Neutron Force
All too clearly, Brognola remembered reading about the weapons when he’d first taken the job with the Justice Department. A Dr. Cohen down at Oak Ridge had modified a nuclear bomb so that it would throw off a halo, a corona really, of neutrinos, ultrafast, subatomic particles. The blast of the bomb would destroy only six city blocks, it was pretty small. But the halo of neutrinos would radiate for a mile, killing every living thing it touched. Right down to the ants in the ground. Even microscopic dust mites died. Only plants weren’t affected. With a neutron bomb, an enemy could kill all of the people in a city, but leave the skyscrapers, factories and farms intact for their invading forces to seize.
Brognola shook his head. A bomb that killed people, but not property. That was a thousand times worse than the dirtiest thermonuclear bomb ever made, because the neutron bomb had no downside. It let you capture the cities afterward. There was very little fallout from the quarter-kiloton ignition blast, and thus no downside to restrain the indiscriminate use of the weapon. There were countless international treaties banning the development of the doomsday weapon, and not one neutron bomb had ever been used in actual combat. Until today.
Thoughtfully, Brognola tapped a button on the keyboard and played the video once again. He had seen death before many times, but somehow this felt unclean. The people were slain in their seats, without even knowing that they died. There was no flash of heat, no tingle, no…nothing. Everybody just keeled over in perfect unison.
“Anything from the Watchdogs?” Brognola asked hopefully, playing the video again.
“NORAD reports no thermonuclear explosions over the northern hemisphere, if that is what you mean.” The President sounded annoyed. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. And the halo effect of a neutron bomb has a limited range. Even without the uranium jacket. To reach a plane so low to the ground, the bomb would have had to be detonated within the atmosphere.”
“Rather hard to disguise that.”
“Absolutely.”
“Yet these people must have been killed by a neutrino bombardment,” Brognola stated.
“Yes.”
“Only there was no explosion.”
“Exactly.”
Grudgingly, the big Fed was forced to agree with the President that the conclusion was horrifyingly clear. This was what the President had previously inferred about neutron weapons. For the first time in many years, Brognola felt his blood run cold. There would be no heat flash, noise, radiation, or anything else detectable. Just silent, invisible death. The ultimate stealth weapon.
“So somebody has finally done it,” the Justice man muttered, crumpling the report in a fist, “found a way to build a neutron cannon.”
“Unfortunately, that’s also my conclusion.” The President sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Some sort of a cannon, or gun, that can fire a focused beam of neutrinos, but without a nuclear explosion as a primer. How that can be accomplished is beyond anybody’s guess. My scientific advisers don’t even have a theory how the weapon could possibly work.”
“So we check with other experts. Who is the top scientist in the field?”
“Dr. Sayar Himar,” the President replied. “But he can’t help us with the matter, because he’s dead.”
“And when did that happen?” Brognola asked, feeling that he already knew the answer.
“Yesterday. Dr. Himar was on VC-25 riding as the guest of the director.”
Brognola bit back a curse. “This must have been what the director was going to talk to you about, sir.”
“Obviously. He had mentioned something called Prometheus. He had wanted to discuss it.”
“Hmm. Any other crashes reported?”
“None so far.”
“Good.” Brognola grunted. So this was why the President had sent the message to meet him down here in the bunker. If some terrorist organization had a working neutron cannon, all they would have to do was to aim the weapon at the White House and pull the trigger. Again and again, over and over, spraying the entire D.C. area, killing every senator and member of Congress, until America didn’t have an organized government anymore, and the nation started to fall apart.
“Can a neutron beam penetrate this far down?” Brognola asked pointedly. “Are you safe?”
The President shrugged. “Unknown. There are no figures for a focused beam, and Himar isn’t around anymore to take an educated guess. However, we’re safe from a conventional neutron bomb strike. We’re surrounded by massive tanks holding tens of thousands of gallons of water, the only thing that effectively stops a neutron halo. Whether this will work for a focused beam…” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Water stops neutrinos?” Brognola asked skeptically.
“Hydrogen, actually. Anything with lots of hydrogen atoms. Gasoline is excellent. All those big hydrocarbons.”
