Danny Freah pushed back the soft campaign cap the Marines had loaned him and surveyed the base area. In less than twenty-four hours the makeshift camp had swelled from a few tents in the rocky hills to a small city. Six Ospreys sat in formation on the nearby plain. Across from them, three sideless tents housed the fifteen warheads that had been recovered thus far. Two different teams of scientists and military experts were going over the weapons, examining them before crating them for transport to the USS
The nuclear devices represented a variety of technologies. Pakistan’s eight were all of similar design; according to the experts, they were relatively straightforward and not large, as nukes went, though fully capable of leveling a city.
The rest of the weapons were Indian, with warheads ranging in yield from five kilotons — very small, as nukes went — to 160 kilotons, roughly the same class of explosive power as the W62 on the U.S. Minuteman III ICBM. The discovery of the latter surprised the experts; until then, it was believed that India’s biggest warhead was in the fifty to sixty kiloton range.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Lieutenant Dancer as Danny contemplated how many lives the warheads would have claimed had they gone off.
“I usually get a whole dollar,” he told her.
“Have to wait for payday for that.” Dancer smiled at him, then shaded her eyes from the sun. Her skin looked as soft as a rose petal’s. “We have the last two Pakistani warheads secured. The Ospreys are en route. Any sign of activity to the south?”
“Negative,” said Danny. “Radio traffic is picking up, though.”
“Mmmmm,” said Dancer. She gazed toward the coast, probably thinking it would be a good thing to get the warheads out as soon as possible.
He was thinking about other things — none of which were military.
Dancer unfolded a small sketch map with an
“The warheads at I-6 and I-8 are going to be much harder to retrieve,” she told Danny. “I wonder if you’d lead that team.”
“Be glad to.”
The warheads she’d referred to had crashed about two hundred miles to the east in Pakistani territory. The Pakistani army had a decent-sized military post less then thirty miles away, and the Indians had an unmanned listening post ten miles south. The electronic surveillance equipment there was thought to have been fried by the T waves, but a truck was spotted in the area, and it was suspected that the Indians were working hard to get it back on line.
“You coming with us?” asked Danny.
“I have my work cut out for me here,” Dancer told him. “And hopefully we’ll be launching another mission as soon as the other warheads are found.”
“Shame,” said Danny, feeling as if he’d been turned down for a date.
Most of those in the Situation Room regarded Robert Van Houton as little more than a political hack, and so eyes glazed over when he warned that China would be extremely interested in the nuclear warheads the U.S. had punched out of the sky. It didn’t help that his monotone voice made it sound as if he was simply repeating vague concerns others had voiced earlier in the meeting. Even Jed Barclay, not a dynamic speaker himself, realized Van Houton wasn’t coming across very well as he briefed the cabinet members on the latest developments.
“We’re not going to attack the Chinese,” said Defense Secretary Chastain finally.
“I’m not suggesting that,” said Van Houton defensively. “What I’m saying—”
“I’ve spoken to Tex Woods,” said Admiral Balboa. “He concurs that there’s no need to get into a conflict with the Chinese. The aircraft carrier
“Um, it’s not the
“Not that old bugaboo,” said the Secretary of State. “With all due respect, Jed, every time there’s a conflict somewhere, you guys bring up terrorists. Thank you, but the Pakistanis and Indians are quite capable of blowing up the world on their own.”
“There have been interceptions from the NSA,” said Jed’s boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman. “There is talk going on between some of the radical Sunni groups and the Chinese. Some of this involves the bin Laden group.”
“Nonsense,” said Balboa. “Navy intelligence says that’s impossible. The Pakistanis think the weapons were destroyed. The terrorists take their lead from them.”
“Not entirely.”
“Iran is the country we have to worry about when it comes to terrorism,” said Balboa. “Tell the NSA to find some evidence from that direction, and we’ll bomb Tehran back to the stone age.”
Vice President Ellen Christine Whiting rolled her eyes. She was chairing the meeting while the President flew to New York to address the UN.
“Anything else, gentlemen?” she asked, looking around. “The warhead removal mission is continuing, and we should have most of the warheads out by noon our time tomorrow?”
“Yes,” said Jed and Balboa simultaneously.
Jed felt his face turn red. Balboa’s scowl made it clear that he resented him even being here; there were no other aides at the session.
“I’m sure the President will be very pleased with this update,” said Whiting. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”
In some ways, Diego Garcia was a haven from the world at large, a beautiful gem dropped in an azure sea. Palm trees swayed ever so slightly on a soft breeze, and the sand and sky made the place look more idyllic than Tahiti.
Of course, if she was going to be on an island paradise, Jennifer Gleason thought, she would have preferred being alone with her lover, rather than sharing him with a force that now topped two hundred. She also would have greatly preferred that he paid more than scant attention to her.
Her C-17 had beaten Dog’s Megafortress to the island by several hours, which made it possible for her to greet him when he arrived. But instead of the joyful hug she’d envisioned — or even a lousy peck on the cheek — Dog merely grunted a hello and went off to bed.
Alone.
Now, roughly twelve hours later, he seemed more irritable than ever. He was holding court in his room, growling rather than speaking to the crews of Dreamland
“We don’t know how long their defenses are going to be knocked out, so we have to make the most of the time we’ve got,” said Dog. He looked up and saw her at the door. “Ms. Gleason, can we help you?”
“I brought you some coffee, Colonel.”
“Thanks, I already have some.”
Dog turned his attention abruptly to the others. Jennifer felt as if she’d been slapped in the face.
“I have a lot to do,” she said. She squatted down and placed the cup on the floor, then walked away.
Even though he had slept for more than ten hours after getting back to Diego Garcia, Dog felt anything but rested. He certainly had more energy, but it was an unsettled energy, vibrating wildly inside him. At the same time, his body felt as if it were a heavy winter coat wrapped tightly around him, making it harder to move.
