13

Fitzduane dozed uneasily on the aircraft while flying back to Washington.

Since Vietnam, where he had been shot down on several occasions, and from various similar experiences in war zones since, he had learned that aircraft had different ways of returning to earth, and not all of them were pleasant.

He was not overly fond of flying. If he could sleep through it, he would. This time it was not that easy. His subconscious flooded his mind with dark images and he had the terrible feeling that the mission he had embarked on was going to get much worse before it got better.

His black mood had started with the bank raid in Medora. The burst of adrenaline that had kicked in when Lonsdale and he had roared away from Lonsdale's extraordinary home had turned into depression when they caught up with the perpetrators at an Arizona Highway Patrol roadblock a few miles outside the city limits.

With good reason, the state troopers were not taking any chances. When the bank robbers had opened fire and tried to run the roadblock, the troopers, hunkered down behind the cover of their cruisers, had returned fire with a vengeance.

The driver had taken a shotgun blast in the face in the first fusillade.

Out of control, the jeep had spun off the road and overturned. One passenger broke his neck in the crash. The two surviving robbers, already wounded, were thrown clear and as they tried to rise, were chopped down almost clinically by a trooper armed with a heavy-caliber sniper rifle.

Fitzduane and Lonsdale had come on the scene seconds later. The dead robbers had weapons in their hands or just beside them. It was a righteous shoot without question, but the rivulets of blood and the destroyed splayed bodies of what had been up till a few moments ago healthy young men caused the bile to rise in Fitzduane's throat. So this was civilization as we approached the twenty-first century. So this was how far we had come.

Fitzduane's revulsion was further increased by his own sense of guilt. It was not what he wanted – indeed, it was what he had run from when he had resigned from the army – but there had been circumstances and he had killed, and he was good at it and he would kill again.

The causes had been just, and doubtless would be just, but still there was a voice inside him saying that he was wrong and there had to be a better way. And then there were the faces of those who had died as a result of his actions, who seemed to take a little piece of his life force with them as the life flickered from their eyes.

An examination of the corpses quickly revealed that all four of the dead young men had been Mexican and had only recently crossed the border. All wore the clothes of itinerant workers. One wore sandals. One wore cheap shoes without socks.

The man who had taken the shotgun blast in his face had a gold crucifix on a thin gold chain around his neck.

The fourth man, killed by the sniper, lay on his back where he had been thrown, his hair, features, and coloring strongly Indian.

"There but for a quirk of fate go I," said Lonsdale, quietly looking at the body of the fourth man. "Ninety-odd million Mexicans rammed up against the border of the richest country in the world. What would you do if you were them?"

"Try and make Mexico work," said one of the state troopers. "They've got their own country. Some of it is poor, but some of it is rich. They've got oil. Certainly, coming up here to rob and kill isn't the answer."

"What do you do if you have they have not?" said Fitzduane almost to himself as he gazed at the carnage. "This thing is not about the U.S. and Mexico. It's about the whole world and how you slice the pie."

"You hold the line, Hugo," said Lonsdale firmly. "You try and do what you can, but you accept the world as it is. Or you're fucked."

Fitzduane had a last terrible dream as his flight neared its end.

He could see Kathleen lying in a cell. She was blindfolded and chained and her chains were secured to a ring in the wall. Her clothing was ripped and torn. The crude concrete floor was dusty. As he watched, she traced words in the dust. Her fingertips were bleeding as if she had done this again and again. He strained to try to read what she had written. He could just see his own name, HUGO, and then another word beginning with H. He could not read the rest.

Figures came into the cell.

He could not make out their faces. They were indistinct but menacing. One carried something. It was a piece of board like a butcher's block. Kathleen's hand was placed upon it. She was struggling and screaming, but she was held firmly.

The figure of a woman came forward with a long heavy blade in her hand. Its edge glittered unevenly as if freshly sharpened upon a stone. It was a crude instrument, a simple machete, the tool of a peasant, an elemental weapon.

Here is was an instrument of torture.

The figure of the torturer turned toward Fitzduane so that for the first time he could see her face. The features were Japanese. Once beautiful, she was now hideously scarred, but she acted as if still supremely confident of her appeal, of her sexuality, and of her power.

She was half smiling. She could see Fitzduane looking and she was pleased. This was why she was doing it. It was aimed at him. He understood.

