Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Lonsdale
jammed on the brakes and then shot backward.
Compared to a Guntrack, the speed was glacial.
The tanks were now close enough to read the
packing instructions.
Lonsdale was
doubled over with laughter.
The tanks
impacted ten meters away, compressing their corrugated cushioning flat and
raising clouds of red dust.
The second
machine seemed to bounce and then fell over on its side.
It was even closer.
"YOU!"
screamed a voice in Fitzduane's ear.
"YOU WITH THE DEATH WISH!
Get out of that vehicle and go right at that
ASAP, TROOPER!"
Fitzduane hopped
to it.
The are
was suddenly full of running troopers.
Within seconds, the tank was righted and the straps and packaging were
being removed.
He decided
he'd let the experts get on with the next phase.
"FUCKHEAD!"
screamed the voice.
"WHO TOLD YOU
TO STOP?
MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
Fitzduane
turned around.
A short, stocky figure
with an almost Mongolian cast to his black and green features was standing
inches from him.
Red dust clung to his
fatigues and webbing, but his badges of rank and name tag could just be
read.
He was the closest thing to a
demented dervish that Fitzduane had ever seen in uniform.
Which was some statement
around Bragg.
"Lieutenant
Brock," said Fitzduane.
Brock stepped
back and took a hard look at Fitzduane.
The stranger's uniform bore neither a name tag nor badges of rank.
On the other hand, the man was manifestly not
some nineteen-year-old trooper.
"You're
screwing up my exercise," said Brock.
"Who the
fuck are
you?"
Fitzduane
looked at him.
"I'd hate
us to get off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant."
"Sir,"
added Brock.
Fitzduane told
him.
"Hooah,
sir," said Brock.
A smile creased
his features.
"You've been there
before, the CG said."
"In — and
OUT!" said Lonsdale.
"The
second bit, Lieutenant, is the secret."
Fitzduane
indicated the two tanks.
"Tell me
about your pets," he said.
Brock
positively glowed.
"Pets!
Outstanding, sir.
Where would you like me to begin?"
*
*
*
*
*
Jaeger woke up
sweating.
The motel-room
furnishings looked unfamiliar.
According
to his watch it was work time, and a raised curtain revealed definite
daylight.
Blue skies.
Sun.
All the trappings.
Why had he
been asleep in the middle of a perfectly normal, useful day?
Was he drugged or drinking?
Had he forgotten the work ethic he'd grown up
with?
Was a woman involved?
What was he doing in
He drank a
glass of water and lay back with his eyes closed.
In his mind's
eye he could see the immense steel barrel of the supergun in the Devil's
Footprint spurt an endless tongue of flame and send its deadly projectile
toward his country.
York
Angeles
What
did it matter?
All that was important
was that a population center was targeted.
The weapon
would be fired.
Fitzduane was sure of
it.
As he understood the workings of
Oshima's mind rather better, Jaeger himself was certain of it.
OPERATION CARTHAGE
might bring it forward a few
hours, a day, a week, but either way the supergun was going to be used.
The assault
troops, no matter what they did, could not stop it.
If it worked,
thousands of people would die.
Probably tens of thousands.
Possibly a great deal more.
And that would just be the immediate
effect.
The greater impact would be on
credibility.
Jaeger swung
his legs off the bed and put his head between his knees.
The dizziness passed.
He began to remember the SCIF and the heat
and the mission and Lieutenant Colonel Carlson dripping with sweat, keeping his
eye on the ball.
And
Fitzduane and Lonsdale going back for a second time.
Back to
the science of it all
, his brain told him.
Forget all this emotion.
Focus on
the scientific facts and the physical reactions that must result.
Hydrogen was
the propellant being used by Rheiman's supergun in the Devil's Footprint.
Hydrogen alone was too volatile and would
explode too fast, so it was blended with helium.
The mixing of the two gases was controlled
and monitored electronically.
Remove the
original controller mechanism and substitute a replacement that would read out
correctly but actually allow a mainly hydrogen mix into the barrel.
And what would you get?
One hell of an explosion.
Strong enough
to burst a barrel made of maraging steel?
That's what
the computer simulation said would happen.
But computer simulation was far from foolproof.
That's why you did field trials.
Real life had a habit of being quirky.
Replacing the
controller mechanism had seemed like a good idea when the main objective was
merely to disrupt the testing program.
Now Xyclax Gamma 18 had raised the stakes beyond Jaeger's ability to
handle the situation.
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
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
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
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.
"
"I know these people.
You have seen
the damage they inflicted elsewhere.
Why
had Dr. Rheiman's weapon escaped unscathed?
What have we missed?"
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
"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
"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
"I wonder
why they didn't blow the hydrogen?" said Oshima.
"As you
know, Commander," said
"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
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."
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?"