Fatima pointed toward a dispensing device poised above an Erlenmeyer flask. "And that's a digital titrator," she said. "It's pretty old, but they definitely didn't have those in the 1940s."
"They sure didn't," Jefferson agreed, stepping closer and examining the equipment. "I haven't seen one of these since I was at Yale! We had a whole bunch of them in the lab and my professors kept telling us they were state-of-the-art."
"And when was that?" Fatima asked.
"1977. My first year of pre-med." For a moment he stood in silent communion with the titrator, lost in memories of his early college years when the gloss of youth had been his by rights, not something he sought to recreate by means of surgical procedures and spray tans. "So what are you saying, Nina? This place was working all the way into the Cold War?"
"Possibly," said Nina. "I don't know. I don't have a working hypothesis yet. All I know is that what we're finding isn't what I expected. This place is more complicated than I ever imagined, and there's an incredible amount to document. Sam, does your camera take video footage? It might be quicker to film what we're seeing here than to shoot stills, and once we've got a record of everything as we found it we can get on with finding out what's in that pile of notebooks."
"And we can look for some safety equipment," Fatima suggested. "We don't know what's in this place, and I'd prefer it if we didn't take any unnecessary risks. We don't know how much of a scrub-down they did before they abandoned this place. It wouldn't hurt to take a few basic precautions."
"Good point," said Nina. "Everyone keep an eye out for goggles and masks and the like. Now let's get moving. We don't know how much time we'll have before Neumayer sends transport for us."
The group got to work. Sam took as many images as he could of the equipment and the books, while Fatima, Nina, and Professor Matlock followed behind him, eager to get their hands on the artifacts once he was done with them. Jefferson and Alexandr tagged along behind them, but Admiral Whitsun wandered off alone. He trailed his fingers through the air an inch above the work surfaces, clearly longing to touch them. The youngest PMC hesitated, uncertain whether he should ask the admiral to rejoin the group. He shot a sidelong glance at his companion, who was evidently his senior.
"It's fine," the older man muttered. "Just keep an eye on him."
The young PMC strode across to the far side of the room and took up a position near the admiral, close enough to prevent him from going too far but distant enough to be respectful.
"This one is talking about Harald Kruger!" Nina jabbed at the page in front of her with her finger. "This note, here, look — whoever wrote this seems to have been dealing with Kruger for some sort of test. For a… a missile of some kind. Aggregat 13?"
"It's a type of ICBM, I believe" Professor Matlock said. "I have heard of the Aggregat series. The idea was to create a complement of rockets which, when used in conjunction, would have made the Nazis an unstoppable force. I was only aware of there being twelve in the series, though."
"It could be that we've come across something unknown outside of this station," Nina suggested. "Anyway, it looks like whoever was working in this laboratory had prepared something that was to be tested along with a prototype of this missile, but it didn't go to plan. Something didn't disseminate the way they wanted it to, and an area of land had to be put out of bounds until they could ascertain whether the container for this virus had been—"
"Sir!"
A crash of shattering glass pierced the silence. Admiral Whitsun was on his knees, coughing and wheezing. The young PMC rushed forward to help him. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked, giving the old man his arm.
"I'm fine," said Admiral Whitsun. "I'm fine. Please, don't make a fuss."
"Admiral, I'm worried about you," Nina said, coming round to support him from the other side. "We've only been here a day and a bit and that's the second turn you've had. I think you're overdoing it. Let's get you back to the meeting room and you can have a seat and we'll get you some tea."
"Honestly, there's no need to worry." The admiral's voice was as steady and reassuring as he could make it, though his hands were still trembling and Sam thought he could see the old man's legs shaking. "I would rather not cause any more hassle than I already have." He glanced down at the shards of glass lying on the floor. Judging by the little stand lying amid the wreckage, he had knocked over a handful of empty test tubes. "I do seem to have made a mess, don't I? I trust you did not cut yourself while helping me up, young man?"
The PMC shook his head. "No, sir."
"That is a relief, then. Do you have a name?"
"Private Hodge, sir." The PMC stood to attention.
"Well, Private Hodge, I wonder if you would be so kind as to escort me back to my quarters? I can hardly stay here if I'm going to prove such a liability to the others, and I am sure that Major Alfsson would prefer it if none of us wander the corridors unattended."
Again, Private Hodge stole a quick glance at his superior for confirmation, then said "Yes, sir" and set off, matching his strides to the pace of the frail admiral.
"I'm getting a horrible feeling that he's not going to make it back home," Fatima whispered, half to herself, half to Nina and Sam. Sam nodded. Whatever the state of the admiral's health on the journey, he seemed to be deteriorating rapidly now that they were here.
Pity, Sam thought. He seems a really nice old boy. Just a bit… broken, I suppose. Sad and reserved. I'm sorry I had to be part of that. I hope he's getting what he's looking for by being here. I hope he'll be ok.
Chapter 20
By the end of the day, all the expedition team had thoroughly explored the lab and exhausted their patience with one another. Nina and Professor Matlock were bickering with each other over the contents of the notes and struggling with the highly specific technical jargon. Fatima was doing her best to help, but since she had the technical expertise but not the language, her ability to break up the squabbles was limited. Jefferson Daniels, who prided himself on his ability to mediate disputes, apparently without justification, was attempting to pour oil on troubled waters.
His work behind the camera done, Sam had decided to sneak out. The sound of arguing voices was starting to give him a headache and making him acutely aware that it had been several hours since his last cigarette and even longer since his last drink. Muttering some excuse about going to find Purdue and work on his profile, Sam slipped out into the corridor. A moment later he heard the door open behind him and looked around to see Alexandr following him, with Private Hodge, who had returned to the labs, at his heels.
"I'm sorry, sir," Private Hodge said, "but I have to accompany you. Captain Hernandez's orders. Are you returning to your quarters?"
"Possibly," said Alexandr "Personally, I am going wherever the rest of the group is not. The amount of money that Mr. Purdue is paying me is obscene, but it is nowhere near enough to listen to any more of that."
"Well, I'm heading back to quarters," said Sam. "I suppose I should really go and talk to Purdue, but I'm not sure I can be bothered."
"Then don't."
"I really should, though," Sam groaned. "I'm supposed to be writing this stupid profile for the paper and he wants a longer version for some reason of his own, so he's paying me a stupid amount of money over and above what I'll get from the paper. I haven't even started the interviews I'll need yet."
Alexandr led the way back toward their quarters. "There is no rush, surely. Trust me, you have plenty of time. Even if the transport to Neumayer were to arrive right now, we would still have to stay there for as long as it takes Dr. al-Fayed to carry out her research. There will be many long days that will be much less eventful than this one, and you will be glad of having something to do. So for now, I suggest that you follow my lead. I have a far better idea than chatting with Mr. Purdue."