Physically, General Gannon was similarly cast against type. But for all his slight frame, quiet voice, and courteous Southern manner, the General was a force to be reckoned with. The mantle of command authority sat easily on his shoulders. He greeted Fitzduane and Lonsdale warmly.
They were standing around a large planning table bearing a scale mock-up of the terrorist positions. If anything, the temperature and humidity in the SCIF were even more unbearable. Gannon sweated with everyone else but made no other acknowledgment of the fact. His camouflage fatigue jacket remained in place, fully buttoned.
To Fitzduane, the sight of the three-dimensional models was somehow much more evocative than the satellite imagery. There, in miniature, were the places where they had fought over so intensely only days earlier. They had wreaked havoc on their raid and had departed, never expecting to see the Devil's Footprint again. Now it was back as if to haunt them.
This time, Fitzduane vowed, we're going to finish the job. Given the package the air force were putting together combined with the ferocity of an airborne assault, it seemed a reasonable proposition in the abstract. When the details were evaluated, it was not so easy.
"The 82nd Airborne Division regards taking down defended airfields as something of a house specialty," said Gannon. "We have the skills to do the job, and it's something we are trained and equipped to do. But the Devil's Footprint complex poses particular problems. Madoa airfield and the twin valleys of the Devil's Footprint are eight kilometers apart, and both are heavily defended locations. The core difficulty is the supergun. Intelligence reports obtained from Colonel Fitzduane's prisoner, the man Rheiman, suggest that the weapon is primed and ready to fire.
"No matter how sudden our assault, how can we be sure that the supergun won't be fired before we break through? Would not a special-forces raid on the supergun itself be a more effective approach — to be followed by the 82nd when the weapon is fully secured? Does it even matter if the gun is fired? What damage can a projectile from such a weapon do? Gentlemen, I need answers."
Fitzduane was struck once again about the paradox of intelligence. Operatives were so obsessed with secrecy and classifying information as it flowed in that surprisingly often the very people who could make best use of the intelligence were never informed. General Gannon doesn't know! he thought. This is going to be like Son Tay all over again unless we watch it.
"General," he said, "the situation has changed. We had the advantage of surprise when going in. Now the Devil's Footprint has been reinforced. There is no way you can guarantee getting in before the supergun is fired. And I don't care who you use. Delta, the SAS, whoever. All it takes to fire that weapon is the push of a button. One finger, one split second, and the will to do the job."
Gannon nodded slowly.
"But the point is," said Fitzduane, "that firing the supergun should not matter. In fact, that's what we want them to do."
Gannon spoke quietly to an aide and a file was passed to him. The General read at the place indicated and then looked up at Fitzduane. "My information, Colonel Fitzduane, is that the weapon is targeted on the White House," he said, "and indeed could reach anywhere in this country." He smiled slightly. "Leaving out the matter of the average American voter's political persuasion, how could a strike on the very essence of this country's system of government not be significant?"
"The supergun has been sabotaged," said Fitzduane.
"It won't work?" said Gannon.
"It'll work," said Fitzduane, "but not quite as intended."
* * * * *
Gannon listened to Fitzduane and Jaeger for a further ten minutes, saying little. He had been through engineering school at the Virginia Military Institute more years ago than he cared to think about, so the science involved was relatively familiar. In essence, it all hung on the bravery of a man named Patricio Nicanor. He had provided the key when he had smuggled out a gas controller. The man had paid a high price for his courage.
"How do you know they won't find what you have done?" he asked. "Or maybe swap out the controller as part of routine maintenance?"
"We placed delayed charges around the breech of the weapon," said Fitzduane, "to give the impression that this was our main effort. So they would have no reason to suspect the controller. Nonetheless, we also penetrated their stores and swapped out the spares."
"But no guarantees?" said Gannon.
Fitzduane shook his head. "If we'd known about the supergun's missiles, we might have done things differently," he said.
"Dr. Jaeger," said Gannon.
