Fitzduane emerged from the shower with the strong feeling that he was associating with a subculture whose values the original Sir Hugo Fitzduane – he of the thirteenth century who invasion of Ireland had started the cycle – would readily have identified with.
"They all run?" he said incredulously. "Hell, man, there's fifteen thousand of them. Some of them have to be couch potatoes. It's against human nature for the entire population of the equivalent of a small Irish city to go running every morning. I mean I run, Al, and you run – and we have our reasons – but a complete community rising up and putting in five miles before breakfast is downright kinky."
Lonsdale grinned. "Scout's honor," he said. "Every morning they close off Ardennes and, from the commanding general to the lowliest trooper, they all pound the pavement. Even after an EDRE."
"What is an EDRE?" said Fitzduane.
"Emergency deployment readiness exercise," said Lonsdale. "That's what the 82 ^ nd is all about. They're a kind of strategic fire brigade. Give them eighteen hours' notice, and they are wheels up to just about anywhere."
"In the world?" said Fitzduane.
"If an aircraft can fly over it, they can get to it," said Lonsdale. "‘Force projection,’ they call it."
"A subtle turn of phrase," said Fitzduane.
"Fucking the bad guys from a height," said Lonsdale. "If I may be so bold as to translate."
"Ah!" said Fitzduane.
It was hot in the SCIF and getting hotter, but though the 82 ^ nd had a budget of $65 million for running expenses, apparently that did not run to an effective airconditioning system for the top-security divisional operations center.
Most present had stripped down to T-shirts. Given the useful minority of outstandingly healthy young women troopers present, Fitzduane's respect for Airborne tactics was rising. But then again, he reminded himself, he was a married man and never happier to be so. He thought of Kathleen, safe again, and smiled. He had been walking on air these past few days. A little cold reality would not go amiss.
The Airborne assault on Oshima's base looked quite likely to provide it. His previous mission had been a twenty-minute raid with all the advantages of surprise on their side. This was a military problem of a different order of magnitude. The entire terrorist base complex now known generically as the Devil's Footprint was to be seized, held, searched, and destroyed – before being turned over to Mexican federal troops. And this time there was every sign that the terrorists were prepared and waiting.
Taped-together satellite photographs covered the floor. The only way you could study the overall picture properly was by taking your boots off and walking across the imagery in your socks. You hunkered down with a magnifying glass for the small stuff. The detail was superb. Faces could not be easily recognized, but you could look at an individual's load-bearing equipment and see whether he had grenades clipped to his belt or not.
As he looked at the planning staff crawling around the floor, Fitzduane, who suffered from an irreverent cast of mind, had a surreal flash of infants in a day-care center. He suppressed the thought. The Airborne took themselves seriously, as well they might, given what they were expected to do. Jumping out of aircraft into the darkness and a hail of enemy fire required a certain mindset. And getting to the ground in one piece was only the start of the exercise. You then had to deal with mines and weapons emplacements and a dug-in enemy who wanted you permanently dead. Airborne assault was a deadly serious business.
Fitzduane's military specialty was special-forces warfare, where heavy weaponry was normally nonexistent and the ethos was to be as sneaky and possible. To do anything head-on was considered bad form. He had to rethink his approach when considering the 82 ^ nd 's way of war. It was not that it was wrong. But it surely was different.
Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson looked up from perusing the satellite extravaganza. He looked less like a war memorial in his T-shirt and socks. And they had moved to first-name terms, which got over the potential problem of Al Lonsdale's lack of commissioned rank.
"How do you want to play this, Zach?" said Fitzduane.
"We're on a countdown," said Carlson. He checked his watch. "If hell freezes over, we hit the Devil's Footprint in sixty-three hours and eighteen minutes.
You've been there already. You've fought these people. Anything you can contribute which will make our task easier will be appreciated."
Fitzduane looked down at the satellite photographs again. He did not like what he saw. Madoa airfield had been significantly reinforced, and there were mobile armored columns on the perimeter. In the Devil's Footprint itself the main camp had been thoroughly destroyed, but the supergun valley appeared untouched. The blockhouse had been reoccupied and surrounded by extra defenses. Troops were dug in along the rim. Whoever was now in command knew just what they were doing and had the drive and energy to see it was done. What had been accomplished in such a short time was incredible.
Oshima! he thought to himself. He had hoped against hope that she had been killed in the original assault. Looking at the hornet's nest that had been created since the attack, he knew he had been wrong.
"Let's get out of this sweatbox, Zach," he said, "and you can give me the ten-cent version of who the 82 ^ nd operates these days. I grew up on World War Two stories where paratroops were always dropped in the wrong place and used guts instead of firepower to do the job."
Carlson smiled. "Well, some things have changed," he said, "but when you get right down to it LGOPS are still the secret."
"Enlighten me," said Fitzduane.
Al Lonsdale grinned. "LGOPS – Little Groups Of Paratroopers," he said.
"And that's it?" said Fitzduane.
"Airborne, sir!" said Carlson seriously. The reply cracked out.
Fitzduane nodded slowly.
Oshima had planned the takeover of the Devil's Footprint over many months.
From the beginning she had known that Diego Quintana would turn on her. In the end, she was surprised that he had acted so clumsily. Signaling his intentions as if he alone were the determinant of the outcome.
In truth, some of Quintana's complacency was justified. Oshima knew that directly superseding Quintana's rule over all of Tecuno state would not have been possible. Leaving out her terrorist background, she was Japanese, a woman, and not from Tecuno – three strikes against her. Accordingly, she had initially planned to work through her lover, Luis Barragan. That was a promising plan, but even before Barragan's untimely death it had been fairly certain it was not going to work. She held Barragan in sexual thrall, but even so, he remained loyal to Quintana.
Rejecting the option of working through Barragan and making a play for the whole state, it came to her that taking over only the plateau and the Devil's Footprint was the obvious alternative.
It was all that was necessary. She did not want to hold enemy territory permanently. She wanted to inflict as much damage as possible on America and return to Japan in triumph.
There were many who remembered the unforgivable insults of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Her achievements would not go unheralded. Yaibo would rise again. New recruits would flock to her. The myth of America's invulnerability would be punctured.
