“Why do you think it’s a warhead?”
“Our sniffer says it’s full of uranium.”
“Read me the scale level.”
“Okay. Uh, hang on.” He fumbled with the small Geiger counter, clicking it through its modes. About the size of a lunchbox, the field unit could detect the depleted uranium used for A-10 cannon shells at about fifty yards. Whiplash carried similar units for toxic chemicals and known gas agents. “497.83,” said Danny, “on the, uh, hundredths, no, thousandths scale.”
“That’s fine,” said Annie. “How large is the device?”
“About the size of an artillery shell.”
“How far away are you?”
“About three feet, max.”
“Tsk. I believe your unit may be doubling the reading.”
“Is it a bomb?”
“Well, you’re the one looking at it. The reading is certainly high enough. Interesting—you’re in Brazil?”
“Interesting? What should I do?”
“Technically, Captain, I am not an expert on nuclear devices.”
“The NSC is supposed to be getting me one,” Danny told her. “But right now, you’re the best I got, Annie.”
“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, Captain.” Annie sighed. “What does Sergeant Bison think?”
Bison came on the line and described the setup of the wiring to her. Danny squatted down on his knees about a foot from the timer, which he had uncovered by pulling the top off the trunk that was inside the boxes. The timer had several folds of wires running off it, including one that led to a large brick of C-4. Bison thought that was a booby trap, and Klondike agreed.
“So what the hell do we do?” Freah finally asked his sergeant.
“She’s thinking, Captain.” Bison nodded a few times, then began describing the thick group of wires that fed into the front of the device.
Danny nearly had a heart attack as his munitions expert pulled at the winds of black tape.
“Wants to talk to you, Captain,” Sergeant Bison said finally, giving the radio handset back to him.
“Creative,” said Annie. “I’m not an expert on tactical nuclear devices, but in my experience, the device sounds rather primitive. Most likely it is primed by a focused explosive device, which would propel an atomic pellet into a cup of material toward the base. Rather like the Hiroshima bomb, in a way, except that there the mechanism—”
“As powerful as that?”
“Oh, no. Only half. Probably even less—maybe a tenth, assuming I’m right about your sniffer reading. I don’t particularly like those devices; I saw two that malfunctioned in the Gulf, once when the consequences could have been very serious. Of course, the real key isn’t so much the size of the warhead as the design of the explosive lens that initiates the reaction. An American bomb that size could wipe out a city the size of New York, whereas a Pakistani bomb would barely destroy twelve or thirteen blocks. They’re quite hopeless as designers because they don’t have the hang of focusing the explosion. On the other hand—”
“Annie, there’s a timer on this thing.”
“Yes, I understand that. Well, either you or Sergeant Bison has to take it apart. That’s the first step. Undo the booby-trap component and then we’ll tackle the timer. This way maybe we can see which of the wires are obviously fake.”
“You don’t think the booby trap might set it off?”
“Always a possibility.”
Danny stood up.
“I can get the C-4 off no sweat, Captain,” said Bison.
The weapons expert stooped over the bomb. Bison worked quickly—a little too quickly, it seemed to Danny.
“All right, get some screwdrivers,” the sergeant said finally. Danny went over to the side of the hangar where there was a large tool case. He didn’t realize until he was walking back that Bison had only sent him on the errand to make himself less nervous.
“Wasn’t even connected,” said the demo expert, pointing to the plastic explosive. “Just there to fake us out. I think.”
“Maybe the whole thing is a fake.”
“That I wouldn’t count on.”
Powder gingerly held up the small clock dial and touched one of the buttons on the side with the blade of the screwdriver. “Still giving me the local time, 0636. Still set to go at 0650. I think anyway. Could be a second sequence, like a countdown from there.”
“Probably the detonation,” said Annie when Danny told her over the Satcom.
“Can we stop it?”
“Long shot.”
“Thanks.”
“Just trying to be optimistic. Would you like to know what happened on Jeopardy tonight, or should we get to work?”
Aboard Galatica
Over Colombia
8 March, 0536 local (0636 Brazil)
ZEN DRIFTED IN AND OUT OF CONSCIOUSNESS FOR A while, strange visions twisting in his head.
He walked in midair toward the large crimson sun. His legs felt solid and strong.
A warning flashed. Bogeys. F/A-18’s.
Zen’s head cleared. He was at the U/MF observer station, the technician’s bench next to the control seat. Two American F/A-18 Navy fighter-bombers were approaching. They might have caught something on their radar, though the threat screen indicated they hadn’t picked up the lead Flighthawk, which was on an intercept vector from the southeast.
The Hughes APG-73 digital programmable radar of the F/ A-18’s rated among the best conventional radars in service; were the Flighthawk a conventional fighter, it could have been detected at no less than a hundred nautical miles, even in look-down mode, which tended to lower the range. But the Flighthawk was much smaller and considerably stealthier than a conventional plane. Its pilot also had the advantage of seeing exactly where the radar fingers were groping. By the time the Hornets finally detected the U/MF, it was less than eight nautical miles away.
It took nearly twenty seconds for the Navy pilots to realize the odd, unidentifiable returns on their radars were definitely a bogey. One of the pilots fired an AMRAAM, even though the Flighthawk screen showed he hadn’t locked; Zen reflexively reached for the button to dispense chaff.
Madrone didn’t bother, apparently realizing that he was so close and so fast that the missile, even if properly aimed, wouldn’t be a threat. He was correct; C3 flicked it off with a quick buzz of its ECMs, barely breaking a sweat as the missile sailed past, self-detonating about two miles away.
Madrone pressed a heads-on attack against the lead plane. The Hornet pilot handled it well, waiting until the Flighthawk began firing to make his move, a rolling dive to the right. Under ordinary circumstances against nearly any other plane, his tucking roll would have brought him behind the aggressor, leaving him with an easy Sidewinder shot. But against the U/ MF, the Hornet pilot would have been better off pulling the yellow handle at the side of his seat.
Madrone tucked his nose and threw his tail out a bit, the vectored thrusters on the Flighthawk yanking it around so quickly that he closed on the Hornet’s tail before the other plane completed its maneuver. He was within two hundred yards when he began firing the cannon again; two seconds later the back end of his target exploded.
As quickly as it happened, nailing the Hornet still took time. Had the pilot of the second plane been a coward or perhaps simply more prudent, the second F/A-18 could have escaped. But the Navy lieutenant in the trail plane was either brave or reckless, depending on the perspective; he pressed on toward the fresh contact his radar locked on eight miles away—the Megafortress.
Zen guessed that Gal’s RWR had buzzed upstairs, for the plane suddenly lurched eastward. He reached to flip’the screen into Gal’s sensor array, which he could view but not control through the diagnostic station. Before he could complete the sequence and bring up the image, Madrone had begun to close on the Hornet’s twin tailpipe.
The F/A-18’s wing flared. He’d launched an AMRAAM. A second dropped off the rail. Then a long stream of red appeared, arcing from the nose of the Flighthawk. But Madrone had started to fire a few seconds too soon to score a fatal hit—the targeting control on C3 had always been slightly optimistic.