'You've got a point,' Kilmara said with some feeling.
About fifteen minutes away from the main exhibition, live-firing demonstrations were being given in a converted quarry. You could evaluate weapons just so far in a booth.
Fitzduane and Kilmara took the shuttle bus over. They had not told either Dana or Texas, so they felt a little bit like kids dodging school. On the other hand, it would have been a foolish terrorist indeed who tried anything.
The passengers were equipped with every conceivable kind of weapon to try out on the range. In addition, both men were armed, though automatics were as nothing compared to the exotic firepower they were surrounded with. Fitzduane reflected that the domestic pop-up toaster might not have seen much development over the last half century, but certainly weapons manufacturers had not stunted their ingenuity.
It was hot in the quarry, and a blazing sun in a clear blue sky indicated that it was going to get hotter still.
About forty attendees were gathered in a rough semicircle behind the firing line. Perhaps a third were uniformed, and the rest wore every from black T-shirts emblazoned with slogans – matched with fatigues bloused into combat boots – to suits and ties. More than a dozen were women.
'I don't know whether this is fun or horrible,' said Fitzduane.
'Watching things go bang. This is fun,' said Kilmara cheerfully. 'When the quarry starts to shoot back… that is horrible.'
There was movement at the firing line, and a man dressed in well-worn but starched fatigues faced the gathering. He wore a DI's flat-brimmed hat as if it had grown with him in his mother's womb.
'My name is Cutler,' he said. 'You're about to see a demonstration of the Brunswick RAW – Rifleman's Assault Weapon. It's an unusual weapon.'
A 5.56 FN Minimi light machine gun, bipod extended, was positioned on the ground beside him with its muzzle pointed toward a sandbag bunker two thicknesses thick about three hundred meters away.
In front of the bunker and leaning against it was a heavy steel armor plate.
'The trouble with the bad guys,' continued Cutler, 'is that they are not always willing to stand up and be shot at. They don't play fair. They get behind cover like bunkers or reinforced concrete positions that your itty-bitty rounds can't penetrate, and then what the fuck do you do? It's downright embarrassing.'
There were smiles from the assembled group.
'We already have rocket and grenade launchers,' Cutler went on, 'but rocket launchers are bulky and the 40mm grenade does not quite have the punch for a strongpoint. And so they came up with the RAW. Essentially, it is a spin-stabilized elongated ball five and a half inches in diameter – a teardrop shape – that you fire from a launching mechanism that you attach under the muzzle of your personal weapon.'
Cutler opened a compact clamshell container and clipped the mechanism and then the projectile in place. The entire exercise took less than ten seconds.
'With the RAW in place, you can still use your weapon as normal. The interesting thing is that for three hundred meters, the projectile's trajectory is virtually flat. Using your rifle sights, where you point it will hit. At longer ranges we're talking indirect fire, but it will go up to fifteen hundred meters.'
Cutler picked up the Minimi with the RAW now attached. 'As I said, there is no recoil or backblast, so you can fire it standing or sitting or however you want. The bipod is not necessary except to steady your aim.'
He then reached out his hand, turned the RAW activator switch, aimed at the bunker, and fired.
The projectile hissed from its nest under the barrel and then accelerated rapidly.
It looked harmless, thought Fitzduane, more like a well-spun ball than a weapon. But after its initial acceleration, it was extremely fast.
The distant bunker protected by its armor plate could be clearly seen.
And then it just disintegrated, the explosion startlingly violent and more like a heavy artillery shell than a grenade. It seemed an extraordinary amount of destructive power from such a small sphere.
'Well, I'm buggered,' said Kilmara. 'That little thing does all that damage by itself? You must have set off some explosives in it. You're pulling a fast one, Sergeant.'
Cutler grinned. 'No, sir,' he said. 'What you saw is what you got. The RAW is one effective sucker. Ain't technology a wonderful thing. In destructive power, the grapefruit is equivalent to a 105mm howitzer shell.'
'Suppose that grapefruit catches an incoming round?' said Fitzduane.
The fact that the RAW had neither recoil nor backblast had caught his imagination. You could use it in a confined space and mount it near anywhere.
'Good question,' said Cutler, 'but not to worry. The explosive used is insensitive. If it gets too hot it won't explode, and the same applies if it takes a round. We tested it with a. 50, and nada.'
'Any more tricks?' said Fitzduane.
Cutler nodded. 'There is also a dual-purpose projectile that combines anti-armor or bunker busting with antipersonnel capability. You set the range at which it will explode with a built-in display and then it will fire three thousand tiny tungsten balls that will kill or injure everything an arc with a radius of about a hundred and sixty square meters. The balls have an escape velocity of six thousand feet per second. That momentum will take you through a flak vest or a Kevlar helmet. That's a lot of very destructive metal flying around. It will shred people, soft vehicles, light armor and aircraft – and it's very bad news for helicopters.'
He turned and faced another target about two hundred meters away. This time, instead of one bunker, a hundred and fifty combat targets showing a menacing crouching infantryman advancing had been set out to simulate an attacking enemy force. They were in three irregular rows and were spread out in a line over two hundred meters wide and fifty meters deep.
Cutler picked up a RAW munition and fitted it, then adjusted the range on a small LED dial. Then he aimed slightly high. 'Airburst,' he said, and fired.
Every man in the assembled group examined every target after the demonstration. And every single target had been hit.
One single RAW round.
Somewhat subdued by what they had seen, Fitzduane and Kilmara had a quick lunch and headed for Maury's mobile home to meet their Magnavox contact.
Having a serious discussion at a busy exhibition stand was not easy. Also, Maury's vehicle was more working base than home. In it were excellent communication and office facilities.
Maury liked to travel, but he also liked to work. In truth, he never seemed to stop working. Certainly, one element that underpinned his detailed knowledge of the terrorist world was sheer application.
So far he had spent just one hour at the exhibition. He had done a lightning tour and then returned to his mobile burrow. Military gadgetry was all very well and he kept himself informed, but what really turned Maury on was the live game. Thanks to modern satellite communications, he could play that anywhere – and he did.
Fitzduane found Maury watching the fax for incoming nuggets in the utterly focused manner of a cat monitoring a mouse hole and brought him, protesting, into the meeting with Don Shanley.
Shanley impressed Fitzduane, and he wanted to put the Magnavox man under some additional pressure. Maury was rather good at asking awkward questions.
'What do you guys want to achieve?' said Shanley. 'The more I know, the better I can help you.'
'You just want to sell hardware,' said Maury aggressively. 'I hate salesmen.'
Fitzduane groaned inwardly. This was not the best way to start. He had in mind awkward technical questions. Downright bad behavior would not be helpful. Still, the only thing now was to go with the flow.
Shanley smiled. 'We all have some position to advance,' he said. 'Personally, I like to think of myself as a problem solver.'
Maury glared at Shanley. 'What do you know about combat?' he said. 'Have you ever served?'
Shanley was tired, Fitzduane had observed. At Maury's question he went pale, as if the remark had struck