After killing Quintana, Oshima had worked furiously to consolidate her position. The steel supergun was aimed at Washington and ready to fire, but that would alert the Americans and provoke an immediate counterstrike. No, what was really required was a multiple-strike capability. Then the Americans would think twice before replying. With Washington hit and New York the next target, the American options would be seriously diminished. Destroying a terrorist base when the price was serious damage to your principal financial and commercial center was the kind of trade-off the American population would not accept.
So Oshima held her fire while her people worked frantically to erect two more of the special concrete weapons. The pipes had been cast months ago and the breeches constructed. Rheiman had said the concrete guns would work and thought she had despised the man, she had the utmost faith in his technical ability.
To be able to hit the capital of the United States of America and for the U.S. president to be unable to respond was a prospect that justified every risk. Now all she needed was time. The new weapons would take several more days to install fully.
Then, for all practical purposes, the Devil's Footprint would be invulnerable.
Carlson, back in full uniform, drove Fitzduane and Lonsdale the short distance over to First Brigade Headquarters. The building was an unpretentious two-story rectangular block with a basement. A short flight of steps led up to the main entrance.
Set into the floor as they entered was the slogan "The Devils In Baggy Pants."
Fitzduane stopped for a closer look. "We got the name in World War Two," said Carlson. "So our target is well named."
"It seems they're all over the place," said Fitzduane. They turned left and followed Carlson down a corridor to a corner office, which ran out of floor space after a desk, a couple of stuffed chairs, and a mound of combat equipment had been squeezed in.
Carlson removed a Kevlar helmet from one of the armchairs and propped it on top of a filing cabinet. "What are?" he said.
"Devils," said Fitzduane and Lonsdale in unison.
A trooper brought in Cokes. Carlson took a slug, then sat back. He opened his mouth to speak and then paused.
"I feel a little stupid trying to explain Airborne doctrine to two guys who've been there," he said eventually. "Hell, you people jumped in there only a few days ago."
"So we did," said Fitzduane. He sounded almost surprised. "But shoot and scoot is not the same as…"
"Jump and thump," said Lonsdale helpfully.
"Quite so," said Fitzduane. "So assume we know nothing."
"Or close to nothing," said Lonsdale. "Give or take a few details."
Carlson shrugged. "The first thing to understand is that modern airborne assault techniques have evolved a great deal.
"In the early days of the airborne a half century ago, paratroopers jumped and fought pretty much with what they carried. They had probably landed in the wrong place and were widely scattered. They had no close-air support, lousy communications, limited firepower, and no armor or artillery. They were light troops and their capabilities were limited. Even so, airborne training seemed to produce a particularly high caliber of combat soldier. The record speaks for itself. Paratroopers get the job done.
"An airborne assault today is a whole different ball game. It is force projection carrying with it lethal firepower of a vastly greater order of magnitude.
"The foundation is good intelligence. Today when we go in, thanks to satellite reconnaissance and other capability – including advance teams on the ground – we normally know everything we need to know about the enemy right down to his shoe size. Accurate and comprehensive intel is the rock on which we build.
"Next phase is to get together with the air force and try and make sure that every identified threat is neutralized before we show up. We're not trying to give the bad guys a fair fight. If they are all dead before we jump, that is just fine by us. The idea is to identify every defensive position, every radar, every enemy soldier with a missile, every form of opposition – and take out the lot of them before we go in. So every target is listed in advance and then allocated. Stealth fighters start the whole thing. Then, layer by layer, other elements in the package cut in and peel the defenses away. F16s follow the Stealth boys. A10s follow the F16s. Mostly smart weapons are used, so what we see is what we hit.
"We don't just kill the enemy. We blind him. Wild Weasels take out his radar. ECM-equipped aircraft and helicopters blanket the electronic spectrum and shut down his communications.
"Our window of maximum vulnerability is really just before we jump. Aircraft dropping paratroopers can't jink around. They've got to fly slow and steady. For that couple of minutes we are sitting ducks for triple A or some hotshot with a handheld missile.
"The good news is that A10s and C130 Spectre gunships act as our guardian angels during that window. The A10s can take out anything heavy. The gunships can deliver pinpoint fire. From three thousand feet up they can see and kill anything that moves. Higher up, JSTARS and AWACS watch the ground and air. Way low down, if we plan it right, Kiowa Warrior helicopter gunships hover out of sight. They have mast-mounted sights and high-magnification devices. The are the Airborne commander's eyes. And they have teeth too. If the air force is otherwise occupied, the Kiowas have Hellfire missiles, rockets, and heavy machine guns."
As Carlson spoke, Fitzduane was translating his words into a mental model and then relating it to the realities of combat. Everything the Airborne colonel was saying hung together, and yet the chances of something going seriously wrong were considerable.
Intelligence was never perfect. You could see a great deal from the air, but so much of modern weaponry was small and powerful. If the defenders knew what they were doing, a handheld missile was not left on permanent display for all to see. It was brought out at the last moment. It was moved around. Positions were camouflaged. Vision equipment could see through darkness, smoke, and haze, but not into a concrete bunker. Equipment broke down. And there was always the human factor. People missed things, they got confused, they fucked up. Particularly they fucked up under pressure. And people trying to kill you was serious pressure. You could ameliorate it with training and the right disciplines, but it was always there.
"What do you hate most?" said Fitzduane.
"Before we land, anything that can shoot down a troop-carrying aircraft makes us unhappy," said Carlson. "Paratroopers hate to die before they've had a chance to fight.
"Once we've landed, we get pissed off by armor, artillery, and mines in roughly that order. And then there is the NBC area. None of that is a barrel of laughs."
NBC" nuclear, biological, chemical. A terrifying amount of misery summed up by three letters, reflected Fitzduane.
Carlson smiled. "But, hey, it's an imperfect world. And we lov-v-v-e to jump."
He caught Fitzduane's look. "Well, to land, anyway," he added.
Fitzduane looked at Lonsdale. He was getting some ideas. "Can we contribute?"
Lonsdale pursed his lips. "Probably," he said. Regardless of rank, you got $112 a month while on airborne status. You could earn more in tips in one night in many bars.
But the money was not really the point.
They were back in the SCIF.
