"The U.S. of A. has ore than a passing interest in oil," said Maury. "We use a lot of the stuff, and we like to know where there is more and what people are doing with it and how we can lay our hands on it. That translates into a formidable intelligence capability. Not only can we detect where it is likely to be, but we can also monitor through various types of detection and sensor equipment where it is. We can, for instance, monitor oil flow through pipelines for remote satellite sensors. And frankly, we can do much more.
"Much of this technical capability had been focused on Tecuno recently. We have not learned much that is new — Tecuno's oil riches are no secret — but we were interested to find out that there is no evidence of oil in the Devil's Footprint itself except for the stuff required to run trucks. What looks like an oil installation, but positively no oil.
"None! Nada! Zilch!"
There was a long silence in the room. Then a collective reaction of surprise. Out of sheer curiosity, Fitzduane shot a look at Lamar. Even he was displaying a faint flicker of something or other.
"No oil?" said Fitzduane helpfully.
"No oil," agreed Maury, "and no activity in most of the pipes. We can detect that kind of thing with infrared and the like. You shove oil or water down a pipe and you do things to it. It becomes hotter or cooler compared to ambient. And there is more, but I'm not technical. But those are the principles."
"So the next thing you did," said Fitzduane, "was take a computer-enhanced photo of Dali and strip out the pipes where there was no activity?"
Maury's jaw dropped. "Fuck it, Hugo, how did you know?"
Fitzduane grinned enigmatically. Back on his island, Henssen played these kinds of games routinely when doing intelligence analyses, and Fitzduane, while no expert, had become quite used to some of the procedures.
Combat was becoming more technological, and there was no choice but to keep up. Fitzduane had gotten through most of his early years with nothing much more complex than an electronic calculator and automatic exposure meters on his cameras, but his hunt for the terrorist known as the Hangman had changed all that.
The slide changed again. The new image of the valley known as Dali showed a much simpler picture. Most of the steel spaghetti had gone. There was now one dominant pipe and a host of supporting equipment. The dominant pipe ran up the side of one wall of the valley. It was made of bolted-together sections and looked rather like a massive irrigation pipe, or maybe part of a sewage scheme.
"The Purloined Letter," said Grant Lamar quietly. "It's an Edgar Allan Poe story, as I recall. Everyone was looking for the missing letter, but it was in plain sight all along. I fear our Governor Quintana is a very clever man. I just hope we are not underestimating him."
"I'm not sure this was Quintana's idea," said Maury. "There is another name to factor in." I think I'll let Dr. Jaeger take it from here. He's more familiar with the background and the technologies. John?"
Maury sat down and Jaeger ambled to his feet. His body language was disarmingly reassuring. He was more the kindly uncle than someone who worked in one of the foremost U.S. weapons laboratories.
"Interesting problems you people do have," he said agreeably. "Me, I like crossword puzzles, but the kind of things that Maury comes up with are more fun. Part detective work and part science. And I have to admit that I'm no good at crossword puzzles. But here I think I can make a contribution."
"When Patricio Nicanor was killed — in front of some of you, I gather, which must have been most unpleasant — he brought with him several items that seemed to make little sense. You may remember them: a sample of maraging steel; some concrete; a gas controller; an unfinished layout of the Devil's Footprint; and a three-and-a-half-inch computer floppy disk.
"Not exactly good reasons to die for, especially since the floppy disk proved to be blank. Nothing on it. Classic example of what happens to magnetic media when you go through a magnetic field. And we've now learned that walking through such a field is standard procedure when you either enter or leave the terrorist base. These people are serious about security. They don't want a virus being brought in or their trade secrets being brought out. Very thorough. Not foolproof, but a good precaution and enough to zap Patricio's contribution. Or so we thought!
