The technology developed to “see” deep into the ground had advanced rapidly over the past few years, driven by the necessity to find — and kill — those who made it their habit to cower in well-developed, well-hidden underground shelters.
Radio-frequency energy — radar — had been used to penetrate the ground for various civilian purposes before the war started, such as measuring the amount of water present in the soil or finding metallic ore deposits.
As was the case with most civilian scientific advancements, the technology lent itself perfectly to military use. Ground imaging radar technology, coupled with remarkable advances in computer processing and imaging capabilities, had rapidly progressed to the point of being able to take a detailed snapshot of what lay beneath the surface of the earth. Three-dimensional images of underground complexes could be produced with exacting, almost pinpoint detail. The underground targets could be seen, studied for vulnerabilities, and then destroyed.
The afterburners from the Bone’s four powerful engines spouted long tongues of blue flame as the huge bomber nosed upward, condensation clouds enveloping the aircraft as it muscled and ripped its way through air, the rapid onset of g’s slamming the flight crew into their seats. With the computers controlling the flight, they were just along for the ride.
The center bomb bay doors swung open and the rotary launcher immediately started pumping out long, finned cylindrical objects, which for a moment seemed to fly in formation with the rapidly ascending bomber before slowly pulling away in their own preprogrammed flight paths.
When the last of the eight objects was dropped, the bomb bay doors slammed shut and the Bone continued its looping flight path until it was flying inverted, its curved gray back facing the ground. The pilot returned the engines to military power, and the big bird of prey rolled back to level flight, heading away from the target area.
Inside each of the eight objects, a GPS receiver passed tiny course corrections to the fins, keeping the objects on course toward the release point.
Side panels were blown from the eight objects as they began their descents, each releasing five smaller projectiles that immediately maneuvered toward their own GPS targeting coordinates on the surface. Radar altimeters in the nose of each of the objects constantly pinged the ground, measuring their exact altitude. At a preset height just moments before impact, tiny rocket motors fired, adding the right amount of momentum to slam the hardened projectiles into the plowed farm fields, each sliding to a stop at a predetermined depth in the exact point on the ground they’d been programmed to hit.
In a matter of minutes, a geometric grid of ground imaging radar sensors had been precisely planted throughout the area where the things had gone to ground. Singly, each object could map one small part of the picture; employed en masse, they could analyze a large area of underground terrain.
Fifteen minutes later, the first high-fidelity underground images popped up on screens in the NMCC.
The things were there.
And they were deep.
CHAPTER 26
“Mr. President, they’re located roughly two hundred feet below the surface.”
“Can we reach them?”
“Not with conventional weapons, sir.”
General Smythe’s statement hung in the air like a stale fart. It wasn’t what the president wanted to hear. Not yet.
Every president since Harry Truman had lived with the possibility of having to order the use of nuclear weapons. Most had taken it very seriously. Others — some who couldn’t even remember where they’d left their launch codes, according to the press — had treated it as a nonpossibility or a necessary nuisance. Regardless of who the president was, however, that single, ultimate decision floated over each of their heads like a big, black radioactive cloud. It was always there. Always. Dripping little acid raindrops on their sanity in the middle of the night when there was nothing else but silence.
President Andrew Smith didn’t have to face the mind-numbing threat from a hostile communist giant like many of his predecessors had, where the decision to unleash America’s nuclear arsenal would be a final, ultimate act of mutual destruction. He did, however, have to face the possibility of unleashing nuclear weapons in response to a massive terrorist attack on the United States. It was the scenario of the times.
The attack against Cleveland was the closest he’d come to authorizing their use. The terrorist group that perpetrated the attack was known. Their base of operations was known as well. For a time, they presented a clearly defined target.
He’d listened to his advisors. Some were against using nuclear weapons, others were for it — the most vocal being his national security advisor. She’d nearly swayed him — her arguments made an awful lot of sense at the moment. Strike with an iron fist… No one would dare attack us again like this… We have to make an example of these bastards!
She’d said what he felt.
Watching the footage of American citizens — his citizens — dying before his eyes in such a disgusting, horrible manner made his blood boil like never before.
Mr. President, you have to strike!
He was the president.
Strike!
The decision was his, and his alone.
Sir, you must act now!
He’d learned that a decision made in anger was almost always unwarranted, and sometimes just flat wrong. As a young naval ensign, when one of his sailors would make a stupid mistake, he would step back from the situation and get control of his emotions before acting. He was tough, but fair. It was a character trait he’d developed early and employed often. He would, and sometimes did, drop the hammer when he knew it was required. But this particular hammer was more massive and destructive than any other hammer he’d ever used. With it, he could crack the earth itself. It could not be wielded by emotions. It had to be wielded by reason.
In the end, the strike he ordered had employed conventional weapons. And it had been effective.
This, however, was a totally different situation. Hundreds of thousands of American citizens had been brutally slaughtered by an enemy that so far seemed unstoppable. Killing them on the move had been a failure. Now, they were fixed in place. Their locations were known.
With every tick of the clock, the president knew time was running out. Every second that passed could be bringing them closer to the moment when the things would emerge from their underground hiding places to ravage his nation again.
He knew he couldn’t let that happen.
“Are they moving at all?” Andrew asked.
“No, sir. The underground images we’ve received show they’re staying put. For now,” Ray Smythe added.
Andrew stared at the plasma screen in his situation room, showing a multicolored image of thousands of oval objects highlighted against a dark background. “What am I looking at here? Are those objects the—”
“Yes, sir. As far as we can tell, the things are encased in some sort of… cocoons.”
“Cocoons?”
“Yes, sir. We’re analyzing the data right now, but the initial reports seem to suggest the things have enclosed themselves in some sort of thick casings. We don’t know yet if it’s a protective measure they’ve taken because of the bombing or if it’s something else.”
“What are these casings made of?”
“The report says it’s biologic calcification.”
“In English, General.”
“It’s bone, sir.”
“Bone?”
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
Andrew Smith knew that bone could be broken. He had the steel screws in his leg to prove it. “Are any of the objects close enough to the surface to dig out?”