The Rabid Brigadier (20 page)

“You’re—go—ing to use this bomb?” Stone asked, knowing the target was less than a hundred miles away. The man was mad. He’d
take himself out too. He’d take the whole damned state and—perhaps, if the winds were right—a few others with it.

“Goddamned right, I’m going to use this bomb,” Patton half shouted, whirling at Stone. His eyes suddenly looked wild, a storm
swirling behind the ice blue.

“Sir, I hate to be negative,” Stone said hesitantly, “but I do feel it’s important for an officer, such as myself, to question
certain things, just play devil’s advocate for a moment. You yourself said everyone around you were all fools and yes men.
That you needed me just for that quality of questioning. Of adding another perspective.”

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” Patton said impatiently, folding his arms and looking up at the waveform monitor on the far wall—waving
lines of luminescent green that wriggled in
digital data concerning the electronic health of the missile across a wide tilted screen.

“Sir.” Stone coughed, trying to remember his debating class rules back at college—what the hell were they? Establish need,
find flaw, give alternative and correct approach. Find flaw—he sure as hell could do that. “Sir,” Stone said, looking over
at Patton, who wouldn’t return his glance but kept staring at the slithering sine waves, his chin and profile posed sideways
in a most heroic stance. The man knew how to look like a general, Stone thought. You had to give him that.

“Sir, as I remember my A-bombs—and grant you I’m not the authority that you are—the amount of radiation released from a ten
megaton H-bomb only a hundred miles away would have a very powerful effect on all of us here at Fort Bradley, in fact all
over Colorado. I mean it’s not just the blast, but the fallout, the radioactivity in the wind, in the grass, in the—”

“Oh, don’t give me all that liberal ecology bullshit,” Patton said, his jaw tightening even farther, as if he could keep the
truth out by clenching his cheekbones a little harder. “I’m surprised at you, Colonel Stone, quite surprised.”

“Well, sir, it’s not that I don’t think the scum should be blasted into infinity, but if we nuke them we’re guaranteed to
hit ourselves. It’s a proven fact. Why right here… somewhere… there must be a booklet, a chart or something, showing the damage
done at different ranges. Is there?” Stone asked, going over to one of the technicians, who opened a drawer without saying
a word and handed Stone a thick manual that looked like an
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About the H-Bomb But You Were Afraid It Would Kill You
kind of text. It was about six inches thick, hard to hold with one hand.

“Page 1,879,” the tech said with a bored tone. Stone leafed to the page and found it. “There, sir,” he said, handing the bible-sized
manual to the general, who took it gruffly and then, glaring around angrily at them all, took out a pair of reading glasses
from the inside of his coat and looked at the picture—a map with concentric circles leading outwards, showing the damage from
a ten megaton missile at ten-mile intervals. At one hundred miles the damage was, to say the least, severe. A windblown storm
of radioactive debris would sweep through the area, not to mention the fallout that would occur over the next few days. Estimated:
fifty percent fatalities within six months—human and animal. Water supply contaminated; food chain, livestock, fish and crops
dangerously contaminated. In short, a mess. As Chernobyl in the Soviet Union had proved years before, a little went a long
way when it came to radiation damage—and a plutonium-enriched ten meg went a long, long way.

“Sir,” Stone said, trying to strike while the iron was hot, “perhaps the fact is that it’s not so important to destroy the
crime bosses as to remove them from their stations of power. We could use the sheer destructive potential of the weapon as
a negotiating point. They surrender to us, or we send them into Hell. Diplomacy, I have always thought,” Stone said slyly,
“was the hallmark of great leadership. I think you have an opportunity here to not fire a shot, and win everything. The military
history books would look favorably upon such an accomplishment.”

“Yes, I see your point,” the general said, brightening slightly as he began to see the possibilities of such a move. “But
how… who—”

“General,” Stone said, stepping a little closer to Patton and talking softer, trying to lure him into the concept as one tried
to dance a fly in front of a mountain trout, “if we could
give them some kind of proof—the cover of this manual,
Maintenance and Firing of the M-7
—for example, and convince them they didn’t have a chance. Maybe even bring four or five of their top leaders—under blindfold,
of course—to the silo and show them with their own eyes. It is the use of power, General, not the sheer dispensing of it,
that marks the great strategist,” Stone said with sincerity, remembering the phrase that had always been a favorite of his
father’s.

