Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

The longer they waited, the less possibility there was of the small plane running out of fuel. But it also increased the chance that they would be found.

He checked the map and his watch again. In less than two hours, Beijing would be destroyed.

No—the communists would be destroyed. The capital, his capital, would be intact.

He would return to Taipei, a hero.

And a criminal, in the eyes of the communists and their collaborators in the present government.

Undoubtedly he would be killed. But death merely meant a change; it was no more permanent than life.

Waiting increased the chances of success, but it would also allow him to see the explosion. He would witness the moment of his grandfather’s triumph with his own eyes.

“We are in range,” said Ai.

“We will wait as long as possible. I calculate an optimum launch in twenty minutes,” he told the scientists.

Page 206

“The communists are reacting to action by the Americans. They are scrambling fighters, alerting their troops. I’ve seen the radar and radio intercepts and—”

“We will wait as long as possible.”

Aboard Raven

0140

ACCORDING TO THEmanual, a “stock” B-52H could make 516 knots at altitude. B-52s had long ago ceased to be “stock,” and in practice the typical Stratofortress’s hull was so cluttered with add-ons and extra gear that even 500 knots in level flight could be more fantasy than reality.

Dreamland’s EB-52s—which in most cases had started their lives as B-52Hs—contained no external blisters to slow them down. Thirty-something years of work on jet engine technology allowed their four power plants to do the work of the original eight more efficiently, and the use of more alloy and composites in the wing and tail structures did the same for the airfoil. In short, if an entry for the Megafortress’s top speed were to be made in a reference book, it would be listed at close to 600 knots, along with an asterisk indicating that, depending on the configuration of the power plants and the load the massive plane carried, it might do considerably better.

Dog, with full military power selected, passed the 600-knot mark as he pushed northward through the Taiwan Strait, the two U/MF-3s leading the way.

Mainland China and Taiwan existed side by side in an intricate and highly charged relationship. On the one hand, their governments considered each other bitter enemies. On the other, there was a myriad of commercial relationships between the pair. Among those relationships were regular flights from Taipei to a number of Mainland cities, most especially Shanghai.

Such flights might give cover to a 767 loaded with a UAV and nuclear device, Dog thought.

“ Raven to Dream Command. Major Catsman, have we located that other 767 yet?”

“We’re going over the airport right now,” said Catsman. “We have CIA assets on the ground.”

“Copy that.”

Dog looked over at his fuel panel. They had about three more hours of flying time before nudging into the reserve cushion, depending on what twists and turns Dog took.

He brought up another set of instrument readings on the configurable screen, focusing on his aircraft’s performance. Raven could have been used to set the benchmarks for a maintenance manual.

Come to think of it, it had.

“Danny, what’s your situation?” he asked Captain Freah, bouncing back onto the Dreamland line.

“We’re secure here. Still going over everything, but it looks about as clean as a diner an hour before the health department inspectors arrive. Authorities are at the gate,” Danny added. “We’re holding them off—got about another ten to fifteen minutes of searching to get through.”

“Roger that.”

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On the Ground in Kaohisiung

0151

STONER SAW THEpanel behind the vat of sulfuric acid a second or two after the Marines did, and had to shout at them to keep back.

“Very good chance the sucker’s booby-trapped,” he told the two men, who unlike him were wearing special chem suits with breathers to protect them from the acidic fumes.

It wasn’t that Stoner liked to take unnecessary risks; he knew people worked in this plant with the acid all the time, and figured his brief exposure was nothing like what they exposed themselves to.

Not that it was pleasant. He went to the floor panel and knelt down, instantly soaking his knees in the residue of a thousand car batteries. He could feel the material get sodden and start to tickle at his skin.

“Back,” he told the Marines, pulling out a long knife.

One of the men began to object; if the panel was booby-trapped, they had a special squad trained to defuse it. But Stoner had already found two wires with his knife; he pulled them up gently, scraped some of the insulation off, then checked the current with a small meter the size of pen top. A yellow light flashed on; he clipped another set of alligator clips to the wires and got a green.

“You’re fucking lucky,” said one of the Marines as he jimmied open the lock.

“How’s that?”

“Could have just as easily blown when it was shorted.”

“Well, only if my sensor here screwed up. It’s all right—my guess is it’s just an alarm and it was taken out by the E-bomb,” said Stoner, shining around the flashlight. “There aren’t any charges here.”

He’d suspected that; the acid would have made keeping explosives here fairly dangerous, especially with people working all around the area. What he hadn’t expected was that the panel led to a ladder, which disappeared downward.

