Lethal young men, reflected Gannon, which was the way it should be. There were not many of them to hold the line, and the threats in today's world were legion.
The names of operations were normally chosen at the highest levels, with a weather eye on the public relations impact. In this case, because the elimination of the Devil's Footprint was a personal matter for the 82nd after the Fayetteville bombings, General Gannon had been asked to choose his own name.
Gannon was a man who studied his craft in the belief that the core lessons of combat were timeless. He had named the mission OPERATION CARTHAGE. The Carthaginians had invaded Italy and had caused the Romans serious grief on their home territory. In return, the Romans had crossed to Africa, defeated the Carthaginians utterly, and had razed Carthage to the ground.
It had all happened more than two thousand years ago, but to Gannon the parallels were clear.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Luke Brock filled six empty quart-size Coke bottles with water and hung them from target frames.
This was not the kind of exercise the range officer would approve of, but Brock was more concerned with the combat effectiveness of his unit than range safety. In his opinion, the general unwillingness of U.S. forces to train under live fire was criminal. The do-gooder liberals who had pushed the safety-first approach through did not seem to understand that lives lost in training accidents were more than compensated for in combat. They also missed the simple truth that a soldier's life, by definition, could not be risk-free. This current notion of aiming for zero-casualty combat and compromising on the mission struck Brock as being the value system of traitorous assholes who did not give a fuck about the United States. Where would the nation have been if Washington had ordered his troops to go home in case they might get too cold!
The fact that the 82nd Airborne had to compromise on training because of the red cockaded woodpecker produced in him something akin to a killing frenzy. He thought of the damn bird every time he had to go on a mission. It seemed to evoke the right throat-cutting mental attitude.
He lay down between two target frames. Zalinski and Gallo were equally positioned. Zalinski was the spotter on this one, and Gallo the shooter. Gallo did not really need a spotter, since he worked out where the enemy sniper was, through some kind of Zen-based telepathy, but even the best sniper needed a partner to back him up. Accuracy was great, but God loved firepower too. Gallo had an M24. Zalinski had a customized SAW with a two-hundred-round box attached.
Brock spoke into his radio. "Counting down."
Ten seconds later, the first Coke bottle blew apart, spattering Brock with water. The enemy sniper would continue firing and moving every thirty seconds until all the bottles were destroyed or he was detected by Zalinski and Gallo. The enemy was between five and seven hundred meters away in brush and wearing a gillie suit, so spotting him was no easy task.
Gallo had his eyes closed and was lying on his back. It was a disconcerting habit for a sniper trying to track down a hostile, but it seemed to work for him.
Brock checked his watch. Five seconds more to go. Gallo normally seemed to sense the location of his man after the third or fourth shot, but he had been getting better recently. Some brain-enhancing herb he was taking. It helped to compensate for being with a woman, he said. Sex drained his powers and positively fucked with his concentration. On the other hand, without it, he went moody.
The second bottle exploded, this time showering Zalinski.
A split second later, Gallo rolled over onto his stomach and fired the laser attached to his sniper rifle. Green smoke spewed up from the brush. A direct hit.
Brock contemplated his star sniper. Gallo was looking remarkably pleased with himself. Zalinski was soaked.
"Gallo, you tricky fuck, you could have fired earlier," said Brock.
"The vibes weren't right," said Gallo.
* * * * *
The Humvee passed the Delta compound and headed on toward Sicily Drop Zone. Delta was so classified that it was referred to as ‘the place that doesn't officially exist,’ but its unofficial presence bordered with chain-link fencing topped with razor wire was substantial. Aircraft coming in over Bragg to carry out drops used Delta's distinctive red roofs to verify their positions. One covered a killing house where CQB — close quarters battle techniques, developed initially by the SAS — were refined into an art.
"Homesick?" said Fitzduane.
Lonsdale was driving. He took his right hand off the wheel and gave a cross between a salute and a wave as he passed by. "It's a fraternity," he said. "You never quite leave. On the other hand, I could never quite go back. I'm too old for some of the bullshit."
Both men were wearing 82ndAirborne combat fatigues and their faces were camouflaged with green and black cream. It was the prescribed uniform west of FortBragg's
Gruber Road
. For much of the time it was not, strictly speaking, necessary, but it evoked the right mind-set. Combat to the Airborne was not a remote possibility. It could happen at any time. It made sense to be physically, mentally, and materially prepared. Besides, if you weren’t cammied up the MP's stopped you, which was a pain.
"They say if you can make it in Bragg," said Lonsdale, "you can make it anywhere in the U.S. Army. The men mostly love it. Wives and girlfriends hate the place. With one of the three brigades always on eighteen-hour standby and EDREs being called whenever you least expect, your domestic life does not get much of a look in. There are more ways of being hurt than being killed or wounded. You can end up being turned on by a pair of watermelons."
Fitzduane smiled. They'd been looking for the Scout Platoon for the last hour. They'd been to the range but found only some empty Coke bottles and a sputtering range officer. The latest word was the Lieutenant Brock and his private army had headed off to Sicily DZ to do something with tanks. If Fitzduane had heard it right, a C130 was going to drop a couple on top of them. Strange people, the Scouts.
