“So where’s the invasion?” Lazaris scratched his beard. “If it was supposed to happen on the fifth-”
“Maybe it didn’t,” Michael said. He looked at Chesna. “Maybe it was canceled, or postponed.”
“There’d have to be a damned good reason to postpone something of that magnitude.”
“Maybe there was. Who knows what it might be? But I don’t think the invasion’s happened yet. If it had begun on the morning of the fifth, you’d hear something about it on every frequency by now.”
Chesna knew he was correct. The airwaves should be burning up right now, with news reports and messages to and from various partisan groups. Instead, it was simply another morning of funeral dirges and milk lines.
It was clear to Michael what had to be done. “Lazaris, can you fly one of those night fighters out on the strip?”
“I can fly anything with wings. I’d suggest the Dornier two-seventeen, though. It’s got a thousand-mile range if the fuel tanks are loaded, and it’s a quick little bitch. Where are we going?”
“First to wake up Dr. Hildebrand. Then to find out exactly where Iron Fist is being hangared. How long would it take us to fly from here to Rotterdam? That’s almost a thousand miles.”
He frowned. “You’d be cutting it damned close, even if the tanks are brimmed.” He thought about it. “The Dornier’s maximum speed is over three hundred. You might be able to sustain two-fifty, on a long flight. Depending on the winds… I’d say five hours, give or take.”
There were too many if’s, Michael thought, but what else could they do? They began a search of the building. In another room, full of filing cabinets, he found a map of Hildebrand Industries Skarpa Chemical Installation thumb-tacked to the wall next to a portrait of Adolf Hitler. A red X indicated the radio room’s location, and the other buildings were marked “Workshop,” “Mess Hall,” “Testing Chamber,” “Armory,” “Barracks Number One,” and so on. The development lab was about a hundred yards from their present position, and the armory was way over on the opposite side of the plant from the airfield. Michael folded the map and put it in a bloodstained pocket for later reference.
The development lab, a long white building with a thicket of pipes connecting it to a series of smaller structures, stood near the central chimney. Lights glowed through narrow windows of frosted glass; the doctor was at work. Atop the lab building’s roof stood a large tank, but whether it held chemicals, fuel, or water Michael didn’t know. The front door was barred, and locked from the inside, but a metal-runged ladder ascended to the roof and that was the path they took. On the roof a skylight had been opened. Michael leaned over its edge, with Lazaris holding on to his legs, and peered in.
Three men in white coats and white gloves worked at a series of long tables, where microscopes, racks of test tubes, and other equipment were set up. Four large, sealed vats, like pressure cookers, stood at one end of the lab, and it was from them that the pulsing heartbeat noise came. Michael assumed it was the noise of an electric engine, stirring whatever was in the devil’s brew. About twenty feet off the floor a catwalk ran the length of the lab, passing within a few feet of the skylight and going to a panel of pressure gauges near the chemical vats.
One of the three men was almost seven feet tall and wore a white cap over blond hair that flowed down his back. He was engrossed in studying a group of microscope slides.
Michael pulled himself away from the skylight. The pulse made the roof throb. “I want you both to get back to the airfield,” he told them. Chesna started to protest, but he put a finger to her lips. “Just listen. Lazaris, if that Dornier isn’t fueled up, you and Chesna will have to do it. I remember seeing a fuel truck on the field. Can you handle it?”
“I used to fuel Warhammer myself. I was my own ground crew.” He shrugged. “There won’t be much difference. But there might be guards watching the planes.”
“I know. After I finish here, I’m going to try to create a diversion. You’ll know it when it happens.” He looked at his watch. It was thirty-two minutes after one. He took the watch off and gave it to Chesna. “I’ll be at the field in thirty minutes,” he promised. “When the fireworks start, you’ll have a chance to top the Dornier’s tanks off.”
“I’m staying with you,” Chesna said.
“Lazaris can use your help more than I. No arguing. Just get to the field.”
Chesna was professional enough to know that she was wasting time. She and Lazaris hurried back across the roof to the ladder, and Michael strapped the submachine gun around his shoulder. He eased himself over the skylight edge and caught hold of an iron pipe that snaked across the lab ceiling. Hand over hand, he guided himself toward the catwalk and stepped over its railing.
He crouched down and watched the three men. Hildebrand called one of them over and showed him something on the slide. Then Hildebrand shouted and slammed his fist on the table, and the other man nodded docilely, his shoulders slumped in submission. The work was not going well, Michael thought. What a pity.
A droplet of moisture plunked to the catwalk next to him. He looked up. Set at intervals along the iron pipe were spray nozzles, and one of them was leaking. He held out his palm and caught a few drops, then sniffed at them. The odor of brine. He licked his palm. Salt water. From the tank on the roof, he realized. Plain seawater, probably. Why was there a storage tank of seawater on the tab roof?
He remembered something that Blok had said: Carnagene doesn’t get along well with sodium. As in salt water. Perhaps salt water destroyed carnagene. If that were so, Hildebrand had set up a system so that if any of the gas escaped into the lab, nozzles would deliver a saltwater spray. The system’s controls had to be within easy reach of anyone working below. Michael stood up and walked to the control panel near the vats. There was a row of red switches, all at the ON position. He began to flip them all off. The heartbeat noise faltered and began to die.
A beaker crashed to the floor. One of the men shrieked. It was Hildebrand. “You fool!” he shouted. “Turn the aerators back on!”
“No one move.” Michael walked back toward them, the Schmeisser’s barrel upraised. “Dr. Hildebrand, we’re going to have a little talk.”
“Please! The switches! Turn them on!”
“I want to know where Iron Fist is. How far from Rotterdam?”
One of the others suddenly bolted in the direction of the front door, but Michael shot him down before he could take three strides. The man fell, crimson spreading over his white coat.
The noise echoed within the lab. Someone would have heard it. Time was growing short. He trained the smoking gun barrel on Hildebrand. “Iron Fist. Where is it?”
“The…” Hildebrand swallowed thickly, staring up into the Schmeisser’s eye. “The Luftwaffe airfield at Wassenaar. On the coast, sixteen miles northwest of Rotterdam.” He glanced at the vats. “Please… I’m begging you! Turn the aerators back on!”
“And what will happen if I don’t? Will the carnagene be destroyed?”
“No! It’ll-”
Michael heard the sound of metal buckling.
“It’ll explode in its raw form!” Hildebrand shouted, his voice choked with panic.
Michael looked at the sealed vats. The lids were bulging, and pressure blisters had appeared along the seams. My God! he realized. The stuff was swelling within the vats like yeast!
The other lab technician suddenly picked up a chair and ran toward a window. He smashed the glass with it and screamed, “Help! Someone help-”