“Not much we can do about that, I'm afraid.”
“Seventy-five percent power.”
“Take those tiles off and I get another knot.”
“You don't really advocate that?”
Dubinin shook his head. “No. If a torpedo goes into the water, that could be the difference between life and death.”
Conversation stopped at that point. In ten minutes, power had reached a hundred percent, fifty-thousand horsepower. The pump noise was quite loud now, but it was still possible to hear a person speaking. With the old pump this power level was like listening to a rock band, Dubinin remembered, you could feel the sound rippling through your body. Not now, and the rafting of the pump body… the yard commander had promised him a vast reduction in radiated noise. He had not been boasting. Ten minutes later, he'd seen and heard everything he'd needed.
“Power down,” Dubinin commanded.
“Well, Valentin Borissovich?”
“KGB stole this from the Americans?”
“That is my understanding,” the Admiral said.
“I may kiss the next spy I meet.”
The Motor Vessel George McReady lay alongside the pier loading cargo. She was a large ship, ten years old, driven by large, low-speed marine diesels, and designed as a timber carrier. She could carry thirty thousand tons of finished lumber or, as was the case now, logs. The Japanese preferred to process the lumber themselves for the most part. It kept the processing money in their country instead of having to export it. At least an American-flag vessel was being used to do the delivery, a concession that had required ten months of negotiations, Japan could be a fun place to visit, though rather expensive.
Under the watchful eyes of the First Officer, gantry cranes lifted the logs from trucks and lowered them into the built-for-the-purpose holds. The process was remarkably speedy. Automation of cargo-loading was probably the most important development in the commercial shipping business. George M could be fully loaded in less than forty hours, and off-loaded in thirty-six, allowing the ship to return to sea very rapidly, but denying her crew the chance to do very much in whatever port they might be visiting. The loss of income for waterfront bars and other businesses that catered to sailors was not a matter of great concern to the shipowners, who did not make money when their hulls were tied alongside the pier.
“Pete, got the weather,” the Third Officer announced. “Could be better.”
The First Officer looked at the chart. “Wow!”
“Yeah, a monster Siberian low forming up. Gonna get bumpy a couple of days out. It's gonna be too big to dodge, too.”
The First Officer whistled at the numbers. “Don't forget your 'scope patch, Jimmy.”
“Right. How much deck cargo?”
“Just those boys over there.” He pointed.
The other man grunted, then picked up a pair of binoculars from the holder. “Christ, they're chained together!”
“That's why we can't strike 'em below.”
“Outstanding,” the junior man observed.
“I already talked to the bosun about it. We'll have them tied down nice and tight.”
“Good idea, Pete. If this storm builds like I expect, you'll be able to surf down there.”
“Captain still on the beach?”
“Right, he's due back at fourteen hundred.”
“Fueling complete. ChEng will have his diesels on line at seventeen hundred. Depart at sixteen-thirty?”
“That's right.”
“Damn, a guy hardly has time to get laid anymore.”
“I'll tell the captain about the weather forecast. It might make us late in Japan.”
“Cap'n'll love that.”
“Won't we all?”
“Hey, if it screws up our alongside time, maybe I can…”
“You and me both, buddy.” The First Officer grinned. Both men were single.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Fromm asked. He leaned down, staring at the metallic mass through the Lexan sheeting. The manipulator arm had detached the plutonium from the spindle and moved it for a visual inspection that wasn't really necessary, but the plutonium had to be moved for the next part of the finishing process anyway, and Fromm wanted to see the thing close up. He shone a small, powerful flashlight on the metal, but then switched it off. The reflection of the overhead lights was enough.
“It really is amazing,” Ghosn said.
What they looked at might easily have been a piece of blown glass, so smooth it appeared. In fact it was far smoother than that. The uniformity of the outside surface was so exact that the greatest distorting effect came from gravity. Whatever imperfections there might have been were far too small to see with the naked eye, and were definitely below the design tolerances Fromm had established when he'd worked the hydrocodes on the minicomputer.
The outside of the folded cylinder was perfect, reflecting light like some sort of eccentric lens. As the arm rotated it around the long axis, the placement and size of the reflected ceiling lights did not move or waver. Even the German found that remarkable.
“I would never have believed we could do so well,” Ghosn said.
Fromm nodded. “Such things were not possible until quite recently. The air-bearing-lathe technology is hardly fifteen years old, and the laser-control systems are newer still. The main commercial application is still for ultra-fine instruments like astronomical telescopes, very high-quality lenses, special centrifuge parts…” The German stood. “Now, we must also polish the inside surfaces. Those we cannot visually inspect.”
“Why do the outside first?”
“This way we can be sure that the machine is performing properly. The laser will control the inside — we know now, you see, that it is giving us good data.” That explanation wasn't really true, but Fromm didn't want to give the real one: he truly thought this beautiful. The young Arab might not understand. Das ist die schwaize Kunst… It actually was rather Faustian, Fromm thought, wasn't it?
How very strange, Ghosn thought, that something so wonderfully shaped could…
“Things continue to go well.”
“Indeed,” Fromm replied. He gestured to the interior of the enclosure. When run properly, the lathe trimmed off something almost like metallic thread, but thinner, visible mainly because of its reflectivity. A singularly valuable thread, it was collected for remelting and possible future use.
“A good stopping place,” Fromm said, turning away.
“I agree.” They'd been at it for fourteen hours. Ghosn dismissed the men. He and Fromm walked out, too, leaving the room to the custody of the two security guards.
The guards were not highly educated men. Selected from the Commander's personal retinue of followers, each was the veteran of many years of combat operations. Perversely, their fighting had been more against fellow Arabs than their putative Zionist enemies. There was a plethora of terrorist groups, and since each drew its support from the Palestinian community, there was competition for the limited pool of followers. Competition among men with guns not infrequently led to confrontation and death. In the case of the guards, it also proved their loyalty. Each of the men on duty was an expert shot, about good enough to be on a par with the new American addition to the organization, the infidel Russell.
One of the guards, Achmed, lit up a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He faced yet another boring night. Walking guard on the outside, or patrolling the block on which Qati slept, at least gave them a variety of things to observe. One might imagine that there was an Israeli agent behind every parked car or behind every window, and such thoughts kept one awake and alert. Not here. Here they guarded machines that sat dumbly still. For diversion, and also in keeping with their duties, the guards kept an eye on the machinists, following them around the room, to and from their eating and sleeping spaces, and even on some of their less complicated jobs. Though not well-educated, Achmed was a bright man, quick to learn, and he fancied that he could have done any of these machinist jobs, given a few months to learn the trade properly. He was very good with weapons, able to diagnose a problem or fix an improper sight as quickly and well as a master gunsmith.