“What about lead?” Brognola queried.
“Useless. And depleted uranium armor is even worse. In a neutrino halo, the DU plates in an Abrams tank begins to visibly glow as it throws off deadly gamma radiation. Anybody inside is fried in seconds. Anybody standing within fifty feet dies in two days, coughing out their major organs.”
Yeah, radiation poisoning was a particularly bad way to die. “Is there anything, anything at all, totally resistant to focused neutrons?”
“Sadly, no.” The President continued, “There is some experimental boronated plastic armor that might do the trick, but nowhere near enough to coat even a single plane, much less entire buildings. I’ve already put production into high gear, but it will be months before the first plates are available.”
And we could all drop dead at any second, the big Fed thought.
“Hopefully the vice-president is in the Yukon,” Brognola declared. “Or better yet, the other side of the world.”
“He’s in a Navy submarine at the bottom of the ocean,” the President said with some satisfaction. “And the Speaker of the House is in Looking Glass, the flying headquarters of SAC. Only four people knew the exact location of the plane, and none of them would ever talk, even under torture.” He paused uncomfortably. “The Secret Service has my double in Florida at the Miami Beach Open Tournament playing golf.”
Laying aside the laptop, the big Fed understood the distaste in the man’s voice. Having somebody else walk around in public to take a bullet for you seemed cowardly, but it made good sense from a security viewpoint. So far, the Man was on the ball, spreading out the targets so the enemy couldn’t remove the entire echelon of the nation in a single shot…volley—whatever. Brognola glanced at the ceiling. If there was a satellite in orbit armed with a neutrino cannon, any city in America could be wiped clean of all life.
“What’s our defense condition?” the big Fed asked, sitting straighter in the chair.
“As a precaution, I have moved the nation to DefCon Two.”
“Targets?”
“Everybody and nobody. But the missiles are ready to fly at a moment’s notice.”
Great, Brognola thought. A couple of hundred thermonuclear ICBMs armed and ready to go, but without targets. How could things have gotten this bad so fast?
“Now it is the belief of CIA that one of the nuclear powers must have created the weapon,” the President noted, running stiff fingers through his hair. “Possibly China, maybe Iran. But in my opinion that’s nonsense. If another government had such a weapon, they could never dare use it, because every nation in the world would instantly attack them out of sheer self-preservation. And if terrorists had such a weapon, the death toll would already be in the millions.”
“Unless this was a field test,” Brognola told him. Most weapons would be tested in the lab, or at a range. But with a neutron cannon, the only possible test would be a mass execution. Or taking down Air Force One, smack in the middle of a wing of jet fighter escorts.
“What can my people do to help?” the Justice man asked, getting to point of the meeting.
“Find the people responsible and gain control of the weapon. Now, I have every resource of the United States probing the sky for the satellite.” The President paused. “If we can find them, then we’ll blow the damned thing out of existence. Our F-22 Raptors can attack a military satellite even in a high orbit with their new missiles. However, if you remember the Sky Killer incident…”
“The weapon was in space, but the operators were on the ground,” Brognola stated.
“Naturally, if we invented it, I would like the machine intact. Or at least a copy of the schematics. But stopping these people is more important than getting hold of the cannon. Kill these sons of bitches. No mercy.”
CHAPTER TWO
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
The Black Hawk helicopter approached the Farm at a low altitude. Its unannounced arrival was unusual, so both the mission controller, Barbara Price, and security chief Buck Greene were concerned.
Pulling a radio from her belt, Price thumbed the transmit button. “Any ID yet?” she asked, watching the blacksuits move into defensive positions around the farm buildings. Several of them exited the farmhouse, slamming ammo clips into M-16 assault rifles. Another carried a Stinger antiaircraft missile launcher.
“Negative on the ID…Wait…correction, identification has been confirmed,” the voice said without emotion. “Incoming is a friendly. Repeat, incoming is a friendly.”
There was a crackle of static. “Should we stand down?” a blacksuit asked.
“Hold your positions,” Price said into the radio, squinting at the sky. She could see the helicopter now. Hal Brognola usually used a Black Hawk whenever he visited, but he always let the Farm know when he was arriving. “Stay sharp, this could be a diversion.”