She raised the heavy blade and brought it down into Kathleen's flesh. Fitzduane could hear the sound. Kathleen did not scream. But he could see the tears as they welled from under her blindfold and coursed through the grime on her face.


*****

Cochrane was in the underground conference room in the STR Virginia facility in the building they called Son Tay.

As he had got to know the area better, Fitzduane had learned that there were a dozen or more buildings of various sizes in the complex and doubtless more elsewhere on the estate. Most of the buildings were at least partially underground, as best he could determine. They were linked by subterranean passages. Access was on a ‘need to know’ basis. The Task Force and Fitzduane had the run of the first building they had met in and were using it as a base. As to what happened elsewhere, Fitzduane had absolutely no idea.

The whole setup reminded him forcibly of the iceberg nature of power. The average citizen rarely saw the extent of the forces that controlled and guided him or her, and such secrecy was not confined to totalitarian states. Even the United States, the most open nation on earth, kept much hidden. It was in the nature of those who truly understood power to be secretive. Even if you were an insider, there was much that was secret. No one had full access.

But Grant Lamar, in Fitzduane's opinion, had more access than most. Otherwise, none of this made sense.

Cochrane was buttoning up a crisp white shirt as Fitzduane came in. A regimental tie followed. An electric razor appeared out of a drawer. A quick combing completed the transformation. Within a couple of minutes Cochrane, his face drawn with fatigue, was transformed into a reasonable similitude of the whip-sharp chief of staff whom Fitzduane had first met.

"You caught me, Hugo," said Cochrane briskly, the anger suppressed but escaping as he talked. "Sprucing up on the run is something you learn in the House. You work long, stupidly long hours, sometimes for remarkably stupid people. Most of your work gets shit-canned, but appearances – boy, they really count. You've got to look STRAC.

"You learn to bathe in a water glass and keep your wardrobe in a drawer in your filing cabinet and fuck between votes. The legacy of the Founding Fathers. Those good ole boys set up a hell of a system. It must have been easier in the days of the Roman emperors. Then you still might be knifed in the back, but at least you didn't have to worry about the people. Frankly, democracy sucks."

Fitzduane dropped into a chair. "You look like shined-up shit, Lee," he said. "Sleep has a lot to recommend it. What's this about being knifed in the back?"

"Not your problem, Hugo," said Cochrane grimly. "You're an Irishman. This is strictly an American political matter. It is an old custom. It is called throwing out the baby with the bathwater. It is also called shitting on your friends."

Fitzduane smiled. "The U.S. has no monopoly on either slinging babies out or dumping on the undeserving. So enlighten me."

Cochrane looked straight at Fitzduane. "The Task Force on Terrorism has been a highly effective tool of the United States Congress for nearly a decade and a half. Now it is to be wrapped up. It is all part of the lesser government drive being pushed by our new Speaker. It is a good idea, but it is being implemented indiscriminately. There has never been a greater threat to this country from terrorism and our work has never been more in demand or more on the button – but the Task Force is to go. Go figure!"

Fitzduane was momentarily speechless. The entire Mexican operation was being driven through the Task Force. Kathleen! The implications were horrendous.

"What about the Tecuno mission, Lee?"

A vein throbbed in Cochrane's forehead. "I seem to recall a recent time when you weren't too keen on going to Mexico, Hugo," said Cochrane, sarcasm and anger heavy in his voice. His whole body was tense with rage. The chief of staff had a short fuse and liked to crack the whip, but Fitzduane had never seen him like this before.

He tried to defuse the situation. "Lee, you're tired and quite reasonably pissed off with what is being done to the Task Force. But maybe it is not such a good idea to take it out on me. You know exactly why I changed my mind."

"Fuck you, you damned Irishman," exploded Cochrane. "I care about this country. I fight for the United States. I fight for a cause. All you seem to care about is some damned woman. There are bigger issues, and you don't seem to give a shit about them. You're nothing but a fucking mercenary!"

Fitzduane could feel his own anger boiling up, which would accomplish precisely nothing. He fought for control. He had a tremendous desire to hit the man. He took his time answering.

"Causes are about people, Lee," he said quietly, "and you know that better than most, which is why you do what you do. And Kathleen is rather more than ‘some damned woman.’ Further, she is being held by people who threaten the well-being of this country. We're on the same side on this thing. So swear away at me if it will advance our cause. Better yet, get some sleep."

