“So why isn’t CentCom telling us this?” said Alou.
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“CentCom doesn’t completely buy the theory,” said Elliott. “They don’t think Saddam has a laser. And neither the satellites nor any of the sensor aircraft have picked it up.”
“If it’s as potent as Razor,” said Zen, “it’ll have at least a three hundred mile radius. It could be well south of the shoot-downs.”
“Absolutely,” said Elliott.
Zen pulled the map of Iraq off the table into his lap and began plotting the shoot-downs. He drew a rough semicircle about three hundred miles south of them. The swath included Baghdad as well as more northern cities like Kirkuk and Al Mawsil.
“If they set things up right, they could theoretically feed coordinates from any of the radars they have to direct the laser into the vicinity of the aircraft,” said Elliott.
“Then they could turn on a fire-director radar quickly, and fire as soon as they locked, which could be within seconds.”
“They wouldn’t need radar to get the general location,”
said Mack. “A standard air traffic job in Kirkuk would give them enough of a lead. They could even use an IR
sensor to lock on the target.”
“They could use the laser itself to find the target,” said Jennifer. “We used a similar technique when we were studying optical solutions for the C3 communications systems. They might also be able to overcome targeting limitations by shooting through a calculated grid after they get a contact. Say they have a target down to a cer-tainty of three hundred meters, following a certain vector.
You fill the box with as many pulses as you can cycle.
You could increase the number of shots by trading off some—”
“However they’re doing it, the laser has to be located and destroyed,” said Zen.
RAZOR’S EDGE
147
“I don’t know,” said Alou. “If CentCom doesn’t think it’s possible—”
“The Iraqis nearly built a nuclear bomb. This would be child’s play compared to that,” said Bree.
“Not exactly,” said Elliott. “But still doable.”
“Hey, the hell with CentCom. They’re relying on the CIA,” said Mack. “They have an arrogant attitude that’s blinding them to reality.”
Zen laughed.
“What?” said Mack.
“Jennifer, how do we detect the laser?” asked Zen.
“Can we detect the deuterium?” asked Mack.
The computer scientist shrugged. “Not my area. Deuterium is hydrogen with a neutron in its nucleus. I doubt it would be easy to detect. We’d have better luck looking for the energy discharge. It would be in the IR spectrum, intense but extremely brief. A sensor looking for a missile launch might be able to detect it theoretically, but the computer code would probably kick it out because it was so brief.”
“There are no launch detection satellites configured for Iraq,” said Elliott. “What do we have that we can use?”
“Our gear on Quicksilver? Hmmm.” The scientist twirled her hair around her finger as she worked out the problem. “Quicksilver’s IR launch detector is fairly sensitive, though I’m not sure about the range or the spectrum.
C3 takes selective data from it, so obviously the software can be screened—I have to think about it. I might be able to work it. I have to talk to Ray Rubeo.”
“Secure connection with Dreamland is still pending,”
said Alou. “Lieutenant Post told me it’ll be at least an hour more.”
“Where’s Garcia?” asked Breanna. “He might know something about the sensors.”
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“He went with Hall to look after Mack’s airplane,” said Alou.
“Not just any airplane. An OV-10D Bronco,” said a loud voice from outside. “Talk about your house down the road.”
Mack turned as a short, somewhat squat technical type breezed into the trailer, shoulders bouncing as if he were listening to a Walkman. Garcia snapped to attention as he caught sight of Brad Elliott.
“General!”
“How are you, son?”
“Fine, sir. Thank you for remembering me, sir.”
“Oh, I remember you quite well,” said Elliott. “You spent twenty minutes in my office one afternoon explaining why Blood on the Tracks is mankind’s greatest artistic achievement.”
“It is, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The others cracked up. Mack wondered how they could all be so damn cheerful. Even with the heaters going full blast, it had to be under thirty degrees in there.
“That Bronco out there is in great shape,” said Garcia.
“Pretty plane. I cut my teeth on those suckers.”
“What do you know about the launch sensor in Quicksilver?” Alou asked.
Garcia shrugged. “Spanish leather. Why? Need to be calibrated?”
“You think you could alter it to pick up a laser flash?”
“Light’s a flashin’?” The techie turned back toward Elliott. “That’s actually the Who, sir. It just came to me.”
“I thought so. What about the sensor?”
“Have to study it a bit. You know, I can get at least twenty percent more power out of those Garret engines on the Broncos. See, they put better—”
“Let’s concentrate on the launch sensor for now,” said Alou. “Dr. Gleason will help you. Everybody else, try RAZOR’S EDGE
149
and get some sleep. We’re supposed to be off the pavement at 0530, and word is the Whiplash boys brought a very limited supply of coffee.”
High Top
2350
POWDER TOOK ANOTHER SIP OF WATER AND RUBBED HIS
eyes. Five small television screens were arrayed in front of him, showing the infrared scans from the devices Whiplash had arrayed on the slopes. The Dreamland-designed units could pick up a dead mouse at three-quarters of a mile; Powder suspected that with a little tweaking they could see mosquitoes. By contrast, a
“stock” AN/PAS-7 thermal viewer would have trouble seeing a cold Jeep at that distance. A small computer the size of a briefcase monitored the images for any sudden change, a kind of computerized watchdog.
The gear made it too easy, Powder thought. He stared at it and stared at it, and he felt himself nodding off.
“Hey,” said Liu, sneaking up behind him.
“My M-4’s loaded, Nurse,” he growled.
“Falling asleep, huh?”
“I hate guard duty.”
“Yeah.”
“General Elliott just landed with Major Smith.”
“No shit. The old dog himself?”
“Yup.”
“We oughta go say hello. Think he’ll remember us?”
“Might be better he didn’t,” suggested Liu.
“Nah. I wasn’t driving that truck.”
“You were in the truck.”
“True.” Powder paused to reflect. “Wasn’t that much damage to his car.”
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“Insurance companies declare year-old cars total losses all the time,” said Nurse. “Even if they’ve just been scratched.”
“It’s a tax thing,” said Powder.
A low beep sounded from the audio alert. The two men turned to the IR screens. A shadow had stumbled into the far corner of the second screen, near the far bend on the dirt trail southwest of base.
“Uh-oh.” Powder picked up his M-4/W, a short-barreled version of Colt’s M-16 with a 204 grenade launcher and a special laser sight that could transmit target data directly to his smart helmet, displaying it on the visor. “Get the guys.”
While Liu trotted over to alert the others, Powder watched the figures scoping the hill. There were two native types, bundled in bulky clothes that concealed their weapons.
“Scouts,” Powder told Liu when he returned out of breath. He’d put on his smart helmet and Velcroed his bulletproof vest. “Probably saw the lights and came to check it out. Nobody on the screens and the radar’s clear.”
“Okay.” Liu pointed to one of the ground-radar screens, which covered part but not all of the western approach. “Send somebody to cover me,” he said, starting down the slope.