ejected in time. Sanchez watched the chute deploy. A minute later, as he orbited overhead, he saw that both Russians seemed to have survived the incident. That was fine with Bud.
“Splash two. Stick, we have two good chutes on the splashes… wait a minute, there's three strobes down there,” Jackson called. He gave the position, and almost instantly a helicopter lifted off from Theodore Roosevelt.
“Spade, is it supposed to be this easy?” Walters asked.
“I thought the Russians were smarter than this myself,” the captain admitted. “This is like first day of duck season.”
Ten minutes later, Kuznetzov made a radio call for its two MiGs, and got no reply.
The Air Force helicopter returned from Rocky Flats. Major Griggs alighted with five men, all of them dressed in protective gear. Two of them ran to find Chief Callaghan close to the M728 engineer tanks.
“Ten more minutes, if we're lucky,” Colonel Lyle shouted from atop the lead tank.
“Who's in charge here?” one of the NEST team asked.
“Who are you?”
“Parsons, team leader.” Laurence Parsons was the head of the on-duty Nuclear Emergency Search Team, yet another failure for this day. Their job was to locate nuclear devices before they went off. Three such teams were kept on duty around the clock, one just outside Washington, another in Nevada, and the third, recently activated at Rocky Flats to help make up for the retirement of the Energy Department's weapons-fabrication facility outside Denver. It had been anticipated, of course, that they wouldn't always be able to get there in time. He held a radiation counter in his hand, and didn't like what he saw. “How long have your people been here?”
“About half an hour, maybe forty minutes.”
“Ten more minutes, I want everybody away from here. You're taking Rems here, Chief.”
“What do you mean? The Major said the fallout is all—”
“What you're getting is from neutron activation. It's hot here!”
Callaghan cringed at the thought. His life was being attacked by something he couldn't see or feel. There may be people inside. We're almost there.'
“Then do it fast! I mean fast!” Parsons and his team started moving back to the helicopter. They had their own work to do. At the chopper, they met a man in civilian clothes.
“Who the fuck are you?” Parsons demanded.
“FBI! What happened here?”
“Take a guess!”
“ Washington needs information!”
“Larry, it's hotter here than it is at the stadium!” another NEST team member reported.
“Makes sense,” Parsons said. “Ground burst.” He pointed. “Far side, down-wind side. In-close was shielded some.”
“What can you tell me?” the FBI agent asked.
“Not much,” Parsons said, over the sound of the turning rotor. “Ground burst, yield under twenty KT, all I got.”
“It's dangerous here?”
“Hell, yes! Set up — where, where?”
“How about at the Aurora Presbyterian Hospital, two miles up-wind?” a NESTer suggested. “Across from Aurora Mall. Ought to be okay there.”
“You know where that is?” Parsons asked.
“Yes!”
“Then move out! Ken, you tell these people to get the hell out of here, it's twenty percent hotter here than in close. We have to get samples. Ken, you make sure they clear the area in ten minutes — fifteen max. Drag them out if you have to. Start here!”
“Right.”
The FBI agent ducked as the helicopter lifted off. The NEST team member began running down the line of fire trucks, waving for them to get away. The agent decided to do the same. After a few minutes, he got in his car and headed northeast.
“Shit, I forgot about the neutrons,” Major Griggs said.
“Thanks a lot!” Callaghan screamed over the sound of the tank.
“It's okay, they cut it off at a hundred. A hundred won't really hurt anybody.”
Callaghan heard the sound of the engines pulling away. “What about the people inside?” The chief found the interphone at the back of the tank. “Listen up, we have ten minutes and we gotta get the hell out of here. Lean on it!”
“You got it, man,” the tank commander replied. “Better get clear. I'll give you a ten count.”
Callaghan ran to the side. Colonel Lyle jumped off and did the same. Inside the vehicle, the driver backed off ten yards, took the engine to the red line, and slipped the brake. The M728 crushed five vehicles, slamming them aside. The tank was moving at perhaps a mile per hour, but it didn't stop. Its treads ripped up the asphalt, then it was through.
The area immediately next to the stadium structure was amazingly intact. Most of the wreckage from the roof and upper wall had been thrown hundreds of yards, but here there were only small piles of brick and concrete fragments. Too much for a wheeled vehicle, but clear enough that men could walk. Firefighters advanced and sprayed everything. The asphalt was still very hot, and the water steamed off it. Callaghan ran in front of the tank, waving for his men to go left and right.
“You know what this looks like?” a NEST team member said, as the helicopter circled the ruined stadium.
“Yeah, Chernobyl. They had firemen there, too.” Parsons turned away from that thought. “Head downwind,” he told the pilot. “Andy, what do you make of this?”
“Ground burst, and this wasn't any hundred-KT weapon, Larry, not even twenty-five.”
“What screwed up NORAD's estimate, do you think?”
“The parking lot. Asphalt, plus all those burning cars — it's the perfect black-body material — it's even black, for God's sake! I'm surprised the thermal pulse didn't look bigger than that — and everything around here is white from the snow 'n' ice, right? They got a mega-reflection, plus a huge energy contrast.”
“Makes sense, Andy,” Parsons agreed. “Terrorists?”
“That's my bet for now, Larry. But we gotta get some residue to be sure.”
The sounds of battle had died down. The Bradley commander heard scattered firing and guessed that the Russians had pulled back part way, maybe all the way to their own kazerne. It made sense, both side's tanks had been badly mauled, and it was now a battle for infantrymen and their fighting vehicles. Foot soldiers, he knew, were smarter than tankers. It came from wearing a shirt instead of a foot of iron. Vulnerability made you think. He changed position yet again. It was odd how this worked, though he'd practiced the maneuver often enough. The vehicle ran close to a corner, and a man would dismount to peer around it.
“Nothin', Sarge. It's all — wait! Something moving, 'bout two miles down the street… ” The soldier raised a pair of glasses. “BDRM! The missile kind.”
Okay, the sergeant thought, that'll be the reconnaissance element for the next wave. His job was entirely straightforward. Reconnaissance was a two-part job. His job was both to find the enemy, and to prevent the enemy from finding things.
“Another one!”
“Get ready to move. Traverse right, targets to the right,” he added for the gunner.
“Ready, sarge.”
“Go!” The Bradley's armored body rocked backwards as a vehicle leaped into the intersection. The gunner brought his turret around. It looked like a small-bore shooting gallery. There were two BDRM armored scout cars heading straight towards them. The gunner engaged the leader, exploding the anti-tank missile launcher on top. The BDRM veered to the left and rammed some parked cars. Already, the gunner shifted fire to the second, which