Cochrane slumped back into his seat. "Goddamn you, Fitzduane," he said wearily. "Why don't you lose it like a normal human being? It's fucking frustrating to talk to someone who is being calm and reasonable when all you want is to let fly. Hell man, have you no understanding? I thought all you Irish flared up at the slightest provocation."

Fitzduane smiled grimly. "I can't afford to, Lee," he said. "Too much is at stake."

Cochrane rubbed his forehead. The outburst was over. He suddenly looked incredibly tired. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Let's focus," said Fitzduane.

"There is a wind-down period for the Task Force," said Cochrane. "And no one likes losers on the Hill, so our effectiveness will be cut in half. We'll be lame ducks flapping our wings and going nowhere except into somebody's cooking pot. But the mission will proceed as planned. There is more than the Task Force behind this thing now. But you know that, Hugo, don't you?"

Fitzduane nodded. "I know we've got friends," he said. "But I haven't put much time into finding out who and why. There are other priorities. But I know the Task Force is the mainspring of this thing, and I appreciate it. And I appreciate what you stand for."

Cochrane stared at the table for a few moments. Then he looked up. "Enough to do something for me?" he said.

"Maybe," said Fitzduane. "But only after you get some sleep. Crisp white shirts will get you just so far."

"I want to go with you," said Cochrane.

Fitzduane's eyebrows shot up. "You're shitting me, Lee!" he said. "Look, the Hill is your battleground."

"I've spent fifteen years pushing the Task Force," said Cochrane, "and now it's going to be wiped. I want to go out in style. I'm owed that. And I can do what has to be done. I'm a trained soldier and I'm fit. I can hack it."

"This is a special-forces mission," said Fitzduane, "and the word ‘special’ is no accident."

"I can do it," said Cochrane stubbornly. He looked straight at Fitzduane again. "Do you want an apology?"

Fitzduane smiled. "I'll settle for you telling me why I had to get back here ASAP."

Cochrane leapt to his feet. "Shit! I was forgetting all about Jaeger."

"Who is Jaeger?" said Fitzduane.

"‘Doctor’ Jaeger," said Cochrane. "Maury tracked him down. He's from Livermore."

"Livermore as in the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory where they do nuclear and other weapons research?" said Fitzduane.

"The very same," said Cochrane. "Ten thousand mad scientists all working on Doomsday. We're trying to get there before the Russians, or whoever are the bad guys these days. The word is that we're doing pretty well. The Japanese may have consumer electronics sewn up, but when Earth is blown into smithereens, the device that does it will have ‘Made in the USA’ stamped on it. There will probably be a subtext: ‘Researched at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratories.’"

"That thought may bring a lump to your throat when you salute the flag, Lee," said Fitzduane, "but what has Dr. Jaeger of Livermore got to do with the mission?"

"You don't want to know," said Cochrane. He smiled. He looked less tired. Here was a man who thrived on action. "But you're going to have to."

"I have not said you can go," warned Fitzduane. "But you can train, and then we'll see."

"I may surprise you," said Cochrane.

"I will be surprised if you don't, Lee," said Fitzduane. "So bring on Jaeger."

"Maury will lead off," said Cochrane. "This is really his jigsaw. He is good at jigsaws, and this is one of his best. It just shows what the Task Force can do- and should continue to do."

"Everyone around here walks on water," said Fitzduane pleasantly. "In Ireland, we're more used to it descending on us from a height."

"The Task Force runs on it," said Cochrane.


*****

The footsteps sounded different.

Permanently blindfolded as she was, Kathleen was becoming quite proficient at recognizing sounds and building up a mental model of her surroundings. The guards, wearing boots and doubtless armed and laden down with military equipment, walked heavily and talked loudly. Doors were slammed. Jokes were made. Coarse laughter echoed from the concrete walls. Shouts were exchanged.

The Voice had a distinctive walk. There was a liquidity about her movements that suggested a lithe, supple body, but there was also arrogance. This new arrival was not her tormentor. In fact, The Voice now visited less frequently. The novelty had worn off. She was becoming bored, and had indeed said as much. Kathleen's chosen strategy of not reacting had worked. A defiant prisoner would have provided entertainment. An immobile slumped body quickly palled.

These sounds were a break from the normal pattern. The cell door was closed quietly. The footfalls sounded more like civilian shoes. She could hear a faint squeak of leather, and the soles, she thought, were made from softer rubber.

She could just detect the sound of breathing. Her visitor was close and was at her level, which meant he or she had bent down. She was being examined. She could smell soap and an aftershave, and there was no smell of stale sweat. This person was freshly groomed.

