Prisoners of Tomorrow (55 page)

Stunned, Anita stared down at the table. Borden looked over at Foleda and exhaled a long breath. “You were right all down the line, Bern. . . . Look, it’s kinda late in the day to say so, I know, but—” Foleda waved his hand in a way that said it was okay, save it till later. Borden nodded. “So what’s the situation out front?” he inquired, nodding toward the door.

“Technically it looks good,” Foleda said. “State is talking to the Japanese now, and we’ve got an emergency military hookup through NASA. The President’s being kept posted, and the defense secretary and Chiefs of Staff are standing by.”

Borden got up from his chair. “Then, let’s get on down and see what comes in,” he said. And to Anita and Zatin, “You’ve helped a lot. Thanks. We’d like you to stay around for a while.”

As they passed by Foleda’s outer office, Foleda stopped to poke his head in. “Have Security send someone to take care of the visitors while they’re in the building,” he said to Barbara. “We’re going on down to Communications. Anything new here?”

“The Japanese want to know if we’re willing to underwrite the cost of lost research time on IROO if they reassign it to Mermaid,” she told him.

“Shit,” Foleda said over his shoulder as he turned to follow Borden again. “Tell ’em I’ll write a personal check.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Paula’s feelings as she drove back to Turgenev in the security police van with Major Uskayev and their escort were very different from the zeal that had carried her in the opposite direction just a few hours earlier. Although it was a source of wonder to think that the valley packed with buildings and trees beyond the roadway, the Russian television crews filming decorations being set up for tomorrow’s celebrations, and the panoramic view of the hub and starfield overhead in the agricultural sector were all parts of an illusion manufactured underground in Siberia, she remained quiet and subdued.

Thinking back over everything that had happened in the six months since it had all begun, she could see now how systematically and ruthlessly she had been deceived. And what had made the deception possible was her own intellectual conceit and a conviction of infallibility that it had never crossed her mind to question. The irony was that it was she, the scientist, who had taken her assumptions for granted; Earnshaw, the cavalier, had questioned every assumption. That, of course, was the way the Russians had set it up. That, precisely, had been their whole intention.

The Tangerine file had never existed. The story had been planted on Western intelligence as the irresistible lure that it had turned out to be, guaranteeing they would send somebody to try and retrieve it. Depicting it as a computer file—but one held inside a low-security maintenance computer, and hence not impossible to extract—ensured they would send somebody expert in Soviet computer techniques, and hence qualified to be duped into setting up the communications channel later.

What stung most of all was the realization that the long period of isolation and interrogation after her arrest had constituted an elaborate process of observation and testing by the Russians to find the right combination of vanity, stubbornness, exaggerated self-confidence, and political naivete that they needed for their purpose. And out of all the candidates who had been brought to
Tereshkova
in various ways during the past year or so, hers was the dubious distinction of having passed every test with honors. “The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people are full of doubts,” she remembered quoting pompously to Earnshaw on their voyage up. “How come he didn’t add, ‘I think’?” Earnshaw had asked. It had taken her this long to understand what he’d meant.

A lot of things were painfully clear with hindsight. The women who had been such obvious plants in her cell during the initial interrogation period had been meant to be obvious—to entice her into a mood of self-congratulation for having spotted them, and contempt toward those whom she had mistaken for fools. Thus they had established in her a conviction based on false security that
she
couldn’t be fooled; or, if she was more honest with herself, they had simply built upon the belief they found existing there already. She remembered a stage magician she met at a party once, who had talked about how easily some scientists were fooled by claims of paranormal phenomena. “Basically it plays upon conceit,” the conjurer had said. “They don’t like to think they can be taken in by ‘mere entertainers.’ Therefore their subconscious thinking runs something like: If
I
can’t spot the trick, then there can’t be a trick. The only choice they’ve got left then is to accept what they think they’ve seen as genuine.”

