Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Although Leonid Sakharov worked more than ten hours straight, he did not allow his fragility to slow his pace. In fact, Sakharov appeared to have more of a bite to his stamina, more of a hitch to his gait as he roamed from one unit to another, from one monitor to the next.

While Levine stood sentinel by the bay doors, one of the few spots in the lab afforded to him by Sakharov, he watched the old man operate the nanoscopic machines with eagerness that had been missing in the old man since leaving Vladimir Central, and subsisting on the memories of someday returning to his one true love: nanotechnology.

And here he was, inside a lab with the most advanced technology the profits of oil could buy despite the UN sanctions that crippled the country.

In the fore of the lab Sakharov was seated before the most powerful microprocessor in the world that had millions of transistors just a few dozen nanometers wide, a nanometer being a billionth of the size of a meter. The technology was a marvel in the eyes of Levine, the machinery incomprehensible since something manufactured that was a billionth of size truly existed. But the Holy Grail was the Assembler, Sakharov’s pride and joy. The machinery was state-of-the-art technology that built nanobots molecule by molecule until molecular chains were created, the chain itself becoming the fusion of the nanobot.

With quick efficiency drawn from memories, Sakharov expertly crafted molecular chains that would take on a programmed life of its own and replicate. To program a lifespan and to give it a platform to perform to the will of their Creator was a different matter, a different process. So for years he sketched theories in his mind. And now that he was handed the opportunity to accomplish the means during the twilight of his life, Sakharov was creating with much success. Within hours he created the chains. Within days he designed a program to imbue in the molecules. Within a month he would become a God.

The makeup within the nanobots was a predesigned half-life with every subsequent bot living approximately half the lifespan of its predecessor. This was a safety feature to keep the nanobots from replicating exponentially, based on Drexler’s theory that unrestrained growth would cause the bots to consume all organic material on Earth within weeks.

With half a lifespan with every replication, their time would always be minimized to the point where each and every bot would exist down to a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, hardly time for them to exist long enough to do any damage, which was Sakharov’s goal: Maximum damage in the beginning, zero to none thereafter.

At the end of the day and at a specific time, Sakharov would create a disk of the day’s acquired data and proffer it to Levine who was summarily escorted by two Quds soldiers to the Comm Center. This was the only time he was allowed into the communications station per agreement between al-Sherrod and al-Ghazi, and through President Ahmadinejad. Since the data was crucial, since a tenebrous alliance was born between factions with a common goal, since trust remained at a bare minimum, Levine was able to, via imaging satellite, speak to al-Ghazi, whose image appeared slightly grainy on the live feed on the monitor screen.

After placing the disc into the required slot of the computer, Levine spoke into the lip mike. “Download today’s data,” he said evenly.

On another screen designs of molecular chains, nanobots and buckyballs, along with scientific equations, formulas and rows of text, downloaded, the screen becoming a cyberscript of symbols and rune-like designs. Once the material was downloaded, he said, “Send specifications to given address: Tehran. Al-Ghazi.”

The data moved through cyberspace within the blink of an eye, the information relocating to al-Ghazi’s location and downloaded onto a disc on his end.

And then: “And how are you, Umar?”

“I’m fine,” he answered.

It was here that al-Ghazi would look for particular facial tics on Levine’s face, with certain tics meaning certain things. If the data proved false or doctored, then he would give a subtle wink with his left eye; if under duress, then a wink with his right, two separate gestures with plenty of meaning behind them. Should Levine give off the impression of either, then al-Ghazi would counter with a gesture of his own by blinking his eyes twice, a signal to Levine to use his very particular set of skills to kill Sakharov, ending the concord between the alliances. But his features remained stolid, meaning that Ahmadinejad was, at least for now, complying with the conditions of the agreement. To get this message across that everything was pretty much copasetic, he would then tent his hands in mock prayer and bounce his fingertips off the base of his chin.

Whenever he did this he could see relief fall over al-Ghazi’s face. At least for now, Ahmadinejad was keeping to the agreement that the data should be shared between alliances, even with marginal distrust between them.

“Good,” al-Ghazi said from the other end. “It appears he’s making incredible strides.”

“Sakharov knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s done it before.”

“And you, Umar?”

“I know little of his project,” he told him. “But the techs he’s working with seem to be grasping his theories quite well.”

“How much longer do you think it will take?’

Levine shrugged. “If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say maybe two weeks, three at the most.”

“Excellent. Is that what he told you?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“Al-Sherrod must be pleased.”

“He is. So is President Ahmadinejad.”

“With UN sanctions crippling his nation, he will now have some leverage against Israel should they commit to a military strike against their facilities. But it’s not the nuclear programs they should be worried about, but the program of Doctor Sakharov.”

Levine fell back in his chair. The room was dark all around him with the occasional glow from the monitor screens and blinking lights from the surrounding computer modules. He had to get word to his contacts, that a bunker not within the eyes of his country’s satellite system is developing a weapon of mass destruction far more devastating than a nuclear device.

“Umar?”

He snapped aware. “Yes, al-Ghazi.”

“I will speak with you again tomorrow, same time.”

“Yes, al-Ghazi.”

“And watch over the good doctor, yes?”

“I will.”

From his end al-Ghazi gave him a cursory salute. “Allahu Akbar.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

The monitor winked off.

In a dash of a moment before he stood, he took quick note of the other monitor screens, taking in that they were surveillance monitors of areas within the facility and outside with NVG cameras watching the areas surrounding the MG nests, paths leading to the facility, the helipad, and the banks of fuel cells lining the ridge, the power source for the facility. Fuel cells, he knew, were extremely volatile. Explosions by themselves might not destroy the facility. But coupled with a military strike from Israeli fighter planes, the missiles would certainly cause the bunker to collapse.

Since he was constantly being watched he knew he would have to act sometime before Sakharov finished his project. But if he killed the doctor, then he would have no way to contact his sources since he would no doubt be executed. Worse, the doctor had finished enough of the process for the Iranian scientists to pick up where he left off. Now he had no choice but to compromise his position and order a strike to destroy the bunker and the data, quashing the project and the minds contained within.

And then there was al-Ghazi. He knew where he was and the threat he had become now that he possessed much of the unfinished data.

It was time to make a move. But first he would need to fathom a plan rather than to act hastily.

A rough hand touched down on his shoulder, the hand of a Quds soldier. In Farsi he barked an order. It was time to leave the Comm Center.

Standing, Aryeh Levine knew that his time was limited on this planet. But he also understood that the romance of being an operative was over. He had done his job and done it well. Now it was time to cash out and he would do so in a very large way, in a blaze of fiery glory.

After all, he was saving Israel. More likely other parts of the world, as well.

Therefore Sakharov must not finish.

The bunker cannot stand.

And al-Ghazi cannot survive the week.

Being directed toward the exit by the rough hand of a Quds soldier, Aryeh Levine’s mind was already working.