“All right, I’m convinced,” said the colonel. “God damn it, five hundred people must have missed this. Is Wong the only officer in Saudi Arabia who knows his ass from a hole in the ground?”
“That would be his ass from a ventilation pipe,” quipped one of the officers.
Everyone, even the colonel, laughed.
Except Wong.
“If I may move on,” Wong continued, clearing his throat. “The configuration of this site, which I assume we are here to target, will present some very unique challenges for whoever is tasked to hit it. I assume that it was not detected during infrared surveillance, from which we may make several deductions, two in particular. First, that it is not continually manned, which of course we know since the ventilation system is so small, but confirming evidence is occasionally useful, if only for morale.
“There is no heat in the exhaust,” Wong added for the men at the side who weren’t quite keeping up. “It would have been very obvious. Second, there is probably a thick layer of natural material between the surface and the interior. I predict that the space for the pipe will be found to have been drilled, as unlikely as that sounds to the uninitiated. There will be basically two avenues of attack, the ventilation system and the front door. Going through the front door, of course, has its drawbacks, since it is both thick and protected by several man-lethal devices, more commonly known as booby traps. We don’t know what types, though we can make some guesses, including at least two families of chemical derivatives undoubtedly modeled on the KK-37B facility in the Ural Mountains…”
“Hold that thought a second, Wong,” said the colonel. “How about the vent? Can we get a smart bomb down it?”
“The shaft is not sufficient for a Paveway series weapon to fly down,” said Wong. “Nor will the vent serve as a sufficient fissure-point for an attack, if my guess as to its construction is correct. The probability of the heaviest weapons in the series being effective can be measured in the range of ten to the negative one-hundredth power. Some would argue for a repeating attack pattern, taking advantage of wave harmonics to enhance the destructive value. There are additional alternatives, but beyond what I have said, my discussion would involve possibilities outside the code-word clearance of anyone in the room.”
Wong was thinking specifically of an attack by GBU-24/B Paveway III laser-guided bombs, 4,700-pound monsters capable of taking out even the hardened-aircraft shelters Yugoslavia had built for Saddam. The captain’s opinion was classified not because of the bombs— fairly well-kept secrets themselves— but because of the way they would have to be used to have any chance of penetrating the rock.
The others didn’t quite appreciate that, however, responding to Wong with a variety of predictable curses and mutterings. It was exactly the sort of rumble from the rabble he had put up with all his life. It was the price one paid for being Wong.
“I like the front door, myself,” said the colonel. “But I know what Riyadh’s going to say. You sure the door is booby trapped?”
“Without a doubt,” said Wong.
“Anyway around it?”
“Given enough time, there is always a way.”
“We don’t have time,” said the colonel. “They want it hit by dawn, one way or the other. All right, get me Riyadh on the line. Sit down, Wong— someone get him some coffee. Wait,” added the colonel as an assistant flew to the door. “Better make it decaf. I’d hate to hear him on a caffeine buzz.”
CHAPTER 34
The way A-Bomb figured it, every hour playing poker was worth two hours of sleep. The idea of sleep, after all, was to restore your creative powers and recharge your muscles. Poker did the same thing, only quicker. It was like taking a sauna, and in fact if you played cards perpetually, you’d never grow old.
Doberman nonetheless begged off, if “fuck yourself” could be understood as begging off.
A-Bomb eventually found his way into a game with some of Klee’s support staff; within a half-hour he was twenty dollars ahead in a quarter-limit game. They were conservative for commandoes, and had apparently not even heard of Baseball. He was just explaining the intricacies of the poker variant when a youngish staff sergeant appeared and called the officers to a meeting with the Special Ops colonel.
A-Bomb immediately decided that he and Doberman belonged at the meeting.
“Screw off and drop dead,” grumbled Doberman, when A-Bomb tried to wake him.
“Yo, Colonel Klee wants to see us.”
“Why, the war over?”
“Could be.”
Doberman turned, but only enough to determine from the lack of light that it was still nighttime. “Go away,” he growled. “Tell the colonel to eat shit.”
“He’s standing right here.”
“My ass.”
This was the sort of challenge that made it worth fetching the colonel and bringing him back, just to see the look on Doberman’s face when he saw that he actually had cursed out a colonel. But that would take too long, and he really wanted to check out the meeting. So he settled for merely shaking the cot.
“Hey, let’s go,” he told Doberman. “Something big’s got to be boiling. I was playing cards with half the guy’s staff and…”
“You’re out of your friggin’ mind.”
“Nah, they’re not that good.”
“Good night, A-Bomb.”
“If there’s anything going down, I want to be there. Maybe Dixon’s in trouble.”
Doberman rolled over. “Oh fuckin’ hell goddamn all right. Shit. All I want is ten god-damn minutes of rest in this country.”
“Shoulda come and play cards. Fountain of youth. That’s what I’m talking about.”
By the time the two pilots got there, Klee was talking with someone on a scrambler phone set. The man obviously outranked him, since he was being uncharacteristically polite.
A-Bomb’s attention was suddenly snagged by a half-full Mr. Coffee at three o’clock. He set an intercept vector, jinking past a pair of semi-hostile-looking majors, arriving at the machine just as the colonel hung up the line.
“All right, I guess you probably heard that,” the colonel told his officers. “Riyadh’s tasking an F-111. Don’t bother Wong,” he added quickly. “I know what you’re fucking going to say but it’s no use. Chris, you and Cleso get with Wong here and figure out some sort of backup plan. One that’ll work and that we can do ourselves. Kelly, get Hawkins on the line at Fort Apache and tell him what the hell is going on. Get our people as far away from there as you can. Ruth will be compromised by the hit, even if they’re not poisoned. Put those helicopters to work. Charly, find them a new sector to sift.”
A-Bomb took a gulp of coffee, then immediately spit it back into the cup.
Decaf. The ultimate war crime.
He looked up and realized that everyone was staring at him.
“So what’s our assignment?”
“Assignment?” asked the colonel. “What the hell are you two doing here?”
“Waiting for an assignment,” said A-Bomb. “Certainly not drinking coffee.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.” Klee gave a furious glance behind A-Bomb toward Doberman.
Not nearly as furious as the one Doberman gave to A-Bomb.
“Ah, we’ll rest on the way,” said A-Bomb. “We bird-doggin’ for the Aardvarks? Or escorting the helos?”
“Who the hell said you had an assignment?”
“Excuse us, Colonel,” said Doberman. “We just thought, since our guy is up there —”