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“Next one ain’t go
The grenade wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the EE-11’s armor, but Powder merely wanted to blind the gu
Liu stood there already, staking it out. One of the vehicle’s doors opened. Powder tensed, then realized that the hand that emerged held a white handkerchief.
“We ought to flatten the bastards,” he said to Liu over the corn unit.
“Just make sure they’re surrendering,” said a deep and commanding voice. He glanced back and saw that Captain Freah had joined them.
Aboard Galatica
8 March, 0545
MINERVA LASHED THE WOMAN PILOT’S HANDS BEHIND her with the string from her boot, wrapping the lace over Bree’s wrists and then around a bolt at the side. It might not hold for long if she strained against it, but the American’s struggles would at least warn her.
Where would they go? For now, they were ru
Mayo nodded nervously as she slipped into the seat beside him. He began reading off bearings and instrument numbers—a status report. Everything was in perfect order.
“Why ten thousand feet?” he asked abruptly.
“Not now, Lieutenant. Just hold the course.”
Mayo started to say something, but thought better of it. Minerva folded her arms, staring at the darkness before her.
Pei, Brazil
8 March, 0550
DANNY MADE SURE POWDER AND LIU HAD THE PRISONERS under control, then approached the hangar building cautiously. He flipped A
A flash-bang in his hand, Da
Empty.
Something moved behind him.
He threw himself down, then saw it was only Powder.
“Shit, sorry,” said his point man through the laser com.
“Down,” hissed Da
Powder nodded, then began working his way sideways to the left. Da
“Get away from the gun, motherfucker!” shouted Powder, who’d come up behind the Brazilian.
Da
“He’s dead, Captain,” said Powder, moving in slowly.
“Hold on. Stop,” said Da
“What’s up?”
“There’s a bomb or something sitting in the middle of the floor. It’s got a timer. Go see if you can find some lights. No, wait a second.” Freah lowered himself to his knees. There was a radiation symbol on the interior of the metal casing, heading about a paragraph’s worth of closely printed letters. “You read Portuguese, Powder?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Go get Bison,” Da
“Sniffer too?”
“Especially the sniffer. And Powder, get the Satcom. Go very fast.”
Dreamland
8 March, 0200 local (Brazil 0600)
MACK PACED OUTSIDE TM, TRYING TO CONTAIN HIS fury.
He knew exactly what Madrone would do, how he would fly. He’d get around the F-l5’s if they weren’t careful.
Hell, even if they were careful. Because they’d be too damn full of themselves.
Been there, done that himself.
To be put on ice. Bullshit. Bullshit!
He could have the MiG fueled on his own authority.
Not armed, though. That would take an order from Bastian. Technically. Odds were no one would question him if he said it was approved.
God, they couldn’t just leave him on the ground. At least let him talk to some of the pilots, give them advice. They friggin’ thought he was a traitor. Damn them all.
Pej, Brazil
8 March, 0613 local
“CAPTAIN, I’M ASSUMING THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT.”
“A
“Why do you think it’s a warhead?”
“Our sniffer says it’s full of uranium.”
“Read me the scale level.”
“Okay. Uh, hang on.” He fumbled with the small Geiger counter, clicking it through its modes. About the size of a lunchbox, the field unit could detect the depleted uranium used for A-10 ca
“That’s fine,” said A
“About the size of an artillery shell.”
“How far away are you?”
“About three feet, max.”
“Tsk. I believe your unit may be doubling the reading.”
“Is it a bomb?”
“Well, you’re the one looking at it. The reading is certainly high enough. Interesting—you’re in Brazil?”
“Interesting? What should I do?”
“Technically, Captain, I am not an expert on nuclear devices.”
“The NSC is supposed to be getting me one,” Da
“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, Captain.” A
Bison came on the line and described the setup of the wiring to her. Da
“So what the hell do we do?” Freah finally asked his sergeant.
“She’s thinking, Captain.” Bison nodded a few times, then began describing the thick group of wires that fed into the front of the device.
Da
“Wants to talk to you, Captain,” Sergeant Bison said finally, giving the radio handset back to him.
“Creative,” said A
“As powerful as that?”
“Oh, no. Only half. Probably even less—maybe a tenth, assuming I’m right about your sniffer reading. I don’t particularly like those devices; I saw two that malfunctioned in the Gulf, once when the consequences could have been very serious. Of course, the real key isn’t so much the size of the warhead as the design of the explosive lens that initiates the reaction. An American bomb that size could wipe out a city the size of New York, whereas a Pakistani bomb would barely destroy twelve or thirteen blocks. They’re quite hopeless as designers because they don’t have the hang of focusing the explosion. On the other hand—”