The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

One might imagine that there was an Israeli agent behind every parked car or
behind every window, and such thoughts kept one awake and alert. Not here. Here
they guarded machines that sat dumbly still. For diversion, and also in keeping
with their duties, the guards kept an eye on the machinists, following them
around the room, to and from their eating and sleeping spaces, and even on some
of their less complicated jobs. Though not well-educated, Achmed was a bright
man, quick to learn, and he fancied that he could have done any of these
machinist jobs, given a few months to learn the trade properly. He was very good
with weapons, able to diagnose a problem or fix an improper sight as quickly and
well as a master gunsmith.
As he walked around, he listened to the drone of the blowers for the various air
systems, and on each circuit he looked at the instrument panels that reported
their status. The panels also monitored the backup generators, making sure each
night that there was sufficient fuel in the tanks.
'They are awfully worried about the schedule, aren't they?' Achmed mused. He
continued his walk around, hoping the indicator light would blink off. He and
his companion stopped to look at the same metallic bar that had so interested
Fromm and Ghosn.
'What do you suppose that is?'
'Something wondrous,' Achmed said. 'Certainly they are keeping it as secret as
they can.'
'I think it's part of an atomic bomb.'
Achmed turned. 'Why do you say that?'
'One of the machinists said it could be nothing else.'
'Wouldn't that be something to give to our Israeli friends?'
'After all the Arabs who've died in the last few years – the Israelis, the
Americans, all the rest . . . Yes, it would be a fine gift.' They continued
their walk past the idle machines. 'I wonder what the rush is?'
'Whatever it is, they want it finished on time.' Achmed paused again, looking at
the plethora of metal and plastic parts on the assembly table. An atomic bomb?
he asked himself. But some of these things looked like . . . like soda straws,
long, thin ones, wrapped in tight bundles and twisted slightly . . . Soda straws
– in an atomic bomb? That was not possible. An atomic bomb had to be . . . what?
He admitted to himself that he had no idea at all. Well, he was able to read the
Koran, and the newspapers, and weapons manuals. It wasn't his fault he hadn't
had the chance to have proper schooling like Ghosn, whom he liked in a distant
and slightly jealous way. Such a fine thing, an education. If only his own
father had been something more than a displaced peasant, a shopowner, perhaps,
someone able to save a little money . . .
On his next circuit, he saw the – paint can? That's what it looked like. The
metal shavings from the lathe were collected from the Freon sump. Achmed had
seen the process often enough. The scrap – it looked mainly like very fine
metallic thread – was collected mechanically and loaded into the container,
which did look very much like a paint can, using a window and thick rubber
gloves. The can was then placed into a double-door chamber and removed, taken to
the next room, and opened in another similar chamber and put into one of those
odd crucibles.