Her hand throbbed, but the pain had been her salvation. The shock of her kidnapping and the drugs and then the horror of what she was going through had temporarily driven her over the edge.

Then had come the first dismemberment.

As the machete had cut into her hand and had removed her finger, such a powerful anger had surged through her that she had suddenly realized she could win. No matter how hopeless her position looked, she could and would triumph. She was strong. Her spirit, the essence of her being, was extraordinarily strong. They might desecrate her body, but no matter what they did, she would win. As the pain coursed through her, she knew that she was going to make it. Her baby would make it.

I am strong, she said silently over and over again. I am strong and they cannot break me. They cannot break me because I will not break. I am strong. I am strong. I am strong… My body may be weak and in pain, but I am strong. I am strong. I am strong…

"Kathleen," said a voice. He called again. She did not react but lay slumped. My eyes might have given me away, she thought, and shown fear, but I am blindfolded so he cannot see. I can use their weapons, their devices, against them. If I show no fear, I am not afraid. I am strong. I am strong. I am strong. I will show nothing. I will give them nothing.

I am strong.

"Kathleen," called the voice yet again.

The tone was sympathetic. Warm? Perhaps. It was a trick, of course, so she would not react visibly, but in her mind she would make the most of the diversion. Truly, the mind was amazing. Her mind was amazing. For most of her life to date she had taken it for granted. It was just one of several assets, and since she was a beautiful woman, her looks had arguably been more important on a day-to-day basis because, quite simply, her appearance got results.

But her mind was her true friend, and it had taken all this to bring that home to her. And the power of the mind was quite staggering. She could feel the force.

A hand was stroking her cheek. The touch was tentative and lasted for only a few seconds and then was gone. Was it an illusion? She longed to be touched, to be held, to be caressed gently by Hugo.

She wanted to cry but held back her tears. She would not show weakness. She would not move. She would not react in any way. She imagined her body in a state of suspension. It was completely immobile. It was just as well. She needed all her energy for her mind. It was a powerhouse. It was a dynamic, thrusting, vital world, and best of all, it was her world.

The voice called yet again.

She wished it would go away. It was distracting her and she was extremely busy. Her mind was a hive of activity. Ideas were just flooding into it. And memories, too. People, places, smells, textures, sounds; the very fabric of life. Truly, it was a wonderful world. And there was so much to do. She was never going to have enough time. The possibilities seemed endless. I never knew it was like this, she thought. There is so much here. I am so rich, so lucky, so blessed.

"Perhaps I should start by telling you my name," said the voice. "We are not being introduced under the best of circumstances, but there is much to be said for the formalities all the same. They oil the social wheels, don't you think? Anyway, my name is Edgar Rheiman. You spell that R-H-E-I-M-A-N. Silent H. Not an obvious spelling."

An American accent, thought Kathleen. Now, where in the United States? Not the South or California, for sure? Not New York City either. Somewhere Northern. Beyond that she was not sure. She had a good ear and had spent considerable time in the United States, but she had been born and spent most of her life in Ireland.

"Kathleen," said Rheiman. "I can guess how you must feel, but I would like if you would trust me. You see, we're both in the same boat. You're a prisoner and they are going to kill you. That's a given. Well, though I can walk around within the base, I am effectively a prisoner too. And when I have completed doing what they want, I am for the chopping block as well. That's the way these people are."

He paused. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Kathleen remained immobile.

"I guess not," said Rheiman. His voice sounded middle-aged.

There were sounds of rustling and then a sigh of satisfaction. He's in his late forties or early fifties, thought Kathleen, and he is somewhat overweight and certainly not fit. But he is intelligent, indeed very smart in his way. So who is he and what is he? What is he doing here? Why is he being so nice to me?

"There are no chairs in here," said Rheiman, "not even a stool, and I'm really not built for floors. But that's Reiko Oshima for you. She is good at her job – you cannot deny that – but she is not a kindly woman. I'll bet she chopped worms up when she was a child and pulled the wings off flies when they were still alive. Well, who knows. Certainly, she is a major league psycho right now. A very vicious woman. If they did not need me, I would be sushi. But they do need me. Lucky old me! Born in the North to die in the South. That's what the North Vietnamese used to say. Over two million killed against our fifty-eight thousand. An interesting way to win a victory. But that is fanaticism for you. Not reasonable. I guess that kind of defines Reiko Oshima. She is about as reasonable as Dracula. And she needs to spill blood to stay alive."

He leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her face.

"Mrs. Fitzduane, you are not in good hands. So you would be well advised to avail yourself of my friendship.

"I would like us to be very good friends."

Kathleen had a sudden urge to spit in his face. She did not move. She had learned to husband every resource. She was going to be raped. It would make no difference. They could take her body. They would not touch her mind.

I am strong.


*****

Jaeger looked like a fading beach boy who still kept himself – mostly – in excellent condition.

The blond hair was flecked with gray but was still thick and flopped over one eye. His upper body was muscular under the light tan suit. His piercing blue eyes were well complemented by his shirt. His tie was loose and the top two buttons of his collar were unbuttoned. He peered over half-glasses. He carried his slight paunch well.

"John is a friend," Cochrane had announced. In Task Force language, Fitzduane had learned, that meant he could be trusted.

He is one of us.

Grant Lamar was sitting in one corner. The man had the ability to render himself damn near invisible. Most people when entering or exiting a room communicated with their fellow men even if it was only a ‘Hi’ or ‘I'm out of here!’ Lamar normally did not. He came and went without comment and seemingly without affecting the equilibrium of those present.

Maury cleared his throat and looked around. He really did not have to. He had everyone's attention.

"This is a reconnaissance photo of the terrorist base in Tecuno known as the Devil's Footprint. The valley on the left is where the actual terrorist base is located, together with a supporting garrison of about six hundred troops. The valley on the right is what we are currently concerned with. We have christened the two valleys Salvador and Dali. Salvador is the base. Dali is the big question."

He pressed the remote again and the screen filled with an aerial photo of Dali. The illustration was marked with numbers and had been computer enhanced, and there were other signs of the photo interpreter's art.

To Fitzduane, at first glance it did not mean very much except it bore all the signs of some kind of industrial installation. There were what looked like long pipes, and some of these were cross-linked. One was massive. There were also large containers of various types.

At a quick glance it looked like just the sort of steel-spaghetti facility the oil industry seemed to love, but if someone had told him it was for making breakfast cereal on an industrial scale, he wouldn't have argued too much.

"The Devil's Footprint installation is guarded by a battalion of Tecuno troops and an inner force of somewhere between thirty-five and fifty terrorist mercenaries, in addition to the brigade stationed at the air base only eight kilometers away. Given the strategic importance of the Tecuno oil fields, that might seem reasonable if the other major oil installations were similarly guarded. The reality is that they are not. There are token forces – ten to thirty soldiers – at other pumping stations and patrols along the pipelines, but there is nothing approaching this scale of security elsewhere. No, the evidence is clear that whatever is going on in Dali is special and warrants maximum protection.

"We showed this photograph to a number of military analysts. They could not work out what was going on but were able to point out certain features and to eliminate certain possibilities.

"The installation in the valley we have named Dali is not – on the face of it – consistent with nuclear, chemical, or biological manufacturing plants. I won't get technical, but the military assure me that, based upon known production techniques, the Dali structures do not have what it takes. However, they did add that there were some interesting structures in the valley of the kind you would not normally associate with civilian activities."

Maury activated a laser pointer. The red beam settled on a low mound that seemed almost part of the valley until you looked closely.

"Have a look at that, for example. There, say my military friends, you are talking about a reinforced observation blockhouse. It is the kind of thing you would build if you wanted to look fairly closely at a missile taking off without being fried. Plenty of protection. You will note it is built into one side of the valley and overlooks the other.

"Our military friends identified other blockhouses designed, it would appear, purely for storage. Estimates suggest they are also heavily reinforced against blast. Hardened bomb or resistant structures."

Fitzduane shook his head in some puzzlement. "So we've got what looks like an oil installation of some kind – lots of pipes, and reinforced storage facilities and a blockhouse. I don't get it. Frankly, that kind of setup seems entirely consistent with a process for extracting oil under pressure. We're talking big numbers here. The compression of whatever they are pumping into the ground must be enormous. So if something blows you are likely to need all the protection you can get. A reinforced blockhouse seems entirely reasonable under such circumstances."

Maury nodded. "Fair enough if you exclude the street cop's instincts. But, in this case, we know Governor Quintana and Reiko Oshima and their followers. These are not people who take these kinds of precautions over an industrial process unless it can be put to practical – and normally destructive – use. These are seriously bad people."