"Cochrane called from the Hill," he said. "He sounded — how shall I put it...?"
"Jealous," said Lonsdale. "What did you say?"
"I told him the President needed him, Congress needed him, and there was more important work to do on counterterrorism in the nation's capital than down here," said Fitzduane.
"True enough," said Lonsdale. "On the other hand, he'd be a good man to have with us. If memory serves, we'd both be sushi without him."
Fitzduane was silent. It would have been nice to have gone back with the whole team, but the 82nd had wanted advisers rather than an army. They had pointed out that they already had an army. Fitzduane as mission commander and one other was all they would wear. The team had drawn lots for the extra place.
"Well, this one Lee will just have to miss," said Fitzduane.
The trees thinned out and then the vast open space that was Sicily DZ lay ahead. The earth was red, not unlike the soil in Lonsdale's valley in Arizona.
A solitary C130 was making its approach. As they watched, something substantial emerged from its rear, followed by an item of similar size. Seconds later, three large parachutes opened, checking the rapid descent of the first item. Almost immediately, the parachutes on the second parcel blossomed.
"Where they land Scout Platoon should be," said Fitzduane. "More or less."
Lonsdale headed the Humvee toward the descending tanks. There was no sign of Scout Platoon.
There was something surreal about seeing tanks floating through the air. They were strapped to thick, corrugated pallets. Packing material was wedged into vulnerable areas like the tracks.
The tanks seemed close enough to touch.
Lonsdale was staring out at them too.
"For fuck's sake, we're underneath the bloody things," yelled Fitzduane. "This is ridiculous."
Lonsdale jammed on the brakes and then shot backward. Compared to a Guntrack, the speed was glacial. The tanks were now close enough to read the packing instructions. Lonsdale was doubled over with laughter.
; The tanks impacted ten meters away, compressing their corrugated cushioning flat and raising clouds of red dust. The second machine seemed to bounce and then fell over on its side. It was even closer.
"YOU!" screamed a voice in Fitzduane's ear. "YOU WITH THE DEATH WISH! Get out of that vehicle and go right at that Sheridan. ASAP, TROOPER!"
Fitzduane hopped to it. The are was suddenly full of running troopers. Within seconds, the tank was righted and the straps and packaging were being removed.
He decided he'd let the experts get on with the next phase.
"FUCKHEAD!" screamed the voice. "WHO TOLD YOU TO STOP? MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
Fitzduane turned around. A short, stocky figure with an almost Mongolian cast to his black and green features was standing inches from him. Red dust clung to his fatigues and webbing, but his badges of rank and name tag could just be read. He was the closest thing to a demented dervish that Fitzduane had ever seen in uniform. Which was some statement around Bragg.
"Lieutenant Brock," said Fitzduane.
Brock stepped back and took a hard look at Fitzduane. The stranger's uniform bore neither a name tag nor badges of rank. On the other hand, the man was manifestly not some nineteen-year-old trooper.
"You're screwing up my exercise," said Brock. "Who the fuck are you?"
Fitzduane looked at him.
"I'd hate us to get off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant."
"Sir," added Brock.
Fitzduane told him.
"Hooah, sir," said Brock. A smile creased his features. "You've been there before, the CG said."
"In — and OUT!" said Lonsdale. "The second bit, Lieutenant, is the secret."
Fitzduane indicated the two tanks. "Tell me about your pets," he said.
Brock positively glowed. "Pets! Outstanding, sir. Where would you like me to begin?"
* * * * *
Jaeger woke up sweating.
The motel-room furnishings looked unfamiliar. According to his watch it was work time, and a raised curtain revealed definite daylight. Blue skies. Sun. All the trappings.
Why had he been asleep in the middle of a perfectly normal, useful day? Was he drugged or drinking? Had he forgotten the work ethic he'd grown up with? Was a woman involved? What was he doing in Fayetteville?
He drank a glass of water and lay back with his eyes closed.
In his mind's eye he could see the immense steel barrel of the supergun in the Devil's Footprint spurt an endless tongue of flame and send its deadly projectile toward his country. Washington, D.C.? New York? Cleveland? Los Angeles? What did it matter? All that was important was that a population center was targeted.
The weapon would be fired. Fitzduane was sure of it. As he understood the workings of Oshima's mind rather better, Jaeger himself was certain of it.
OPERATION CARTHAGE might bring it forward a few hours, a day, a week, but either way the supergun was going to be used.
The assault troops, no matter what they did, could not stop it.
If it worked, thousands of people would die. Probably tens of thousands. Possibly a great deal more. And that would just be the immediate effect. The greater impact would be on America's credibility.
Jaeger swung his legs off the bed and put his head between his knees. The dizziness passed. He began to remember the SCIF and the heat and the mission and Lieutenant Colonel Carlson dripping with sweat, keeping his eye on the ball. And Fitzduane and Lonsdale going back for a second time. Back to the science of it all, his brain told him. Forget all this emotion. Focus on the scientific facts and the physical reactions that must result.