"The concrete interested us. Normal concrete is crude stuff, because it is full of air bubbles and rather brittle, but it is cheap and malleable and you can strengthen it adequately with reinforcing rods and sheer mass. Now, when examined under a microscope and with the kind of technology we have at Livermore — where atom splitting is routine business and quarks are particles we hunt, not put on our bread — this stuff was rather special.
"The air bubbles had been squeezed out and microfibers of steel and polymer had been added. The end result was a product comparable in strength to high-grade steel. Brittleness was down to a fraction of a percent of conventional concrete, and this stuff, according to our computer simulations, also had tensile strength. It was flexible. It could take shock without shattering. Remarkably strong shit indeed."
He paused to drink some water. Fitzduane's brain was in high gear. "What could you make from it, John?" he said.
"Well, I don't know the cost implications," said Jaeger cheerfully. "You know us scientists. But theoretically you could manufacture anything you could make with conventional concrete but without using reinforcing bars and with vastly less mass. Additionally, you could make near anything you could manufacture with steel and it would perform as well or better according to the grade of steel we are talking about. Now, only practical experimentation would determine the reality of this, but based on the sample we have, it looks damn good."
"So, for example, you could make a car out of this concrete?" said Cochrane.
"Sure," said Jaeger. "Your greatest difficulty would be with the molding, and there would be a slight weight penalty, but you could do it. The point is, materials are more adaptable than you would think."
Fitzduane looked at the slide and then at Jaeger. "John, I take it you don't want us to guess where you're going with this?"
Jaeger looked shocked. "Good heavens, no! It would take the enjoyment out of it. Have faith. I'm getting there."
"Crank it up, John," said Cochrane firmly.
Jaeger made an agreeable gesture. "Okay, we've covered maraging steel and super concrete. The layout of Dali is up on the screen. Now we come to the useless floppy disk. Maury had it checked by his computer people, and when we got it to Livermore we really go to work. You have never seen so much technology thrown at a floppy in your life."
"So how did it go?" said Fitzduane.
"You know the computer nerds," said Jaeger. "They only think in computer terms. They were working on the premise that something had been there but had been wiped, but just maybe could be brought back. So they went through the damn thing trying to give the kiss of life to each magnetic particle. Painful process. I have never seen so much pizza and Chinese eaten to so little purpose."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"We can be slow sometimes at Livermore," said Jaeger. "Personally I think all the MSG — but finally we got around to thinking more in terms of Doom and less in terms of computer technology. At 3:28 A.M. in the morning , one of the guys got carried away and slit the floppy open with a pizza knife. It was unusually hard to open, so he ended up smashing the thing."
Even Grant Lamar was showing involvement. "And he found?" he said.
"Buckets of blood!" chortled Jaeger.
He held up his hands in apology. "No, I jest, guys. Inside he found a liberal quantity of tomato sauce from the pizza knife, a passport-size photograph, a bunch of letters and numbers that don't mean much, and several names separated with dashes and a question mark afterwards.
"The photograph and the writing were on the inside of the case, so the floppy could still rotate. It had been meticulously done. You could see nothing from the outside. In retrospect, the only revealing feature was that the casing on that brand of floppy was only spot w
elded. After it was glued it appeared to be full-seam welded. Your Patricio Nicanor was a smart man and something of a craftsman."
"What were the names?" said Fitzduane.
"Edgar Rheiman... Edward Mann... George Bull?" said Jaeger. "Probably the first two names don't mean anything to you?"
Fitzduane nodded. "They don't," he said.
"Bu the third name?" said Jaeger.
Fitzduane looked up at the enhanced computer image and then leaned back in his chair. "I thought that was technology that was going nowhere," he said. "Nice idea but outgunned by rockets?"
"That's what most people think," said Jaeger, "insofar as they think at all. The supergun? It's the notion of a madman. Well, I can tell you, most people are absolutely wrong."
"How do you know?" said Fitzduane.
"I've built one at Livermore," said Jaeger over his half-glasses, "and though we make jokes" — he paused for a beat — "we're serious people down there. It works."