"So?" said Fitzduane quizzically.

"The U.S. of A. has ore than a passing interest in oil," said Maury. "We use a lot of the stuff, and we like to know where there is more and what people are doing with it and how we can lay our hands on it. That translates into a formidable intelligence capability. Not only can we detect where it is likely to be, but we can also monitor through various types of detection and sensor equipment where it is. We can, for instance, monitor oil flow through pipelines for remote satellite sensors. And frankly, we can do much more.

"Much of this technical capability had been focused on Tecuno recently. We have not learned much that is new – Tecuno's oil riches are no secret – but we were interested to find out that there is no evidence of oil in the Devil's Footprint itself except for the stuff required to run trucks. What looks like an oil installation, but positively no oil.

"None! Nada! Zilch!"

There was a long silence in the room. Then a collective reaction of surprise. Out of sheer curiosity, Fitzduane shot a look at Lamar. Even he was displaying a faint flicker of something or other.

"No oil?" said Fitzduane helpfully.

"No oil," agreed Maury, "and no activity in most of the pipes. We can detect that kind of thing with infrared and the like. You shove oil or water down a pipe and you do things to it. It becomes hotter or cooler compared to ambient. And there is more, but I'm not technical. But those are the principles."

"So the next thing you did," said Fitzduane, "was take a computer-enhanced photo of Dali and strip out the pipes where there was no activity?"

Maury's jaw dropped. "Fuck it, Hugo, how did you know?"

Fitzduane grinned enigmatically. Back on his island, Henssen played these kinds of games routinely when doing intelligence analyses, and Fitzduane, while no expert, had become quite used to some of the procedures.

Combat was becoming more technological, and there was no choice but to keep up. Fitzduane had gotten through most of his early years with nothing much more complex than an electronic calculator and automatic exposure meters on his cameras, but his hunt for the terrorist known as the Hangman had changed all that.

The slide changed again. The new image of the valley known as Dali showed a much simpler picture. Most of the steel spaghetti had gone. There was now one dominant pipe and a host of supporting equipment. The dominant pipe ran up the side of one wall of the valley. It was made of bolted-together sections and looked rather like a massive irrigation pipe, or maybe part of a sewage scheme.

"The Purloined Letter," said Grant Lamar quietly. "It's an Edgar Allan Poe story, as I recall. Everyone was looking for the missing letter, but it was in plain sight all along. I fear our Governor Quintana is a very clever man. I just hope we are not underestimating him."

"I'm not sure this was Quintana's idea," said Maury. "There is another name to factor in." I think I'll let Dr. Jaeger take it from here. He's more familiar with the background and the technologies. John?"

Maury sat down and Jaeger ambled to his feet. His body language was disarmingly reassuring. He was more the kindly uncle than someone who worked in one of the foremost U.S. weapons laboratories.

"Interesting problems you people do have," he said agreeably. "Me, I like crossword puzzles, but the kind of things that Maury comes up with are more fun. Part detective work and part science. And I have to admit that I'm no good at crossword puzzles. But here I think I can make a contribution."

"When Patricio Nicanor was killed – in front of some of you, I gather, which must have been most unpleasant – he brought with him several items that seemed to make little sense. You may remember them: a sample of maraging steel; some concrete; a gas controller; an unfinished layout of the Devil's Footprint; and a three-and-a-half-inch computer floppy disk.

"Not exactly good reasons to die for, especially since the floppy disk proved to be blank. Nothing on it. Classic example of what happens to magnetic media when you go through a magnetic field. And we've now learned that walking through such a field is standard procedure when you either enter or leave the terrorist base. These people are serious about security. They don't want a virus being brought in or their trade secrets being brought out. Very thorough. Not foolproof, but a good precaution and enough to zap Patricio's contribution. Or so we thought!

"The concrete interested us. Normal concrete is crude stuff, because it is full of air bubbles and rather brittle, but it is cheap and malleable and you can strengthen it adequately with reinforcing rods and sheer mass. Now, when examined under a microscope and with the kind of technology we have at Livermore – where atom splitting is routine business and quarks are particles we hunt, not put on our bread – this stuff was rather special.

"The air bubbles had been squeezed out and microfibers of steel and polymer had been added. The end result was a product comparable in strength to high-grade steel. Brittleness was down to a fraction of a percent of conventional concrete, and this stuff, according to our computer simulations, also had tensile strength. It was flexible. It could take shock without shattering. Remarkably strong shit indeed."

