Black Sunday (20 page)

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To Fasil, Lander's progress with the huge bomb was maddeningly slow. Lander had asked for the maximum amount of explosives the blimp could carry, with shrapnel, under ideal conditions. He had not really expected to get as much as he asked for. Now that it was here he intended to take full advantage of it. The problem was weight and weather---the weather on January 12 in New Orleans. The blimp could fly in any conditions in which football could be played, but rain meant extra weight and New Orleans had received 77 inches of rain in the past year, far more than the national average. Even a dew covering the blimp's great skin weighed 700 pounds, detracting that much from its lifting power. Lander had calculated the lift very carefully, and he would be straining the blimp to the utmost when it rose into the sky carrying its deadly egg. On a clear day, with sunshine, he could count on some help un the "superheat" effect, added lift gained when the helium inside the bag was hotter than the outside air. But unless he was prepared, rain could ruin everything. By the time he was ready to take off, some of the ground crew would almost certainly have been shot and there could be no delay in getting airborne. The blimp must fly, and fly immediately. To allow for the possibility of rain, he had split the nacelle, so that part it could be left behind in bad weather. It was a pity that Aldrich did not use a surplus Navy dirigible instead of the smaller blimp, Lander reflected. He had flown Navy airships when they carried six tons of ice, great sheets of it, that slid down the sides and fell away in a glittering, crashing cascade when the dirigible reached warmer air. But those long-extinct ships had been eight times the size of the Aldrich blimp.

Balance must be close to perfect with either the entire nacelle or three-quarters of it. That meant having optimal mounting points on the frame. These changes had taken time, but not so much time as Lander had feared. He had a little over a month before the Super Bowl. Of that month he would lose most of the last two weeks flying football games. That left him about 17 working days. There was time for one more refinement.

He set up on his workbench a thick sheet of fiberglass five inches by seven and one-half inches in size. The sheet was reinforced with metal mesh and curved in two planes, like a section of watermelon rind. He warmed a piece of plastic explosive and rolled it into a slab of the same size, carefully increasing the thickness of the plastic from the center toward the ends.

Lander attached the slab of plastic to the convex side of the fiberglass sheet. The device now looked like a warped book with a cover on only one side. Smoothed over the plastic explosive were three layers of rubber sheeting cut from a sickroom mattress cover. On top of these went a piece of light canvas bristling with .177 caliber rifle darts. The darts sat on their flat bottoms, glued to the canvas closer together than the nails in a fakir's bed. As the dart-studded canvas was pulled tight around the convex surface of the device, the sharp tips of the darts diverged slightly. This divergence was the purpose of curving the device. It was necessary if the darts were to spread out in flight in a predetermined pattern. Lander had marked out the ballistics with great care. The shape of the darts should stabilize them in flight just like the steel flechettes used in Vietnam.

Now he attached three more layers of dart-covered canvas. In all, the four layers contained 944 darts. At a range of 60 yards, Lander calculated, they would riddle an area of 1,000 square feet, one dart striking in each 1.07 square feet with the velocity of a high-powered rifle bullet. Nothing could live in that strike zone. And this was only the small test model. The real one, the one that would hang beneath the blimp, was 317 times bigger in surface area and weight and carried an average of 3.5 darts for every one of the 80,985 persons Tulane Stadium could seat.

Fasil came into the workshop as Lander was attaching the outside cover, a sheet of fiberglass the same thickness as the skin of the nacelle.

Lander did not speak to him.

Fasil appeared to pay little attention to the object on the workbench, but he recognized what it was, and he was appalled. The Arab looked around the workshop for several minutes, careful not to touch anything. A technician himself, trained in Germany and North Vietnam, Fasil could not help admiring the neatness and economy with which the big nacelle was constructed.

"This material is hard to weld," he said, tapping the Reynolds alloy tubing. "I see no heliarc equipment, did you farm out the work?"

"I borrowed some equipment from the company the weekend."

"The frame is stress-relieved as well. Now that, Mr. Lander, is a conceit." Fasil intended this as a joking compliment to Lander's craftsmanship. He had decided his duty lay in getting along with the American.

"If the frame warped and cracked the fiberglass shell, someone might see the darts as we rolled it out of truck," Lander said in a monotone.

"I thought you would be packing in the plastic by now, with only a month remaining."

