, Jacobs dropped the weapon. He pulled away, chest heaving, and stepped toward the dropoff. He still gripped the backpack.

“Walt!” Elizabeth screamed. “For God’s sake, let’s talk!”

Jacobs hesitated. He looked at her, his expression softening. He was only inches from the edge.

“Don’t do it, please.”

Atkins could see his friend’s fear and anguish. The man had lost his wife and daughter, everything. He wasn’t going to lose this last battle. Atkins wanted to help him. He slowly reached out his hand.

“Walt, take it.”

He said it over and over, begging his friend to take his hand.

Jacobs took a slow, deep breath, clutched the backpack to his chest, and threw himself backward into the crevasse.

ELIZABETH DROPPED TO HER KNEES AND CRAWLED to the edge. She looked down, her headlamp playing on the walls. Jacobs had disappeared, swallowed up in the deep black hole.

Atkins put his arm around her waist and gently pulled her back. His shoulder throbbed where Jacobs had struck him with the pistol.