“Or it could be a surprise inspection,” Greene muttered, thumbing back the hammer on the Colt. “Haven’t had one of those in months.”
“Or somebody could be forcing Hal to land,” she countered gruffly.
“Doubtful,” Greene stated. “Hal would eat his own gun before betraying us.”
“Agreed. It is highly doubtful, but not totally impossible,” Price replied. “Let’s go meet whoever it is.”
Price led the way, her hands clasped behind her back to hide her Glock pistol from casual sight. In their line of work, surprises were always bad news. If this was indeed Hal, then the blood had really hit the fan someplace and the mess was about to be dropped in Stony Man’s lap.
Rushing past the outbuildings, the pair reached the Farm’s helipad just as the Black Hawk descended in a rush of warm wind.
The moment the landing gear touched ground, the side hatch opened and Hal Brognola hopped out carrying a laptop. Staying bent, he rushed through the buffeting hurricane surrounding the gunship from the rotating turbo-blades.
“Something wrong with your radio?” Price asked.
“Couldn’t risk it,” Brognola replied, pausing outside the cyclone effect of the idling Black Hawk and checking overhead one more time before finally standing upright. “My call might have been tracked. Are the missiles hot?”
“Bet your ass,” Buck Greene stated, eyeing the gunship suspiciously.
“Good. Keep ’em that way,” Brognola said, although he didn’t know how effective they’d be against a satellite. It was unnerving to think somebody could be looking down upon them at the exact same moment he was looking up. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of the open. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Fair enough,” Price told him. As they started for the farmhouse, Greene pulled out his radio and began relaying instructions to the blacksuits. Moments later, teams of men rushed to unload the equipment trunks from the waiting helicopter. Whatever was going down, the chief had a bad feeling that the Farm might need everything it could lay its hands on. There was no denying the obvious fact that Brognola was nervous. And that was more than enough to make the chief wary.
Stepping onto the front porch, Price proceeded swiftly to the door and tapped in the daily entry code on a small keypad. There was an answering beep and a green light flashed as the automated weapon systems guarding the portal disengaged.
Impatiently, Price waited until the three of them were visually scanned, then the door unlocked and the slab of steel swung aside with the soft hiss of hydraulics. As she entered, Brognola and Greene were right behind.
Stepping inside, Price headed directly for the elevator that would take them to the lower level. If the matter was too delicate to discuss over the radio, then it was too important to discuss in public.
“All right, now that we’re out of visual range,” Price said, hitting the bottom-most button, “mind tell us what’s happening?”
As the elevator started to descend, the big Fed quickly informed the others about VC-25 and the scientist named Himar.
“A neutron cannon? Why didn’t you call us about this?” Price demanded.
“These people have a level of technology we can’t even guess about,” he replied curtly, lifting the laptop slightly by the handle. “So there’s no sense taking a chance on them being able to connect the White House to the Farm.”
At first, Price thought he was overreacting, but then she considered the fact that they had neutralized an Air Force One 747 in midflight. That alone meant the enemy was extraordinarily capable.
“I don’t think we have enough fuel cans to line the entire roof,” Greene stated, running fingers through his hair. “And we sure as hell can’t flood the place. Not with all of this electronic equipment. Only take one or two leaks and we’d go off-line.”
“Even then, the blacksuits would be sitting ducks,” Price agreed. “Not to mention all the visitors in the park. Chief, is there any depleted uranium armor on the Farm?”
“Sure. One of the SAM batteries is plated with it,” Greene replied. “And Cowboy has a small arsenal of the stuff in his workshop, bullets and such.”
Brognola didn’t say anything, but he was impressed. When the hammer came down, these people moved at light speed. He only hoped it would be enough.
“I was afraid of that,” Price said, leaning against the cool metal wall. John “Cowboy” Kissinger was the chief gunsmith for Stony Man. The tall, lanky man was a former member of the DGA, but more importantly, a master gunsmith. Kissinger was personally in charge of obtaining and maintaining all of the firearms at the Farm. He took pride in being able to supply the field teams with anything they might ever need for combat. From a crossbow to an O’Neil coil gun, the gunsmith was sure to have a couple in stock, primed and ready to go at a second’s notice.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
“All right, ready the blacksuits and set it on automatic,” Price directed, stepping into the corridor. “And have Cowboy get those DU shells into a lead-lined safe and keep them there until further notice.”