"Not ready yet. I have to rest something first."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Do you know the explosive index of this material?"

Fasil shook his head ruefully. "It's very new."

"Have you ever seen any of it detonated?"

"No. I was instructed that it is more potent than C-4. You saw what it did to Muzi's apartment."

"I saw a hole in the wall and I can't tell enough from that. The most common mistake in making an antipersonnel device is putting the shrapnel too close to the charge, so the shrapnel loses its integrity in the explosion. Think about that, Fasil. If you don't know it you should know it. Read this field manual and you will find out all about it. I'll translate the big words for you. I don't want these darts fragmented in the blast. I am not interested in merely filling 75 institutes for the deaf. I don't know how much buffer is necessary between the darts and the plastic to protect them."

"But look at how much is in a claymore-type device---"

"That's no indication. I'm dealing with longer ranges and infinitely more explosive. Nobody has ever built one this big before. A claymore is the size of a schoolbook. This is the size of a lifeboat."

"How will the nacelle be positioned when it is detonated?"

"Over the 50-yard line at precisely 100 feet altitude, lined up lengthwise with the field. You can see how the curve of the nacelle conforms to the curve of the stadium."

"So---"

"So, Fasil, I have to also be sure that the darts will disperse in the correct arc, rather than blowing out in big lumps. I've got some leeway inside the skin. I can exaggerate the curves if I have to. I'll find out about the buffer and about the dispersal when we detonate this," Lander said, patting the device on his workbench.

"It's got at least a half-kilo of plastic in it."

"Yes."

"You can't set it off without drawing the authorities."

"Yes, I can."

"You would have no time to examine the results before the authorities came."

"Yes, I will."

"This is---" He nearly said "madness," but stopped himself in time. "This is very rash."

"Don't worry about it, A-rab."

"May I check your calculations?" Fasil hoped he could devise a way to stop the experiment.

"Help yourself. Remember, this is not a scale model of the side of the nacelle. It just contains the two compound curves used in dispersing the shrapnel."

"I'll remember, Mr. Lander."

Fasil spoke privately with Dahlia as she was carrying out the trash. "Talk to him," he said in Arabic. "We know the thing will work as it is. This business of the test is not an acceptable risk. He will lose everything."

"It might not work perfectly," she replied in English. "It must be without flaw."

"It does not have to be
that
perfect."

"For him, it does. For me too."

"For the purpose of the mission, for what we set out to do, it will work adequately the way it is."

"Comrade Fasil, pushing the button in that gondola on January 12 will be the last act of Michael Lander's life. He won't see what comes after. Neither will I, if he needs me to fly with him. We have to
know
what's coming after, do you understand that?"

"I understand that you are beginning to sound more like him than like a front-fighter."

"Then you are of limited intelligence."

"In Lebanon I would kill you for that."

"We're a long way from Lebanon, Comrade Fasil. If either of us ever sees Lebanon again, you may try at your convenience."

CHAPTER 14

Rachel Bauman, M.D., sat behind a desk at Halfway House in the South Bronx, waiting. The addict rehabilitation center held many memories for her. She looked around the bright little room with its amateurish paint job and pickup furniture and thought about some of the ravaged, desperate minds she had tried to reach, the things that she had listened to, in her volunteer work here. It was because of the memories the room evoked that she had chosen this place to meet with Eddie Stiles.

There was a light rap on the door and Stiles came in, a slight, balding man looking around with quick glances. He had shaved for the occasion. A patch of tissue was stuck to a nick on his jaw. Stiles smiled awkwardly and fiddled with his cap.

"Sit down, Eddie. You're looking well."

"Never better, Dr. Bauman."

"How's the tugboat business?"

"To tell you the truth, dull. But I like it, I like it, understand," he added quickly. "You done me a good turn getting me that job."

"I didn't get you that job, Eddie. I just asked the man to look you over."

"Yeah, well, I'd never have got it otherwise. How's with you? You look kind of different, I mean like you feel good. What am I talking, you're the doctor." He laughed self-consciously.

Rachel could see that he had gained weight. When she met him three years ago, he had just been arrested for smuggling cigarettes up from Norfolk in a 40-foot trawler, trying to feed a $75 a day heroin habit. Eddie had spent many months at Halfway House, many hours talking to Rachel. She had worked with him when he was screaming.

