The issue was not just would the barrel burst when fired. The question then was what would happen to the nerve agent. It should be incinerated. The one saving grace of the stuff was that it was volatile. It could be spread by the force of the explosion throughout the entire area. Two whole brigades of the 82 ^ nd Airborne would die. NBC suits would make no difference.
Even if all worked out this time, from his research at Livermore, Jaeger knew better than most what other threats were in the pipeline. The millennium was approaching, and the level of threat from weapons of mass destruction was terrifying.
Jaeger rose to his feet and walked wearily into the shower. He'd had five hours' sleep in the last two days, and it did not look as if he was going to get any more until OPERATION CARTHAGE was over.
There was something he had forgotten, he was sure of it.
Several of his fellow scientists at Livermore had suggested flying a smart bomb down the meter-wide muzzle of the supergun, and Jaeger was beginning to wish he had recommended that option. It was a small target to hit, but it was certainly possible, especially if the aperture was lased by a ground-based special-forces team. But even that option could have needed several strikes to be absolutely sure of success. And an initial miss could precipitate the firing of the supergun in retaliation, even if a whole wing of F16s were racked up to do the job. Nothing was certain in combat except that whatever plans you made in advance would get fucked by circumstances.
No, the double advantage of the sabotaged controller option was that if it worked, it would prevent the weapon being fired successfully at all, and would undermine the credibility of the weapon.
Cochrane's task force was right. The damn things were too easy to make. The illusion had to be created that the supergun technology was inherently flawed.
What had he forgotten?
Oshima studied the blueprint of the supergun intently.
She had no particular scientific bent, but the good thing about the supergun itself was that, once you understood the principles, it was not really that complicated.
Rheiman had called it a giant peashooter. Put a dried pea on the table and try to try and blow it across the room and you would have a hard time moving it more than a few feet. Place it in a peashooter, give a good puff, and you could ‘dent a windowpane.’
The real complexity lay in the supergun's projectile. But that was beyond her capabilities to worry about, so she had wiped it from her mind and focused on the gun. The weapon had been sabotaged, but unsuccessfully. That could have meant Fitzduane's raiders had not come prepared – a strong possibility, given that rescuing his woman was clearly the main object of the mission. But it could also meant that the explosive charges were a diversion.
But a diversion from what? What else had the raiders been up to?
Oshima transferred her gaze to Salerno. Rheiman had been brilliant, but erratic and lazy. He had compensated by hiring a hardworking support team. Dr. Salerno had been his second in command and had taken over Rheiman's role as project manager without missing a beat.
People are rarely indispensable, Oshima reflected.
"Salerno," she said, "I know these people. You have seen the damage they inflicted elsewhere. Why had Dr. Rheiman's weapon escaped unscathed? What have we missed?"
Salerno was terrified of Oshima, but within his area of expertise he felt confident.
"They had only fifteen to twenty minutes," he said. "They did what they could in that time, but the weapon is so large and strong it is extremely difficult to damage. The charges they placed were standard military demolitions. I really do not think, Commander, that they came prepared."
Oshima looked back at the blueprint. "The barrel," she said. "Could they have weakened it in some way?"
"We put a man down the barrel with ultrasonic equipment," said Salerno. "We have examined every square millimeter of the structure twice, and all of it is within tolerance."
"Within tolerance?" said Oshima.
"No manufacture is perfect," said Salerno carefully. "There are flaws and imperfections in every product, but the important factor to ascertain is the scale of such problems. In this case, we have nothing to worry about. In a layperson's terms, the barrel is fine. The same judgment applies to the rest of the weapon."
"The breech, the firing mechanism, the gas lines?" said Oshima.
"All have been examined in great detail," said Salerno.
"I wonder why they didn't blow the hydrogen?" said Oshima.
"As you know, Commander," said Salerno, "the main hydrogen tanks are kept in a series of underground bunkers separate from the weapon. Either they did not know they were there or they had no time. Anyway, they would have had to blow all the hydrogen tanks to seriously affect us, and that was beyond their capabilities. Even if they had achieved all that, we have our own hydrogen-generation plant under Madoa airfield."
Oshima drew her automatic and pointed it directly at Salerno's face. "Dr. Salerno, I want you to imagine your life depends on your answer," she said softly.
She smiled and pulled back the hammer. "Because it does."
Salerno's mouth felt completely dry.
"Imagine you have only twenty minutes to accomplish your mission but that you know everything there is to know about this technology. Now, where is this weapon most vulnerable? What would you do?"
Salerno thought. His mind ran through the blueprints and electronic schematics. Suddenly, he knew. But if he admitted he had not checked the gas controller, what would this woman do?
Oshima saw the flicker in Salerno's eyes. So he had forgotten something. It was always the same with experts. Long on theory. Short on practicalities.
"Talk to me, Dr. Salerno," she said.
25
"The Air Force is open for business. MOUNTUP!"
Lines of paratroopers waddled toward waiting C130s. Laden with parachute, reserve, rucksack, weapon, ammunition, and specialist equipment – everything from explosives to spare batteries to AT4s – the troopers moved with the grace and dynamism of sumo wrestlers on a chain gang.
The Airborne were renowned for dash and elan, but that was after they hit the ground. Loading up was a tortuous process. Flight time was not much of an improvement.
No aircraft was better loved by the Airborne than the C130, but the hard truth was that by the time sixty-four fully equipped troopers were sandwiched in, even moving a sick bag up and down required collaborative effort. There was no walking up and down the aisles. There was no aisle space left in which to perambulate. Paratroopers sat knee to knee in two double rows facing each other, with all the intervening space jammed with their equipment. If you had an itch, or a weak bladder, you were well advised to attend to your needs beforehand. The only way you could move from one end of the aircraft to the other was by behaving rather like a monkey moving around in a cage, with the web mesh that supported the seating acting as the bars. A monkey in jump boots.
Fitzduane was of the opinion that the powers that be knew what they were doing. The crush was so great that as time wore on jumping out of the aircraft became an increasingly attractive option.
The ramp was half raised but not closed. There were few windows in the rear of the C130, and the air and just the sight of the sky provided a welcome respite.
The four turboprop engines fired up and clouds of red dust obscured the open aperture. The aircraft vibrated. The background noise level rose to something above pleasant but below tolerable. You could talk, but only by banging your coveralls together. The jumpmasters and safeties wore headphones and were plugged in to the flight intercom system.