He obviously intended to go on, but the words simply died.
“You did hell of a job, Captain,” he said finally.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, spinning quickly and leaving his office, wanting to take no chance he would se her cry.
Washington, D.C.
10 October, 2030
Jed Barclay pulled his arms around his thin jacket, trying to keep warm as he waited outside the posh Georgetown restaurant. He contemplated going and waiting inside, but realized that his presence might inadvertently tip off any number of D.C. denizens that something serious was up. His boss, National Security Advisor Deborah O’Day, wouldn’t like that.
Barclay had spent the last two winters in New England – Harvard, to be exact – and told himself he shouldn’t feet cold at all; October in Washington was balmy by Massachusetts standards but his twenty-two-year-old frame was practically trembling with the cold.
Finally, O’Day’s Marine Corps bodyguard emerged from the restaurant. The woman tensed as she spotted him, then gave him a disapproving frown.
“Jed, what are you doing here?” said Ms. O’Day, emerging behind her.
“I, uh – you’re going to want to see this,” he said.
he unfolded his hands to reveal a yellow manila envelope. O’Day took the envelope and moved over to the yellowish light thrown by a faux-antique streetlight. Meanwhile, her date – Brad Elliott, a recently retired three-star general Air Force general – emerged from the building. Jed nodded at the general, who nodded back semi-affably.
“That’s Iranian base,” Jed said helpfully.
“Yes, thank you, Jed. What the hell are you doing with this outside of the basement?” his boss added.
“It’s not classified,” he said. “It’s off the Russian satellite.”
O’Day frowned deeply at his dodge. The Russian made a limited number of satellite images available through a public European service, which, of course, the NSC had a subscription to. Primarily useful for agricultural purposes, the images did not precisely duplicate U.S. optical spy coverage – nor were they anywhere near as precise – but they were close enough. Since they were open-source, there was no prescription against carrying them off campus, as it were.
“The launchers have been dismantled,” said O’Day.
“Yes, ma’am. The image is two days old.”
“And they’re where?”
“We’re not sure. I mean, CIA isn’t sure, and the Pentagon, well, they say not to worry. But I – well, I don’t know.”
“You’re not on my staff to keep your opinion to yourself. Come on. It’s cold out here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, it’s difficult to be definitive. I mean, since we took our main satellite off-line for repairs two weeks ago, we’ve been cobbling things over Northeastern Africa together. Between that and the clouds – ’
“Jed,” she said sternly.
“There were two tankers off Bandar three days ago. They’re approaching Somalia now.”
O’Day didn’t bother asking for any other information.
“Contact Madcap Magician,” she told him. “Have them put Ironweed into action. Whatever units they need. Full-bore. I’ll be back at the NSC in an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am, he said, glancing at the general before retreating back toward the Metro stop.
Dreamland
10 October, 1730 local
The thick door to the Handheld Weapons Lab opened and Danny Freah found himself staring down at a white-haired woman old enough to be his mother’s mother.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Captain Freah. I have a appointment with one of the engineers, Dr. Klondike. I may be a little late,” he added apologetically.
“You’re two hours late, Captain,” said the old lady, shuffling back to let him in. she wore an ancient gray lab coat that looked a great deal like a housedress on her. “Fortunately, we were told that was your MO unless you were under fire. Come in.”
Danny gave her an embarrassed smile and stepped into the long, narrow hallway as the steer door slid quietly shut on its gliders behind him. He had a tough time forcing himself to go slow enough to keep from running down the old lady.
Over the past few days, Danny had learned that Brad Elliott had run Dreamland with an iron fist, not only recruiting the best of the best but allowing almost no chaff – no political appointments, few ‘favors’ to the contractors. But this old lady was obviously an exception; she had to be somebody’s relative, given a job either to keep her off food stamps or fill out a pension requirement. Captain Freah liked that – it was good to know that even a tough three-star like Elliott had a little compassion.
“This way now, Captain,” said the old lady, showing him into an immense, cement-walled room. There was a long firing range with a target track at the far end. She walked toward a large metal box that looked like an oversized mechanic’s tool chest, with double-keyed pullout drawers.
“Thanks,” said Danny. “When’s Dr. Klondike getting here? Maybe I’ll get some target practice in while I’m waiting for him.”
“I’m Klondike,” said the old lady.
Danny watched in disbelief as she retrieved a set of keys from her pocket, examining each one slowly before finding the right combination to open a thick drawer near the bottom. She pulled out a Marine-issue M40A rifle, sans scope, from the drawer.
“And incidentally, I am not a doctor. My name is Anna.”
“Is this for real?” he asked as she presented the gun to him.
“Whatever you may think of the Marine Corps, Captain, let me assure you that they have no peers when it comes to selecting rifles,” she said, apparently thinking that he had been referring to the weapons, not her. “You will find the Remington Model 700 one of the finest chassis for a precision firearm available. You may indeed quibble with the use of the fiberglass instead of wood for the furniture, but remember that the Marines operate in an environment typically humid, if not downright wet.”
Still not sure whether he might be the victim of an elaborate gag cooked up by one of his men – or maybe Hal Briggs – Danny took the rifle in his hands. He had no questions about the gun. At roughly fourteen and a half pounds, with a twenty-four-inch stainless-steel barrel, it was absolutely a Remington, albeit one that had been hand-selected and finished.
“So where’s the scope?” he said.
“You’re impatient for one who keeps his own schedule,” said Klondike, closing the drawer. She toddled over to a second set of cabinets, eventually removing a small. Torpedo-shaped sight. At a third cabinet, she produced a visor set with a cord.
“How does this work? Laser?” asked Danny, examining the sight.
“Hardly,” said the old lady, taking it from his hand and mounting it on the gun. She fiddled with a pair of set screws on the side, held the visor out, squinted, frowned, fiddled some more, then smacked the top. “Here,” she said finally. “I’ll get you some cartridges. The range is over there. I assume you can find it on your own.”
Fitted with a Redfield telescope sight, the sixties-era M40 was at least arguably among the best sniping rifles of all time. Simple yet highly reliable in adverse conditions, it could not turn a mediocre shooter into a marksman. But it could turn a highly trained marksman into a deadly and efficient killer. The sight was perfectly mated to the weapon, allowing the usual adjustments for wind and range and providing a remarkable amount of light to the viewer.
The visor doodad, on the other hand, was dim.
“It can be adjusted to your tastes,” said Klondike, returning as Freah frowned and played with the LED visor screen. “Try it before you dismiss it, Captain. You said you wanted an advanced sniping weapon.”
Still doubtful, Danny steadied the weapon against his shoulder, firing from a standing position. The visor projected an image similar to the view in a scope, though it was spread in an oval rather than a circle. A legend below the firing circle declared the target precisely one hundred meters away. He braced himself and fired.