"According to this man Rheiman," said Jaeger, "Governor Quintana went on a shopping trip in Eastern Europe. The supergun gave him a delivery system. Next he wanted something to shoot. He was looking for nuclear capability. He settled for an item called Xyclax Gamma 18. It's a binary nerve agent. The two components are relatively harmless in themselves, but once mixed, a single drop — smaller than that from a perfume atomizer — is fatal.
"The really unpleasant thing about the stuff is that it is not a military weapon. It doesn't kill instantly or within a few hours. It can take several days to kill you, and meanwhile you're in more agony than you can imagine. Every aspect of your body malfunctions. You bleed spontaneously from every orifice. Your lungs fill with pus. Your joints and nerves feel like they're being held in flames. It's a nightmare way to die, but it's not a military weapon because you can remain combat effective for several hours after you're hit with it.
"The stuff was developed for use in Afghanistan. Bombs and rockets weren't doing the job, especially after the Stingers made low flying unhealthy. The idea of Xyclax Gamma 18 was that you would drop in from a high-flying aircraft, airburst it at a thousand feet or so, and it would render a whole area uninhabitable. Lots of nerve agents kill you. What makes this variety so lethal is its dispersion capability and its shelf life. Xyclax Gamma 18 remains toxic for years."
"Was it used?" said Gannon.
"Apparently," said Jaeger, "but not for long. Under lab conditions with positive air pressure and everyone in special suits, it was safe enough. When they tried it in the field, they discovered that the dispersion capability was all too effective. Dispersion depends largely on particle size. The smaller the nerve agent particle, the larger the area you can cover. In this case, the particles were so small the Russians found the material went right through the standard Soviet NBC suit. A bunch of dying Afghans was followed by some serious Spetnatz casualties as they moved up to see what had happened. There was talk of getting new suits and trying it a second time, but then Gorbachev and glasnost came along. Xyclax Gamma 18 was quietly forgotten about until private enterprise hit and the enterprise manager realized that he had a product with real market value."
Gannon looked somber. "Will our suits work?" he said.
Jaeger shook his head. "Standard Army NBC suites may help, but not for long. You need the kind of gear they have in FortDietrich for this, and it's not the kind of clothing you can fight in."
It struck Gannon that this was the kind of mission that should best be left to the air force alone. His paratroops were trained to fight a real human enemy. To have his young men jumping into some lethal mist was a thought that revolted him.
Carlson had been thinking the same thoughts. But then again, he was a soldier, and surely the National Command Authority had considered all these questions. Or had they? Unchecked, politicians had a habit of committing the military without really thinking through all the implications.
Fitzduane broke the mood. "Binary?" he said. "If I was Quintana and had a mercenary force of debatable caliber, I'd store the components separately if I wanted to sleep nights. Otherwise, a bottle of tequila too many, and the Devil's Hangover wouldn't come into it."
Jaeger smiled. "Quoting Rheiman," he said, "even Oshima is scared stiff of the stuff. They tested a sample before it was shipped in, so they saw what it could do. They keep the secondary in a deep bunker in the supergun valley and the primary in the command comple
x of Madoa airfield. No chance of mixing them up or some entrepreneur staging a coup. The one exception to that may well be the supergun. If that is being held ready to fire, then we think it's likely — certainly possible — to have both primary and secondary loaded."
"Why wouldn't they load one of the components at the last minute?" said Gannon. "That would seem safer."
"It's possible," said Jaeger, "but loading the supergun is not like inserting a shotgun round. This is a big weapon. Charging it takes hours. So if they want to keep it as a deterrent ready to roll, it will be loaded.
"It wasn't loaded when we were there," said Fitzduane slowly. Then he looked across at the latest satellite pictures. The Devil's Footprint seemed to be getting stronger by the hour. Oshima was driving her people. She expected to be attacked. She was bright enough to know she could not win against a full assault. So what would she do? "But I concur with Dr. Jaeger."
"If a single missile charged with Xyclax Gamma 18 airbursts over Washington, D.C., said General Gannon, "what kind of effect would that have?"