In full name was the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a title that required excessive energy just to think about pronouncing.
Fitzduane was becoming to seriously hate the divisional plans and operations facility. Grateful nations tended to erect monuments in memory of their warriors. In the case of the 82 ^ nd Airborne, he was of the opinion that bronze statues could be usefully bypassed in favor of an air-conditioned ventilation system and deodorizer that really worked. The place was getting like the SaudiDesert crossed with the humidity of Vietnam. The atmosphere was thick enough to slice and dice. The planning staff were not going to need to acclimatize when they arrived in some tropical hellhole. The climatic conditions of the Devil's Footprint were going to be light relief.
Meanwhile, faces shiny with sweat, clothing looking as if it had been run through a sauna, and tempers were getting frayed. Files and papers adhered to hands as if with thinned-out treacle. Fingers lifted from computer keyboards sounded as if they were being detached from the suckers of overfriendly octopi.
"I'll buy you an air conditioner," muttered Fitzduane. "A very large air conditioner with a Coke machine and ice-cold showers built in."
"The U.S. Army doesn't work that way," said Lonsdale. " You work with what you've got. A hundred years ago, the U.S. cavalry had single-shot carbines and the Indians had repeating rifles. Work that one out."
"If I was Custer," said Fitzduane, "I would feel pretty bloody upset."
Beads of sweat formed up on Carlson's brow, slid in globule formation down his nose, waited until over the drop zone, and then went splat! onto the remains of a giant cheeseburger shipped over from the Airborne PX.
"Gentlemen," he said formally. "The 82 ^ nd Airborne Division is deeply grateful for your help, but now I must ask you to leave. ASAP, sirs."
Fitzduane blinked. It was an effort, because his eyelids were weighed down with sweat. He thought of wiping them with a corner of his T-shirt, but there wasn't a dry corner left. He poked under the cheeseburger, but someone else had already grabbed the napkin.
He blinked again. "Zachariah," he said, "you guys asked us to come down here. All we've done so far is help target the opposition. There is still the minor matter of what the fuck we all do when we hit the ground. Do we join hands and sing?"
Carlson looked uncomfortable. "Need to know, sir," he said. "Standard security precaution. You've gotta understand that the actual planning process is classified."
Fitzduane stood up. "We've been to the Devil's Footprint. We've tangoed and we've come back alive, and you are standing here telling me that you're throwing us out. Am I reading you right, Zachariah?"
"Orders, sir," said Carlson uncomfortably. "You must understand, Hugo, that this is a military operation, and as far as the U.S. Army is concerned, you people are civilians. Valued citizens, but whatever you have done in the past…"
"…we don't need to know," said Fitzduane grimly.
"Airborne!" said Carlson.
Fitzduane eyed Carlson. In the short time he had known the man he had been impressed. The man was not just well-trained. He was bright, innovative, and thorough. But how could someone of this caliber put up with such manifest bullshit? Fitzduane figured that in this humidity no one was likely to notice the steam coming out of his ears. He counted to ten and added another decade and felt his mood calming slightly.
"My worry is that the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing," he said, "let alone all the fingers and toes."
Fitzduane and Lonsdale headed back to First Brigade, made some calls, and got kitted out while they were waiting for some action. If they were going to jump in with the 82 ^ nd they were going to look like they belonged. Around them everyone moved just that bit faster. There was electricity in the air. The Airborne were going into action.
Fitzduane abandoned his Calico submachine gun with regret, but Lonsdale was adamant.
"You've spent too long on small unit actions where you know all your team, Hugo," he said. "There are going to be a shitload of aggressive young troopers on this one, and if you don't look right, they'll waste you on reflex. So wear your Kevlar, carry your M16, and don't complain."
He stood back and eyed Fitzduane. From his jump boots to body language, the Irishman looked completely at home in his U.S. Army combat fatigues and equipment, but there was one thing not quite right.
Fitzduane wore his hair cropped short but en brosse. It was trim but not quite the Airborne white sidewalls with a half-inch thatched oval on top. A sort of reversed tonsure.
"Who'll know when I'm wearing a helmet?" said Fitzduane.
"Trust me," said Lonsdale. "It'll be appreciated."
Within minutes of emerging from the PX barbershop, Fitzduane knew Lonsdale had been right. It was a gesture toward the Airborne way, and this was Airborne territory. It was a token of acceptance and, as such, was noted.
Fitzduane eyed his new hairstyle in a small mirror in Carlson's office. It occurred to him that judging by the tapestries he had seen, his Norman ancestors had cropped their hair in a not dissimilar style. The barbershop floor had cheered him. He was agreeably surprised he still had that much hair to lose.
"Hugo?"
Fitzduane turned.
Carlson stood in the door. He looked at Fitzduane's newly cropped head and nodded approvingly. "Good news and bad news," he said. "Full security clearance has come through."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"Back to the SCIF," said Carlson. "A Dr. Jaeger from Livermore is joining us. The CG is sitting in."
"CG?" said Fitzduane.
"Commanding General of the 82 ^ nd," said Carlson. "General Mike Gannon. He's a two-star and climbing. A real good man, sir. Airborne from way back."
"Is he commanding the mission?" said Fitzduane.
"This is the Airborne, Hugo," said Carlson. "General Gannon will be the first man to jump."
Fitzduane had once met a U.S. Marine general who looked more like a rather gentle schoolteacher than a hard-charging combat veteran of considerable distinction.
Physically, General Gannon was similarly cast against type. But for all his slight frame, quiet voice, and courteous Southern manner, the General was a force to be reckoned with. The mantle of command authority sat easily on his shoulders. He greeted Fitzduane and Lonsdale warmly.
They were standing around a large planning table bearing a scale mock-up of the terrorist positions. If anything, the temperature and humidity in the SCIF were even more unbearable. Gannon sweated with everyone else but made no other acknowledgment of the fact. His camouflage fatigue jacket remained in place, fully buttoned.
To Fitzduane, the sight of the three-dimensional models was somehow much more evocative than the satellite imagery. There, in miniature, were the places where they had fought over so intensely only days earlier. They had wreaked havoc on their raid and had departed, never expecting to see the Devil's Footprint again. Now it was back as if to haunt them.
