Protruding upward from the center of the base, into the open compartment inside the Ark, were five copper spokes, fanned up and outward. The requirements for the length of these spokes had been very precise. They originated from the bottom of the base, and were visible only if one was looking inside the device.
The “lid” of the container was detachable, but had to be handled very carefully, as any dents or scratches would throw off the design and make the Ark useless. The gradient downward from the edges to the central axis was a complex hyperbolic curve. The lid was made primarily of molybdenum, used at a variable thickness. The material was approximately one sixteenth of an inch along the edges, becoming uniformly thicker toward the depressed center, where its thickness was approximately half an inch. The molybdenum was covered with a thin layer of gold, which was only a few atoms thick along the edges and increased to a golden ridge more than an inch thick at the centerline of the lid. Underneath the molybdenum was a thin, uniform layer of copper. There were further layers of titanium, copper, nickel, and silver alloys. The whole thing had taxed the abilities of the best complex metal forming machinery that Cincinnati Milacron had ever made.
“What the hell is it, really?” asked Ethan, more to himself than to the engineers and technicians who stood around. “They said they were making some fancy machinery to try and communicate with whales, or dolphins.” He looked at his chief engineer, his eyebrows raised in doubt.
“Dolphins, my ass,” said the engineer. “That’s just totally stupid.”
“What did it end up costing?” asked one of the metalworking technicians.
“Almost $3 million,” responded Ethan. “But Kumar said it was a cost-plus job. He made big bucks on this thing. And you know how much we’re getting paid for it.”
“To talk to bloody whales? And how the devil is this thing going to do that?” asked the chief engineer.
“I guess they plan to put some electronics inside of it,” said Ethan. “I guess that probably explains the five copper rods. I just don’t see it, myself.” He straightened up and shook his head. “Whatever, we all made good money on the job. I really don’t care what they do with it. Let’s go to the lunchroom and have a beer to celebrate,” he added. Kumar had pledged a bonus to the whole staff for working through the weekend to get the job finished, and Ethan wanted to take advantage of the extra money to reward his crew.
“I don’t care if they waste it on a new type of marine toilet. Three million bucks is three million bucks. It’s just crazy to have used it this way. There’s got to be something more to it,” said one of the men, as they filed out of the warehouse. They all nodded in agreement, then dismissed the matter, heading for the promised beer and food.
In the northern British Columbia village of Stewart, Jimmy was helping Ba’al and Izzy with the reload. He needed to stretch his legs, and enjoyed conversing with the friends he seldom saw. The Semtex slid out of the submersible easily, in what was a reversal of the Mankial Star-to-Haramosh Star transfer that had taken place two weeks earlier. Jimmy slid 150-pound lots of the Semtex onto the frontal scissors lift, and raised the lift so that it was level with the powered tail lift of Ba’al and Izzy’s five-ton cube van. Each section of 150 pounds had been placed on mini-pallets that were fitted with wheels on the bottom, for ease of movement. Fifteen minutes, and the Semtex was sitting in the back of the van. They pulled some tarps over the load, threw a few tires over the tarps, and slid the van’s door closed. The three of them rested for a few seconds, looking at the little submarine.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Ba’al.
“Every sub that we use can now be controlled electronically. With GPS technology we can send it pretty much anywhere we want,” replied Jimmy. “I have just enough fuel left to send her ten miles or so back down this channel. At that point, the hatches will open, and she’ll sink to the bottom. It’s plenty deep out there. No one will ever find her.”
“But it cost a fortune to make it,” Izzy protested. “Seems like a waste to me.”
“We have dozens like her, Iz. In fact, this is an older model, a PWS-12. Kumar is working on a PWS-14 at the plant down there in Long Beach. This one is expendable. She’s served us well. It’s time to scuttle her.” He hopped back into the sub and turned it around. He fiddled with some of the controls and jumped out of the sub as it began to chug its way westward down the long fjord.
“Give me a lift to Smithers, gentlemen. I can catch a plane to Vancouver from there,” he said, watching the sub disappear. “My job is done.”
Ba’al and Izzy were happy to oblige. The three of them had known each other for more than 20 years, but because of the far-flung nature of Yousseff’s activities, seldom saw one another.
Ba’al got behind the wheel of the van. They had already decided that they would take turns driving. Yousseff had been clear. They were to stop for nothing. One way or another, the authorities would be right behind them. The distractions that Yousseff had planned would throw them off track a few times, but they would come again. The van couldn’t make any long stops. Their orders were to fill up the gas tank, grab some food, and move. Take turns driving. Watch out when they stopped at weight scales. No stopping for a second longer than they needed to.
Unbeknownst to the three, the entire scene had been witnessed by an old, worn-out alcoholic who made his home in one of the deserted Stewart houses next to the docks. Wharfdog Charlie, as he was known, had seen it all a few times before. A strange looking submarine would appear, material would be loaded with great haste onto a waiting truck, the submarine would disappear, and the truck would take the highway back to Meziadin Junction, and civilization. Wharfdog had mentioned it once or twice to the cops, but he had very little credibility, and the story usually fell into the pink floating elephant category.
“Are you kidding me?” Richard nearly shouted into the telephone. “You want to send me back on assignment? Now?”
He and Michael Buckingham were on speakerphone in the Embassy in Islamabad. Baxter and Admiral Jackson were on the other end of the line, calling from Langley. The head of the Middle East and Africa Bureau of the CIA and the DDCI, in the same office at the same time. Richard was definitely feeling uncomfortable.
“Why me?” Richard continued, astounded. “I just got back here. I was in Libya. I nearly got my ass shot off in the Sudan. I just found out that my closest friend was tortured to death. I’m tired, and dammit, I need a break.”
“You’re all we’ve got, Richard,” said Baxter. “We’ve been complaining about this for years. We don’t have nearly enough manpower in the Middle East. And besides, you grew up in Islamabad. You know the language, the land, and the customs. All the signs on this Semtex thing are pointing to narcotics connections, and it seems to be coming out of Afghanistan, and probably also Pakistan.”