“Come on,” he told the Marines as he positioned his NOD monocle and pulled out his Beretta. “Cover me.”

Aboard Penn

0200

KICK LEANED BACKas the computer took the Flighthawk further out into the harbor, still searching for any other Mainland boats or submarines. The Taiwanese port authorities, local police, and navy assets were all rushing to the area, and a search-and-rescue operation was under way. Penn had vectored in some of the SAR assets, but communication with the local units was torturous because of the different radio frequencies and, more importantly, accents. Still, several of the Mainlanders had already been recovered.

If he were in their place, he wouldn’t want to be saved.

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“Major Alou is asking you to check that merchant ship out, just about head on at two miles,” relayed Starship.

“Yeah, roger that, thanks.”

“Easy man, you’re jerking your stick like you’re muscling a Hog,” added Starship. “This is fly by wire.

Fly by remote wire.”

“You know, Starship, I really don’t need your help.”

“Fuck yourself then.”

“And fuck yourself back.”

Starship laughed. Kick started to laugh too.

STARSHIP WATCHED THEsmall trawler grow large in the display. There were two or three people on deck, but the ship had no lights on at all.

He suspected the craft had launched the commandos they’d intercepted in the harbor. But they’d already run a check on the registry and found that it was owned by a company in the Philippines.

That would undoubtedly prove to be bogus, but at the moment there was nothing they could do about it.

Kick brought the Flighthawk across the bow in a gentle arc, still a bit unsure of himself as he flew. That was reassuring in a way. Kick would never be as good a pilot, even a remote pilot, as Starship; he could compare himself to Kick any time and know he was ahead.

It didn’t take away the jitter he felt in his chest, though. And he was thirsty, very thirsty. And for something more than the bottled water in the galley fridge at the back of the compartment.

“See any antiair?” Kick asked.

“Negative.”

“This has to be the ship. Think we ought to splash it?”

Starship looked at the shadow of the ship. They could say they saw someone with a shoulder-launched missile on deck—thought they saw someone.

Shoot out the rudder, stop the damn boat cold.

Be heroes.

That wasn’t their job, though.

“I think we better tell Major Alou it’s clean but suspicious,” said Starship. “Get the Taiwan or Navy people on it.”

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“Yeah. Better. I’d love to nail the mother.”

“You and me both.”

On the Ground in Kaohisiung

0200

STONER COULD HEARthe sound of water dripping in the distance as he walked down the hall the ladder had led down to. Six feet wide and seven feet high, the passage ran straight for about ten feet, then took a sharp turn to the right.

Stoner stopped at the corner, his hand on the smooth concrete. There could be anything around the bend.

One of the Marines stepped forward with his M-16. Stoner grabbed the man’s shoulder, stopping him.

He wasn’t going to let anyone else do his job.

“Just cover me,” he said, and before the two Marines could stop him, Stoner had thrown himself onto the floor, sliding into the middle of the open space with his pistol ready.

The hallway was empty. It went on for about fifteen feet, then took another bend to the right. Stoner jumped up and scrambled down it.

The Marines were at most a half step behind him, their gear clacking as they whipped the noses of their rifles up and down across the space. One of the young men started forward. Stoner grabbed him.

“No—a motion detector. This bunker must’ve been shielded somehow against the E-bomb.”

As he finished the sentence, the space behind them exploded.

Aboard Raven

0200

ZEN REQUESTED Arefuel for Hawk Three as Raven neared the north end of the Taiwan Strait. Dog acknowledged and started backing down his speed—anything over 400 knots made for a very difficult tank, even when handled by the computer.

The Taiwan air force, officially known as Chung-kuo Kung Chuan or the Republic of China Air Force, had launched several patrols, including a full set of submarine hunters to chase the commando craft in the south. A Grumman E-2T radar plane, escorted by a group of F-5Es, was just taking up a station in the strait to the north, its radar sweeping the area for Mainland attackers.

The E-2Ts were essentially the same aircraft as the U.S. Navy’s E-2C Hawkeye, extremely capable, fleet, airborne radar craft. The longish nose of the planes carried a forward-looking Litton AN-ALR-73

Passive Detection System antenna; three other antennas were stuffed into other locations in the plane. But the truly unique feature of the Hawkeye was its radardome, a twenty-four-foot flying saucer mounted over the wings and fuselage. The E-2T could find an airplane at roughly 260 nautical miles; the computers aboard allowed it to track at least six hundred air targets (later-model American planes could handle over two thousand). In practice, “only” forty or so intercepts could be controlled at one time; even so, that would allow one E-2T to nail more than half of the attack sorties in the Battle of Midway in one shot.