This time, Fitzduane vowed, we're going to finish the job. Given the package the air force were putting together combined with the ferocity of an airborne assault, it seemed a reasonable proposition in the abstract. When the details were evaluated, it was not so easy.
"The 82 ^ nd Airborne Division regards taking down defended airfields as something of a house specialty," said Gannon. "We have the skills to do the job, and it's something we are trained and equipped to do. But the Devil's Footprint complex poses particular problems. Madoa airfield and the twin valleys of the Devil's Footprint are eight kilometers apart, and both are heavily defended locations. The core difficulty is the supergun. Intelligence reports obtained from Colonel Fitzduane's prisoner, the man Rheiman, suggest that the weapon is primed and ready to fire.
"No matter how sudden our assault, how can we be sure that the supergun won't be fired before we break through? Would not a special-forces raid on the supergun itself be a more effective approach – to be followed by the 82 ^ nd when the weapon is fully secured? Does it even matter if the gun is fired? What damage can a projectile from such a weapon do? Gentlemen, I need answers."
Fitzduane was struck once again about the paradox of intelligence. Operatives were so obsessed with secrecy and classifying information as it flowed in that surprisingly often the very people who could make best use of the intelligence were never informed. General Gannon doesn't know! he thought. This is going to be like Son Tay all over again unless we watch it.
"General," he said, "the situation has changed. We had the advantage of surprise when going in. Now the Devil's Footprint has been reinforced. There is no way you can guarantee getting in before the supergun is fired. And I don't care who you use. Delta, the SAS, whoever. All it takes to fire that weapon is the push of a button. One finger, one split second, and the will to do the job."
Gannon nodded slowly.
"But the point is," said Fitzduane, "that firing the supergun should not matter. In fact, that's what we want them to do."
Gannon spoke quietly to an aide and a file was passed to him. The General read at the place indicated and then looked up at Fitzduane. "My information, Colonel Fitzduane, is that the weapon is targeted on the White House," he said, "and indeed could reach anywhere in this country." He smiled slightly. "Leaving out the matter of the average American voter's political persuasion, how could a strike on the very essence of this country's system of government not be significant?"
"The supergun has been sabotaged," said Fitzduane.
"It won't work?" said Gannon.
"It'll work," said Fitzduane, "but not quite as intended."
Gannon listened to Fitzduane and Jaeger for a further ten minutes, saying little. He had been through engineering school at the Virginia Military Institute more years ago than he cared to think about, so the science involved was relatively familiar. In essence, it all hung on the bravery of a man named Patricio Nicanor. He had provided the key when he had smuggled out a gas controller. The man had paid a high price for his courage.
"How do you know they won't find what you have done?" he asked. "Or maybe swap out the controller as part of routine maintenance?"
"We placed delayed charges around the breech of the weapon," said Fitzduane, "to give the impression that this was our main effort. So they would have no reason to suspect the controller. Nonetheless, we also penetrated their stores and swapped out the spares."
"But no guarantees?" said Gannon.
Fitzduane shook his head. "If we'd known about the supergun's missiles, we might have done things differently," he said.
"Dr. Jaeger," said Gannon.
"According to this man Rheiman," said Jaeger, "Governor Quintana went on a shopping trip in Eastern Europe. The supergun gave him a delivery system. Next he wanted something to shoot. He was looking for nuclear capability. He settled for an item called Xyclax Gamma 18. It's a binary nerve agent. The two components are relatively harmless in themselves, but once mixed, a single drop – smaller than that from a perfume atomizer – is fatal.
"The really unpleasant thing about the stuff is that it is not a military weapon. It doesn't kill instantly or within a few hours. It can take several days to kill you, and meanwhile you're in more agony than you can imagine. Every aspect of your body malfunctions. You bleed spontaneously from every orifice. Your lungs fill with pus. Your joints and nerves feel like they're being held in flames. It's a nightmare way to die, but it's not a military weapon because you can remain combat effective for several hours after you're hit with it.
"The stuff was developed for use in Afghanistan. Bombs and rockets weren't doing the job, especially after the Stingers made low flying unhealthy. The idea of Xyclax Gamma 18 was that you would drop in from a high-flying aircraft, airburst it at a thousand feet or so, and it would render a whole area uninhabitable. Lots of nerve agents kill you. What makes this variety so lethal is its dispersion capability and its shelf life. Xyclax Gamma 18 remains toxic for years."
"Was it used?" said Gannon.
"Apparently," said Jaeger, "but not for long. Under lab conditions with positive air pressure and everyone in special suits, it was safe enough. When they tried it in the field, they discovered that the dispersion capability was all too effective. Dispersion depends largely on particle size. The smaller the nerve agent particle, the larger the area you can cover. In this case, the particles were so small the Russians found the material went right through the standard Soviet NBC suit. A bunch of dying Afghans was followed by some serious Spetnatz casualties as they moved up to see what had happened. There was talk of getting new suits and trying it a second time, but then Gorbachev and glasnost came along. Xyclax Gamma 18 was quietly forgotten about until private enterprise hit and the enterprise manager realized that he had a product with real market value."
Gannon looked somber. "Will our suits work?" he said.
Jaeger shook his head. "Standard Army NBC suites may help, but not for long. You need the kind of gear they have in FortDietrich for this, and it's not the kind of clothing you can fight in."
It struck Gannon that this was the kind of mission that should best be left to the air force alone. His paratroops were trained to fight a real human enemy. To have his young men jumping into some lethal mist was a thought that revolted him.
Carlson had been thinking the same thoughts. But then again, he was a soldier, and surely the National Command Authority had considered all these questions. Or had they? Unchecked, politicians had a habit of committing the military without really thinking through all the implications.
Fitzduane broke the mood. "Binary?" he said. "If I was Quintana and had a mercenary force of debatable caliber, I'd store the components separately if I wanted to sleep nights. Otherwise, a bottle of tequila too many, and the Devil's Hangover wouldn't come into it."
Jaeger smiled. "Quoting Rheiman," he said, "even Oshima is scared stiff of the stuff. They tested a sample before it was shipped in, so they saw what it could do. They keep the secondary in a deep bunker in the supergun valley and the primary in the command complex of Madoa airfield. No chance of mixing them up or some entrepreneur staging a coup. The one exception to that may well be the supergun. If that is being held ready to fire, then we think it's likely – certainly possible – to have both primary and secondary loaded."
