“Yeah. Only they’re going to drop GBU-43s. We call them MOABs.”
“I’m not up on my bomb nomenclature. What’s a MOAB?”
“Stands for ‘mother of all bombs.’ Like the BLU-82, a fuel air explosive used to clear landing zones, it requires presidential approval for release. It’s a twenty-one-thousand-pound bomb containing nineteen thousand pounds of H6 explosive. It vaporizes everything within a square mile, then continues its devastation, gradually diminishing to nothing on the farthest edge of its effective range.”
Billings realized her jaw had dropped. She closed it as she thought about the absolute devastation one of those would do on downtown Washington, D.C., or any major city for that matter.
“I know. We haven’t used it very often. The Russians have been using thermobaric bombs since their turn in Afghanistan. In addition to doing damage, they suck the air out of caves and anything within the blast radius. MOAB has a tremendous thermobaric capacity.”
“So the intent is to drop leaflets, then the MOABs?”
“Yep.”
“How many will they drop?”
“No one knows. They brought seventeen of them into theater yesterday, though.”
Billings took a moment to process the information. Finally she turned back to the map. She thanked him and hung up. She had probably one more call to make. She went into the other room and spun up the video feed. It rang twice before it answered.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President. I’m engaged in an issue here and need permission to reach across the pond to our friends in Whitehall.”
He had a face that was Hollywood handsome and a voice made for politics. He was a moderate. He was a consensus builder. He would have been president had it not been for information surfacing about how he’d arranged for an abortion for his girlfriend in college.
“Why can’t we handle it?”
“Operation PUFF DRAGON.”
“That would do it.” The vice president leaned back in his chair. Behind him was his desk in his working office on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. Pictures of his wife and Great Danes rested in silver frames. Paperwork was scattered on the desk’s surface. “Is this regarding what you briefed me before?”
“It is, sir. Triple Six has found the locus of the problem and needs some support. We’re losing priority as we speak.”
The vice president shook his head and frowned. “This is bad timing. PUFF DRAGON needs those assets. As much as we need Triple Six, I can’t change priorities.”
“I realize that, sir. But I have another option. HMS Victoria is operating in the Indian Ocean en route to resupply at Diego Garcia. I might be able to convince the admiral aboard the vessel to send a sortie or two in support of our men.”
The vice president made an expression halfway between impressed and perplexed. “How would you go about doing that?”
“Long or short of it?”
“Short.”
“SEALs rescued him from North Vietnam in 1971. I think I can appeal to his sense of gratitude.”
The smile of the vice president was one that any other politician would kill for. He used it now. “Sounds like a good time to collect, Alexis.”
“It does. This mean I can make that call?”
The smile dropped. “Make that call, but know this. The administration has deniability. If this becomes a cockup, you’ll be on your own.”
“I expected nothing less, sir.”
57
Walker and Yaya sat on the bench seat of the old five-ton truck as it rolled down the Yangon-Mandalay road, or Highway 1. Eddie drove. He had the magic cable on his lap. Twice, Walker had to order him not to stick it in his mouth. It was bad enough that they were on a civilian road. They didn’t need any more attention given to them.
Walker sat in the middle, while Yaya sat near the door. They both wore caps, pulled low over their eyes, from the soldiers they’d killed. Yaya could pass with his skin color, but Walker was the whitest thing on the road, so he sat in the middle scrunched down as best he could. He kept his 9mm in his lap, pointed at Eddie.
Yaya kept busy with Eddie’s cell phone. He had it apart and was checking the SIM chips.
They’d removed the bodies from the back of the truck and left them in the hole. They cleaned the truck bed as best they could, then reconnoitered the way to Kadwan. It was less than two hundred kilometers south of Thaton. Plus another ten kilometers, because they still had to get through the city, and they should be there within three hours, give or take, depending on traffic, which as it turned out was the definition of congestion. Motorcycles were the most popular vehicles by far. White mini-pickups seemed to be the cargo haulers of choice, although they passed several motorcycles balancing boxes stacked ten feet high.
Eddie worked the horn like a New York cabbie. He knew just how close to get to the other vehicles and how fast to go without killing anyone. At first it had been a fearful onslaught of sight, sound, and motion, but once Walker decided to treat it as an amusement-park ride, it became much easier.
Walker had realized early that they’d need money for gas, food, and bottled water. If he’d been an Army Special Forces soldier, he would’ve had a Rolex to trade. The SEALs didn’t issue Rolexes like their Army SOF brethren, but he and Yaya each had a hundred-dollar bill as part of their escape and evasion kit.
When they reached Mudon, the largest city south of Thaton, a promise that they’d give him the other hundred convinced Eddie to get a dozen gas cans, fill them and the truck up, and get some food and water for the trip. He got more than ninety dollars in local currency in change.
“Where’s my phone?” Eddie asked.
“I have it safe,” Yaya said, patting his pocket.
“I need to call my family. They’ll be worried.” He looked from Walker to Yaya.
“That doesn’t seem so bad,” Walker said. “We can make sure he doesn’t call anyone else. What do you think, Yaya?”
Yaya shook his head subtly.
Eddie grinned like a salesman. “Walker is right. It’s not so bad.”
“He can’t use his phone,” Yaya said flatly.
Walker raised an eye, but didn’t ask. He’d caught the other SEAL’s nonverbal, albeit a moment too late.
“Why can’t I?” Eddie asked Yaya. “Please, sir,” he begged, turning to Walker. “Can’t you make him let me use my phone?”
“Enough. Jesus.” Yaya pulled out the phone, or what had once been a phone. It now had several wires attached to it, as if the Borg had come down and added pieces.
Eddie screamed. “What have you done?”
“Seeing if I can repurpose this for our use,” Yaya said. He pulled out his 9mm and pointed it at Eddie. “Listen, Eddie. I think you forgot the process here. You drive the truck. We drive the guns.”
Eddie looked from the gun to his ruined phone. After a moment, he put his head down and skulked to the driver’s side. He climbed in and closed the door.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” Walker said. He climbed in the cab of the truck. Yaya got in after.
Within seconds they were once again part of the bumping, swerving, honking mass on the road. No one spoke for a good twenty minutes.
“Is it going to work?” Walker asked.
“I got it to interface with the MBITR and the base station, but it’s a software problem. His phone isn’t a real iPhone. It’s a knockoff. It uses an old Android operating system.”
“Can you make it work?”
“I’m not a software guy, but I remember some of it. All I can say is I’m trying.” He pulled out the phone and began to type into it.
Eddie glanced forlornly at what had once been his phone. Walker watched the man’s face for a moment before turning away. Fake or not, it had probably cost the man a good chunk of savings. It was also probably a status symbol and the SEALs had taken that away from him.