He leaned forward to emphasize the point, his face inches from Fitzduane's. "It really works. It's fucking beautiful. And the fuel source is everywhere."
Fitzduane raised an eyebrow.
"Tell me about your fuel," he said dryly.
Jaeger straightened and roared with laughter. "The raw material is everywhere. You drink it. you bathe in it, and for all I know you fuck in it."
"But split out the oxygen?" said Fitzduane.
Jaeger froze in surprise and then beamed approval. "Colonel Fitzduane, for the first time I am beginning to think you may succeed on your mission."
Fitzduane smiled. "If I get into trouble, John, I'll think of you and die laughing."
Grant Lamar leaned across to Cochrane. "Am I missing something here, Lee?" he said quietly.
"Hydrogen," said Cochrane. "One of the main components of water. Split out the oxygen and you've got a gas that goes bang. They've built a supergun that runs on hydrogen, and apparently the fucking thing works."
"How far could such a weapon go?" said Lamar. "From Mexico, that is?"
Jaeger roared with laughter. "You guys don't know the half of it."
"How far?" said Lamar in the loudest and firmest tone of voice that Fitzduane had ever heard him use.
"Washington, D.C.? NO FUCKING PROBLEM!" said Jaeger. He spread his arms wide and looked around the room. "Am I getting through, people?"
"Could be," said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
Apart from the security lights, the camp was dark. It was 2:30 A.M. For once there was no night training, and the team members were making the most of it.
Chifune tried not to notice Fitzduane's window as she jogged past.
Darkness. A feeling of melancholy swept over her. Just once she needed to talk to Hugo alone. She knew what had happened before in Tokyo could not be repeated — and certainly not under these circumstances — but she craved some moments of intimacy with him. Though she yearned for his touch, for the feeling of his naked body under her fingers, a simple conversation would be enough. But they had to be alone. Completely alone.
A small thing to want. To need.
So far there was always someone else present. It was in the nature of the training, she knew, and in some ways the constant presence of others had made their meeting again somewhat easier, but now her heart ached.
Behind her, his heart heavy with concern, Oga looked out through the window of his hut at his charge until she vanished into the woods. Then he lay on his bunk and tried to sleep.
Tanabu-san, so beautiful, so strong, so competent in many ways — and yet so vulnerable. What can I do to protect you? You must rest. Our fate will be decided in fractions of a second, and if you are tired...
Chifune ran to the killing house. The basic scenario was now second nature. This time she focused on what might go wrong.
My weapon might jam.
They could be waiting for us.
My night-vision goggles are damaged or knocked off, and I am in the same darkness that they are.
I am injured.
One of my team is hit.
We break through, but Kathleen is dead!
Hugo is injured!
What do I do?
Again and again, Chifune activated the automatic pop-up targeting mechanism and rehearsed her moves. The silenced Calico hissed death. Spent rounds were ejected downward into the clip-on bag. No empty case tinkling on the ground. No brass to slip on. Details, details, details.
Targets sprang up again, were hit again, and scores automatically logged.
Despite the air-conditioning, the atmosphere in the killing house grew thick with fumes. She activated the extraction system and the massive fans cut in.
Her fatigues drenched in sweat, Chifune finally slumped to the ground panting. She lay there for several minutes and then walked to the showers. She missed her Japanese bath, but in addition to the showers there was a hot tub there, and that was close enough.
The shower block was empty. She had the place to herself. It would be another two hours before the camp awoke.
She stripped off her clothes. She did not switch on the lights. There was just enough illumination from security lights filtering through the roof lights of the shower room, and the combination of streaming water against her body and the near darkness was soothing. She turned off the shower. Toweling her hair while she walked, she made her way to the hot tub and slid in.
Eyes closed, she stretched her legs.
Flesh.
A figure leaped into the air. "JUDAS PRIEST!" yelled a voice, clearly freshly wakened. "Who the hell is that?"
Chifune started to laugh.