The spell in the kitchens, the environment she’d been put in, the degradations she’d been subjected to—all calculated to create a readiness born of desperation to throw herself at the first promise of escape back to anything resembling her kind of world, with her kind of people. And so they’d drugged her food to make her sick, and that had gotten her into the infirmary, ready for Olga’s appearance, staged after their “coincidental” encounter in the corridor outside Protbornov’s office. That, of course, had been to make sure that Paula would approach Olga first, thus avoiding any of the suspicions that might have been caused by Olga’s coming to her. The position in the Environmental Department, the link to “Ivan” that had needed a technical expert to restore it, and the manipulation to make her believe that extending the link to the West had been her own idea—all parts of the plan. And then, playing on the personality traits that she recalled snatches of having revealed during the drugged, hazy period of her early interrogation, there had been Svetlana, Elena, Gennadi, and others—all acting out roles calculated to echo and amplify her own prejudices and perceptions, and reinforce her private self-image.

The hardest part of all to swallow was Olga’s treachery. Paula had not only trusted her, but had admired and accepted her as sharing a common ethic based on truth, honor, and integrity that put them above the irrationalities of a lesser world. Truth, honor, integrity! Olga had baited her line with those very sentiments. As Scanlon had said, the thought of turning their own deceptions back on them by continuing to play their own game had a very sweet, poetic appeal to it.

They arrived at the Government Center in Turgenev and went straight up to a room full of maps, screens, and communications equipment, where Olga and Protbornov were waiting. Some other officials and officers were doing a good job of pretending to be anxious. Olga played her part with nauseating perfection. “Thank heavens you’re all right, Paula. You were gone a long time. I was beginning to worry. Did you speak to Earnshaw? What did he say? Will he do it?”

Paula looked Olga straight in the eye and nodded. “Yes, he’s convinced. He’ll do it. He and Scanlon are going to try getting up onto the roof of the air-processing plant next to the Security Headquarters building, where they can observe the main square and operate the laser.” Despite himself, Protbornov was unable to suppress a triumphant gleam in his eyes at Paula’s confirmation that Scanlon would be accompanying Earnshaw. This was the last of the possible problems that the Russians had anticipated. It was important that Scanlon go too. He knew where on the roof to point the laser.

“Which route will they be taking?” Protbornov asked.

“Up from the freight line through the terminal below Turgenev center,” Paula replied. “From there they’ll come into the square through the shops on the north side disguised as civilians, with the laser and spectrometer dismantled, rolled up inside bundles that look like parade banners. With the square crowded, they figure on slipping in to the garage below the air-processing plant, finding a way up to the roof, and tapping into a power line somewhere to run the equipment.”

“When will they be coming?”

“Three hours from now—when the crowd starts getting big for the First Secretary’s arrival.” The final shipload of Soviet VIPs, including the First Secretary of the Communist Party, Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, and the whole of the top cadre of government, would arrive in time for its passengers to rest and freshen up before welcoming the UN ship bringing the rest of the world’s delegates twelve hours later.

Protbornov looked over at Major Uskayev. “Did you get that? Get on to Security control and make sure they have the details. Under no circumstances are any of the police to interfere. Make sure Earnshaw and Scanlon have an unobstructed route up to the roof, and clear any watchmen, or anyone else who might interfere, off the premises.”

“Right away, sir,” Uskayev said, and left the room.

“And for you, we have something special,” Protbornov told Paula. He slipped an arm around her shoulder in an almost fatherly fashion and steered her over to two men in suits who were waiting nearby. “Here are the engineers who will brief you. You came here as a television journalist, yes? Well, now we are going to make you into a real one. Very appropriate, don’t you think? Would an American find it funny?” His eyes twinkled, and the craggy, heavy-jowled face actually contorted itself into a laugh. “But not public television, of course—as we promised. Just a private transmission to your own people. Our embassy in Washington is making the arrangements now.” He presented her to the two men. “This is the American lady who might save the world.” They smiled dutifully and said it was a pleasure to meet her. Olga, who was on Paula’s other side, actually had the nerve to turn and kiss her on the cheek. At least the ecstatic shine in Olga’s eyes was genuine.