“I admit, it’s an interesting concept—purely theoretically, of course. But somehow I imagine the carrying out of it would
be almost impossible. How would this threat be conveyed? Why would their people even trust us enough to come? They would certainly
kill me if they had me in their grasp—you can rest assured of that.” He had taken the bait; Stone moved in for the hooking.

“
I’ll
go, sir. As you can see, I’m very persuasive. Why, I’ve even got you interested. Plus, some of those sons-of-bitches know
me. I’ve had my own run-ins with them several times. They hate me, but they know I’m not a liar. I think I could get them
to at least listen. What harm would it do?”

“You’d risk your life, Colonel Stone?” Patton asked skeptically. “You could end up with your hands and feet missing and your
balls sewn into your mouth. They’ve done it to some of my intelligence men who were trying to infiltrate their ranks.”

“Well, I’m willing to take the chance, General. They’re my hands, my feet, my everything.”

“Why, Stone, why?” Patton asked, suddenly looking very suspicious as if he smelled a trap, as if Stone was in with the bastards.

“Sir, you said you liked knowing men’s motivations so
you could keep a hold over them. Well, mine is greed. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I want more. I want—as you yourself put
it—everything. If I carry out this mission, General, I want a mansion, enough expensive art and beautiful women to fill it,
enough money to keep it going the rest of my life… and enough weapons to guard it so no son-of-a-bitch can take it away from
me. I’ll risk my life—for everything. Bet it all on a single toss of the dice. That’s why I’m willing to take the chance,
General, for greed.”

“Greed is the American way, Stone,” Patton replied, his eyes half closed as if he were looking at Stone from out of a pillbox
gun slit. “All right, Colonel, you’re on. I’ve always been a gambling man. Your balls against a life of ultra-wealth. But
if you don’t come back, I’m sending up the M-7, and let the chips fall where they may.”

CHAPTER
Nineteen

W
ITHIN TWELVE hours a convoy of NAA vehicles tore across the canyon wastelands toward Glenwood Springs—four armored jeeps with
105mm recoilless rifles in the lead, followed by three tanks. Mountain bandits eyed the force with curious eyes from their
hiding places amongst the boulders and the scraggly pine-covered hills. But none of them dared attack, not against that. With
rifles, pistols, a grenade or two, they wouldn’t have a chance. Stone sat in the lead tank, at the controls. He felt confident
enough now to drive one on his own. Besides, if the dim plans that were beginning to formulate in his mind as to just how
he was going to sort this whole thing out came to pass, he’d better know how to use one of these. He’d need it. The driver
of the Bradley III sat in a metal swivel chair a yard away, looking pissed as hell but unable to say a word since Stone was
in charge of the entire mission.

He’d gotten Patton to give him two days—one to get
there, and one to convince the crime bosses that they’d better give it up or their asses were grass, smoking atomic grass.
Then he would transmit the results on a small battery-powered transmitter that he carried with him. No signal—in exactly forty-eight
hours—would mean they had cut him up, and the missile would be launched, no ifs, ands or buts.

Stone knew there were spies and assassins throughout the crew. Patton would trust Stone on such a mission only as far as a
bullet could strike his flesh. Stone felt the pressure. He had never been in a tighter spot in his life and beads of sweat
kept lining up along his forehead and dripping down his face. He tried to keep his mind on the driving of the tank. He liked
the handling of the battle machine; it moved fast, quick to the touch, almost like a good sports car. It was amazing that
such a heavy machine could move with such on-a-dime maneuverability. Still, it was hard not to notice all the eyes peering
at him from the rest of the tank’s crew, or to forget the terms of the wager—his balls against… No, no, he didn’t want to
think about it. Didn’t want to get a mental picture of that knife coming down and—

“Sir, as long as we’re driving all night,” the captain of the tank, Captain Chambers, spoke up, realizing that since Stone
might well soon be one of the most important men in the NAA it might be a good idea to get on his good side. “Perhaps I could
demonstrate some of the other features of the Bradley. It can actually do quite a lot, you know.”

