“Okay, well, we’ve picked our target. It the north-and east-most silo. Looks like it’s on fairly flat ground, two four-inch pipes running to it. Paddy’ll blow those, and then try to find a way to pop the cover off the silo or otherwise find an access door-there’s one on the overhead. Then get inside, toss a grenade to break the missile, and we get the hell out of Dodge City.”
“Usual division of the squad?” Price asked. It had to be, but there was no harm in making sure.
Chavez nodded. “You take Paddy, Louis, Hank, and Dieter, and your team handles the actual destruction of the missile. I take the rest to do security and overwatch.” Price nodded as Paddy Connolly came over.
“Are we getting chemical gear?”
“What?” Chavez asked.
“Ding, if we’re going to be playing with bloody liquid-fueled missiles, we need chemical-warfare gear. The fuels for these things-you don’t want to breathe the vapor, trust me. Red-fuming nitric acid, nitrogen tetroxide, hydrazine, that sort of thing. Those are bloody corrosive chemicals they use to power rockets, not like a pint of bitter at the Green Dragon, I promise you. And if the missiles are fueled and we blow them, well, you don’t want to be close, and you definitely don’t want to be downwind. The gas cloud will be bloody lethal, like what you chaps use in America to execute murderers, but rather less pleasant.”
“I’ll talk to John about that.” Chavez made his way back forward.
Oh, shit,” Ed Foley observed when he took the call. ”Okay, John, I’ll get hold of the Army on that one. How long ’til you’re there?”
“Hour and a half to the airfield.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sure, Ed, never been better.”
Foley was struck by the tone. Clark had been CIA’s official iceman for close to twenty years. He’d gone out on all manner of field operations without so much as a blink. But being over fifty-had it changed him, or did he just have a better appreciation of his own mortality now? The DCI figured that sort of thing came to everybody. “Okay, I’ll get back to you.” He switched phones. “I need General Moore.”
“Yes, Director?” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said in greeting. “What can I do for you?”
“Our special-operations people say they need chemical-warfare gear for their mission and-”
“Way ahead of you, Ed. SOCOM told us the same thing. First Armored’s got the right stuff, and it’ll be waiting for them at the field.”
“Thanks, Mickey.”
“How secure are those silos?”
“The fueling pipes are right in the open. Blowing them up ought not to be a problem. Also, every silo has a metal access door for the maintenance people, and again, getting into it ought not to be a problem. My only concern is the site security force; there may be as much as a whole infantry battalion spread out down there. We’re waiting for a KH-11 to overfly the site now for a final check.”
“Well, Diggs is sending Apaches down to escort the raiding force. That’ll be an equalizer,” Moore promised. “What about the command bunker?”
“It’s centrally located, looks pretty secure, entirely underground, but we have a rough idea of the configuration from penetrating radar.” Foley referred to the KH-14 Lacrosse satellite. NASA had once published radar photos that had shown underground tributaries of the Nile that emptied into the Mediterranean Sea at Alexandria. But the capability hadn’t been developed for hydrologists. It had also spotted Soviet missile silos that the Russians had thought to be well camouflaged, and other sensitive facilities, and America had wanted to let the Russians know that the locations were not the least bit secret. “Mickey, how do you feel about the mission?”
“I wish we had enough bombs to do it,” General Moore replied honestly.
“Yeah,” the DCI agreed.
The Politburo meeting had gone past midnight.
“So, Marshal Luo,” Qian said, “things went badly yesterday. How badly? We need the truth here,” he concluded roughly. If nothing else, Qian Kun had made his name in the past few days, as the only Politburo member with the courage to take on the ruling clique, expressing openly the misgivings that they’d all felt. Depending on who won, it could mean his downfall, either all the way to death or simply to mere obscurity, but it seemed he didn’t care. That made him unusual among the men in the room, Fang Gan thought, and it made him a man to be respected.
“There was a major battle yesterday between 34th Shock Army and the Russians. It appears to have been a draw, and we are now maneuvering to press our advantage,” the Defense Minister told them. They were all suffering from fatigue in the room, and again the Finance Minister was the only one to rise to his words.
“In other words, a battle was fought, and we lost it,” Qian shot back.
“I didn’t say that!” Luo responded angrily.
“But it is the truth, is it not?” Qian pressed the point.
“I told you the truth, Qian!” was the thundering reply.
“Comrade Marshal,” the Finance Minister said in a reasonable tone, “you must forgive me for my skepticism. You see, much of what you’ve said in this room has turned out to be less than completely accurate. Now, I do not blame you for this. Perhaps you have been misinformed by some of your subordinates. All of us are vulnerable to that, are we not? But now is the time for a careful examination of objective realities. I am developing the impression that objective reality may be adverse to the economic and political objectives on whose pursuit this body has sent our country and its people. Therefore, we must now know what the facts are, and what also are the dangers facing us. So, Comrade Marshal, now, what is the military situation in Siberia?”
“It has changed somewhat,” Luo admitted. “Not entirely to our benefit, but the situation is by no means lost.” He’d chosen his words a little too carefully.
By no means lost, everyone around the table knew, was a delicate way of saying that a disaster had taken place. As in any society, if you knew the aphorisms, you could break the code. Success here was always proclaimed in the most positive terms. Setbacks were brushed aside without admission as something less than a stunning success. Failure was something to be blamed on individuals who’d failed in their duty-often to their great misfortune. But a real policy disaster was invariably explained as a situation that could yet be restored.
“Comrades, we still have our strengths,” Zhang told them all. “Of all the great powers of the world, only we have intercontinental missiles, and no one will dare strike us hard while we do.”
“Comrade, two days ago the Americans totally destroyed bridges so stout that one would have thought that only an angry deity could so much as scratch them. How secure can those missiles be, when we face a foe with invisible aircraft and magical weapons?” Qian asked. “I think we may be approaching the time when Shen might wish to approach America and Russia to propose an end to hostilities,” he concluded.
“You mean surrender?” Zhang asked angrily. “Never!”
It had already started, though the Politburo members didn’t know it yet. All over China, but especially in Beijing, people owning computers had logged onto the Internet. This was especially true of young people, and university students most of all.
The CIA feed, http://www.darkstarfeed.cia.gov/siberia-battle/realtime.ram, had attracted a global audience, catching even the international news organizations by surprise. CNN, Fox, and Europe’s SkyNews had immediately pirated it, and then called in their expert commentators to explain things to their viewers in the first continuous news coverage of an event since February of 1991. CIA had taken to pirating CNN in turn, and now available on the CIA website were live interviews from Chinese prisoners. They spoke freely, they were so shocked at their fates-stunned at how near they’d come to death, and so buoyantly elated at their equally amazing survival when so many of their colleagues had been less fortunate. That made for great verbosity, and it was also something that couldn’t be faked. Any Chinese citizen could have spotted false propaganda, but equally, any could discern this sort of truth from what he saw and heard.