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Zen listened to the Raven copilot exchange pleasantries with the Taiwanese as he came in for the refuel.

The computer painted cues on the screen, making it unnecessary for the Megafortress to carry the director lights common on dedicated tankers like the KC-10. As the small robot closed, Zen turned the procedure over to C3, which fought through the rough eddies of air rushing off the Megafortress’s bulky body. As the robot plane slapped into the straw, the automated system aboard the Megafortress exchanged some code with the Flighthawk—the digital equivalent of “Fill ‘er up”—and the jet fuel began to flow.

REFUELCOMPLETE, DOGchecked their position against the GPS screen and turned the helm over to his copilot so he could stretch his legs. But before he could unsnap his restraints, Major Catsman’s overstressed voice came over the Dreamland channel.

“Colonel, we have an update on that leased 767 that Chen’s company owned,” said Major Catsman.

“We’re still trying to pull together information, but it was moved to Hualin two weeks ago. It underwent work there to one of the wings.”

“Where is it now?”

“Unknown. We also think there may be another UAV but we haven’t anything definitive. The thinking here is that the alterations to the wing would have been to air-launch the aircraft, or possibly to carry a bomb.”

Major Catsman had already done some checking and narrowed down the possible suspects to three 767s.

“We should get the airports shut down,” said Dog. “Let’s get the Taiwan air force involved. I need a direct line to the general in charge. Can you set that up there?”

“Will do. Jed Barclay wants to talk to you in the meantime.”

“And I want to talk to him,” said Dog.

On the Ground in Kaohisiung

0205

STONER CLOSED HISeyes and pushed down his head, knowing he was going to die but not wanting to give in. It seemed like a waste to go out here, when he hadn’t even figured out what had happened to the bombs the bastards had made.

Dirt pushed into his pores. He couldn’t hear and he couldn’t see.

Poor fucking Marines. Poor Marines. Shit. He couldn’t let those guys die.

He pushed up against the massive blocks that had smothered his head. They began to give way.

I’m like Samson, he thought. Where is this strength coming from?

A light flashed in his eyes. He blinked.

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Was this what death felt like? Did God really send an angel out to get you?

There was a groan behind the light.

One of the Marines.

He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even buried. One of the Marines had fallen on him, probably trying to protect him.

Idiot Marines, always trying to do their job.

The kid was breathing. Good. But the chamber was blocked off with rubble—he could see the pile reflected in the flashlight’s shadow as the dust finally settled.

“Stoner,” said the Marine with the light.

“Yeah, I’m here,” said the CIA officer, dragging himself up. The NOD lay on the ground; he didn’t even bother picking it up to see if it was working, turning on his wristlight instead.

“The charge was back in the main tunnel. It blew down the entrance.”

Stoner stood. “Help him,” he told the other Marine. “I’m going to see where this hole goes.”

“You think we’re trapped?” asked the Marine. There was no fear in his voice; he might have been asking about the daily special at a restaurant.

“If we are, Danny Freah’ll get us out,” said Stoner. He took his radio out and gave it to the Marine.

“Make sure Captain Freah knows we’re here and take care of your buddy. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aboard Raven

0220

ZEN RAN H AWK Three ahead of Raven, concentrating on intercepting the first of the planes to be checked, a 767 supposedly chartered by an English tour group headed for China. The Boeing carried identification gear that could be queried to show its identity. As he drew close, Zen used the Ident gear; the registry jibed with the flight that had taken off. The gear was not foolproof, however, and they had to assume that anyone clever enough to manufacture the UAV and a nuclear device would have the wherewithal to fake an ID. Zen pushed the Flighthawk toward the aircraft, needing a visual to make sure the plane was in fact what it said it was.

The massive Boeing lumbered ten miles ahead, flying at 32,000 feet, about 5,000 below the tiny Flighthawk. Zen checked Hawk Four in the bottom screen—he’d had the computer take her in to be topped off, getting potential fuel problems out the way—then nudged Hawk Three’s nose gently earthward so he could get a look under the 767’s wings. He had to check his speed, however; Raven had slowed to complete the refuel, and he got a warning from C3that the connection was about to break.

