stonecrandall Chapter 176 Troy's Scrap Metal
Chapter 176 Troy's Scrap Metal
June 28, 1989, 2 PM.
Carl Zeiss Jena factory, open-air scrap equipment storage yard.
Gray coal smoke floated in the sky, and low-hanging clouds made the entire factory area feel extremely oppressive. The waste yard was surrounded by waist-high withered yellow weeds, among which were scattered rusty gears, broken conveyor belts, and piles of discarded optical instrument casings.
The air was filled with the pungent smell of industrial cutting fluid, mixed with the strong, bloody odor of iron oxide.
Dr. Klaus Weber stood in the center of the storage yard.
He wore a dark gray windproof jacket and mud-caked work boots. In his hand, he held a faxed letter of intent bearing the Saionji Group logo, the paper trembling slightly in the damp, chilly wind.
He was surrounded by five or six men.
Standing at the forefront were the factory manager of the Jena plant and an official from the Ministry of Foreign Trade who had come from East Berlin. These two leaders, who were usually aloof and arrogant, were now all smiles, their backs slightly hunched, closely following Weber.
"Dr. Weber, what do you think of this batch of polishing machines?"
The factory manager pointed to a pile of iron lumps covered with a tattered tarpaulin in the corner, his tone clearly ingratiating.
"This is an antique from the 1960s. The base is made entirely of solid cast iron and is quite heavy. Since the Japanese charge by the ton for scrap metal, these things are definitely heavy enough to weigh a lot."
Weber's gaze fell on the pile of scrap metal.
The tarpaulin was lifted by a corner by the wind, revealing the mottled, peeling green paint and thick rust underneath.
Weber pushed up his thick-rimmed glasses. His fingers clenched into fists in his pockets, his nails digging into his palms, using the slight pain to maintain the stiffness in his facial muscles.
He cannot reveal any flaws.
He held the fax paper up to his face, glanced at the terms and conditions as if to be serious, and then sighed heavily.
"Since they want scrap metal, we'll give them scrap metal."
Weber's voice carried an obvious sense of humiliation, even a hint of resentment born of being forced into a corner. He perfectly portrayed a technical expert humiliated by capitalists, yet forced to bow down for the sake of the country's foreign exchange reserves.
"Pull out the bases of those heavy-duty machine tools. And pack all the rough grinding mill sleeves over there into boxes."
Weber loudly directed the workers in the distance, waving his arms in the air.
"Choose the heaviest one! The bulkier the better! Anyway, that Japanese woman doesn't understand the internal workings; she only cares about the weight."
Upon hearing this, the official from the Ministry of Foreign Trade smiled even more broadly.
"Dr. Weber, thank you for your hard work. If this project can be successfully completed and the foreign exchange settled, the ministry will definitely give you a major commendation. The West German marks from Japan are exactly what the national treasury needs most right now."
Weber ignored the officials' flattery.
He walked straight to the massive, old machine tool bases. These bases had complex internal cavity structures, originally designed for filling with shock-absorbing fluid.
He stretched out his rough fingers and tapped the rusty cast iron casing.
The dull metallic echo reverberated across the empty scrap yard.
"Let's order these ten."
Weber drew several huge crosses on the base with white chalk.
"We'll move everything into packing workshop number three tonight. Tomorrow morning, we'll seal the boxes and load them onto the trucks."
The factory manager immediately ordered the workers to start the crane.
The diesel engine spewed out a plume of black smoke, and the rusty steel cables slowly tightened, hoisting the scrap metal that had been lying dormant for over a decade into the air.
Weber stood in the shadows, looking at the iron lump in mid-air.
The thick-rimmed glasses reflected the dim light of the sky.
……
It was 11:30 p.m.
The factory has a precision optics laboratory on the second basement floor.
The heavy, soundproof iron gate completely isolated the sound of the wind on the ground and the footsteps of the patrolmen in the factory area.
The temperature inside the laboratory was kept constant at twenty degrees Celsius. Incandescent lamps emitted a steady, pale light. The floor was spotless, and an old interferometer sat quietly in the center of the room, its metallic surface gleaming with a cold luster.
The ventilation ducts overhead emitted a low whistling sound.
Dr. Weber stood before the large stainless steel workbench.
Two young men stood before him: Dieter and Frank.
They wore dark blue anti-static overalls, their hands pressed stiffly against the sides of their trousers. Both were Weber's most prized students, possessing exceptional spatial geometric intuition and a talent for materials science. However, due to certain historical issues within their families, they were permanently excluded from the core research and development team and relegated to basic data verification work in this basement.