"Why wouldn't they load one of the components at the last minute?" said Gannon. "That would seem safer."
"It's possible," said Jaeger, "but loading the supergun is not like inserting a shotgun round. This is a big weapon. Charging it takes hours. So if they want to keep it as a deterrent ready to roll, it will be loaded.
"It wasn't loaded when we were there," said Fitzduane slowly. Then he looked across at the latest satellite pictures. The Devil's Footprint seemed to be getting stronger by the hour. Oshima was driving her people. She expected to be attacked. She was bright enough to know she could not win against a full assault. So what would she do? "But I concur with Dr. Jaeger."
"If a single missile charged with Xyclax Gamma 18 airbursts over Washington, D.C., said General Gannon, "what kind of effect would that have?"
"So much would depend on weather conditions," said Jaeger. "Rheiman says they were promised between fifteen thousand and seventy-five thousand fatalities. And decontaminating the area could take years. Of course, if it airbursts undetected over a major water supply, given that the effects are not immediate, hundreds of thousands, if not millions, could die.
"The fatalities could exceed those of a conventional nuclear detonation."
The meeting concluded.
General Gannon caught Fitzduane's eye and indicated that he would like to talk to him alone.
They left the SCIF and headed out of the division headquarters. The flag-lowering ceremony was just starting, and they stood at attention while it was completed. Then they walked on.
Dusk was falling. FortBragg was still a hive of activity. It would stay that way until the C130s were wheels up from Pope Air Base. Then there would just be the waiting. Sons, lovers, friends, and husbands would be gone. The post would feel empty. There would be no certainty all would return.
"Colonel Fitzduane, I understand you are not a regular soldier," said Gannon. "It's a pity. You seem well suited to the calling of arms. You seem… to understand" – he smiled – "perhaps too well."
Fitzduane laughed. "I'm not too good at following orders," he said, "or making the compromises you have to make. I find it hard to salute a man I don't respect merely because he has rank. I find it hard to do one thing because my masters require it when my common sense tells me to do something else. I am not overly fond of large structures. I can admire – greatly admire – a unit such as the 82 ^ nd Airborne, but I cannot suspend my sense critique."
Gannon eyed Fitzduane contemplatively. Then he laughed. "What am I going to do with you, Colonel Fitzduane? The 82 ^ nd is – well – the 82 ^ nd, and we have our own ways of doing things. We will evolve, but I doubt we will change. As to you, I'm told you have seen more of combat in more countries than all the Joint Chiefs put together, so I will allow you your sense critique. But what to do?"
"Let me work with Colonel Carlson until the planning is completed," said Fitzduane. "Then give me a small unit when we jump. Troopers who have initiative. A leader who has some dash."
"You're describing most of my men," said Gannon. He was silent, but then a smile crossed his lips.
"But one unit in particular comes to mind?" said Fitzduane.
Gannon grinned. "The Scout Platoon attached to the First Brigade," he said. "You may have met your match, Colonel. Under Lieutenant Brock, they're the nearest thing to a private army the 82 ^ nd has."
"What do they normally do, General?" said Fitzduane. " Scout covers a multitude."
"They do anything," said Gannon. "They scout, they snipe, they kill armor, they play with mines, they HALO. They even have their own pair of tanks and work with their own helicopters. They're terrifying young men."
He looked straight at Fitzduane. "You'll wonder why I tolerate them."
"Every unit needs a few mavericks, General," said Fitzduane.
"Indeed," said Gannon. He gave a signal and his Humvee rumbled up. He got in. "I guess one more won't hurt."
Fitzduane breathed the cool air of the evening and then headed back to the SCIF.
Carlson was studying the satellite imagery intently. He looked up. "The General fire you?"
"He said he needs every swinging dick he can get, Zachariah," said Fitzduane, "seeing as how they all go limp in this sweat lodge."
"He likes your haircut," said Carlson. He tapped the satellite photo. "Listen up," he said. "Fuck the armor. I've been counting their earthmoving equipment."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"They've got too goddamned much of it," said Carlson. "I think there's more to Madoa Air Base than we can see. Someone with a mole mentality has been screwing around with the environment."
"So what we see isn't all we're going to get," said Fitzduane.
"That's what I figure," said Carlson. "Unless the base commander just likes collecting tracked iron."
"Infrared?" said Fitzduane.
Carlson nodded. "That'll show if earth has been disturbed. But what if they've built under existing structures?"
"If they've got a bunker complex underneath," said Fitzduane, "why haven't they kept their bulldozers out of sight as well? Answer: because who would suspect some innocent earthmoving equipment and…"
"…something else is in the space," said Carlson. "But what? There are plenty of track imprints, but they could be bulldozers.
God, I hate surprises when I'm dangling from the risers. It's bad enough jumping out of an aircraft with your face painted green and black without some steel behemoth emerging from below ground and blowing your shit away. That kind of thing can depress you."
"What if we turned all this surprise stuff around?" said Fitzduane. "We don't sneak up. We announce ourselves. We show ours and encourage them to show theirs."
"A blast of trumpets before we attack?" said Carlson. "With something more substantial hidden away."
"It worked pretty well in Jericho," said Fitzduane.
"Let's get the Air Force in on this," said Carlson. "They have things that moles do not like. And they're Devious – with a capital D . Or so they say in the Pentagon."
"What are the Army?" said Fitzduane.
"The Navy are Defiant," said Carlson. "They can afford to be when they're out at sea snug in their carrier groups."
"The Army?"
"The Army are Dumb," said Carlson. "We're too honest, and that's why the other services get so much of the pie. But in this situation we need Devious – and maybe a few dozen penetrator bombs."
Six hours later, the shape of the plan had been established and now it was down to the planning staff to hammer out the endless details. No one in the 82 ^ nd seemed to need sleep.
Fitzduane headed away to get some rest. If General Gannon was right, he was going to need it before he met First Brigade's Scout Platoon.