Hydrogen was the propellant being used by Rheiman's supergun in the Devil's Footprint. Hydrogen alone was too volatile and would explode too fast, so it was blended with helium. The mixing of the two gases was controlled and monitored electronically.
Remove the original controller mechanism and substitute a replacement that would read out correctly but actually allow a mainly hydrogen mix into the barrel. And what would you get?
One hell of an explosion.
Strong enough to burst a barrel made of maraging steel?
That's what the computer simulation said would happen. But computer simulation was far from foolproof. That's why you did field trials. Real life had a habit of being quirky.
Replacing the controller mechanism had seemed like a good idea when the main objective was merely to disrupt the testing program. Now Xyclax Gamma 18 had raised the stakes beyond Jaeger's ability to handle the situation.
The issue was not just would the barrel burst when fired. The question then was what would happen to the nerve agent. It should be incinerated. The one saving grace of the stuff was that it was volatile. It could be spread by the force of the explosion throughout the entire area. Two whole brigades of the 82nd Airborne would die. NBC suits would make no difference.
Even if all worked out this time, from his research at Livermore, Jaeger knew better than most what other threats were in the pipeline. The millennium was approaching, and the level of threat from weapons of mass destruction was terrifying.
Jaeger rose to his feet and walked wearily into the shower. He'd had five hours' sleep in the last two days, and it did not look as if he was going to get any more until OPERATION CARTHAGE was over.
There was something he had forgotten, he was sure of it.
Several of his fellow scientists at Livermore had suggested flying a smart bomb down the meter-wide muzzle of the supergun, and Jaeger was beginning to wish he had recommended that option. It was a small target to hit, but it was certainly possible, especially if the aperture was lased by a ground-based special-forces team. But even that option could have needed several strikes to be absolutely sure of success. And an initial miss could precipitate the firing of the supergun in retaliation, even if a whole wing of F16s were racked up to do the job. Nothing was certain in combat except that whatever plans you made in advance would get fucked by circumstances.
No, the double advantage of the sabotaged controller option was that if it worked, it would prevent the weapon being fired successfully at all, and would undermine the credibility of the weapon.
Cochrane's task force was right. The damn things were too easy to make. The illusion had to be created that the supergun technology was inherently flawed.
What had he forgotten?
* * * * *
Oshima studied the blueprint of the supergun intently.
She had no particular scientific bent, but the good thing about the supergun itself was that, once you understood the principles, it was not really that complicated.
Rheiman had called it a giant peashooter. Put a dried pea on the table and try to try and blow it across the room and you would have a hard time moving it more than a few feet. Place it in a peashooter, give a good puff, and you could ‘dent a windowpane.’
The real complexity lay in the supergun's projectile. But that was beyond her capabilities to worry about, so she had wiped it from her mind and focused on the gun. The weapon had been sabotaged, but unsuccessfully. That could have meant Fitzduane's raiders had not come prepared — a strong possibility, given that rescuing his woman was clearly the main object of the mission. But it could also meant that the explosive charges were a diversion.
But a diversion from what? What else had the raiders been up to?
Oshima transferred her gaze to Salerno. Rheiman had been brilliant, but erratic and lazy. He had compensated by hiring a hardworking support team. Dr. Salerno had been his second in command and had taken over Rheiman's role as project manager without missing a beat.
People are rarely indispensable, Oshima reflected.
"Salerno," she said, "I know these people. You have seen the damage they inflicted elsewhere. Why had Dr. Rheiman's weapon escaped unscathed? What have we missed?"
Salerno was terrified of Oshima, but within his area of expertise he felt confident.
"They had only fifteen to twenty minutes," he said. "They did what they could in that time, but
the weapon is so large and strong it is extremely difficult to damage. The charges they placed were standard military demolitions. I really do not think, Commander, that they came prepared."
Oshima looked back at the blueprint. "The barrel," she said. "Could they have weakened it in some way?"
"We put a man down the barrel with ultrasonic equipment," said Salerno. "We have examined every square millimeter of the structure twice, and all of it is within tolerance."
"Within tolerance?" said Oshima.
"No manufacture is perfect," said Salerno carefully. "There are flaws and imperfections in every product, but the important factor to ascertain is the scale of such problems. In this case, we have nothing to worry about. In a layperson's terms, the barrel is fine. The same judgment applies to the rest of the weapon."
"The breech, the firing mechanism, the gas lines?" said Oshima.
"All have been examined in great detail," said Salerno.
"I wonder why they didn't blow the hydrogen?" said Oshima.
"As you know, Commander," said Salerno, "the main hydrogen tanks are kept in a series of underground bunkers separate from the weapon. Either they did not know they were there or they had no time. Anyway, they would have had to blow all the hydrogen tanks to seriously affect us, and that was beyond their capabilities. Even if they had achieved all that, we have our own hydrogen-generation plant under Madoa airfield."
Oshima drew her automatic and pointed it directly at Salerno's face. "Dr. Salerno, I want you to imagine your life depends on your answer," she said softly.
She smiled and pulled back the hammer. "Because it does."
Salerno's mouth felt completely dry.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 41