Stone was glad to be pulled from his dark musings. “Yes, show me everything, Captain. That would be an excellent idea.” And
so through the moonless night, driving the tank on infrared video, Stone absorbed everything he could about the Bradley—its
computer and radar systems, its ground-to-ground missiles, capable of taking out the side of a building,
and all the other extras that made a tank like the Bradley III such a handy thing to drive.

They made excellent time across the backlands, which for all their desolation and terrible fissured beauty were fairly open
and flat. The convoy roared forward through the night, a tail of dust rising high above them that lasted for miles. By the
time morning was just beginning to break in a gray waterfall of light from the east, they were there. The force stopped on
a plateau overlooking the town of Glenwood Springs about three miles away. Stone climbed the ladder up to the top of the tank
and stepped out, taking out his field glasses. He crouched down so as not to make a silhouette against the silver sky and
peered through the binoc’s.

There was something going on down there, that was for damned sure. There were cars, bizarrely armored vehicles everywhere
along the streets. Garbage was strewn wildly about and Stone thought he could see some bodies here and there amidst the general
filth of the place. They were not just meeting, but having their fun too, as they always did. Whenever Stone had been around
these bastards before, there had always been a waste heap of bodies left behind in their wake.

He gathered the other officers and went over their plans. Stone would go below with one tank; the others would stay here on
the hill and get their cannons targeted on the town. If he wasn’t back within twenty-four hours, they were to open fire and
then get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Stone didn’t explain the second part. They’d find out soon enough. The
crew of his tank were all volunteers—including Colonel Garwood—one of the brass that Stone liked and trusted the least. They
all knew the risks going down there, but like Stone they also knew the rewards they would
accrue for the successful completion of such a risky operation. Some men will do anything for wealth, or country.

The guards at the north end of the town—a gang of bikers with their motorcycles parked in a row, blocking movement—stood up
and stared with amazement at the tank that came grinding down the road toward them. They knew that more crime bosses were
expected, but somehow hadn’t expected any to show up in a tank. The Bradley stopped about ten yards away from the line of
bikes and one of the bigger gang members, with black leather jacket and chains draped over his arms like an admiral, walked
up to the barricade of motorcycles as Stone emerged from the top of the tank.

“Name?” the biker yelled out, pulling out his checklist to look for the entry.

“Name’s Stone, Colonel Stone,” he yelled back from the tank. “But I’m not on the party list so don’t bother looking for me!”

“Then what the hell do you want, mister? This ain’t exactly the neck of the woods to be fucking around in.”

“I want to talk to the top bosses,” Stone said coolly. “I’ve got an offer they can’t refuse.”

“Sorry, mister,” the biker said, waving his hand for Stone to just drive off. “I mean, your tank looks impressive and all,
but I got orders not to let no one in who ain’t on the list. So before I send a radio signal for the artillery unit located
up there on that building…” He pointed to a church steeple in the center of town from which a steel barrel projected, gleaming
in the morning sun, which was just rising over the Rockies.

“Oh, so that’s where it is,” Stone yelled above the whine of the tank’s idling engine. He leaned into the hatch of the tank
and yelled down. “Sight up the top of that church steeple and let her have it.” The entire turret on which he was
sitting began turning and the 120mm cannon quickly raised up like the head of a cobra.

“What the hell are you—” the biker yelled back, his face growing white. But the words were cut off as the Bradley shook back
on its treads and the cannon roared with a ten-foot-long burp of fire. The bikers could hear the shell screaming overhead;
that is, for the one second before it hit. Then the entire top of the church—used in the last five years for far different
purposes than what it had been intended—exploded in a whirlwind of wood and flesh and red spray that spewed out over the whole
center of the town. When the immediate storm of dust settled slightly they could see there was nothing left above the second
floor. Nothing.