"What did you want to see me about, Dr. Bauman? I mean, I'm glad to see you and all and if you was wondering if I'm clean---"

"I know you're clean, Eddie. I want to ask you for some advice." She had never before presumed on a professional relationship, and it disturbed her to do so now. Stiles noted this instantly. His native wariness warred with the respect and warmth he felt for her.

"It's got nothing to do with you," she said. "Let me lay it out for you and see what you think."

Stiles relaxed a little. He was not being asked to commit himself about anything immediately.

"I need to find a boat, Eddie. A certain boat. A funny-business boat."

His face revealed nothing. "I told you I would tugboat and that's all I do is tugboat, you know that."

"I know that. But you know a lot of people, Eddie. I don't know any people who carry on funny business in boats. I need your help."

"We level with each other, always have, right?"

"Yes."

"You never blabbed none of the stuff I told you when I was on the couch, right?"

"Nope."

"Okay, you tell me the question and who wants to know."

Rachel hesitated. The truth was the truth. Nothing else would do. She told him.

"The feds already asked me," Stiles said when she had finished. "This guy comes right on board in front of everybody to ask me, which I don't appreciate too much. I know they asked some other---guys of my acquaintance."

"And you told them zip."

Stiles smiled and reddened. "I didn't know anything to tell them, you know? To tell you the truth I didn't concentrate too hard. I guess nobody else did either, they're still asking around, I hear."

Rachel waited, she did not push him. The little man tugged at his collar, stroked his chin, deliberately put his hands back in his lap.

"You want to talk to the guy who owns this boat? I don't mean you yourself, that wouldn't be---I mean, your friends want to."

"Right."

"Just talk?"

"Just talk."

"For money? I mean, not for me, Dr. Bauman. Don't think that, for God's sake, I owe you enough already. But I mean, if I was to know some guy, very few things are free. I got a couple hundred, you're welcome, but it might---"

"Don't worry about the money," she said.

"Tell me again from where the Coast Guard first spotted the boat and who did what."

Stiles listened, nodding and asking an occasional question. "Frankly, maybe I can't help you at all, Dr. Bauman," he said finally. "But some things occur to me. I'll listen around."

"Very carefully."

"You know it."

CHAPTER 15

Harry Logan drove his battered pickup along the perimeter of United Coal Company's heavy equipment compound on his hourly watchman's round, looking down the rows of bulldozers and dirt buggies. He was supposed to watch for thieves and conservation-minded saboteurs, but none ever came. Nobody was within miles of the place. All was well, he could slip away.

He turned onto a dirt track that followed the giant scar the strip mine had gouged in the Pennsylvania hills, red dust rising behind the pickup. The scar was eight miles long and two miles wide, and it was growing longer as the great earthmoving machines chewed down the hills. Twenty-four hours a day, six days a week, two of the largest earthmovers in the world slammed their maws against the hillsides like hyenas opening a belly. They stopped for nothing except the Sabbath, the president of United Coal being a very religious man.

This was Sunday, when nothing but dustdevils moved on the raw wasteland. It was the day when Harry Logan made a little extra money. He was a scavenger and he worked in the condemned area that would shortly be uprooted by the mining. Each Sunday Logan left his post at the equipment compound and drove to the small abandoned village on a hill in the path of the earthmovers.

The peeling houses stood empty, smelling of urine left by the vandals who smashed the windows. The householders had taken everything they thought was valuable when they moved out, but their eye for salable scrap was not so keen as Logan's. He was a natural scavenger. There was good lead to be found in the old-fashioned gutters and plumbing. Electrical switches could be pried from the walls and there were showerheads and copper wire. He sold these things to his son-in-law's junkyard. Logan was anxious to make a good haul on this Sunday because only an eighth of a mile of woods remained between the village and the strip mine. In two weeks the village would be devoured.

He backed his truck into the garage beside a house. It was very quiet when he turned off the motor. There was only the wind, whistling through the scattered, windowless houses. Logan was loading a stack of wallboard into his truck when he heard the airplane.

The red four-seater Cessna made two low passes over the village. Looking downhill through the trees, Logan saw it settle toward the dirt road in the strip mine. If Logan had appreciated such things, he would have enjoyed watching a superb cross-wind landing; a sideslip, a flare-out, and the little plane rolling smoothly with dust blowing off to one side.

