“That’s for damned sure.” Clayton brightened. “Yeah! That’s right!” He turned to Caldwell, on his right. “How about it, General? If we launched an attack, I mean, a really massive, all-out air strike. Laser-guided bombs, missiles, the works. Could we just blow that baby right out of the water? Before anyone in there had time to push the button?”
Caldwell looked pained, then shook his head. “I don’t think—”
“No, really!” Clayton said, enthusiastic now. “I know it’s kind of drastic. There could be lots of — what do you military guys say? ‘Collateral damage’? But fuck it! This gives us a fighting chance!”
“Ignoring for the moment the more than three hundred hostages being held at the objective—”
“Damn it, General, we’re balancing three hundred hostages against how many thousands of people who die if that bomb goes off? I find those losses to be acceptable!”
“Ignoring the hostages,” Caldwell repeated, pushing ahead, “and ignoring for the moment our own military forces at the objective, there are some serious basic problems with that approach. We don’t know how the nuclear device is shielded, armed, or triggered. Any atomic bomb, however, depends on a conventional explosive charge to compress the fissionable material of the warhead to critical mass. Set off as big an explosion as we’re talking about here, and there’s a good chance, a very good chance in fact, that the bomb’s conventional explosive would be triggered through something called sympathetic detonation. And that, of course, would create critical mass and a nuclear explosion.
“Second, we still don’t know where the bomb is being kept. We haven’t seen them unloading it and don’t even know what it might look like. Maybe it’s already on the platform. Maybe it’s aboard the tanker. Maybe it’s on the fishing boat where the minisub was stored, but it hasn’t been unloaded yet. While we could easily trigger a natural-gas explosion on the platform, there’s no way in hell we could get all of the possible targets. In the case of the various ships and boats on the site, even a large number of direct hits wouldn’t make the target explode or sink immediately. Someone, either on Bouddica or on the ship, would have plenty of time to evaluate the situation, decide all was lost, and push the button.”
“I would have to agree with that assessment,” Hemminger said. “But with the proviso that it does give us some hope. I think my recommendation would have to be to leave the situation to our people there, but have the air strike ready, just in case. If things get bad, if the assault is beaten off, we can hit them with the F-15s and hope for the best.”
“Hope for the best?” Bainbridge laughed. “We’re talking about a nuclear weapon here, gentlemen!”
“I’m well aware of that, Admiral,” the Secretary of Defense said coldly. “Which is why this must be a political decision, not a military one. The detonation of that device could ruin the economy of a vital ally and would seriously threaten U.S. strategic interests in the area. If we have any chance, any chance at all of stopping that detonation, we must take it. Must take it. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Bainbridge said coldly. “I understand you very well. I just wonder, though, if you’ll give the order.”
“Eh? What order?”
“The order to those airmen who’ll have to fly in and fire the missiles that will kill over three hundred civilians and a number of comrades-at-arms.”
Hemminger shot Bainbridge a black look but said nothing.
“So what are we saying?” Schellenberg asked.
Clayton shrugged. “I suggest we let them go. Go! We’ve got men on the platform already. The Brits have their SAS people on the tug. I say we deploy the rest of the SEALs to the Noramo Pride, back up the Brits with every scrap of air and supply at our disposal, and run with it!”
“But Christ,” Schellenberg muttered, his eyes wide. “I mean… Christ! We don’t have any control over those people, those SEALs! We can’t leave leave something this important to trained killers like them! We have no control!”
“Maybe,” Marlowe said with a faint, tight smile, “that’s the way it should be.”
Murdock watched as Sterling listened intently to the headphones plugged into the HST-4 receiver. Was he receiving orders from Washington? Had to be, since he’d been listening without comment or acknowledgment for five minutes now. The question was… would the orders require the SEAL OP to support the expected assault? Or order them out… and home to a court-martial?
It had to be an assault. It had to be. If these tangos got away with their nuclear blackmail…
The past twenty hours had been fairly typical for a long-term SEAL OP watch. They’d prowled both platforms during the night, looking for intel, identifying tango security elements and positions, familiarizing themselves with the facility’s maze-like layout. During the day, they’d kept to their perch save for brief forays to keep tabs on the terrorists who were also on Bravo, down on the first level. The rest of the time, they took telescopic photos of terrorists and equipment, watched the movements of men aboard the Rosa and the Celtic Maiden, ate cold packaged rations, and endured the numbing chill of wind and weather. Much longer, Murdock knew, and the men would begin suffering from the effects of exposure, despite the protection afforded by their dry suits.
Still, BUD/S had shaped all of their minds as much as it had shaped their bodies. They might grumble about the cold quietly among themselves, but they endured it.
They had to. You may not like it, ran the old SEAL adage, you just have to do it.
They did it. In Vietnam, SEALs had trained themselves to deliberately assume uncomfortable positions in order to stay awake, while waiting at an ambush for hour after aching hour. This, Murdock thought, was much like that… though he did make his men take turns catching a few hours of sleep at a time.
He checked his watch impatiently. Waiting. Not knowing. That was the hardest. Always.
Let’s get it on!
“Watchdog, Eyrie, Sierra three-five,” Sterling whispered into his mike after an interminable wait. “Acknowledged. Eyrie, out.”
“Well?” Murdock asked.
“Orders, L-T,” Jaybird Sterling said, replacing the headset from the satcom unit in its case. “Looks like we stay… ” He paused, then grinned wickedly. “And kick some tango ass!”
Murdock felt a surge of relief. He’d risked everything with his decision to bend the rules this far, both for himself and for his men, by coming here instead of adhering to a strict interpretation of his orders and staying on alert ashore.
“Yes!” Roselli said, clenching his fist and jerking his arm back. “All right!”
“Are we gonna hit them?” Johnson wanted to know.
“Let’s keep a sock on it, people,” MacKenzie said, lowering his binoculars and turning to face the others. But he was grinning. “What’s the story, Jaybird?”
“Okay. They’re gonna want to talk to the L-T to finalize shit.” He looked at his watch, peeling back the Velcro cover. “Thirty-five minutes. Fourteen-hundred hours, our time. But an assault is go. They’re bringing in the rest of Third Platoon to hit the tanker out there, and more SAS to take down Bouddica Alpha. We’re to stay put, but act in support from the Eyrie. And…”
“What?” Murdock asked as Sterling hesitated.
“The station’s radar. They want both of them taken out, just before the show goes down.”
“We don’t have much with us in the way of bang-clay,” MacKenzie said. “What… three kilos?”