He paused to drink some water. Fitzduane's brain was in high gear. "What could you make from it, John?" he said.

"Well, I don't know the cost implications," said Jaeger cheerfully. "You know us scientists. But theoretically you could manufacture anything you could make with conventional concrete but without using reinforcing bars and with vastly less mass. Additionally, you could make near anything you could manufacture with steel and it would perform as well or better according to the grade of steel we are talking about. Now, only practical experimentation would determine the reality of this, but based on the sample we have, it looks damn good."

"So, for example, you could make a car out of this concrete?" said Cochrane.

"Sure," said Jaeger. "Your greatest difficulty would be with the molding, and there would be a slight weight penalty, but you could do it. The point is, materials are more adaptable than you would think."

Fitzduane looked at the slide and then at Jaeger. "John, I take it you don't want us to guess where you're going with this?"

Jaeger looked shocked. "Good heavens, no! It would take the enjoyment out of it. Have faith. I'm getting there."

"Crank it up, John," said Cochrane firmly.

Jaeger made an agreeable gesture. "Okay, we've covered maraging steel and super concrete. The layout of Dali is up on the screen. Now we come to the useless floppy disk. Maury had it checked by his computer people, and when we got it to Livermore we really go to work. You have never seen so much technology thrown at a floppy in your life."

"So how did it go?" said Fitzduane.

"You know the computer nerds," said Jaeger. "They only think in computer terms. They were working on the premise that something had been there but had been wiped, but just maybe could be brought back. So they went through the damn thing trying to give the kiss of life to each magnetic particle. Painful process. I have never seen so much pizza and Chinese eaten to so little purpose."

"And?" said Fitzduane.

"We can be slow sometimes at Livermore," said Jaeger. "Personally I think all the MSG – but finally we got around to thinking more in terms of Doom and less in terms of computer technology. At 3:28 A.M. in the morning, one of the guys got carried away and slit the floppy open with a pizza knife. It was unusually hard to open, so he ended up smashing the thing."

Even Grant Lamar was showing involvement. "And he found?" he said.

"Buckets of blood!" chortled Jaeger.

He held up his hands in apology. "No, I jest, guys. Inside he found a liberal quantity of tomato sauce from the pizza knife, a passport-size photograph, a bunch of letters and numbers that don't mean much, and several names separated with dashes and a question mark afterwards.

"The photograph and the writing were on the inside of the case, so the floppy could still rotate. It had been meticulously done. You could see nothing from the outside. In retrospect, the only revealing feature was that the casing on that brand of floppy was only spot welded. After it was glued it appeared to be full-seam welded. Your Patricio Nicanor was a smart man and something of a craftsman."

"What were the names?" said Fitzduane.

"Edgar Rheiman… Edward Mann… George Bull?" said Jaeger. "Probably the first two names don't mean anything to you?"

Fitzduane nodded. "They don't," he said.

"Bu the third name?" said Jaeger.

Fitzduane looked up at the enhanced computer image and then leaned back in his chair. "I thought that was technology that was going nowhere," he said. "Nice idea but outgunned by rockets?"

"That's what most people think," said Jaeger, "insofar as they think at all. The supergun? It's the notion of a madman. Well, I can tell you, most people are absolutely wrong."

"How do you know?" said Fitzduane.

"I've built one at Livermore," said Jaeger over his half-glasses, "and though we make jokes" – he paused for a beat – "we're serious people down there. It works."

He leaned forward to emphasize the point, his face inches from Fitzduane's. "It really works. It's fucking beautiful. And the fuel source is everywhere."

Fitzduane raised an eyebrow.

"Tell me about your fuel," he said dryly.

Jaeger straightened and roared with laughter. "The raw material is everywhere. You drink it. you bathe in it, and for all I know you fuck in it."

"But split out the oxygen?" said Fitzduane.

Jaeger froze in surprise and then beamed approval. "Colonel Fitzduane, for the first time I am beginning to think you may succeed on your mission."

Fitzduane smiled. "If I get into trouble, John, I'll think of you and die laughing."

Grant Lamar leaned across to Cochrane. "Am I missing something here, Lee?" he said quietly.

"Hydrogen," said Cochrane. "One of the main components of water. Split out the oxygen and you've got a gas that goes bang. They've built a supergun that runs on hydrogen, and apparently the fucking thing works."