“Zen, be advised we have some communications coming off the target plane indicating there are passengers aboard,” said Wes Brown, one of the Elint operators. “Cell phone communications.”

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“Roger that,” said Zen.

The infrared cameras on the Flighthawk synthesized an image for Zen in the main screen, gradually sharpening their focus as he pulled closer to the tail of the massive airliner.

Clean.

“They don’t have a UAV,” Zen told Dog.

“Copy that,” said Colonel Bastian.

“Think they have a bomb aboard?” asked Zen.

“I doubt it, but the Taiwanese authorities are looking for a divert field so it can be inspected. Let ’em know you’re there, see how they react.”

Zen tucked his wing and slid away from the airplane, running down and then coming back up close to the cockpit area. As he rose, he contacted the pilot, asking him to identify himself. Though there was surprise in his voice, nothing the civilian captain said indicated he was flying anything but a charter packed with tourists. The sensors on the Flighthawk couldn’t get a comprehensive read on the interior of the moving plane, but there were clearly passengers aboard.

“Taiwanese are sending two F-5s north for him,” said Dog. “They’re going to order him home.”

“Roger that.”

“I have our second target north at one hundred miles, making 400 knots. We’ll take him next.”

“Hawk leader,” said Zen, acknowledging.

Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

1420

JEDBARCLAY LISTENEDas the secretary of defense and the secretary of state debated whether to inform the Communist Chinese of what was going on. The Mainlanders were already scrambling aircraft, probably in response to the Taiwan activity.

“They’ll just shoot all the planes down,” said Secretary of Defense Chastain. “I would.”

“If a nuclear device is exploded in China, they will retaliate,” answered Hartman.

“Not necessarily,” said the defense secretary.

“That’s what Chen Lee is counting on,” said the secretary of state. “It’s insanity.”

Jed glanced at the video screen from the White House, where his boss was sitting with the President, listening to the debate. Before leaving to come over here, Jed had given Freeman a briefing paper from the CIA that argued that Mainland China would not nuke Taiwan; instead, they’d invade the island using conventional forces. An appendix to the paper suggested that the communists would threaten America with nuclear missiles if it interfered.

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“Can we stop all of the aircraft that have taken off in the last hour before they’re over China?” asked the President.

“We can get close,” said Jed. “But there’s no guarantee that we can stop them.”

“We can shoot them down ourselves,” suggested Hartman.

“In that case, I’d rather inform the Chinese and let them do it,” said the President.

“Then they may consider it a first strike and retaliate,” said Hartman. “They may obliterate Taiwan.”

“We’re not even sure that Chen launched his plane,” noted Freeman. “Let’s give the Dreamland people a little more time to work on it.”

“The way the intercepts are lined up right now,” said Jed, checking the feed from Dreamland that gave the planes’ positions, “Colonel Bastian is going to fly into Chinese territory just off the coast to check that last flight.”

“Then that’s what they’ll have to do,” said the President.

Aboard Raven

0250

THERE WERE NOWfour different flights of interceptors within fifty miles of Raven, two from Mainland China and two from Taiwan. The Taiwan flights—all F-5Es—were out at the end of their normal operating radius and would have to return to base fairly soon. The Mainland interceptors were J-8s, grouped in twos and also getting close to bingo. A pair of JJ-2 “Midgets” ordinarily used for training and not particularly adept at night operations were also in the air over Wenzhou on the coast, but were probably not much of a threat to anyone but themselves. Dog’s crew had its hands full sorting through the intercepted communications; Zen, meanwhile, pressed on toward the next craft they had been tasked to intercept, a 767 cargo craft.

“We’re on the Chinese ground intercept radars,” reported the copilot. “Tracking us. They’ll vector the fighters at us any second.”

Dog grunted in acknowledgment. A pair of spanking new Taiwanese Mirage 2000s had just selected afterburners, pushing their delta-winged airframes north to come up and take a look what was going on.

“Target plane is at ten miles,” said Zen. “Ident checks. Hailing him.”

One of the communist flights did the same to Raven, telling Dog he was violating Chinese airspace.

“Bullshit,” said Delaney. “We’re more than fifty miles off the coast.”

“Standard Chinese practice,” said Dog.

“Like I said, bullshit.”

Dog answered that they were in international airspace and pursuing their flight plan. While true as far as it went, the statement was not particularly informative, and the Chinese pilot countered that the American Page 214

plane had better turn around.

“What’s his controller telling him?” Dog asked Wes, who was listening in on the frequency.