"So much would depend on weather conditions," said Jaeger. "Rheiman says they were promised between fifteen thousand and seventy-five thousand fatalities. And decontaminating the area could take years. Of course, if it airbursts undetected over a major water supply, given that the effects are not immediate, hundreds of thousands, if not millions, could die.
"The fatalities could exceed those of a conventional nuclear detonation."
* * * * *
The meeting concluded.
General Gannon caught Fitzduane's eye and indicated that he would like to talk to him alone.
They left the SCIF and headed out of the division headquarters. The flag-lowering ceremony was just starting, and they stood at attention while it was completed. Then they walked on.
Dusk was falling. FortBragg was still a hive of activity. It would stay that way until the C130s were wheels up from Pope Air Base. Then there would just be the waiting. Sons, lovers, friends, and husbands would be gone. The post would feel empty. There would be no certainty all would return.
"Colonel Fitzduane, I understand you are not a regular soldier," said Gannon. "It's a pity. You seem well suited to the calling of arms. You seem... to understand" — he smiled — "perhaps too well."
Fitzduane laughed. "I'm not too good at following orders," he said, "or making the compromises you have to make. I find it hard to salute a man I don't respect merely because he has rank. I find it hard to do one thing because my masters require it when my common sense tells me to do something else. I am not overly fond of large structures. I can admire — greatly admire — a unit such as the 82nd Airborne, but I cannot suspend my sense critique."
Gannon eyed Fitzduane contemplatively. Then he laughed. "What am I going to do with you, Colonel Fitzduane? The 82nd is — well — the 82nd, and we have our own ways of doing things. We will evolve, but I doubt we will change. As to you, I'm told you have seen more of combat in more countries than all the Joint Chiefs put together, so I will allow you your sense critique. But what to do?"
"Let me work with Colonel Carlson until the planning is completed," said Fitzduane. "Then give me a small unit when we jump. Troopers who have initiative. A leader who has some dash."
"You're describing most of my men," said Gannon. He was silent, but then a smile crossed his lips.
"But one unit in particular comes to mind?" said Fitzduane.
Gannon grinned. "The Scout Platoon attached to the First Brigade," he said. "You may have met your match, Colonel. Under Lieutenant Brock, they're the nearest thing to a private army the 82nd has."
"What do they normally do, General?" said Fitzduane. "Scout covers a multitude."
"They do anything," said Gannon. "They scout, they snipe, they kill armor, they play with mines, they HALO. They even have their own pair of tanks and work with their own helicopters. They're terrifying young men."
He looked straight at Fitzduane. "You'll wonder why I tolerate them."
"Every unit needs a few mavericks, General," said Fitzduane.
"Indeed," said Gannon. He gave a signal and his Humvee rumbled up. He got in. "I guess one more won't hurt."
Fitzduane breathed the cool air of the evening and then headed back to the SCIF.
Carlson was studying the satellite imagery intently. He looked up. "The General fire you?"
"He said he needs every swinging dick he can get, Zachariah," said Fitzduane, "seeing as how they all go limp in this sweat lodge."
"He likes your haircut," said Carlson. He tapped the satellite photo. "Listen up," he said. "Fuck the armor. I've been counting their earthmoving equipment."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"They've got too goddamned much of it," said Carlson. "I think there's more to Madoa Air Base than we can see. Someone with a mole mentality has been screwing around with the environment."
"So what we see isn't all we're going to get," said Fitzduane.
"That's what I figure," said Carlson. "Unless the base commander just likes collecting tracked iron."
"Infrared?" said Fitzduane.
Carlson nodded. "That'll show if earth has been disturbed. But what if they've built under existing structures?"
"If they've got a bunker complex underneath," said Fitzduane, "why haven't they kept their bulldozers out of sight as well? Answer: because who would suspect some innocent earthmoving equipment and ..."
"...something else is in the space," said Carlson. "But what? There are plenty of track imprints, but they could be bulldozers. God, I hate surprises when I'm dangling from the risers. It's bad enough jumping out of an aircraft with your face painted green and black without some steel behemoth emerging from below ground and blowing your shit away. That kind of thing can depress you."