"How far could such a weapon go?" said Lamar. "From Mexico, that is?"

Jaeger roared with laughter. "You guys don't know the half of it."

"How far?" said Lamar in the loudest and firmest tone of voice that Fitzduane had ever heard him use.

"Washington, D.C.? NO FUCKING PROBLEM!" said Jaeger. He spread his arms wide and looked around the room. "Am I getting through, people?"

"Could be," said Fitzduane.


*****

Apart from the security lights, the camp was dark. It was 2:30 A.M. For once there was no night training, and the team members were making the most of it.

Chifune tried not to notice Fitzduane's window as she jogged past.

Darkness. A feeling of melancholy swept over her. Just once she needed to talk to Hugo alone. She knew what had happened before in Tokyo could not be repeated – and certainly not under these circumstances – but she craved some moments of intimacy with him. Though she yearned for his touch, for the feeling of his naked body under her fingers, a simple conversation would be enough. But they had to be alone. Completely alone.

A small thing to want. To need.

So far there was always someone else present. It was in the nature of the training, she knew, and in some ways the constant presence of others had made their meeting again somewhat easier, but now her heart ached.

Behind her, his heart heavy with concern, Oga looked out through the window of his hut at his charge until she vanished into the woods. Then he lay on his bunk and tried to sleep.

Tanabu- san, so beautiful, so strong, so competent in many ways – and yet so vulnerable. What can I do to protect you? You must rest. Our fate will be decided in fractions of a second, and if you are tired…

Chifune ran to the killing house. The basic scenario was now second nature. This time she focused on what might go wrong.

My weapon might jam.

They could be waiting for us.

My night-vision goggles are damaged or knocked off, and I am in the same darkness that they are.

I am injured.

One of my team is hit.

We break through, but Kathleen is dead!

Hugo is injured!

What do I do?

Again and again, Chifune activated the automatic pop-up targeting mechanism and rehearsed her moves. The silenced Calico hissed death. Spent rounds were ejected downward into the clip-on bag. No empty case tinkling on the ground. No brass to slip on. Details, details, details.

Targets sprang up again, were hit again, and scores automatically logged.

Despite the air-conditioning, the atmosphere in the killing house grew thick with fumes. She activated the extraction system and the massive fans cut in.

Her fatigues drenched in sweat, Chifune finally slumped to the ground panting. She lay there for several minutes and then walked to the showers. She missed her Japanese bath, but in addition to the showers there was a hot tub there, and that was close enough.

The shower block was empty. She had the place to herself. It would be another two hours before the camp awoke.

She stripped off her clothes. She did not switch on the lights. There was just enough illumination from security lights filtering through the roof lights of the shower room, and the combination of streaming water against her body and the near darkness was soothing. She turned off the shower. Toweling her hair while she walked, she made her way to the hot tub and slid in.

Eyes closed, she stretched her legs.

Flesh.

A figure leaped into the air. "JUDAS PRIEST!" yelled a voice, clearly freshly wakened. "Who the hell is that?"

Chifune started to laugh.

"They say it's dangerous to fall asleep in the hot tub, Hugo," she said sweetly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

The figure slid back into the water. "My mother told me to beware of Japanese women," growled Fitzduane. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "Especially the kind a man has learned to really care about."

"Men forget," said Chifune softly.

"We make choices," said Fitzduane, "and we live with those choices, but we don't forget. We were close and we'll always be close. It doesn't end just because…" He left the last words unspoken.

He leaned across and kissed her on the forehead, and her arms went around him and for a moment they were locked together. Then they separated.

Chifune sat in the darkness and cried. Fitzduane put his arm around her. After a while her tears ceased and she began to talk. Mostly Fitzduane listened.

"I must go, Hugo," she said eventually, "or Oga- san will be out looking." She laughed. She felt a great sense of peace.

She moved toward him and kissed him once on the lips. Our lives are intertwined, she thought. I will be your shadow.

"I'm glad you're here, Chifune," said Fitzduane quietly. "It means more than I can say. When I've doubts I see you and think ‘Yes, we can do it.’ I often have doubts."

"We'll get Kathleen back," said Chifune simply.

In the morning, Oga expected Chifune to look tired and to eat little, as had been her habit recently. Instead she was in sparkling form and ate like a little horse. He felt immensely relieved.

Oshima, he thought, you're going to have problems. Whatever happened last night, Tanabu- san is back on form.

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