“Telling him to challenge us and take no nonsense or something along those lines,” said Wes. The transmission was in Mandarin, but the computer gear aboard Raven included a competent on-the-fly translator.

“Activating his weapons radar,” warned Delaney. “Asshole.”

The J-8 challenging them was roughly fifty miles away, and flying a nearly parallel course—there was no way the aircraft could hit the Megafortress with anything but four-letter words.

“Want to go to ECMs?” asked the copilot.

“Let’s not give him the satisfaction.”

Sure enough, the communist pilot gave up a few seconds later, turning back toward his base on the Mainland.

THE 767 APPEAREDon Zen’s screen, a blur at eight miles away. While the ID checked out, the pilot had not answered Zen’s hail.

The blur slowly drew into focus.

Was there something under the right wing?

Zen nudged the throttle for more speed, but got a warning from the computer that he was too far from Raven. He backed off, telling himself not to get too impatient. The two-engine plane slowly came into better focus.

The wing was clean.

Converting a civilian plane into a conventional bomber was not particularly difficult; a bomb bay could be cut into the floor in an afternoon with plenty of time left over for the crew to catch happy hour. Add some proper targeting gear, and the Boeing could be at least as accurate as the aircraft used in World War II. Of course, a 767 would never stand a chance against an interceptor or a ground-defense system—unless it had the element of surprise on its side.

“Wes, Target Two is not answering my hails,” Zen told the op upstairs over the interphone. “Why don’t you take a shot at it with the translator?”

“Doing so now, Zen.”

Zen continued to fly toward the plane, trying to get a look at the body. If there were bottom-opening doors beneath the fuselage, they weren’t obvious.

Unlike the 767 he had intercepted earlier, there were no cabin lights, even though he could see the outlines of windows.

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“No answer,” said Wes.

“Try all frequencies.”

“I’ve tried every one known to man.”

“Dog, I think we may have found our target,” said Zen.

Dreamland

1155

JENNIFER TOOK Asip of her Diet Pepsi as she continued to scan the NSA intercepts of telemetry being gathered in real time over the South China Sea by Elint satellites and an RC-135. She’d programmed the computer to tell her if anything came across similar to the segment from the email.

Reams and reams of material were now being intercepted by satellite and listening stations all over the South China Sea, and even with the computer’s help, looking for the UAV would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Zen had just pulled close to one of the 767 flights. It wasn’t answering hails—this looked to be a good bet. She heard Colonel Bastian talking to the White House directly, asking for instructions.

They were going to tell him to shoot it down, she knew.

Jennifer reached to flick her hair back behind her ear, belatedly remembering she had cut it off.

Dog was telling Jed they had the plane.

Something in her reacted viciously to that. Anger at her lover, or ex-lover? She clicked on the circuit.

“Colonel, that’s not the plane,” she snapped.

“Jen?”

“That’s not the plane,” she insisted.

“You sure?”

She wasn’t sure at all—logically, it probably was. But she insisted she was.

Why?

Jennifer wanted to argue with him. She wanted to tell him to screw off. And she wanted everyone to see her telling him off.

She wanted to be right, and she wanted everyone to know it.

But she wasn’t, was she? Because it had to be the plane.

“Colonel Bastian, you are authorized to use all necessary force to terminate that flight if they won’t turn back,” said a deep, sonorous voice over the Dreamland Command frequency.

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The President himself.

“It’s not the right plane,” Jennifer insisted. She slapped her computer keyboard, backing out from the intercept screen to the communications profiles stored earlier. The 767 had taken off from Taipei—they had some data from it somewhere in the vast storehouse of intercepts, didn’t they?

“Jen, this is Colonel Bastian. Can you explain?”

Fuck yourself, thought Jennifer. She began paging through data.

“Major Catsman?” said Dog.

“Um, just a second, Colonel. Jennifer’s working on something here.”

Aboard Raven

0259

ZEN HAD THEplane fat in his target screen; two bursts from his cannon and it would go down. All he needed was an okay from Colonel Bastian.

A Chinese Chengdu J-7 was on a rough intercept from the northwest, its intentions unclear. It wouldn’t be a factor for another two or three minutes, however; by then this should be over.

As he waited, Zen checked Hawk Four, flying a routine trail behind Raven. He decided to put it into a preset position ahead of Raven called Escort Two; the robot would fly seven miles ahead of the mother ship’s left wingtip. That would give him a reasonable position to deal with the communist interceptor if it continued south and he was still hanging behind the 767.