When Carlson had heard that Fitzduane was jumping in with the Scouts, he had smiled. "The Devil's Footprint is going to be the least of your worries, Hugo. These people are crazy. Good – outstandingly good – but absolutely wacko."
General Gannon toured the post, checking on every aspect of the division's preparations. In any military operation every facet was interdependent, but never more so than in the 82 ^ nd.
The Airborne picked up their entire house and flew. If you forgot something you could not radio supply and request that they send it up the line. You brought everything – everything – with you or you did without. Sure, you could get resupplied with essentials from the air, but by the time that resource cut in the really critical time was normally over. The essence of airborne assault was speed and shock value – sudden overwhelming force appearing from nowhere anywhere on earth.
Global force projection.
Force was the key. When the Airborne jumped, the time for compromise was over. It was down to elementals. You killed them before they killed you. Yo smashed into the enemy. You destroyed them. You did not hesitate. When attacking a heavily defended airfield – a substantial piece of real estate – the normal takedown time was two hours.
Two hours of focused carnage.
Ironically, may people – even in the military – thought of the 82 ^ nd as a light division, incapable of delivering a real punch. It had indeed be true half a century earlier. Now the destructive power of the 82 ^ nd was awesome. True, it lacked the heavy armor of a mechanized division or the stupendous firepower of a modern MLRS-equipped artillery brigade, but that was more than compensated for by the way it worked with airpower. Air support was the 82 ^ nd 's heavy armor and artillery.
But even without airpower the 82 ^ nd was no longer a light division. Potent 105mm howitzers and heavy mortars gave artillery cover within fifteen minutes of the division's hitting the ground. The Stinger-equipped Avenger missile system secured the air. TOWS, Dragons, and AT4s provided potent antiarmor and anti-bunker capability.
The removal of the 82 ^ nd 's indigenous Apache helicopters had been a controversial decision, but the Kiowas had picked up the slack with a vengeance. They were small and hard to detect and easier to airship and maintain, and though they could not carry the same payload as the Apache, they did carry the lethal Hellfire missile system. Further, by ripping out the two rear seats and stuffing the bay helicopters with electronics, the Kiowas now had outstanding sighting systems and night-vision capability. So the switch had worked to the 82 ^ nd 's advantage. In fact, the controversy had been something of a storm in a teacup. On a combat mission, Apaches could always be attached to the 82 ^ nd if required.
The development in the 82 ^ nd 's combat effectiveness that had pleased Gannon, an old infantryman, most was night-vision capability. Traditionally, the cost of night-vision equipment had made selective issue to squad leaders and special forces the norm. Now every single trooper in the 82 ^ nd had advanced third-generation goggles with him as he went into battle. Teamed up with laser aiming devices with beams visible only to those wearing the goggles, the effect on small-arms accuracy had exceeded expectations. Everyone knew about the Air Force's smart bombs. An Airborne trooper's firepower now approached the same level of accuracy. What a trooper saw he could – and did – hit.
Lethal young men, reflected Gannon, which was the way it should be. There were not many of them to hold the line, and the threats in today's world were legion.
The names of operations were normally chosen at the highest levels, with a weather eye on the public relations impact. In this case, because the elimination of the Devil's Footprint was a personal matter for the 82 ^ nd after the Fayetteville bombings, General Gannon had been asked to choose his own name.
Gannon was a man who studied his craft in the belief that the core lessons of combat were timeless. He had named the mission OPERATION CARTHAGE. The Carthaginians had invaded Italy and had caused the Romans serious grief on their home territory. In return, the Romans had crossed to Africa, defeated the Carthaginians utterly, and had razed Carthage to the ground.
It had all happened more than two thousand years ago, but to Gannon the parallels were clear.
Lieutenant Luke Brock filled six empty quart-size Coke bottles with water and hung them from target frames.
This was not the kind of exercise the range officer would approve of, but Brock was more concerned with the combat effectiveness of his unit than range safety. In his opinion, the general unwillingness of U.S. forces to train under live fire was criminal. The do-gooder liberals who had pushed the safety-first approach through did not seem to understand that lives lost in training accidents were more than compensated for in combat. They also missed the simple truth that a soldier's life, by definition, could not be risk-free. This current notion of aiming for zero-casualty combat and compromising on the mission struck Brock as being the value system of traitorous assholes who did not give a fuck about the United States. Where would the nation have been if Washington had ordered his troops to go home in case they might get too cold!
The fact that the 82 ^ nd Airborne had to compromise on training because of the red cockaded woodpecker produced in him something akin to a killing frenzy. He thought of the damn bird every time he had to go on a mission. It seemed to evoke the right throat-cutting mental attitude.
He lay down between two target frames. Zalinski and Gallo were equally positioned. Zalinski was the spotter on this one, and Gallo the shooter. Gallo did not really need a spotter, since he worked out where the enemy sniper was, through some kind of Zen-based telepathy, but even the best sniper needed a partner to back him up. Accuracy was great, but God loved firepower too. Gallo had an M24. Zalinski had a customized SAW with a two-hundred-round box attached.
Brock spoke into his radio. "Counting down."
Ten seconds later, the first Coke bottle blew apart, spattering Brock with water. The enemy sniper would continue firing and moving every thirty seconds until all the bottles were destroyed or he was detected by Zalinski and Gallo. The enemy was between five and seven hundred meters away in brush and wearing a gillie suit, so spotting him was no easy task.
Gallo had his eyes closed and was lying on his back. It was a disconcerting habit for a sniper trying to track down a hostile, but it seemed to work for him.
Brock checked his watch. Five seconds more to go. Gallo normally seemed to sense the location of his man after the third or fourth shot, but he had been getting better recently. Some brain-enhancing herb he was taking. It helped to compensate for being with a woman, he said. Sex drained his powers and positively fucked with his concentration. On the other hand, without it, he went moody.
The second bottle exploded, this time showering Zalinski.
A split second later, Gallo rolled over onto his stomach and fired the laser attached to his sniper rifle. Green smoke spewed up from the brush. A direct hit.
Brock contemplated his star sniper. Gallo was looking remarkably pleased with himself. Zalinski was soaked.
"Gallo, you tricky fuck, you could have fired earlier," said Brock.
"The vibes weren't right," said Gallo.
