Vulcan's Fire

Iranians.”

Furr roused himself and made a point. “Chris, if we send teams out chasing nukes, how many guys would stay here?”

“I don’t know yet. But I think we want three or four men per team, which means no more than two teams.”

When nobody else commented, he put his hands on his hips. “Okay, that’s it for now. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear more.”

As the shooters filed out, Breezy held back. Finally he walked up to Nissen. “Sergeant, I have one thing to say.”

“Yeah?”

“If you send out a team, I’m on it.”

Before Nissen could reply, Breezy was headed for the door.

43

SSI OFFICES

Sandy Carmichael set down the phone and sat in stunned silence. Then she removed her reading glasses, laid her head on the desk, and allowed herself to cry.

Marshall Wilmont found her that way four minutes later.

The burly, unkempt chief operating officer felt even more useless than most males in dealing with weeping women. He patted Carmichael’s back, awkwardly slipping an arm around her shoulder, and asked, “Sandy, hon. Please… what’s wrong?” The only reply was more sobs.

At length she raised her blond head, eyes streaming tears, and croaked out the words. “Oh, God, Marsh. They’re dead. I think they’re all dead!”

Wilmont reached over his operations officer and flipped the intercom. “Mike, you there?”

When no response came, Wilmont buzzed Derringer’s secretary. “Peggy, where’s the admiral?”

“I think he was going to see you, sir. I can…”

“My God, Marsh, what is it?”

Derringer appeared at Carmichael’s door. He took in the scene and reached the desk in four brisk strides. Leaning over, he grasped Carmichael by both shoulders. “Sandy! Come on, what is it?”

Retired Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael raised herself upright. She reached for a Kleenex and applied it to her ruined makeup. After blowing her nose, she found her voice.

“I just heard from Chris Nissen. He says the attack on El-Arian was a deception.” She stopped, inhaled, and exhaled. “His guys wanted to reinforce Frank’s team but couldn’t get out. They found Breezy in the countryside and… and…”

Derringer motioned for Wilmont to fetch some water.

“Go on, Sandy.”

She wiped another tear from her cheek. “Breezy said…” She looked into Derringer’s face. “Oh, Mike. He said they’re gone. They’re all dead!”

Wilmont set down a paper cup, which Carmichael sipped.

“Who’s gone?” Derringer demanded. “Who was with Frank?” He looked at Wilmont.

“Steve Lee went to work with Frank and one of the others moved to Nissen’s team.”

Carmichael swallowed carefully. “Amasha was Frank’s job with Steve and Bosco and Breezy. Pitney went to El-Arian with the new man, Delmore. There were one or two snipers with Frank, too.”

Derringer pulled up a chair and sat opposite Carmichael. He realized that he was into Shock, the first stage of grief, and began allowing himself to expect the worst. For the moment he would skip Denial, touch upon Anger, and default to Acceptance. Depression undoubtedly would come in its own time.

“If Nissen couldn’t get out, it sounds like Hezbollah not only took Amasha but they’re holding it.”

“What’s that matter?” Carmichael’s Alabama accent was sharp, angry.

Derringer touched her forearm. “Sandy, we still don’t know for sure if Breezy’s report is accurate. But we can’t start dealing with it until we know the local situation.” He looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, see if you can get Nissen on the satellite phone. We need more hard intel.”

As Wilmont ambled out, Carmichael eyed her boss. “That’s my department, Admiral. I can still function, you know.” Her voice was flat, accusatory.

“Not right now you can’t, Sandy. You take a little while to compose yourself, then we’ll get down to business.”

She nodded and walked from the office, headed for the ladies’ room.

Derringer watched her leave. Not so long ago she killed two men in a shootout and it hardly fazed her. But now she’s probably lost two or three friends and she can’t shoot anybody.

HASBAYA

Bernard Langevin looked out of place in the company of Type A door-kickers. Slim and balding, he stood five feet seven and tipped the scales at 136 pounds regardless of what he ate. The fact that he held an intermediate certificate from a cordon bleu school put him in rare company for a physicist. But for the moment he deferred to SSI’s training officer.

Omar Mohammed began briefing the field team. “Gentlemen, I know that we have arrived at the worst possible time. It’s especially hard for me since I knew and worked with Frank Leopole for several years. I also knew Steve Lee and Jason Boscombe, as we deployed to Afghanistan. But we are professionals, and I know that we will continue doing a professional job.

“First: organization. Sergeant Nissen remains in charge at El-Arian, with Delmore who has a back injury. It’s a risk, but our priority is finding the backpack weapons. Chris and I talked by phone and agreed to field the most operators possible while the militia continues defending the village. Since there’s been no further attacks, that looks fairly safe.

“Now, we’re deploying two teams, each with a linguist. I’ll have one with Ashcroft, Brezyinski, and Furr. Dr. Langevin goes with Barrkman, Green, and Pitney, who of course speaks Arabic. We will be in radio contact, and if one team makes contact, we hope the other can join up. But we cannot count on secure communications, so keep that in mind.

“A couple of you know Dr. Langevin from pursuit of the Iranian yellow cake last year. For the rest of you, let me say that Bernard has a superb reputation both as a scientist and an operator.” The training director injected a wry smile into his introduction. “He is the only physicist I’ve ever known who understands the principle of the double tap and the elegance of the Mozambique Drill.”

Getting the response he desired, Mohammed continued. “With his arms control background, Dr. Langevin is of obvious help in our search for the backpack weapons. Assuming we make contact with the Hezbollah agents, he will decide how best to proceed. Since I speak Farsi, I will provide any language help required.

“Now, I’d like to ask Dr. Langevin to tell us about what we’re after.”

Aware that he was subject to testosterone-fueled scrutiny, the lithe physicist held up a photo.

“The item of interest is the RA-115 special atomic demolition munition, better known as a backpack nuke or suitcase bomb. There are other models like the 155 with different weights and yields. We might find something that nobody even knows about. But functionally they’re similar to the American Mark 54, both capable of yielding about one kiloton. The Mark 54 weighed 163 pounds while reportedly the Russian weapons are a lot less.”

Phil Green asked, “Doctor, how many nukes are we talking about?”

“Well, that’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question. Open sources are pretty consistent at about eighty 115s but I’ve seen estimates as high as two hundred fifty. When the USSR collapsed in 1990, tactical weapons were pulled back to Russia from all but three of the former republics: Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Belarus. There’s been reports that renegade KGB agents sold some backpacks, and that’s possible because apparently some of the weapons were kept by the KGB’s own commandos.”

“So you’re saying that both the KGB and the military had backpacks?”

“That’s how it appears. You have to appreciate how bureaucratic things were in the Soviet Union. It’s as if