going the other way and smiled at her. He didn't kiss her. He was just too tired. That was the problem. If he could only get time to relax. Clark was right, just a few days off to unwind. That's all he needed, Jack told himself as he changed.
Cathy opened the closet door to get some medical files she'd left in her own topcoat. She almost turned away when she noticed something. Not sure what it was, Cathy Ryan leaned in, puzzled, then caught it. Where was it? Her nose searched left and right in a way that might have appeared comical except for the look on her face when she found it. Jack's camel-hair coat, the expensive one she'd gotten for him last year.
It wasn't her perfume.
26
INTEGRATION
The assembly had begun with the purchase of additional instruments. An entire day was spent attaching one heavy block of spent uranium to the inside of the far end of the case.
“This is tedious, I know,” Fromm said, almost apologetically. “In America and elsewhere there are special jigs, specially designed tools, people assemble many individual weapons of the same design, all advantages that we do not have.”
“And here everything must be just as exact, Commander,” Ghosn added.
“My young friend is correct. The physics are the same for all of us.”
“Then don't let us stop you,” Qati said.
Fromm went immediately back to work. Part of him was already counting the money he'd receive, but most concerned itself with the job at hand. Only half of the machinists had actually worked on the bomb's physics package itself. The rest had been employed entirely with manufacturing other fittings, most of which could be called cradles. These would hold the bomb components in place, and were mainly made from stainless steel for strength and compactness. Each was set in place according to a precise sequence, as the bomb was more complex than most machines, and required assembly according to a rigid set of instructions. Here again the process was made simpler by the quality of the design and the precision of the machine tools. Even the machinists were amazed that the parts all fit, and they murmured among themselves that whatever Fromm might be — and on this subject their speculation had been wide-ranging and colorful — he was an inhumanly skilled designer. The hardest part was installing the various uranium blocks. Installation of the lighter and milder materials went much more smoothly.
“The procedure for the tritium transfer?” Ghosn asked.
“We'll leave that for last, of course,” Fromm said, backing off from checking a measurement.
“Just heat the battery to release the gas, correct?”
“Yes,” Fromm said with a nod. “But — no, no, not that way!”
“What did I do wrong?”
“This must twist in,” Fromm told the machinist. He stepped forward to demonstrate. “Like that, do you see?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“The elliptical reflectors hang on these—”
“Yes, thank you, I know.”
“Very good.”
Fromm waved to Ghosn. “Come over here. You see how this works now?” Fromm pointed to two series of elliptical surfaces which nested together one after the other — there was a total of nineteen — each made of a different material. The energy off the Primary impacts of these surfaces, destroying each in its turn, but in the process…'
“Yes, it is always more clear to see the physical model than to extract it from a sheet of figures.” This portion of the weapon derived its utility from the fact that light waves had no mass but did carry momentum. They were not “light” waves at all, technically speaking, but since the energy was all in the form of photons the same principle held. The energy would immolate each of the elliptical surfaces, but in the process each surface would transfer a small but reliable percentage of the energy in another direction, adding to the energy already headed that way from the Primary itself.
“Your energy budget is lavish, Herr Fromm,” Ghosn observed not for the first time.
The German shrugged. “Yes, it must be. If you cannot test, you must over-engineer. The first American bomb — the one used on Hiroshima — was an untested design. It was wasteful of materials and disgustingly inefficient, but it was over-engineered. And it did work. With a proper test program…” With a proper test program he could measure the empirical effects, determine exactly what the necessary energy budget was, and how well he managed it, determine the exact performance of each component, improve those that needed improvement, and reduce the size of those which were too large or too massive for the task at hand, just as the Americans, and Russians, and British, and French had done over a period of decades, constantly refining their designs, making them more and more efficient, and because of that, smaller, lighter, simpler, more reliable, less expensive. This, Fromm thought, was the ultimate engineering discipline, and he was immeasurably grateful that he had finally gotten the chance to try his hand at it. This design was crude and heavy, no masterpiece of design. It would function — of that he was certain — but with time he could have done so much better…
“Yes, I see. A man of your skill could reduce this entire unit to the size of a large bucket.”
It was a vast compliment. “Thank you, Herr Ghosn. Probably not that small, but small enough for the nose of a rocket.”
“If our Iraqi brothers had taken the time…”
“Indeed, there would be no Israel. But they were foolish, were they not?”
“They were impatient,” Ibrahim said, silently cursing them for it.
“One must be cold and clear-headed about such things. Such decisions must be made on the basis of logic, not emotion.”
“Indeed.”
Achmed was feeling very poorly indeed. He'd made his excuses and taken his leave, heading off to see the Commander's own physician, as per orders from Qati. Achmed had little experience of doctors. It was, he thought, something to be avoided if possible. He'd seen combat action and seen death and wounds, but never to himself. Even that was preferable to his current situation. One could understand injury from a bullet or a grenade, but what had made him ill so quickly and unexpectedly?
The doctor listened to his description of his condition, asked a few questions that were not entirely foolish, and noted that Achmed was a smoker — that had earned the fighter a head-shake and a cluck, as though cigarettes had anything to do with his situation. What rubbish, Achmed thought. Didn't he run six kilometers each day — or had, until very recently?
The physical examination came next. The doctor placed a stethoscope on his chest and listened. Instantly, Achmed noted, the doctor's eyes became guarded in a way not unlike the expression of a courageous fighter who didn't wish to betray his feelings.
“Breathe in,” the physician ordered. Achmed did so. “Now, out slowly.”
The stethoscope moved. “Again please.” The procedure was repeated six more times, front and back.
“Well?” Achmed asked, when the examination was finished.
“I don't know. I want to take you to see someone who understands these lung problems better.”
“I have no time for that.”
“You have time for this. I will talk to your Commander, if necessary.”
Achmed managed not to grumble. “Very well.”
It was a measure of Ryan's own situation that he took no note of it, or more correctly that he was grateful for the diminished attention his wife accorded him. It helped. It took some of the pressure off. Maybe she understood that he just needed to be left alone for a while. He'd make it up to her, Jack promised himself. He sure