“Done,” Greene said, and turned on a heel to stride away.
“Wouldn’t make a difference.” Brognola grunted. “If you’re in the neutron beam, you’d be dead from gamma radiation long before any depleted uranium will start to visibly glow.”
“True. But I’m thinking about the replacements you send in after we die,” Price said, heading for the computer complex. “If the Farm gets contaminated with radioactivity, you’d have to abandon the whole place and start from scratch to build another Farm somewhere else. That would waste months, which could translate into lives.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Not on my watch anyway,” Price declared resolutely. At the moment she knew everything depended on NORAD finding the neutron satellite and blowing it to hell. But if NORAD failed, the next strike could remove New York or London from the map. Thousands dead? Millions. It was time to activate the teams. She only hoped it wasn’t already too late.
CHAPTER THREE
Moscow, Russia
Gracefully, the three MiG-29 jet fighters streaked across the clear sky. The weather was perfect for flying and visibility was unlimited. A thousand feet below, the city of Moscow was alive with traffic, the endless streams of cars, trucks and city buses flowing along the maze of streets like a smoky river.
The lead pilot of the MiGs scowled at the beautiful city, spread out like the dynorama at some science pavilion. Exhaust fumes, oil spills, gasoline fires…civilization had done away with horses and steaming piles of horse dropping, only to replace them with smog. Briefly he wondered if society really was advancing, or going backward. Suddenly a light flashed on the control board. Time for a react check.
“Sector fourteen, all clear,” Major Alexander Karnenski reported into his helmet microphone, leveling the trim of his jet fighter.
“Acknowledged, Alpha Flight,” a crisp voice from base command replied. “Maintain and report in ten.”
“Confirm,” Karnenski said, dipping the wings slightly to start the long curve around the bustling city. His two wingmen stayed in tight formation on his flanks. Another day, another air patrol. His team had to have circled Moscow ten thousand times in their careers. Still this was an easy assignment, if a trifle boring. Oh well, anything was better than flying combat missions in Afghanistan again.
Checking the radar, the Russian pilot saw several commercial planes in the distance, as well as a couple of news helicopters hovering above the noisy traffic reporting on the congestion near the construction. Thankfully, nobody had been foolish enough to go anywhere near the forbidden zone surrounding the Kremlin. Back in the bad old days of the Communists, the standing orders would have been to shoot on sight anything that dared entered the zone. The revolutionists had been terrified of another revolution. Then came democracy, and freedom, which was closely followed by waves of terrorists attacks, and the ancient orders had been grudgingly reissued. Kill on sight. It was a chilling reminder that hard days require harsh measures.
Their aft vectors thundering in controlled power, the three MiGs arched past the sports stadium, the river, an industrial park, a shopping mall and back toward the Kremlin. Another radar scan, another curve. With almost subconscious ease, the major’s hands expertly operated the delicate controls, even though he was contemplating his girlfriend. Tatya was back in his apartment, waiting in a warm bed.
With a soft exhalation, Karnenski slumped over in his seat and died. Immediately the MiG began to drift off course as the limp hand on the joystick let go.
“Hey, stop thinking about your fat Czech woman,” Captain Constantine Steloriv joked over the radio, from the right MiG. “She can’t be that good in bed!” He knew the woman was Polish, and expected Karnenski to explode in anger over the slur. Czechs were considered fools, but Russians had great respect for the Polish.
Expectantly, Steloriv waited. But there was no reply. Only static.
“Alexander?” the captain asked in growing concern. Dead silence. “Major Alexander Karnenski, respond!”
Nothing. Only the hash of an open microphone.
“Alex, stop playing around, sir!”
By now, the lead MiG was starting to nose down toward the ground. Just a few miles ahead of the jet fighters rose the turrets and domes of the Kremlin, gleaming like gold in the bright sunlight.
