The Devil's Footprint (44 page)

Fitzduane nodded.
 
"My
understanding from the media is that a supergun is too unwieldy to be a
weapon.
 
We're in the age of maneuver
warfare.
 
You can't put one of these
things on the back of a Humvee and go and hide under a palm tree.
 
And anyway, a thermal imager will see right
through the leaves.
 
Privacy is not what
it was."

Jaeger looked at the CIA Deputy Director.
 
William Martin took over.
 
It was
Jaeger's job to explain the science.
 
The
use to which the end result might be put required a different mind-set.

"What you're saying is the conventional wisdom," said Martin,
"but our underlying assumption is that Quintana is an intelligent man and
he must have been as aware of the limitations as we were.
 
Yet he proceeded on the endeavor and
committed very substantial resources.

"So, what is he up to?
 
Leaving out his political motivations for the moment, why would he
consider that the supergun can be made an effective weapon when others have
dismissed it?

"The most significant new factor in the equation is the scientist
behind Quintana's weapon.
 
He has been
identified as Dr. Edgar Rheiman, a very interesting man indeed.

"Rheiman worked for George Bull for some years and was regarded as a
major talent, but they fell out over women and science.
 
Bull was attractive to women.
 
Rheiman was not.
 
Rheiman fell deeply for a lab assistant
called Gloria Engleman.
 
Unfortunately,
Gloria preferred Bull.
 
She slept with
Rheiman but worshipped Bull from afar.
 
If she had kept that to herself, it would not have mattered.
 
Unfortunately, she uttered Bull's name during
an intimate moment.

"That slight preyed on Rheiman's mind.
 
Two days later, he marched into the rather
busy lab — there were eight witnesses — and, after a diatribe, blew Gloria's
head off with both barrels of a twelve-gauge from a range of approximately eight
inches.
 
The defense argued it was a
crime of passion.
 
The prosecution said
it showed clear premeditation.
 
Any sane
observer would have supported both viewpoints, but the upshot was that Rheiman
was sent for psychiatric assessment before sentencing and escaped from the
secure facility in the hospital after killing a nurse.
 
By all accounts, he killed twice more before
getting out of the country.
 
Each time
the victim looked something like Gloria:
 
Brunette, strong-featured, leggy, and in her thirties.
 
Both were strangled."

Fitzduane's mind was focused on dredging up everything he know on the
supergun, and for the moment the CIA Deputy Director's words did not register.
 
When they did, a cold chill ran through
him.
 
Kathleen!
 
He was describing Kathleen.

"Perhaps more interesting than Rheiman's rather aggressive
approach to women," continued Martin, "were
his
scientific views.
 
He advanced three
ideas of particular relevance."

"First, he argued that the use of hydrogen as a propellant was
vastly preferable to traditional gunpowder.
 
Second, he said that a hydrogen-based supergun could be used as a weapon
if it focused on low-earth satellites which could be brought down on command on
the enemy.
 
Third, to offset the
intrinsically unwieldy nature of an individual supergun, he advocated the
construction of multiple tubes using cheap, readily available raw materials.
 
His point was that since a supergun requires
a long slow explosion, traditional gun-barrel materials would not be
required.
 
So you could offset the lack
of mobility with a high rate of fire — thanks to hydrogen — and multiple
installations."

"Concrete!" breathed Fitzduane as understanding hit.
 
"The sample of special concrete brought
out by Patricio Nicanor.
 
But then, why
make the first gun out of maraging steel when he could have used superhard
concrete sewer pipes?"

Jaeger laughed.
 
"His concrete
is just a shade more exotic than that — but essentially you've got a
point."

"Quintana has a reputation for not suffering fools gladly,"
said Martin.
 
"Our assumption is
that the first supergun — made out of steel — is proof of principle, and in
using such a high grade of material, Rheiman is sensibly covering his ass.
 
Concrete barrels are unproven.
 
A split barrel on an initial test firing
would be embarrassing for him.
 
Fatally so if Quintana was present."

"Has the supergun been test-fired yet?" said Fitzduane.

The CIA Deputy Director shook his head.
 
"We're pretty sure not," he said.
 
"These things make a big bang.
 
If it had been fired we'd have picked it up
on satellite.
 
As it is, what I have said
is all based upon our analysis.
 
We could
be wrong."
 
He smiled ruefully.
 
"It has been known to happen.
 
We could be looking at some kind of
specialized oil-extraction facility, but given the characters involved, we
doubt that."

"Guilt by association?" said Fitzduane.

"Damn right," said Cochrane.

"So you want us to check it out and if it looks antisocial, blow it
up," said Fitzduane.
 
"How big
is this thing?"

Martin looked at Jaeger.
 
"Trust me with your secret, John," he said.
 
"If we are going to waste this thing, it
would be nice to know if we need a Swiss Army knife or a two-thousand-pound
bomb."

Jaeger took a breath.
 
"The
supergun in the Devil's Footprint — if that is what it is — would appear to be
two hundred meters long.
 
That is about
the height of a sixty-story skyscraper.
 
It weighs, we estimate, just over twenty-one hundred tons."

Fitzduane's face rarely expressed total surprise, but this time it
did.
 
"And how the fuck are we going
to destroy something that size?" he snarled.
 
"Especially with a
brigade of unfriendly troops looking on.
 
We're not talking a weapon here.
 
