Clive Cussler - Plague Ship

“The work was done by an Italian heavy-construction company and paid for through a numbered Swiss bank account, although there is little doubt who was behind it. The Turkish authorities were told it was going to be the largest movie set ever built.”

Up came another picture. “This shows the same site a few months later. As you can see, they have built concrete structures inside their excavation.”

Eric added, “Using the heavy equipment to establish scale, the facility’s footprint is nearly fifty thousand square feet. And, at this point in the construction, it has three levels.” Hali picked up their story again. “Eight months into construction, the bogus movie company said they ran out of money and were pulling the plug on the project. As part of the original contract with the Turks, they were supposed to return the island to its natural state. So that is, more or less, what they did.” He brought up a third picture on the main monitor. There was no sign of the massive excavation. It looked as if nothing had ever happened. All of the material removed from the pit had been returned to it, and the surface was reconfigured so to appear like natural stone. The only thing remaining was the dock, and a macadam road that led seemingly nowhere.

“This picture is from the official Turkish government environmental-impact report,” Hali continued. “We have to assume that some baksheesh exchanged hands and the report was doctored to indicate that Eos was back to normal.”

“Where’s the ELF antenna?” Juan asked.

“Buried beneath the underground bunker,” Eric replied. “Max was very specific when he said in his message to nuke it. He could have easily said bomb it. Same number of letters, so it wouldn’t have added to the transmission time, but he specifically used the word nuke .

“I would have liked to consult Mark about this, but I did a quick computer simulation, and if they were pouring concrete for five or six months and then piled the debris on top I estimate it will take probably two kilotons to crack that nut open.”

“Why not one of the Air Force’s bunker-buster bombs?” Juan asked smartly.

“That would work fine so long as we hit either the antenna or the power generators directly. But looking at this from a purely practical point of view, do you see us getting our hands on one of those?” Eric had a habit of not getting sarcasm. “No more than us finding two thousand tons of TNT,” Juan shot back, instantly regretting his sharp tone. “Sorry.” He tried to never take his frustrations out on his people.

“Commando raid seems the only way,” Eddie said, and moved up from the back of the Op Center. “We could hit the beach there, on the south tip of the island, or try to scale one of the cliffs.”

“The chance of success is, statistically, zero,” Eric replied. “Probability dictates that the entrance to the bunker is heavily defended and easily sealed. At the first sign of an attack, the outer defenses are closed off, and successive barricades within the bunker will be raised.”

“So we find a back door,” Juan suggested. “There have to be air intakes for the ventilation system, as well as vents for the exhaust from their power plant.”

“Both of which I believe lie under the dock.” Eric nodded to Hali, who brought the first construction picture back up on the screen. “Look carefully at where they are still working on the road.” Hali manipulated the picture to zoom in on where a paving machine was laying down a ribbon of asphalt.

Just ahead of the machine, graders were smoothing the track, while a bit farther ahead excavators were laying dirt into a deep trench.

“They dug out under where the road was going to be laid in order to bury the vent pipes and then layered blacktop over it. Again, we have to assume that the intakes and vents are well guarded and that at the first sign of an intrusion the facility goes on lockdown. A team might be able to gain access to the conduits, but, once inside, they would be trapped.”

Juan glanced at Eddie to get his opinion of Stone’s grim assessment.

Seng said, “One misstep and we would be targets at a shooting gallery. And even if we made it in, we’d have to cut ourselves out of those pipes with torches, not knowing who or what is waiting to greet us.”

“Okay, give me another option,” Juan said.

“Sorry, Chairman, but Eric’s right. Without knowing how that place is laid out—its security systems, guard strengths, and about a hundred other things—we can’t get inside.”

“Two weeks ago, we stole a pair of rocket torpedoes from the damned Iranian Navy. There has to be a way to get Max out of there.”

“With all due respect”—Eric’s voice was hesitant but determined—“our focus should be on silencing that transmitter rather than on Max’s rescue. If the attack is coordinated using an ELF signal to cruise ships scattered all over the globe, then its destruction should be our primary concern.” The silence was long and pregnant.

“Do you have a suggestion?” Juan asked with stiff formality.

“Actually, I do, sir. It’s called Stalin’s Fist.”

The code name rocked Juan back in his chair. “How do you know about that?”

“I read through the transcripts of our intercept between Ivan Kerikov and Ibn al-Asim.” Those transcripts were on Juan’s computer, but he hadn’t had the time to peruse them let alone read them in their entirety. Anyway, they were the CIA’s bailiwick, as far as he was concerned. They had been hired to eavesdrop, not sift through the information.

“Kerikov mentioned he had access to something called Stalin’s Fist. When he mentioned it, I did some research. You’re familiar with it?”

“Why do you think it doesn’t work?” Juan asked with a smirk.

“You boys mind filling us in?” Linc called.

Eric typed at his computer and brought up an artist’s rendition of a satellite, unlike anything ever orbited before. The main body was a long cylinder, and ringing it were five enclosed canisters that were more than thirty feet in length. No one needed to see the hammer-and-sickle emblem on its side to know it was Russian. The drawing itself had that distinctive Soviet style that was both pompous and amateurish at the same time.

Eric commenced, “Though its real code name was November Sky, it was known almost exclusively by the nickname Stalin’s Fist. It was launched in 1989 at one of the warmest periods during the Cold War in direct violation of about a dozen treaties.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” Linc grumbled, “but what in the heck is it?”

“Stalin’s Fist is an OBP, or Orbital Ballistic Projectile, weapon. Our military played around with the idea, calling it Rods from God. The theory is incredibly simple. Inside those tubes are tungsten rods weighting eighteen hundred pounds apiece. When fired, they fall through the atmosphere and hit whatever they are aimed at. Coming in at an orbital velocity of eighteen thousand miles per hour, multiplied by their mass, they hit with the kinetic energy of an atomic bomb, only there is no fallout, and defensive reaction time to such a weapon is cut in half because there is no ascent stage like with a conventional ballistic missile. You might see a flaming object in the sky for a moment, but that’s it. No warning and no chance to escape.”

“The Soviets intended it as a first-strike weapon,” Juan added. “The idea was to target several major Western cities lying along the same longitudinal axis and blame a freak meteor shower. With no radioactive fallout, and the rods themselves vaporized on impact, there would be no way to say it wasn’t.

They even had astronomers ready to show doctored photographs of the meteors moments before they entered our atmosphere. With the Western world reeling from losing five cities, the Sovs thought they could roll across the border and Europe would be theirs.”