The Humvee passed the Delta compound and headed on toward Sicily Drop Zone. Delta was so classified that it was referred to as ‘the place that doesn't officially exist,’ but its unofficial presence bordered with chain-link fencing topped with razor wire was substantial. Aircraft coming in over Bragg to carry out drops used Delta's distinctive red roofs to verify their positions. One covered a killing house where CQB – close quarters battle techniques, developed initially by the SAS – were refined into an art.
"Homesick?" said Fitzduane.
Lonsdale was driving. He took his right hand off the wheel and gave a cross between a salute and a wave as he passed by. "It's a fraternity," he said. "You never quite leave. On the other hand, I could never quite go back. I'm too old for some of the bullshit."
Both men were wearing 82 ^ nd Airborne combat fatigues and their faces were camouflaged with green and black cream. It was the prescribed uniform west of FortBragg's
Gruber Road . For much of the time it was not, strictly speaking, necessary, but it evoked the right mind-set. Combat to the Airborne was not a remote possibility. It could happen at any time. It made sense to be physically, mentally, and materially prepared. Besides, if you weren’t cammied up the MP's stopped you, which was a pain.
"They say if you can make it in Bragg," said Lonsdale, "you can make it anywhere in the U.S. Army. The men mostly love it. Wives and girlfriends hate the place. With one of the three brigades always on eighteen-hour standby and EDREs being called whenever you least expect, your domestic life does not get much of a look in. There are more ways of being hurt than being killed or wounded. You can end up being turned on by a pair of watermelons."
Fitzduane smiled. They'd been looking for the Scout Platoon for the last hour. They'd been to the range but found only some empty Coke bottles and a sputtering range officer. The latest word was the Lieutenant Brock and his private army had headed off to Sicily DZ to do something with tanks. If Fitzduane had heard it right, a C130 was going to drop a couple on top of them. Strange people, the Scouts.
"Cochrane called from the Hill," he said. "He sounded – how shall I put it…?"
"Jealous," said Lonsdale. "What did you say?"
"I told him the President needed him, Congress needed him, and there was more important work to do on counterterrorism in the nation's capital than down here," said Fitzduane.
"True enough," said Lonsdale. "On the other hand, he'd be a good man to have with us. If memory serves, we'd both be sushi without him."
Fitzduane was silent. It would have been nice to have gone back with the whole team, but the 82 ^ nd had wanted advisers rather than an army. They had pointed out that they already had an army. Fitzduane as mission commander and one other was all they would wear. The team had drawn lots for the extra place.
"Well, this one Lee will just have to miss," said Fitzduane.
The trees thinned out and then the vast open space that was Sicily DZ lay ahead. The earth was red, not unlike the soil in Lonsdale's valley in Arizona.
A solitary C130 was making its approach. As they watched, something substantial emerged from its rear, followed by an item of similar size. Seconds later, three large parachutes opened, checking the rapid descent of the first item. Almost immediately, the parachutes on the second parcel blossomed.
"Where they land Scout Platoon should be," said Fitzduane. "More or less."
Lonsdale headed the Humvee toward the descending tanks. There was no sign of Scout Platoon.
There was something surreal about seeing tanks floating through the air. They were strapped to thick, corrugated pallets. Packing material was wedged into vulnerable areas like the tracks.
The tanks seemed close enough to touch.
Lonsdale was staring out at them too.
"For fuck's sake, we're underneath the bloody things," yelled Fitzduane. "This is ridiculous."
Lonsdale jammed on the brakes and then shot backward. Compared to a Guntrack, the speed was glacial. The tanks were now close enough to read the packing instructions. Lonsdale was doubled over with laughter.
The tanks impacted ten meters away, compressing their corrugated cushioning flat and raising clouds of red dust. The second machine seemed to bounce and then fell over on its side. It was even closer.
"YOU!" screamed a voice in Fitzduane's ear. "YOU WITH THE DEATH WISH! Get out of that vehicle and go right at that Sheridan. ASAP, TROOPER!"
Fitzduane hopped to it. The are was suddenly full of running troopers. Within seconds, the tank was righted and the straps and packaging were being removed.
He decided he'd let the experts get on with the next phase.
"FUCKHEAD!" screamed the voice. "WHO TOLD YOU TO STOP? MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
Fitzduane turned around. A short, stocky figure with an almost Mongolian cast to his black and green features was standing inches from him. Red dust clung to his fatigues and webbing, but his badges of rank and name tag could just be read. He was the closest thing to a demented dervish that Fitzduane had ever seen in uniform. Which was some statement around Bragg.
"Lieutenant Brock," said Fitzduane.
Brock stepped back and took a hard look at Fitzduane. The stranger's uniform bore neither a name tag nor badges of rank. On the other hand, the man was manifestly not some nineteen-year-old trooper.
"You're screwing up my exercise," said Brock. "Who the fuck are you?"
Fitzduane looked at him.
"I'd hate us to get off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant."
"Sir," added Brock.
Fitzduane told him.
"Hooah, sir," said Brock. A smile creased his features. "You've been there before, the CG said."
"In – and OUT!" said Lonsdale. "The second bit, Lieutenant, is the secret."
Fitzduane indicated the two tanks. "Tell me about your pets," he said.
Brock positively glowed. "Pets! Outstanding, sir. Where would you like me to begin?"
Jaeger woke up sweating.
The motel-room furnishings looked unfamiliar. According to his watch it was work time, and a raised curtain revealed definite daylight. Blue skies. Sun. All the trappings.
Why had he been asleep in the middle of a perfectly normal, useful day? Was he drugged or drinking? Had he forgotten the work ethic he'd grown up with? Was a woman involved? What was he doing in Fayetteville?
He drank a glass of water and lay back with his eyes closed.
In his mind's eye he could see the immense steel barrel of the supergun in the Devil's Footprint spurt an endless tongue of flame and send its deadly projectile toward his country. Washington, D.C.? New York? Cleveland? Los Angeles? What did it matter? All that was important was that a population center was targeted.
The weapon would be fired. Fitzduane was sure of it. As he understood the workings of Oshima's mind rather better, Jaeger himself was certain of it.
OPERATION CARTHAGE might bring it forward a few hours, a day, a week, but either way the supergun was going to be used.