We're talking about a goddamn monument."

"It is a problem," admitted Jaeger.
 
"But we have some of the best people at
Livermore
looking at
it.
 
We'll have an answer..."

"...real soon now," completed Fitzduane.
 
He got to his feet.
 
"Unreal," he said, and left the
room.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Calvin Wellbourne saluted.
 
"Colonel," he said.

Fitzduane looked around.
 
No one
saluted on the team.
 
Either Calvin had
been out in the sun too long or some conventional green army type had sneaked
in.
 
Bad news either
way.
 
This was supposed to be a
restricted area, and just because you had rank did not entitle you to access.

There was no one there.
 
He turned
back to face Calvin.
 
He was still
saluting.

"Are you feeling all right, Calvin?" said Fitzduane,
concerned.
 
He did not want to lose the
man.

"You put your hand up to your forehead and bring it down again,
Colonel," said Calvin, "otherwise I'm stuck like this
indefinitely."

Fitzduane acknowledged the salute.

He smiled.
 
"Calvin, you're up
to something.
 
You never salute."

"This is a historic day, Colonel.
 
I'm going to fly."

"Well, of course you are, Calvin," said Fitzduane
benevolently.
 
"I can see your
wingtips sprouting as we speak."

"This way, Colonel," Calvin beckoned.

He followed Calvin.

A long U-shaped tube stood outside.
 
Under the tube was a ruggedized wheeled suspension.
 
If Fitzduane had been told it was a car
trailer specially designed to carry something long and thin like a canoe, he
would have believed it.
 
As it was, the
damn thing looked extremely unlikely to fly.
 
There was nothing around that looked remotely like a pair of wings.

"Hop in, boss," said Calvin, climbing into the passenger seat
of the Guntrack that was linked to the tube.
 
Fitzduane climbed in beside him and Calvin took off in the aggressive
style that had become normal for many mobile operations in the Guntracks.
 
Either you were creeping along silently in
stealth mode or else it was foot to the floor and taking the concept of
maneuver warfare all too literally.

"We've got to put a sick bag in these things," said Fitzduane
as they hit a bump and Guntrack and trailer rocketed into the air and then
crashed to the ground.

The ride continued, and then Calvin slewed to a halt in open space.

"The point," said
Calvin,
"is
that the aircraft and trailer are robust.
 
They are designed for this kind of unfriendly treatment.
 
But would you believe me?
 
No sir!
 
So I had to demonstrate it.
 
Believe me, boss, these things are tough!
 
MilSpec is not in it.
 
This aircraft is designed for the real world
where shit happens.
 
Bang
them,
bash them, shoot holes in them, and they still
fly.
 
Outstanding aircraft, wouldn't you
say, sir?"

Fitzduane tried to catch his breath.
 
"Possibly," he said, "if I could see an aircraft."

"Ah!" said Calvin.
 
He
leaped out of the vehicle and ran around behind the long trailer.
 
The process was rather like assembling a
frame tent, only faster.
 
The entire
happening took only about five minutes.
 
At the end, there was a rigid fabric wing kept taut by
stiffeners,
and slung below it on poles a two-person open
cockpit with a triangular suspension.
 
A
pusher propeller — which meant that the propeller was behind the occupants —
provided power.

"Hop in," said Calvin.

"I don't like aircraft," said Fitzduane.
 
"I'll jump out of them no problem, but I
fly in them as little as possible.
 
Further,
Calvin, I'm far from sure this even qualifies as an aircraft.
 
It looks like something your grandmother
knitted.
 
Jesus, the wings are scarcely
tied to the superstructure.
 
This thing
is full of holes.
 
It's a horrible
device."

Calvin looked hurt.
 
"Colonel,
it works.
 
It has a wing, something to
sit in, and an engine.
 
What more can you
want?"

To stay on the ground, Fitzduane thought firmly.
 
But then he weakened.
 
Calvin looked depressed.

Fitzduane climbed gingerly into the pointed baby bath that passed as a
cockpit.
 
The side came up to his lower
hip.
 
If he sneezed, he was going to fall
out.
 
Why did people invent these things!
 
He looked for a safety harness and found one
with relief and clipped it on.
 
This
maniac was probably going to loop the loop.
 
He thought about parachutes, but it was too late.

"Tally-ho!" shouted Calvin.
 
Fitzduane flinched as the propeller cut in behind them, and seconds
later they were airborne.
 
They had
needed minimal runway.
 
It was
remarkable.
 
Up they climbed like a
rocket in slow motion.

"This thing is all wing," said Calvin into the boom microphone
attached to his helmet.
 
"Phenomenal
lift — but because the wing is made of fabric coated with radar-absorbent
material, there is almost no radar signature."

"Speed?" said Fitzduane.

"Well, it's not exactly an F-16," admitted Calvin.
 
"Say, eighty kliks flat out.
 
But speed and acceleration are not the
idea.
 
This is an aerial advantage you
can carry with you.
 
Open the trailer,
clunk-click, and you are airborne.
 
Simplicity itself.
 
Better yet, there is a miniature FLIR, and if you want to fly solo, you
can carry some firepower."

"Can you silence the engine?" said Fitzduane.

"Sure," said Calvin.
 
He
flicked a switch and the decibel level dropped dramatically.
 
"You lose some power, but if we were
flying at night, we would be inaudible — and invisible — above a thousand
feet."