C3acknowledged his command, whipping the tiny plane forward. When he’d first learned to handle the Flighthawks, Zen would have insisted on taking the plane himself. But he’d grown to trust the computer, and knew he could concentrate on Hawk Three and the 767.

“Hawk leader to Raven. Colonel, what’s the story?”

“Dream Command is checking on something.”

“That J-7 is going to afterburners,” said Delaney.

“Coming for us?” asked Zen.

“We’ll know in a minute,” said Delaney.

Dreamland

1200

JENNIFER SAW ITon the screen as Dog nagged them again for an update. She pointed to the break in the transmission so Major Catsman could see as well.

“This back here is them saying they have radio trouble,” said Jennifer. She paged back to the translation screen, trying to get the right place.

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She couldn’t find it, and for a moment she doubted herself, thought that her anger at him had made her unconscious mind invent it. She stabbed at the cursors.

Where is it? Where is it?

“Wait,” said Catsman, grabbing her hand. “Calm down. Go back. Just relax. We have time.”

Two backspaces.

“Colonel, it looks like the aircraft you’re querying was having intermittent radio trouble shortly after takeoff. They may not be able to hear your hails. I’m not sure why they didn’t turn back,” said Catsman.

“But maybe you can get their attention visually.”

Jennifer pushed back from the screen. Tears were falling down her cheeks.

She hadn’t invented it.

“Are you all right?” asked Catsman.

Slowly, she nodded.

The major put her hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “We won’t shoot down the wrong plane. We won’t.”

Aboard Raven

0305

ZEN ACCELERATED OVERthe right wing of the 767, pushing past the cockpit. The pilot in the big jet did what any self-respecting pilot would do when a UFO blasted across his bow—he ducked.

And took the aircraft with him. Fortunately, the big jet was athletic enough to handle the violent jerk on her controls fairly calmly—if rolling through an invert can be considered calm.

“Getting some radio flickers but nothing intelligible,” said Wes upstairs. “I think Jennifer’s right—I think he’s having radio problems and didn’t realize it.”

“Wouldn’t he have checked in with civilian controllers?” Zen asked.

“Well, given the situation between the two Chinas, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t talk to them at all, and vice versa. His flight plan has him heading for South Korea.”

Whatever the situation, the 767’s pilot appeared to realize he was in fact in trouble. Rather than coming back to his original course, he turned southward, as if he were heading back to Taiwan.

“Taiwan Mirages have him on their radar,” said Dog. “They’re going to hook up and escort him home.”

“Roger that,” said Zen. “But if he’s not our guy, who is?”

On the Ground in Kaohisiung

0305

Page 218

THEMARINE CAPTAINwanted to blow the bunker entrance with C-4, but Danny wouldn’t let him.

“That’ll kill them for sure,” said Danny. “Best bet’s to keep digging.”

“Sooner or later they’re going to run out of air,” said the Marine. “We can’t get those big blocks out of the way.”

“Maybe we can get some earthmovers from the city,” suggested Danny.

“God knows how long it’ll take to get them here.”

Danny stood back. Blowing the hole open looked like the only option—but it risked killing his men to save them. Even if they moved far from the entrance, the shock of the explosion might weaken the already damaged bunker.

The rest of the facility had now been searched; it seemed a good bet that the nuke was down there.

If they blew the concrete to bits, would they blow up the bomb as well?

No—because if it weren’t safed against accidental explosions, it would have gone off already.

Assuming it was there.

Go with a minimum charge.

“Set up the explosives,” Danny told the Marines reluctantly. “One of my men will help. Make sure the people inside know what we’re doing. Yo, Boston. Get over here and put some of your demo training to work.”

STONER PUSHED THROUGHthe dust, the dim beam from the flashlight dancing against the walls.

The path had taken two turns and gone down two flights of stairs, widening somewhat as it went.

The bunker had definitely been intended as more than a place to hide a nuke or two. As he walked, Stoner worried that he would run into guards. He’d retrieved his hideaway Glock from his leg—the Beretta had been lost in the blast—holding the gun in his hand. The flashlight was strapped to his wrist, casting the shadow of the gun ahead as he walked.

He walked slowly, stopping every second or third step, waiting, listening.

What was this place? he wondered. A cement hole in the ground, a hiding place?

He turned the corner and something flashed in his face. He fired his gun and felt incredibly cold.

Cement and the tang of gunpowder stung his eyes. No one was there—he’d tripped another EMP-shielded motion detector. He was at the entrance to a paneled room.