“No, the pleasure’s mine,” Paula told them. And that statement was quite genuine, too.

Meanwhile, in a compartment in the deeper levels below Zamork, McCain, Scanlon, Koh, and Rashazzi, assisted by Mungabo, Charlie Chan, and Borowski, had finished their preparations and were almost ready to begin cutting through the outer hull wall. . . .

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The tank was made of heavy-gauge steel sheet, solidly riveted. Before they drained it, it had contained fresh water and been one of a row of several such tanks in a compartment on the service deck beneath the recently opened civilian level below Zamork. Then they had cut off the top five-foot section with an acetylene torch from the engineers’ stores they had broken into, lifted it off, and turned it on its side to form an open box, with the inspection hatch that had been on top now in the side opposite the open one. Getting down into the service deck had proved easier than expected—the place was virtually deserted, no doubt because of the holiday and the celebrations commencing up on the surface.

Rashazzi had guessed, and Scanlon had confirmed, that even though the structure they were in was not in space, nevertheless it was rotating in a vacuum—in fact, inside an evacuated toroidal tunnel. Besides reducing power requirements, the vacuum would eliminate wind noise from the outside—a strange thing for people to hear who were supposed to think they were in space—and it would insulate the structure from the surroundings, avoiding the risk of unusual heat patterns on the surface that might arouse the curiosity of Western surveillance satellites. Hence a breakout party would still need the survival suits, and it would need an airlock. However, they hadn’t been able to find a chamber small enough and strong enough, adjacent to the outer wall, to use as one. The compartment holding the water tanks and associated pumping machinery came closest, but its volume was still much too large to evacuate in a reasonable time—other than explosively. And even if they did evacuate it, Rashazzi was doubtful that the walls could withstand the load that would have resulted from the normal pressure in the rooms surrounding it.

Therefore they had improvised their own airlock. The section of tank now stood with its open side butted up against the outer wall and secured by crude welds to the reinforcing ribs. Rolls of rubber padding and thick plastic sheet, stiffened by metal plates and heavy with “Razz-goo,” were wedged all around the joint, which had then been heavily dusted with powdered chalk. The packing would be sucked in tighter when the box was evacuated, and the seal didn’t have to be a perfect seal anyway—moderate leakage from the huge volume outside the tank would be of no consequence.

Mungabo, with Charlie Chan and Borowski, now recovered from their initial amazement at what had been going on not so far beneath their feet, had finished cutting away a section of the inner wall—Scanlon had confirmed that the outer wall was also a pressure vessel and would be able to take the load. The tank would be evacuated by the simple expedient of drilling holes through the final skin to the vacuum outside, and then cutting away the entire section as soon as the pressure had fallen low enough. A thick steel plate over the inspection hatch on the other side of the tank would be adequate to close it off, since the pressure of the air outside would keep the plate in place.

Suited up already, McCain, Scanlon, Rashazzi, and Koh had spent the last hour sitting against a step in the floor, resting and breathing oxygen, to denitrogenate their body tissues, from a large cylinder connected to the four hoses. McCain found the garment heavy and constricting, like a stiff scuba wetsuit, and it seemed to stick to itself and everything else where the sealing compound that Rashazzi had concocted oozed from the joints. In front of them, Mungabo climbed out of the hatch in the side of the box and began passing items of equipment that Borowski checked off against a list to Charlie Chan, who was still inside. There were two battery-operated inspection lamps and a regular flashlight apiece, for there was no reason to expect the outside to be lit—Scanlon didn’t think it was; four heavy-duty electric hand-drills, and a reel carrying hundreds of feet of cable connecting back through a packed hole in the side of the tank to an electrical junction box; two satchels full of large aluminum eyebolts, S hooks, snaplinks, and miscellaneous lines and slings accumulated during the two months since they’d had the idea of crossing over the outside to get to the spokes; a hundred-foot rope ladder formed by making loops at intervals along a nylon line and tying them to a second line; spare oxygen bottles; two bags containing clothes to change into when they got out; and a bag of assorted tools.