"Teacher, did you call us here because of some urgent testing task?"
Dieter glanced at the clock on the wall and asked in a low voice.
Weber did not speak.
He turned and walked to the locker, his back to the two students, and pulled a thin piece of paper from his inner pocket.
He walked back to the worktable and laid the note flat on the cold stainless steel surface.
The note had a string of handwritten numbers printed on it, along with the words "Zurich Union Bank".
"come over."
Weber's voice was extremely hoarse.
Two young men stepped forward, their eyes landing on the note.
Frank's breath caught in his throat. In this country, possessing foreign bank account information is an extremely serious crime.
Weber opened the drawer under the workbench, took out a folded world map, and unfolded it next to the note.
His finger was pressed in the center of the map.
Then, the finger slowly moved eastward, crossing the vast Eurasian continent, and finally stopped on that long and narrow island nation on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.
Tokyo.
"There is a laboratory there."
Weber stared at the markers on the map, his voice sounding somewhat faint amidst the whistling of the ventilation ducts.
"Unrestricted by the Coordinating Committee for Multilateral Export Controls (COCOM). Possesses state-of-the-art electron microscopes, a full suite of precision Japanese sensors, and unlimited R&D budget."
Dieter and Frank looked up, staring at their teacher in shock.
"Teacher... what are you saying?" Frank's voice trembled.
Weber raised his eyelids, his cloudy gaze sweeping over the young faces of his two students.
"Yesterday in Alexanderplatz, that arrogant Japanese woman bought a batch of scrap metal."
He paused for a moment, then slowly clenched his fists on the worktable.
"What she wants to buy is what's in your heads."
The laboratory fell into dead silence.
Only the hum of the incandescent bulb amplified in my ears.
Dieter's pupils contracted sharply, a mixture of terror and some indescribable emotion flashing in his eyes. He instinctively took a half-step back and glanced at the tightly closed laboratory door.
Escape from the Iron Curtain. Defection.
These words exploded in their minds. If they failed, endless interrogations awaited them at Hornschenhausen Prison.
"No need to answer right away."
Weber withdrew his finger and folded the map back up.
"I'm giving you five minutes. After five minutes, if you don't want to, you can push open this door and go home to sleep. I guarantee that what happened tonight never happened."
Weber turned around, his back to them, and faced the old interferometer.
Time passed second by second.
The air in the basement became extremely viscous.
Frank gritted his teeth. He looked at Dieter. The two of them ate potatoes every day in their dilapidated apartment, calculating optical models that would never be put into production. Their talent was slowly rotting away there.
A fervor for pure technology and a yearning for the freedom to breathe gradually overwhelmed the fear within.
"teacher."
Frank stepped forward and stood at the worktable.
Dieter followed closely behind, placing his hands on the stainless steel tabletop.
"What do we need to do?"
Weber turned around.
Behind those thick-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed with an extreme, suppressed madness.
……
One o'clock in the morning.
Packing Workshop No. 3.
The huge roller shutter door was tightly closed. Here were the bases of ten discarded machine tools that had been selected during the day.
Only a few dim wall lamps illuminated the workshop, and the air was filled with the strong smell of stale engine oil.
Weber, Dieter, and Frank stood in the far corner next to the base of a polishing machine.
Dieter was carrying a black briefcase. There were a few fresh scratches on the surface of the briefcase, which they had just taken from the safe in the confidential archives using a privately made key, taking advantage of their night shift privileges.
"Open."
Weber gave the instructions.
"Click".
The box latch popped open.
Inside, dozens of black plastic cylinders were neatly stacked, along with several thick stacks of documents.
The cylinder contained miniature film reels. These reels contained the core optical design diagrams for the extreme ultraviolet lithography lens front-facing camera at the Carl Zeiss Jena factory. The other documents contained the precise chemical formula parameters for special optical glass.
This is the culmination of half a century of optical industry development in East Germany.
Frank took a large roll of waterproof parchment paper from the tool rack next to him.
The three moved extremely quickly.
They divided the microfilm and formula documents into several small packages. Each package was tightly wrapped in three layers of waterproof paper, and the edges were sealed with insulating tape.
Lead foil.
Weber reached out his hand.
Dieter handed over a thick roll of silver-gray lead foil.
The vehicle X-ray machines at border checkpoints are extremely sensitive. Only high-density lead foil can completely block the penetration of the rays.
