Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [192]
“Stay together and watch your step for weak spots in the deck,” Adnan said. He checked his sketch, then faced aft to orient himself. Second hatch down, he thought, down one ladder, turn right …
They set out, walking stiffly and slightly bowlegged, the fabric of their suits rasping at armpits and thighs. Adnan kept his head moving, checking both the deck beneath his feet and the overhang above. He tried not to think of the invisible particles bombarding his suit and penetrating his skin. Like the railing gate’s latch, the dogging lever on the hatch was rusted and resisted his first tug. Another member of the team joined him, and together they heaved back on the lever until it screeched open.
Each man clicked on his flashlight, and one by one they stepped through the hatch and started downward. At the next deck they turned left down a passageway. They passed three side passages, each lined with cabin doors or hatches. Pipes and electrical conduits crisscrossed the ceiling like veins. At the fourth intersection, Adnan turned left and stopped at a door. There was a porthole window at eye level. He peered through but could see nothing.
He turned around. “There will likely be water on the deck. That will be our biggest risk. Don’t rely too much on the handrails or catwalk. If something starts to give way, you must freeze and not panic. Is that understood?”
He got nods all around.
“What does it look like, this container?”
“An oil drum, but only half as tall. If Allah wills it, it will still be secured to the wall of the containment vault.” Better that Allah will that the containment door still be shut and locked, Adnan thought. Otherwise, they had no chance of finding what they came for before the radiation killed them. “Any other questions?” he asked.
There were none.
Adnan turned back to the door and tried the knob; largely protected as it was from the salt air, it turned freely. He slowly pushed the door open until it was wide enough to accommodate him but kept a hold of the knob so the door wouldn’t swing shut as they entered. He took a tentative step forward, placing his foot flat on the catwalk and slowly shifting his weight forward until certain it would hold him. He took another step, then turned left, then two more steps. He looked over his shoulder and nodded. The next man entered.
As cargo spaces went, this one was small, measuring roughly one hundred square feet and twenty feet deep. The catwalk on which they stood extended the length of the bulkhead and ended at a ladder. Once the rest of the men were through the door, Adnan started down the catwalk. At the halfway point, he stopped and stepped to the railing, taking care not to bump it. He shined his flashlight at the overhead and could see the twenty-foot by twenty-foot square outline of the loading hatch; along one edge he could see a sliver of gray light. This is where the seawater had entered, he knew. The loading hatch had torqued during a starboard roll and the seal had given way. He shined his flashlight downward. As he’d feared, the deck was awash, a slurry of black seawater and radioactive dust and chunks of spent fuel rods, several of which he could see floating on the surface. Somewhere down there were the lead-lined containment “sarcophagi.” How many of the lids had broken free during the accident? he wondered. How many fuel rods remained locked in the caskets?
They proceeded to the ladder.
“Is that it?” one of the men asked, shining his light down the steps.
At the bottom, across six feet of flooded deck, was a bank vault-style door secured by eight dogging levers, three to each side and one at the top and bottom. At waist height along the left-hand jamb was a latching mechanism secured by a padlock.
“Allah be praised,” Adnan murmured.
57
THE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT outside Archangel mainly handled domestic flights, and few enough of those, except in the summer. More took the train south,