"They say it's dangerous to fall asleep in the hot tub, Hugo," she said sweetly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"
The figure slid back into the water. "My mother told me to beware of Japanese women," growled Fitzduane. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "Especially the kind a man has learned to really care about."
"Men forget," said Chifune softly.
"We make choices," said Fitzduane, "and we live with those choices, but we don't forget. We were close and we'll always be close. It doesn't end just because..." He left the last words unspoken.
He leaned across and kissed her on the forehead, and her arms went around him and for a moment they were locked together. Then they separated.
Chifune sat in the darkness and cried. Fitzduane put his arm around her. After a while her tears ceased and she began to talk. Mostly Fitzduane listened.
"I must go, Hugo," she said eventually, "or Oga-san will be out looking." She laughed. She felt a great sense of peace.
She moved toward him and kissed him once on the lips. Our lives are intertwined, she thought. I will be your shadow.
"I'm glad you're here, Chifune," said Fitzduane quietly. "It means more than I can say. When I've doubts I see you and think ‘Yes, we can do it.’ I often have doubts."
"We'll get Kathleen back," said Chifune simply.
In the morning, Oga expected Chifune to look tired and to eat little, as had been her habit recently. Instead she was in sparkling form and ate like a little horse. He felt immensely relieved.
Oshima, he thought, you're going to have problems. Whatever happened last night, Tanabu-san is back on form.
14
It was Rheiman's fourth visit.
He did not seem to mind that she did not reply. He chattered away and she stayed silent and that was accepted as the natural order of things. Nonetheless, despite her inner campaign of silent resistance, Kathleen looked forward to his visits. Rheiman, whatever he had done and whatever he was, was gentle. He was considerate, and above all, he came across as a normal, warm fellow human being.
A lie? Another unpleasant twist in the psychological battle Reiko Oshima was waging to break her? Perhaps, but she thought not.
Kathleen wanted to cry with relief when Rheiman came to visit, but nothing showed. The mantra was repeated again and again.
I am strong.
&nbs
p; It was no longer just a slogan. It was the truth. And there was a new mantra. I know.
I am strong and I know. Blindfolded, bound, and helpless though she was, she felt an ever-increasing strength and understanding that had previously eluded her. Motives and behavior, previously inexplicable, now made sense. It was if her mind had been out of focus in the past and the conclusions blurred. Now the focus was tight and clear and vivid.
She heard his marvelously civilian footsteps outside and then a brief interchange with the guard. They made jokes about him when his back was turned, but to his face they treated Rheiman with respect. He had no direct authority over them, she gathered, but he had some clout of some sort. He was a senior figure in the scheme of things.
But what did he do? Why was he here? So far, she had no idea. He had talked a great deal, but always in generalities. It was a kind of verbal reconnaissance. As Rheiman had said, people like to chew over a new idea before swallowing it. And Rheiman as a friend — which was what he clearly wanted to be — was certainly a novel proposition. For he was also the enemy. And she was strong.
She would not be seduced or flattered or won over by gentle words any more than she would give in to physical abuse. She would hold on fast and she would win. Somehow. There was always a way.
Sometimes you found out too late.
The cell door opened and closed and his footsteps came closer, and then there was a new noise. She racked her brain. She was getting good at identifying sounds. She smiled. Got you! It was a folding chair.
Small victories, Fitzduane used to say when he was blocked by something, they're all you need to keep going.
Rheiman cleared his throat. He seemed to feel the need to announce himself before he started to speak. Once he got going there was scant trace of hesitation, but initially he always betrayed that he was not quite sure of his ground. This did not support the idea that he was part of some plan of Oshima's. It was much more as if he was following his own agenda but was not quite sure how to proceed.
A weakness! A weakness that could be exploited!
"I brought a chair, Kathleen," said Rheiman apologetically. "It's not for you, I'm afraid. They insist you stay chained to the wall. That's the way they are. But then, you know that."
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 22