“Sir, what should we do?” Lieutenant Ily Petrovich asked as the third MiG-29 pulled into sight.
Growling in ill-controlled rage, Lieutenant Steloriv swung his fighter dangerously close to the wallowing lead MiG. This was going to be tricky, and he had to stay sharp. A tiny slip at these speeds could make their wings tap, and Moscow would get a pyrotechnic display that would make the Rocket Brigade think World War III had started.
Maneuvering carefully, the captain got close enough to see Karnenski through the Plexiglas canopy. The major hung limp in his seat, held upright only by the safety harness, his head rolling around loosely. The man was clearly dead, or dead drunk. Either way, this was a disaster.
“Air Command, we have a problem.” Steloriv spoke quickly into his helmet microphone.
“Radar shows clear,” base replied curtly. “And why have you changed course without permission?”
“We haven’t. Major Karnenski seems to be unconscious and will not respond.” The captain swallowed hard. “I…I think he’s drunk, sir.”
“Checking,” the stern voice replied. There was a short pause. “Negative. The on-board sensors show no trace of alcohol in the atmosphere of the plane.”
Glancing at the surrounding array of controls, the captain was astonished. They had hidden sensors for that? Air Defense didn’t miss a trick! But that didn’t change the situation.
“Request instructions,” Steloriv said in a tight voice.
“Under the circumstances we have no choice,” the voice commanded tersely. “Our standing orders are clear. Authorization is given to fire. Shoot him down.”
“My own commander?” Steloriv gasped. “But, sir—”
“We’re over the city!” Petrovich added tersely. “The wreckage could kill hundreds of civilians!”
“We understand. You have twenty seconds to comply before we launch missiles,” base stated harshly. “Nineteen and counting.”
A salvo from the Rocket Defense would probably take out all three MiGs just to be sure of getting the right one, Steloriv realized. No choice then.
“Weapons systems armed,” the captain intoned emotionlessly. He paused for a second, then engaged every missile on board. This was a one-shot deal. “Lasers have a lock.”
“Captain, no!” Petrovich begged. “Surely there must be something we can try. Perhaps we could disable the MiG with our cannons…”
“Fire,” Steloriv whispered with a hollow feeling in his belly. His hand tightened on the joystick as he pressed the trigger button.
The MiG-29 shuddered as all eight wing-mounted missiles dropped. When they were clear of the MiG, the solid-state rocket engines exploded into flames and they streaked away.
Pulling back on the stick, the captain banked his plane hard to get away from the blast. Even with the “iron bathtub” a MiG pilot sat in for protection from small-arms fire, shrapnel often penetrated a canopy to kill a pilot. Come on, baby, come on…he urged.
The third MiG stayed at his flank, and together they climbed for the sky, the turbofans screaming from the effort. On the radar screen, Steloriv saw the nine images move together just as a flight of missiles shot upward from the SAM bunker on the ground. Goddamn Rocket Brigade! he swore. A moment later the lead MiG vanished in a series of thundering explosions that grew in volume and fury as the ground-based missiles arrived a heartbeat later.
Strolling casually through Red Square, people looked up at the terror noise in the sky, then began screaming as flaming wreckage started to rain upon them only a few blocks from the mighty Kremlin.
“Alpha Flight, return to base,” the voice on the radio commanded. “Beta wing has already been launched.”
“Confirm,” Steloriv said woodenly, leveling his trim and starting a sweep to the east. A million jumbled thoughts filled his whirling mind. Everything happened so fast. One moment they were joking about women and the next…
Casting a glance at the radar screen, Steloriv frowned. Could the major actually have died of a heart attack? It seemed highly unlikely. Their medical examinations were most through. Nobody with any weaknesses flew air patrol above a major city, especially Moscow! Even a slight heart murmur could get a fighter pilot grounded these days. But what else might have happened? What could possibly harm a perfectly healthy man inside an armored jet at a thousand feet above the ground? It was impossible, absurd, ridiculous, and had just happened before his very eyes. The idea of a heart attack, or perhaps a stroke, seemed to make sense as there was no other logical explanation.
Not unless somebody detonated a neutron bomb above Moscow, the pilot noted sourly, and we all forgot to notice.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia