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.'
