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.
