Fitzduane broke the mood. "Binary?" he said. "If I was Quintana and had a mercenary force of debatable caliber, I'd store the components separately if I wanted to sleep nights. Otherwise, a bottle of tequila too many, and the Devil's Hangover wouldn't come into it."
Jaeger smiled. "Quoting Rheiman," he said, "even Oshima is scared stiff of the stuff. They tested a sample before it was shipped in, so they saw what it could do. They keep the secondary in a deep bunker in the supergun valley and the primary in the command complex of Madoa airfield. No chance of mixing them up or some entrepreneur staging a coup. The one exception to that may well be the supergun. If that is being held ready to fire, then we think it's likely – certainly possible – to have both primary and secondary loaded."
"Why wouldn't they load one of the components at the last minute?" said Gannon. "That would seem safer."
"It's possible," said Jaeger, "but loading the supergun is not like inserting a shotgun round. This is a big weapon. Charging it takes hours. So if they want to keep it as a deterrent ready to roll, it will be loaded.
"It wasn't loaded when we were there," said Fitzduane slowly. Then he looked across at the latest satellite pictures. The Devil's Footprint seemed to be getting stronger by the hour. Oshima was driving her people. She expected to be attacked. She was bright enough to know she could not win against a full assault. So what would she do? "But I concur with Dr. Jaeger."
"If a single missile charged with Xyclax Gamma 18 airbursts over Washington, D.C., said General Gannon, "what kind of effect would that have?"
"So much would depend on weather conditions," said Jaeger. "Rheiman says they were promised between fifteen thousand and seventy-five thousand fatalities. And decontaminating the area could take years. Of course, if it airbursts undetected over a major water supply, given that the effects are not immediate, hundreds of thousands, if not millions, could die.
"The fatalities could exceed those of a conventional nuclear detonation."
The meeting concluded.
General Gannon caught Fitzduane's eye and indicated that he would like to talk to him alone.
They left the SCIF and headed out of the division headquarters. The flag-lowering ceremony was just starting, and they stood at attention while it was completed. Then they walked on.
Dusk was falling. FortBragg was still a hive of activity. It would stay that way until the C130s were wheels up from Pope Air Base. Then there would just be the waiting. Sons, lovers, friends, and husbands would be gone. The post would feel empty. There would be no certainty all would return.
"Colonel Fitzduane, I understand you are not a regular soldier," said Gannon. "It's a pity. You seem well suited to the calling of arms. You seem… to understand" – he smiled – "perhaps too well."
Fitzduane laughed. "I'm not too good at following orders," he said, "or making the compromises you have to make. I find it hard to salute a man I don't respect merely because he has rank. I find it hard to do one thing because my masters require it when my common sense tells me to do something else. I am not overly fond of large structures. I can admire – greatly admire – a unit such as the 82 ^ nd Airborne, but I cannot suspend my sense critique."
Gannon eyed Fitzduane contemplatively. Then he laughed. "What am I going to do with you, Colonel Fitzduane? The 82 ^ nd is – well – the 82 ^ nd, and we have our own ways of doing things. We will evolve, but I doubt we will change. As to you, I'm told you have seen more of combat in more countries than all the Joint Chiefs put together, so I will allow you your sense critique. But what to do?"
"Let me work with Colonel Carlson until the planning is completed," said Fitzduane. "Then give me a small unit when we jump. Troopers who have initiative. A leader who has some dash."
"You're describing most of my men," said Gannon. He was silent, but then a smile crossed his lips.
"But one unit in particular comes to mind?" said Fitzduane.
Gannon grinned. "The Scout Platoon attached to the First Brigade," he said. "You may have met your match, Colonel. Under Lieutenant Brock, they're the nearest thing to a private army the 82 ^ nd has."
"What do they normally do, General?" said Fitzduane. " Scout covers a multitude."
"They do anything," said Gannon. "They scout, they snipe, they kill armor, they play with mines, they HALO. They even have their own pair of tanks and work with their own helicopters. They're terrifying young men."
He looked straight at Fitzduane. "You'll wonder why I tolerate them."
"Every unit needs a few mavericks, General," said Fitzduane.
"Indeed," said Gannon. He gave a signal and his Humvee rumbled up. He got in. "I guess one more won't hurt."
Fitzduane breathed the cool air of the evening and then headed back to the SCIF.
Carlson was studying the satellite imagery intently. He looked up. "The General fire you?"
"He said he needs every swinging dick he can get, Zachariah," said Fitzduane, "seeing as how they all go limp in this sweat lodge."
"He likes your haircut," said Carlson. He tapped the satellite photo. "Listen up," he said. "Fuck the armor. I've been counting their earthmoving equipment."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"They've got too goddamned much of it," said Carlson. "I think there's more to Madoa Air Base than we can see. Someone with a mole mentality has been screwing around with the environment."
"So what we see isn't all we're going to get," said Fitzduane.
"That's what I figure," said Carlson. "Unless the base commander just likes collecting tracked iron."
"Infrared?" said Fitzduane.
Carlson nodded. "That'll show if earth has been disturbed. But what if they've built under existing structures?"
"If they've got a bunker complex underneath," said Fitzduane, "why haven't they kept their bulldozers out of sight as well? Answer: because who would suspect some innocent earthmoving equipment and…"
"…something else is in the space," said Carlson. "But what? There are plenty of track imprints, but they could be bulldozers.
God, I hate surprises when I'm dangling from the risers. It's bad enough jumping out of an aircraft with your face painted green and black without some steel behemoth emerging from below ground and blowing your shit away. That kind of thing can depress you."
"What if we turned all this surprise stuff around?" said Fitzduane. "We don't sneak up. We announce ourselves. We show ours and encourage them to show theirs."
"A blast of trumpets before we attack?" said Carlson. "With something more substantial hidden away."
"It worked pretty well in Jericho," said Fitzduane.
"Let's get the Air Force in on this," said Carlson. "They have things that moles do not like. And they're Devious – with a capital D . Or so they say in the Pentagon."
"What are the Army?" said Fitzduane.
"The Navy are Defiant," said Carlson. "They can afford to be when they're out at sea snug in their carrier groups."
"The Army?"
"The Army are Dumb," said Carlson. "We're too honest, and that's why the other services get so much of the pie. But in this situation we need Devious – and maybe a few dozen penetrator bombs."
Six hours later, the shape of the plan had been established and now it was down to the planning staff to hammer out the endless details. No one in the 82 ^ nd seemed to need sleep.
Fitzduane headed away to get some rest. If General Gannon was right, he was going to need it before he met First Brigade's Scout Platoon.
When Carlson had heard that Fitzduane was jumping in with the Scouts, he had smiled. "The Devil's Footprint is going to be the least of your worries, Hugo. These people are crazy. Good – outstandingly good – but absolutely wacko."