Target, p.33
Target, page 33
“We guess that three men got this far,” lectured Bradley warningly. “Three men as well trained as you. They got caught, which probably means electronics. That’s all you’re looking for — some scientific detection devices. There’s a cleared area all around the complex, maybe over half a mile deep. Ignore it. We’ll reconnoiter that later. Just go to the edge of the brush line, then come back to report.”
Logan nodded understanding. Bradley turned to Sharakov, to see if the man wished to translate, but Gribanov said, in English, “I understand.”
The men stripped off their kit and changed their rifles for handguns. Both carried knives. From one of the supply packs Bradley took an electronic detector, a slim, battery-operated wand fashioned on the design of the detectors that beachcombers use, but modified to respond over a twenty-yard range not only to metal but to any electrical impulse.
“What happens if we come across any Africans?” asked Logan.
“Avoid them,” said Bradley.
“What if we’re seen?” demanded Gribanov.
“I don’t want you to be seen,” rejected Sharakov pointedly.
“And no conversation,” ruled Bradley. “Just signals. We don’t know what form any monitoring might take. Microphones are unlikely, with all the animal interference, but I don’t want any chances taken at all. Understood?”
The soldiers nodded.
“Back an hour before sunset,” ordered Sharakov.
Logan and Gribanov crawled up to the forest edge and began studying the immediate savannah, seeking an undetectable point of entry. Dissatisfied with their current whereabouts, they moved parallel to the grassland until they came, with unknowing irony, to the animal track along which Edgar Williams had groped towards his death three weeks earlier.
They went in carefully, a pattern forming almost at once. Logan progressed with the detector outstretched before him, and his attention focused on the ground and nearby surroundings. The Russian concentrated on a wider area to give the American early warning of anything suspicious they might be approaching. As Williams had done before them, they travelled crouched, concealed below the grass-line. Because it was positioned at ground level, Logan saw the first witchcraft symbol and stopped, so suddenly that Gribanov stumbled into him. Logan gestured towards the painted tortoise shell and then held the detector out towards it: there was no reading. The American went closer on his hands and knees, putting his face only inches from the object, and then he rose, skirting it carefully and continuing on. They came across two more in fairly close sequence and then, near the waterhole at which Williams had been staked out as an offering to the animals, Gribanov found the clay hyena figure. It was Gribanov, allowing his gaze to range further, who spotted the ostrich at the water-hole. Both men sank to the ground, waiting for the bird to finish, not wanting to send it off in any abrupt, attention-focusing run. It took a long time. Frequently it stopped, raising its head as if testing the occasional wind which stirred and rattled the grasses. Satisfied at last, it poked about the mud-hole, as if reluctant to quit, and then began coming back along the track where the two commandos were squatting. It stopped about twenty yards from them, its head coming up in a series of attentive jerks.
“Easy now,” said Logan, involuntarily. “Easy.”
For several moments the bird appeared unsure of what to do. Then it turned sedately and high-stepped away from them, making its own pathway through the grass.
Logan and Gribanov eased upwards, continuing in the direction of the complex. The hyena symbols, the really bad muloi, were more frequent now. And then the detector blipped. They both froze, staring around. The track was quite wide here, sufficiently so for them to crouch side by side. Logan swept the detector back and forth in front of them. There were three separate registers, all faint. Logan made a cushioning action with his hand against the ground and Gribanov nodded, understanding that they should continue, kneeling now, testing each pressure before exerting it. Every third movement they stopped and shifted their concentration from the immediate terrain to the complex itself.
Gribanov found the first sensor. They were not difficult to detect, with sufficient care; on close examination they didn’t really resemble the grass stalks they were supposed to represent. The savannah stalks were bent and bowed by the weight of the seeds, but the sensors stood stiffly upright and were markedly more yellow than the faded dun color of the real grass. There was an arrangement to the surveillance settings. They were patterned along the track edge, the most obvious approach to the complex, and Logan and Gribanov discovered more at the junction with minor animal trackways. Near the point where the grass had been erased to create the swept no man’s land, the detector vibrated in a constant chatter of contact.
Logan turned, gesturing to Gribanov that they had learned enough. He remained crouched in the same position facing the complex, while he guided the Russian in his turn, careful that the man did not collide with any of the metal strips. It took a long time for them to get back to the water-hole at the slow speed at which they had to travel, and already the shadows were darkening around them. Gribanov jabbed his finger against his watch, showing that they risked a later return than that dictated by the Russian colonel. Logan bunched his hand with the exception of the middle finger and jerked it upwards in an up-his-ass movement. Gribanov grinned.
The American maintained his detector checks and, when the reading ceased, stretched gratefully from his crawling position and motioned to Gribanov that they could trot. It was not easy, bent as they were beneath the cover of the grass. There was already a heavy twilight by the time they got back to the protection of the jungle. Sweetman, one of the guards established at their resting spot, saw Logan approaching and whistled softly. Logan whistled back. The Russian sentry was alongside by the time Gribanov got to the spot. The two Russians nodded and smiled.
Apart from the sentries, both Americans and Russians grouped around Logan and Gribanov, making a circle around the two reporting to Bradley and Sharakov.
“Sensors!” exclaimed Bradley. “So that’s how the bastards got them.”
“From an installation as sophisticated as this clearly is, we should have expected it,” said Sharakov.
“But they’ve only been seeded in the most obvious places,” said Logan. “Along the paths and tracks, where an approach is most predictable. If we have to go in, then we’ll have to make our own way through the grasses. If we do that, there isn’t any risk until we get to the very edge of the savannah.”
“We’ve still got to discover if that cleared area is mined,” said Bradley. “We’ve got to cross a sensor line sometime.”
“So how are we going to make a path which won’t attract attention through the grass?” demanded the Russian.
Bradley smiled, glad of the chance of showing his superiority. “We go hunting,” he said.
Walter Jones had responded the moment the alarm had come from the missile destroyer, managing to contact the Mossad chief in Jerusalem with surprisingly little delay.
He and Peterson had rehearsed the approach, alert to the dangers of antagonizing the Israeli; for a long time the conversation appeared to be Jones giving a situation report of what was happening in Africa. There was some impatience in Levy’s voice when he finally cut across the Deputy Director. “Why are you calling me?” he demanded.
“Because we are concerned,” replied Jones, honestly.
“About what?”
“The possibility of your mounting a separate incursion: the Director thought you and he had an understanding that any force you might be assembling would be held in readiness, in case we failed.”
The sneer was obvious when Levy laughed, even over the telephone line. “Peterson might have regarded that as an understanding,” he said. “I never did.”
“We think we can abort it,” said Jones, urgently. “The operation is going perfectly and we’ve built in some fallbacks if there’s a problem. Let us try without any interference. Please!”
“I made it clear to Peterson and I’ll make it clear to you, Mr. Jones,” said the Mossad leader, patiently. “Israel has not got the slightest intention of sitting back and hoping that this problem is going to be solved by somebody else.”
“You could ruin everything!” pleaded Jones, desperately.
“Or insure its success,” said Levy, unmoved by the anxiety in the other man’s approach. “No rocket is being placed in position over Israeli territory.”
“Give us time,” insisted Jones.
“The western world gave Hitler time, arguing that a housepainter could never become a dangerous world leader,” said Levy, manipulating history to support an argument. “And in the end six million Jews died. I’m not giving anyone time. I’m not giving anyone anything. Except results.”
“What shall I tell the Director?” asked Jones, buffeted by the other man’s implacable attitude.
“Tell him not to risk his soldiers getting in the way.”
30
Bohler had tried to keep his nervousness from Gerda but was unsure whether or not he had succeeded; as they walked down the corridor towards the entry into the rocket control room she felt across for his hand, squeezing it encouragingly. In his pocket the small-shafted screwdriver seemed heavy and he kept looking down to see if its shape was conspicuous through his clothing; as he moved, it seemed to swing heavily against his leg.
“I meant what I said last night.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
“About getting caught.”
“I know.”
Hannah Bloor was already in the main project room, laboratory-coated and efficient again. As they entered she smiled up, continuing the friendliness of the previous night. Both Bohler and Gerda had worked in the rocket launch situations and were immediately aware of the tense excitement in the room; people were smiling just a little too quickly, and there was a controlled urgency about their movements.
Hannah was at the central console, the point of maximum control. The countdown had already commenced, the hours and minutes clicking away on a digital screen before her. There was a gauge showing the temperature of the fuel, an unmoving register like the one monitoring the pressure inside the silo. The meter recording the weight of fuel being pumped in flickered as the filling continued. Having smiled her greeting, Hannah had gone back to the console, continuing with the checks of electrical circuits and their back-ups. She was showing her emotions less than anyone else, talking quietly into the command microphone, her hand moving from dial to dial as each circuit was monitored. Constantly in view was the television picture of the rocket, a faint mist of condensation around the base.
Bohler and Gerda had rehearsed their attempt before leaving his room, trying to anticipate the difficulties. For a long time they remained quietly in the main chamber, wanting their presence to become accepted by everyone. Only when they were completely satisfied did they go into the smaller room housing the satellite. Bohler’s immediate reaction was one of dismay. He supposed he should have anticipated it so close to final assembly, but there was a great deal more activity in the room than there had been during their first visit. The rocket tip still lay like an open flower in its pod, with all the control, communication and power devices clearly displayed, but around it there was a concentrated team of technicians, apparently crosschecking the final tests being carried out in the main chamber.
Bohler felt Gerda touch his hand again, but he made no response. Once more they stayed long enough for the attention to shift away from them and then returned towards the larger room.
“It’s going to be impossible,” said Gerda, quietly, as they went along the corridor.
“It’s not going to be easy,” said Bohler.
“Impossible,” she insisted.
Hannah moved away from the console as they entered. “Transistor collapse in one of the command radios,” she reported.
“Serious?” asked Gerda.
The Project Director shook her head. “We can replace it in a few hours.”
“I’m interested in the countdown checks,” said Gerda. The plan dictated that Gerda should occupy the other woman to give Bohler the opportunity to sabotage the satellite.
Hannah turned back to the console as they had hoped she would, gesturing the Russian closer. Bohler held back, listening as the technical discussion began but slowly withdrawing from it, turning at last and going back towards the other room. There was even more activity than there had been earlier, with technicians suspended on elevated steps to have better access to the satellite equipment. The command radio, remembered Bohler. He felt a slim burst of hope. He edged forward as far as he felt it was prudent, watching the men dissemble the faulty part. At a bench on the other side of the room, more men were preparing replacement valves and laying out the delicate assembly tools. Bohler edged away from the satellite, wondering if he would be able to interfere with the part about to be installed. As he had expected, the men at the bench were intent upon what was happening at the other side of the room: one of them nodded and smiled as he approached. His presence didn’t seem to inspire any curiosity.
“Always a last minute problem,” he greeted.
There were more smiles but no other response. Behind them was a complete circuitry plan of the command equipment. The transistorized sections were laid alongside in an orderly pattern, each graded from the commencement of the plan so that the men could work consecutively through the radio, checking valve for valve until they located the faulty one. Bohler stared at the sections, just four feet away. The minutest scratch across one of those metalled print-outs would be sufficient to cause a malfunction. He put his hand into his pocket, locating the screwdriver and running his finger over the sharpened tip. He went closer, apparently to study the circuit plan, moving it slightly as if to obtain a better view. One of the technicians glanced casually across at him and then turned back to the satellite. The transistors were just two feet away now — near enough to stretch out and touch. There was a sudden burst of noise from the satellite pod as the broken radio was finally freed and men began trying to withdraw it without interfering with or damaging any of the nearby equipment. The attention of the technicians around Bohler was now completely occupied. Tentatively he reached out, an interested scientist idly picking up something with which he was familiar. He was looking not towards the transistors but to the men around him, alert for the beginning of any movement. And then he stopped, his fingers inches from the nearest section. There would be another circuit test, after the repair. So any interruption he caused would be discovered and replaced yet again. He would be risking a pointless sabotage, an interference that would achieve nothing. He withdrew his hand and moved away from the bench just as the radio was lifted clear and the attention shifted from the satellite towards the bench. He stood aside as the group moved across the room, leaving the satellite clearer of people than at any time since his entry that morning.
The support pod was in a series of divisions for easy removal, and because of the work that had just been carried out there were three gaps in the surround rail, as well as the steps still in position. One technician remained there, bent over the solar cell assembly that would provide power from the sunlight once the device was in position.
Bohler approached from the side furthest away from the man, intent on the most easily accessible pieces laid out before him. Two of the omnidirectional aerials jutted out and, as he looked beyond them, he felt another surge of hope. Not more than a foot away was the gyro housing that would despin the satellite after its final rifle-bullet spurt into orbit. It was a standard type of fitting, the gyrostat secure in its metal encasement bolted rigidly against a base plate. If he could loosen just one of the screws, it would make the gyro unstable, guaranteeing a malfunction that would destroy the satellite. And because it formed no part of any electrical system, there would be no way the scientists could discover the sabotage before launch. The screwdriver was intentionally small, concealed completely in his hand. He felt out, lightly touching one of the satellite petals, smiling across at the solar panel technician who looked up at the movement. The hand holding the tool was hidden beneath the opened panel.
“Dr. Bloor is very pleased with the check-out,” said Bohler, wanting to establish himself as someone in contact with authority. “The radio is the only problem.”
The man nodded, bending over his power assembly again. Bohler reached in, idly touching the aerials, intruding his body as far as possible to cover what he was going to attempt. Satisfied that there would be no protest from the man, he brought up the hand with the screwdriver still concealed. The holding bolts would be very secure, so he maneuvered the tool until it was dagger-like in his palm, with the tip just inside the heel of his hand and his thumb capped over the handle, to give himself maximum leverage. He couldn’t open his fingers to see the facing of the tiny instrument, so he had to work it into the bolt-head by trial and error. He tried twice and it slid away, unconnected. There was resistance on the third attempt and he tightened his hand against the handle, tensed with the sudden effort to unscrew. His knuckles whitened with the strain. The bolt remained unmoving. He breathed in, veins standing out along his arm as he tried to shift it. And then he heard Gerda’s voice, over-loud in warning. He managed to get his hand away just as the two women emerged from the passageway, Hannah slightly in the lead. She started to look towards the work bench, in anticipation of what the technicians would be doing there, but stopped, frowning in curiosity at Bohler’s closeness to the satellite.
“What is it?” she demanded, as though suspecting that he had found some other problem.
“Just getting a really close look,” said the American, confused.
For several moments she remained looking at him, as if uncertain. Then she came nearer. The technician made room for her and she stood slightly raised on one of the sets of steps, gazing in at the assembly. Her face was expressionless when she looked up from the check; he returned the stare, equally blank-faced.