Weber personally performed the procedure.
He used industrial scissors to cut lead foil and wrapped it layer by layer in the oil paper. The lead foil was very thick, and folding it required tremendous finger strength. Weber's knuckles bent desperately, and his fingertips trembled slightly from the excessive force.
Package complete.
Several heavy, silver-gray cubes lay quietly on the ground.
"wrench."
Weber turned and walked toward the massive cast iron base.
The machine's base has a bolted access cover on the side. The bolts are severely rusted and almost fused to the cast iron.
Frank handed him a heavy-duty socket wrench.
Weber secured the socket to the rusted hex bolt, gripped the long handle of the wrench with both hands, and pulled hard.
"Squeak—creak—"
A piercing metallic scraping sound suddenly rang out in the empty workshop, making one's teeth ache.
Rust flakes off in a soft, crackling sound.
Dieter and Frank also stepped forward to help. The three of them gritted their teeth, the veins on their necks bulging.
With heavy breathing and the clicking of the wrench, the six large bolts were finally removed.
The heavy inspection cover was removed, revealing a cavity inside the base that was covered in black oil stains.
Weber picked up the lead foil package from the ground and carefully stuffed it into the deepest part of the cavity.
The package fit perfectly into the gap between the cast iron ribs.
"iron sand."
Frank brought over a heavy sack.
Unlock the bag, and black iron filings poured out.
Dieter took a shovel and began filling the cavity with iron filings, scooping them in one by one. The iron filings flowed through the gaps, completely burying the lead foil wrappings.
When he was halfway through filling in the form, Weber called a halt to the process.
He turned and walked to the waste oil drum in the corner, and brought back a large bucket of thick, blackened waste engine oil.
"Pour it in."
Black waste oil slowly poured into the cavity.
The viscous liquid seeped into the gaps in the iron filings, making a nauseating gurgling sound. The smell of waste oil instantly filled the entire space.
The iron filings added weight, and the waste oil filled all the gaps. Any tapping on the base no longer produced a hollow echo.
The cavity was filled.
"Cover it up."
The three of them worked together to put the heavy cover back onto the base.
The bolts were retightened.
The wrench turned again, producing a dull, locking sound. With each turn, a drop of sweat dripped from Frank's forehead, hitting the greasy concrete floor.
Tighten it tightly.
Weber crouched down and scooped up a handful of black sludge mixed with rust fragments from the puddle on the ground.
He smeared the filthy grease hard onto the joint between the newly tightened bolts and cover plates. He rubbed his fingers vigorously on the metal surface, completely covering up the fresh metal scratches.
He stepped back two paces and examined the machine.
Greasy, dilapidated, and rusty.
There were no signs of tampering.
This is a perfect work of art.
A Trojan horse disguised as scrap metal.
"Clean it up."
Weber took out a rag and wiped the grease off his hands.
Dieter and Frank quickly cleaned up the iron filings and oil stains on the ground and put the tools back in their place.
Four o'clock in the morning.
The workshop fell silent once more.
The three stood in the shadows, watching the ten silent steel behemoths. Their heavy breathing gradually subsided.
……
It's six o'clock in the morning.
Loading platform.
A grayish-white mist enveloped the factory area. The air was unusually damp and cold.
Several workers were using pneumatic nail guns to nail the heavy wooden crates together, one by one.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The dull sound of nail guns echoed in the thin mist.
A clerk from the foreign trade department was using a large black marker to spray eye-catching German characters on the surface of a sealed wooden crate.
[Scrap Metal/Export/Destination: West Berlin]
Weber stood on the edge of the platform.
He was still clutching the rag stained with black oil in his hand.
A light mist dampened his hair and thick-rimmed glasses.
He didn't speak or make any unnecessary movements.
Through the fog, I watched as workers operated yellow forklifts, steadily loading huge wooden crates into the cargo beds of heavy trucks.
The chain tightened, producing a crisp metallic clang.
In this dilapidated factory, reeking of lignite, the optical soul of East Germany for half a century was thus sealed away in a few rusty lumps of iron.
The truck driver climbed into the cab and closed the door.
The engine roared.
A thick plume of black exhaust fumes shot out from the exhaust pipe, dispersing the surrounding mist.
The first snowflake fell, bringing with it the chill of early winter.
Snowflakes landed on the rough wooden box, paused for a second, and then slowly seeped into the cracked wood grain.
The truck slowly drove off the platform and headed toward Checkpoint Charlie.