The assault troops, no matter what they did, could not stop it.
If it worked, thousands of people would die. Probably tens of thousands. Possibly a great deal more. And that would just be the immediate effect. The greater impact would be on America's credibility.
Jaeger swung his legs off the bed and put his head between his knees. The dizziness passed. He began to remember the SCIF and the heat and the mission and Lieutenant Colonel Carlson dripping with sweat, keeping his eye on the ball. And Fitzduane and Lonsdale going back for a second time. Back to the science of it all, his brain told him. Forget all this emotion. Focus on the scientific facts and the physical reactions that must result.
Hydrogen was the propellant being used by Rheiman's supergun in the Devil's Footprint. Hydrogen alone was too volatile and would explode too fast, so it was blended with helium. The mixing of the two gases was controlled and monitored electronically.
Remove the original controller mechanism and substitute a replacement that would read out correctly but actually allow a mainly hydrogen mix into the barrel. And what would you get?
One hell of an explosion.
Strong enough to burst a barrel made of maraging steel?
That's what the computer simulation said would happen. But computer simulation was far from foolproof. That's why you did field trials. Real life had a habit of being quirky.
Replacing the controller mechanism had seemed like a good idea when the main objective was merely to disrupt the testing program. Now Xyclax Gamma 18 had raised the stakes beyond Jaeger's ability to handle the situation.
The issue was not just would the barrel burst when fired. The question then was what would happen to the nerve agent. It should be incinerated. The one saving grace of the stuff was that it was volatile. It could be spread by the force of the explosion throughout the entire area. Two whole brigades of the 82 ^ nd Airborne would die. NBC suits would make no difference.
Even if all worked out this time, from his research at Livermore, Jaeger knew better than most what other threats were in the pipeline. The millennium was approaching, and the level of threat from weapons of mass destruction was terrifying.
Jaeger rose to his feet and walked wearily into the shower. He'd had five hours' sleep in the last two days, and it did not look as if he was going to get any more until OPERATION CARTHAGE was over.
There was something he had forgotten, he was sure of it.
Several of his fellow scientists at Livermore had suggested flying a smart bomb down the meter-wide muzzle of the supergun, and Jaeger was beginning to wish he had recommended that option. It was a small target to hit, but it was certainly possible, especially if the aperture was lased by a ground-based special-forces team. But even that option could have needed several strikes to be absolutely sure of success. And an initial miss could precipitate the firing of the supergun in retaliation, even if a whole wing of F16s were racked up to do the job. Nothing was certain in combat except that whatever plans you made in advance would get fucked by circumstances.
No, the double advantage of the sabotaged controller option was that if it worked, it would prevent the weapon being fired successfully at all, and would undermine the credibility of the weapon.
Cochrane's task force was right. The damn things were too easy to make. The illusion had to be created that the supergun technology was inherently flawed.
What had he forgotten?
Oshima studied the blueprint of the supergun intently.
She had no particular scientific bent, but the good thing about the supergun itself was that, once you understood the principles, it was not really that complicated.
Rheiman had called it a giant peashooter. Put a dried pea on the table and try to try and blow it across the room and you would have a hard time moving it more than a few feet. Place it in a peashooter, give a good puff, and you could ‘dent a windowpane.’
The real complexity lay in the supergun's projectile. But that was beyond her capabilities to worry about, so she had wiped it from her mind and focused on the gun. The weapon had been sabotaged, but unsuccessfully. That could have meant Fitzduane's raiders had not come prepared – a strong possibility, given that rescuing his woman was clearly the main object of the mission. But it could also meant that the explosive charges were a diversion.
But a diversion from what? What else had the raiders been up to?
Oshima transferred her gaze to Salerno. Rheiman had been brilliant, but erratic and lazy. He had compensated by hiring a hardworking support team. Dr. Salerno had been his second in command and had taken over Rheiman's role as project manager without missing a beat.
People are rarely indispensable, Oshima reflected.
"Salerno," she said, "I know these people. You have seen the damage they inflicted elsewhere. Why had Dr. Rheiman's weapon escaped unscathed? What have we missed?"
Salerno was terrified of Oshima, but within his area of expertise he felt confident.
"They had only fifteen to twenty minutes," he said. "They did what they could in that time, but the weapon is so large and strong it is extremely difficult to damage. The charges they placed were standard military demolitions. I really do not think, Commander, that they came prepared."
Oshima looked back at the blueprint. "The barrel," she said. "Could they have weakened it in some way?"
"We put a man down the barrel with ultrasonic equipment," said Salerno. "We have examined every square millimeter of the structure twice, and all of it is within tolerance."
"Within tolerance?" said Oshima.
"No manufacture is perfect," said Salerno carefully. "There are flaws and imperfections in every product, but the important factor to ascertain is the scale of such problems. In this case, we have nothing to worry about. In a layperson's terms, the barrel is fine. The same judgment applies to the rest of the weapon."
"The breech, the firing mechanism, the gas lines?" said Oshima.
"All have been examined in great detail," said Salerno.
"I wonder why they didn't blow the hydrogen?" said Oshima.
"As you know, Commander," said Salerno, "the main hydrogen tanks are kept in a series of underground bunkers separate from the weapon. Either they did not know they were there or they had no time. Anyway, they would have had to blow all the hydrogen tanks to seriously affect us, and that was beyond their capabilities. Even if they had achieved all that, we have our own hydrogen-generation plant under Madoa airfield."
Oshima drew her automatic and pointed it directly at Salerno's face. "Dr. Salerno, I want you to imagine your life depends on your answer," she said softly.
She smiled and pulled back the hammer. "Because it does."
Salerno's mouth felt completely dry.
"Imagine you have only twenty minutes to accomplish your mission but that you know everything there is to know about this technology. Now, where is this weapon most vulnerable? What would you do?"
Salerno thought. His mind ran through the blueprints and electronic schematics. Suddenly, he knew. But if he admitted he had not checked the gas controller, what would this woman do?
Oshima saw the flicker in Salerno's eyes. So he had forgotten something. It was always the same with experts. Long on theory. Short on practicalities.
"Talk to me, Dr. Salerno," she said.