"What if we turned all this surprise stuff around?" said Fitzduane. "We don't sneak up. We announce ourselves. We show ours and encourage them to show theirs."
"A blast of trumpets before we attack?" said Carlson. "With something more substantial hidden away."
"It worked pretty well in Jericho," said Fitzduane.
"Let's get the Air Force in on this," said Carlson. "They have things that moles do not like. And they're Devious — with a capital D. Or so they say in the Pentagon."
"What are the Army?" said Fitzduane.
"The Navy are Defiant," said Carlson. "They can afford to be when they're out at sea snug in their carrier groups."
"The Army?"
"The Army are Dumb," said Carlson. "We're too honest, and that's why the other services get so much of the pie. But in this situation we need Devious — and maybe a few dozen penetrator bombs."
Six hours later, the shape of the plan had been established and now it was down to the planning staff to hammer out the endless details. No one in the 82nd seemed to need sleep.
Fitzduane headed away to get some rest. If General Gannon was right, he was going to need it before he met First Brigade's Scout Platoon.
When Carlson had heard that Fitzduane was jumping in with the Scouts, he had smiled. "The Devil's Footprint is going to be the least of your worries, Hugo. These people are crazy. Good — outstandingly good — but absolutely wacko."
* * * * *
General Gannon toured the post, checking on every aspect of the division's preparations. In any military operation every facet was interdependent, but never more so than in the 82nd.
The Airborne picked up their entire house and flew. If you forgot something you could not radio supply and request that they send it up the line. You brought everything — everything — with you or you did without. Sure, you could get resupplied with essentials from the air, but by the time that resource cut in the really critical time was normally over. The essence of airborne assault was speed and shock value — sudden overwhelming force appearing from nowhere anywhere on earth.
Global force projection.
Force was the key. When the Airborne jumped, the time for compromise was over. It was down
to elementals. You killed them before they killed you. Yo smashed into the enemy. You destroyed them. You did not hesitate. When attacking a heavily defended airfield — a substantial piece of real estate — the normal takedown time was two hours.
Two hours of focused carnage.
Ironically, may people — even in the military — thought of the 82nd as a light division, incapable of delivering a real punch. It had indeed be true half a century earlier. Now the destructive power of the 82nd was awesome. True, it lacked the heavy armor of a mechanized division or the stupendous firepower of a modern MLRS-equipped artillery brigade, but that was more than compensated for by the way it worked with airpower. Air support was the 82nd's heavy armor and artillery.
But even without airpower the 82nd was no longer a light division. Potent 105mm howitzers and heavy mortars gave artillery cover within fifteen minutes of the division's hitting the ground. The Stinger-equipped Avenger missile system secured the air. TOWS, Dragons, and AT4s provided potent antiarmor and anti-bunker capability.
The removal of the 82nd's indigenous Apache helicopters had been a controversial decision, but the Kiowas had picked up the slack with a vengeance. They were small and hard to detect and easier to airship and maintain, and though they could not carry the same payload as the Apache, they did carry the lethal Hellfire missile system. Further, by ripping out the two rear seats and stuffing the bay helicopters with electronics, the Kiowas now had outstanding sighting systems and night-vision capability. So the switch had worked to the 82nd's advantage. In fact, the controversy had been something of a storm in a teacup. On a combat mission, Apaches could always be attached to the 82nd if required.
The development in the 82nd's combat effectiveness that had pleased Gannon, an old infantryman, most was night-vision capability. Traditionally, the cost of night-vision equipment had made selective issue to squad leaders and special forces the norm. Now every single trooper in the 82nd had advanced third-generation goggles with him as he went into battle. Teamed up with laser aiming devices with beams visible only to those wearing the goggles, the effect on small-arms accuracy had exceeded expectations. Everyone knew about the Air Force's smart bombs. An Airborne trooper's firepower now approached the same level of accuracy. What a trooper saw he could — and did — hit.
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