He scratched his head and his behind. Now what could they want? Company inspectors maybe. He could say he was checking the village. The plane had rolled out of sight behind a thick grove. Logan worked his way cautiously down through the trees. When he could see the airplane again it was empty, and the wheels were chocked. He heard voices through the trees to his left and walked quietly in that direction. A big empty barn was over there with a three-acre feedlot beside it. Logan knew very well that it contained nothing worth stealing. Watching from the edge of the woods, he could see two men and a woman in the feedlot, ankle deep in bright green winter wheat.

One of the men was tall and wore sunglasses and a ski jacket. The other was darker and had a mark on his face. The men unrolled a long piece of cord and measured a distance from the side of the barn out into the feedlot. The woman set up a surveyor's transit and the tall man sighted through it while the dark one made marks on the barn wall with paint. The three gathered around a clipboard, gesturing with their arms.

Logan stepped out of the woods. The swarthy one saw him first and said something Logan couldn't hear.

"What are you folks doing out here?"

"Hello," the woman said, smiling.

"Have you got any company identification?"

"We're not with the company," the taller man said.

"This is private property. You're not allowed out here. That's what I'm out here for, to keep people off."

"We just wanted to take a few pictures," the tall man said.

"There ain't nothing to take pictures of out here," Logan said suspiciously.

"Oh yes there is," the woman said. "Me." She licked her lips.

"We're shooting a cover for what you might call a private kind of magazine, you know, a daring sort of magazine?"

"You talking about a nudie book?"

"We prefer to call it a naturist publication," the tall man said. "You can't do this sort of thing just anywhere."

"I might get arrested," the woman said, laughing. She was a looker all right.

"It's too cold for that stuff," Logan said.

"We're going to call the picture 'Goose Bumps.' "

Meanwhile, the swarthy one was unrolling a spool of wire from the tripod to the trees.

"Don't you fool with me now, I don't know anything about this. The office never said anything to me about letting anybody in here. You'd better go on back where you came from."

"Do you want to make $50 helping us? It will only take a half hour and we'll be gone," the tall man said.

Logan considered a moment. "Well, I won't take off my clothes."

"You won't have to. Is there anyone else around here?"

"No. Nobody for miles."

"We'll manage just fine then." The man was holding out $50. "Does my hand offend you?"

"No, no."

"Why are you staring at it then?" The woman shifted uncomfortably beside the tall man.

"I didn't mean to," Logan said. He could see his reflection in the man's sunglasses.

"You two get the big camera from the plane, and this gentleman and I will get things ready." The swarthy man and the woman disappeared into the woods.

"What's your name?"

"Logan."

"All right, Mr. Logan, if you'll get a couple of boards and put them down in the grass right here at the center of the barn wall for the lady to stand on."

"Do what?"

"Put some boards there, right in the middle. The ground is cold and we want her feet up out of the grass where they will show. Some people like feet."

While Logan found the boards, the tall man removed the transit and fastened a peculiar-looking curved object to the tripod. He turned and called to Logan. "No, no. One board on top of the other." He made a frame with his hands and squinted through it. "Now stand on it and let me see if it's right. Hold it right there, don't move, here they come with the viewfinder." The tall man disappeared into the trees.

Logan reached up to scratch his head. For an instant his brain registered the blinding flash, but he never heard the roar. Twenty darts shredded him and the blast slammed him back against the barn wall.

Lander, Fasil, and Dahlia came running through the smoke.

"Ground meat," Fasil said. They turned the slack body over and examined the back. Rapidly, they took pictures of the barn wall. It was bowed in and looked like a giant colander. Lander went inside the barn. Hundreds of small holes in the wall admitted points of light that freckled him as his camera clicked and clicked again.

"Very successful," Fasil said.

They dragged the body into the barn, sloshed gasoline over it and over the dry wood around it, and poured a trail of gasoline out the door for 20 yards. The fire flashed inside and lit the pools of gas with a "Whump" they felt on their faces.

Black smoke rose from the barn as the Cessna climbed out of sight.

"How did you find that place?" Fasil asked, leaning forward from the rear seat to be heard over the engine noise.

"I was hunting dynamite last summer," Lander said.

"Do you think the authorities will come soon?"

"I doubt it, they blast there all the time."