Beyond the Ice Limit

41

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, with the utmost care, wearing a radiation suit with an air supply, Gideon manipulated a small, overhead crane to maneuver the two assembled hemispheres of the nuclear device closer together. The plutonium pit was now in place, plated in twenty-four-karat gold, shining like a golden apple in the center of the layered implosion device. The two hemispheres looked like an exotic fruit, sliced down the middle. The device had been cleverly designed to slot together, with male and female plugs that fit with machined precision. The high-explosive lenses surrounding the core were also precisely machined. The shaped charges were in different colors—red for fast and white for slow—designed to focus the detonation wave into a contracting sphere so that it evenly compressed the core into a supercritical state.

The HMX explosive material gave off a faint chemical smell, a funky, plastic-like scent, that brought back memories of his years working on the Stockpile Stewardship program at the Los Alamos National Lab. Nuclear weapons aged in complex ways, and keeping the nation’s arsenal of nuclear weapons fresh and ready for use often meant disassembling bombs and replacing aging parts with new ones—a process not unlike what he was doing here.

Using two joysticks, he carefully worked the crane, making tiny adjustments, and finally was able to fit one hemisphere perfectly into the other, the cables and plugs slotting together, the machined HE parts sliding into place. He ran a quick electrical check and confirmed that all the electrical contacts had been made and were operating properly.

A double flange ran all the way around the stainless-steel outer shell, the holes lined up. He began inserting bolts through the holes cut into the flange and tightening them down.

He became aware of a presence behind him, and he straightened and turned. It was the new arrival, Sam McFarlane. Gideon felt a swell of annoyance at the interruption—and about how the man had crept up behind him. He had already spent an hour briefing him: what more did he want?

“This is a restricted area,” said Gideon.

McFarlane shrugged.

“You should be wearing a monkey suit.”

“Not necessary.”

Gideon stared. This was a really unwelcome visit. He should have locked the door. And then he remembered that he had; McFarlane must have procured a key.

“The HE is mildly toxic, and plutonium and polonium, in case you didn’t know, are poisonous in addition to being radioactive.”

“That concerns me not at all.”

“Well, then, is there something I can help you with?” he said, not trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“I’m making the rounds. Trying to figure out how you plan to kill the thing. And you’re in charge of briefing me—remember?” He looked around. “So here it is—the heart of the matter. The nuke.”

Gideon nodded.

“What are the specs?”

“It’s an implosion device. Plutonium, of course.” He wondered how much McFarlane knew about nuclear device engineering.

“What’s the yield?”

“About a hundred kilotons.”

“Nobody’s ever detonated a nuclear device two miles underwater. Have you calculated just how that depth will affect the explosion?”

Gideon was a bit startled that the man had put his finger on the trickiest and most uncertain part of the whole operation. “It’s a complex computer simulation. The water pressure appears to enhance the shock wave effects, but damp down the blast effects. It will completely kill the radiation, however—water stops neutrons.”

“And how will you deliver it?”

Gideon hesitated. Some things were confidential, even on board the ship.

“Glinn gave me complete access to everything,” said McFarlane.

“We’ve got a special ROV under wraps in the hangar. It’ll deliver the weapon.”

“And your calculations show the nuke will destroy the thing?”

“The blast effects will destroy the trunk and branches. The shock wave emanating from the detonation is essentially a P-wave so strong it will destroy even the creature’s cellular structures—turn them, in effect, to mush. That’s where the four-hundred-atmosphere water pressure really comes in handy.”

“And what lies below the seafloor? Will it kill that, too?”

“The pressure wave will propagate into the ground and destroy the root structure.”

“How far will it propagate, exactly?”

This was where the simulation began to break down, even pushing the limits of the onboard supercomputer. But he wasn’t going to tell McFarlane that. “Well, it seems likely it’ll sterilize the ground within a mile radius, to a depth of at least six hundred feet.”

“Six hundred feet.” McFarlane’s eyebrows rose. “And just how extensive is the root system of the creature?”

“We’re not sure. There’s always been an assumption that if we kill the structure above the seabed, we’ll kill the whole creature.”

“Isn’t that a risky assumption?”

“We think not. We can clearly see what we believe is the creature’s brain inside the top of the trunk.”

“What if it has other brains underground?”

Gideon took a deep breath. “Listen, Sam—may I call you Sam?”

“Of course.”

“We can speculate all day. I’ve got a lot of work to do here. Maybe you should take these questions up with Glinn.”

He found McFarlane looking at him rather intensely. “I’m taking them up with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I have no respect for either Glinn or Garza. I saw how both of them operated during the last hours of the Rolvaag’s existence. Glinn is a neurotic obsessive. Manuel is a superb engineer with no imagination whatsoever, which makes him doubly dangerous—talent married to convention.”

“I see.”

“If you want my opinion…” He paused, looking at Gideon. “Do you?”

Gideon was tempted to say he didn’t, but decided the better course was to hear him out. “Sure.”

“Your nuke’s not going to work. It’s going to kill the structure above the seafloor, sure, but I’ll bet the main body of the creature is underground. It’s too well engineered to be that vulnerable. You won’t get it all—the nuke’s not powerful enough.”

“So if not a nuke, what?” Gideon asked with no little exasperation.

“Before you make that decision, you need more information.”

“Such as?”

“Many years ago, when I was just getting started as a freelance meteorite hunter, I got a temporary job as a roughneck. Near Odessa, Texas. I was part of a team prospecting for oil. You know how they look for oil? They set an array of small explosive devices on the surface of the ground, along with seismic sensors. They detonate the explosives, which sends a pulse of seismic waves through the ground, which are then picked up by the sensors. A computer can process the information and draw a picture of what’s underground—the layers of rock, the fault lines, the discontinuities—and, of course, the hidden pools of petroleum.”

“Are you suggesting we do that here?”

“Absolutely. You need to map what’s underground. You need to be sure you’re going to get it all.”

Gideon looked at McFarlane. The man was leaning toward him, his pale-blue eyes glittering in a way that made Gideon uneasy, breathing a little too hard. He was rail-thin and dressed in such a slovenly fashion he might have been a homeless person. And yet, despite everything, despite what he knew about the man and his history, Gideon recognized the suggestion was a good one. A very good one.

“We could do that.”

“I sensed you were a person who would listen.” He extended his hand, took Gideon’s, and shook it. “I’ll design the array. You set up the explosives and seismic sensors. We’ll work together—partners.”

“Not partners. Collaborators.”