Incendiary Dispatch. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
agreed. There was a moment of silence as they stared at the screen, and the pipeline broke open farther downstream. More oil spilled out and the flames intensified.
“That’s a pretty damned efficient release of energy,” Manning pointed out, “even going off at the wrong time. It didn’t send oil spraying in all directions. It just opened up the metal.”
“Low explosives engineered to just break the shell?” James suggested.
“Maybe. But nah,” Manning said, frowning at the screen. “Got any more of those on tape?”
“You’re in luck,” Kurtzman said, nodding at the screen. There was a cut and the shot changed. Now the camera was zooming in close to the pipe. The men in the news chopper were interested in the damage being done to the pipeline, just as Manning was. The image was shaky and smoke-blurred. They couldn’t make out anything actually attached to the pipe. The pipe was cooking in the flames from the spreading oil underneath it, then a bright white streak appeared on the surface of the metal and it grew into a narrow opening in the pipe. Oil, no longer under pressure, oozed out, and the conflagration quickly wormed its way inside and ripped the pipeline wide open.
“What the hell was that?” growled Rafael Encizo. Stocky and powerful, he’d been born in Cuba and spent plenty of time rotting in Castro’s prisons. Castro couldn’t kill Encizo, but only made him stronger. Encizo was a naval tech specialist, as much at home in the water as on land.
“Virtually no visible fragmentation,” Manning pointed out.
“These bastards were trying to be neat about it?” McCarter demanded.
“They were trying to be efficient,” Manning said with a grim smile. “You go setting off five hundred devices at a time, you need to control costs. You figure out just exactly how much explosive or incendiary you need, you figure out how to make it do exactly what you want it to do, then you use just enough each time to do your dirty work.”
A man in a cowboy hat had been stretched out in the chair alongside James. As the others kept their eyes glued to the progressive damage playing out along the Alaskan pipeline, the man in the hat now walked around to stand behind Akira Tokaido.
Thomas Jackson Hawkins knew quite a bit about electronic communications—military, civilian and industrial. He watched intently as Tokaido played with some communications schematics out of Alaska, using computer models of communications infrastructure to replicate the simultaneous detonation of hundreds of bombs around the world—a type of communication whose failure could lead to the partial misfires that had occurred in Alaska.
“What about the lab in Georgia where Rafe got burned?” Hermann Schwarz was asking. “Gary, they were specializing in incendiary research.”
“I’ve looked at the reports. I don’t know what the hell that was all about. It was damned suspicious, for sure. But what were they trying to accomplish by bringing in foreign-made military research and prototype? I couldn’t figure it out.”
“What about the prototype devices they supplied the military?” Schwarz asked. “Any good?”
“No. They were shoddy,” Manning said.
“But could their prototypes do that?” Schwarz persisted, nodding at the screen where the Alaskan pipeline continued to open again every few minutes.
Manning shrugged. “I doubt it.”
“Would you like to see one of the devices from the Solon lab in Georgia?” Kurtzman asked.
Gary Manning blinked. “You have one?”
Kurtzman grimaced. “Don’t worry. It’s not live.”
Carmen Delahunt was already slipping out of the room and was back in a moment with a plastic crate. She opened it and removed several items packed in gray foam: a wallet and a cell phone, both removed by Carl Lyons from the intruder at the lab. There was also a small, engineered device composed of three plastic discs held together by three plastic screws. Delahunt handed it to Manning, along with a printout of the functional characteristics of the device.
“One of the prototype samples from the lab.”
Of the dozen people in the War Room, not one took notice when the time code on the various computer screens changed to 8:00 p.m.
Manning sneered at the prototype. “This?”
“Looks like a Big Mac without the all-beef patties,” Schwarz muttered.
“It is not more sophisticated than it looks,” Price said.
Manning spun the screw, examined the interior. “Nonmetallic. Cavity for ignitables. So what? How much taxpayer cash did this cost us?”
“Could it have been used for the attacks we just saw?”
“No,” Manning said. “It’s too small and it won’t create a directed ignition. You’d need specially shaped charges of thermite or something to make those holes.”
“You sound pretty sure,” Brognola interjected.
“I know it would make things simpler if we could target your lab in Georgia right now, but it’s not adding up,” Manning said. “Maybe this was a diversionary tactic. They wanted to create the prototype to show just how inept they were when it came to engineering weaponized incendiaries. That would explain why they would trying to submit something like this as an advanced prototype.” Manning was arguing with the schematics sheet in front of him. “Yeah. They must have known this was crap when they sent it into the DOD. They did it on purpose.”
“Everything about that situation was damned odd,” Lyons growled. “I bet it was those hamburger incendiaries that they had rigged to go off on us. They were throwing shit in all directions.”
Manning shrugged. “You load it up with thermite, it would be a great arson tool,” he said, sliding the clattering plastic piece across the conference table. “For getting through the A53 carbon steel they use for structural steel pipes—no way. Not the precision punctures we just saw happen in Alaska.”
“We’re getting bloody nowhere,” David McCarter grumbled. He got up, paced behind the table and sucked on his Egyptian Coca-Cola until the plastic bottle collapsed with a fingernails-on-chalkboard crackling noise, then stopped when he was the center of attention of every person in the War Room.
Except for Akira Tokaido and T. J. Hawkins, who were jabbering quietly together and poking at the tablet screen. There was a dull but tangible frustration in the room.
Despite the vast inventory of attacks that had just occurred, no action plan presented itself. This was not a group of people accustomed to doing nothing.
Still, not one of them noticed when the time code on the computer screens turned from 8:02 p.m. to 8:03 p.m.
The phone that Carl Lyons had lifted from the attacker in the lab in Georgia began to ring.
Everybody in the room looked at it.
T. J. Hawkins said something under his breath.
Akira Tokaido’s hand froze over the tablet.
There was a beep from a computer. Then the peal of an electronics alarm. And then another. The phone rang again.
“More attacks?” Kurtzman exclaimed.
“Shit!” Akira Tokaido said. “Coming through the fucking phones!” He sprawled over the conference table, grabbed the phone from Solon Labs and leaped behind one of the nearby terminals. The phone rang again. He snatched at a USB cable and jabbed it into the phone.
Kurtzman wheeled into position behind a computer of his own. Brognola, having vanished offscreen, saw none of the action.
“You getting this?” the big Fed’s voice demanded. “We’ve got railroad and bridge alerts! Are you getting this?”
“Incoming calls setting off the devices,” T. J. Hawkins explained as