Under the missile was a steel grate over a black hole. That was the flame pit, to exhaust the flame and gases when the missile was launched.
A circular steel stairway led up to a catwalk. From the catwalk it appeared a person could reach over and gain access to the missile’s warhead and control panel.
Herron holstered his pistol and turned to Sergeant Tyvek. “See if you can figure out a way to safety this bottle rocket so they can’t fire it from Havana while I’m working on it.”
“Lieutenant, I’ve got bad news for you. I don’t know shit about guided missiles.”
“Well, you sure as hell don’t want to be standing here with your thumb up your butt if they light this thing off. Now go look for a switch or something.”
“Yes, sir,” Tyvek said, and disappeared back up the stairway.
Herron took the steps two at a time. He hoped he would find what he expected when he got to the catwalk, although he thought a lot of the old Russian engineer’s explanation had been pure bullshit. Somebody had found an engineer in Russia who said he helped design these missiles — the guy was in his eighties. They had him on television for an hour explaining how the business end of the missile was put together. The engineer spoke not a word of English so a translator did the talking. The man had a hell of a memory or was lying through his teeth. Herron was about to find out which was the case.
“If it’s typical Russian stuff,” the American briefer said, “you’ll be able to work on it with pliers and screwdrivers. American designers could learn a lot from Russian engineers, who design for ease of maintenance.” They gave each officer and NCO who might get near a missile a small tool pouch.
Herron examined the access panel, which was only about six inches long by six inches high, and curved, a part of the missile’s skin. The screws holding it in place looked like Dzus fasteners. They weren’t, though: they were plain old screws. Careful not to drop them, he unscrewed them one by one and put the screws in a shirt pocket. There were a dozen screws, just like the Russian engineer said. Okay! So far so good.
Sweat dripped down his nose, ran into his eyes. He wiped the palms of his hands on his camo pants and used his sleeve to swab his face, then went back to twisting the screwdriver. He worked as quickly as he could. Finally he took out the last screw.
Carefully, ever so carefully, Herron pulled off the access panel and laid it on the catwalk by his feet. He dug a small flashlight from his pocket. Looking through the access panel, he could see lots of wires. And a stainless-steel sphere about the size of a basketball. That, he concluded, must be the biological warhead. The missile had been designed for a nuclear warhead, which would have been round, so the biological warhead had to go into the same space. Yet the warhead was too large to come out this little six-inch access hole.
Charlie Herron reached through the hole to his elbow, felt upward with his ear against the skin of the missile. Yes, he could feel the latch. He opened it. Now down … one there too. Right, then left.
With the last latch open, he pulled at the panel he had his arm in. It came out in his hand, making a hole at least twenty inches across. So the engineer had been telling the truth.
Herron turned to put the panel on the catwalk … and dropped it.
It fell, striking the side of the missile, finally landing on the grate at the bottom with a tinny sound, much like the lid of a garbage can.
Charlie Herron grabbed the rails of the catwalk and held on to keep from falling.
He wiped his face on his sleeves, the palms of his hands on his trousers.
Using a pair of wire snips, the lieutenant began clipping wires, then pulling the ends out of the way so he could see how the warhead was held in place.
William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini stepped from their Osprey transport wearing their CBW suits. Two marines similarly clad followed them. Each marine carried a cylinder about six feet long and five inches in diameter balanced on his shoulder.
Doll Hanna was waiting for them as they approached the main entrance. “I count five people in the clean area,” he said. “They don’t know we’re here yet. The air-circulation system is pretty loud.”
Chance went to the partially open door and eased his head around for a peek. He counted the people inside. Five.
He had been thinking about this moment ever since Jake Grafton asked him to take out this facility. If the integrity of the sealed area was broken before the fire got hot enough to destroy the virus, some of the virus might escape. If there were any free viruses in the air inside there, or if one of the culture trays was broken, intentionally or unintentionally …
How much was some? Who could say?
He pulled his head back, looked at Doll Hanna, looked at the marines carrying the cylinders on their shoulders.
Well, it was a hell of a risk. A hell of a risk.
Just then William Henry Chance wished he were back in New York City, eating dinner at a nice restaurant or preparing a case for trial or sitting at home with the woman who had shared his life for the past ten years. Anywhere but here.
“Give me your rifle,” he said to Hanna, who handed him his M-16.
“Is it loaded?”
“Full. Selector is on single shot. This is the safety.” Hanna touched it.
“Okay,” said William Henry Chance.
He turned to Carmellini. “If worse comes to worst, you know what to do.”
Carmellini didn’t say anything. The dumb shit is probably wishing he was safe and snug in a federal pen, Chance thought.
He pointed the rifle at the ground and held it close to his leg, then eased the door open and stepped inside. No Cuban saw him. They were looking intently at something in a sealed unit with remote-control arms. A radio was playing somewhere, playing loudly.
Chance stepped into the air lock, stood there looking at the people while he waited for the interior door to unlock automatically.
He recognized the voice on the radio: Alejo Vargas. The gravelly flat delivery was unmistakable.
“My fellow Cubans, now is the hour to rally to the defense of our holy mother country. Tonight even as I speak the nation is under attack from American military forces, who have leveled the awesome might of their armed forces against the eleven million peaceful people of Cuba.”
Ten seconds passed, fifteen, twenty. After a half minute, the interior door clicked. Chance pushed it open and stepped into the lab.
Racks holding eight or ten culture trays each stood beside the benches. He lifted the rifle, thumbed off the safety, walked forward toward the working figures, who still had their backs to him. The tables on both sides of the aisles contained tools, parts, glassware, specialized instruments.
“Join with me in fighting the forces of the devil, the forces of capitalism and exploitation that seek to enslave the Cuban people so that the Yanquis can manufacture more dollars for themselves ….”
One of the workers spotted Chance when he was ten feet away, and turned in his direction.
Chance gestured with the rifle, motioned for them to raise their hands. They did so.
I should just shoot them, he thought, acutely aware of the culture trays just beside his elbow, and theirs.
Maybe I won’t have to.
Backing up between two tables, he jerked his head back the way he had come, toward the air lock, gestured with the barrel of the rifle.
“Our hour of glory is now,” Alejo Vargas thundered, “an hour that will live in all of Cuban history as the supreme triumphant moment of our people, that moment in the history of the world when we humble people struck back against the enslaver and oppressor and became forever free ….”