Oceans Of Fire. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
charges?” The President frowned. “You mean, backpack nukes.”
“No, sir.” General Jack Harper Hayes was the top military man on the President’s cabinet. The wiry little man seemed almost too short to be a general, but he had started his military career as a combat engineer and he knew a few things about blowing stuff sky-high. “He means nuclear demolition charges. They’re used to blowing things up.”
The President raised a droll eyebrow. “So I gathered.”
“What I mean is, sir, a nuclear demolition charge is not strictly a weapon. Its yield is low, generally between three to ten kilotons. No one has ever used one in combat but its typical purpose would be to destroy a very large or hard target, like a dam or an underground bunker or even to dig a giant hole if you needed one. We contemplated using them in Afghanistan to drop the tunnel complexes in Tora Bora, but the Joint Chiefs decided that although the nuclear fallout would have been nil, the political fallout of the United States being perceived to be using nukes would have been disastrous. So we went in the old-fashioned way.”
General Hayes gazed off into the middle distance a moment. “The old-fashioned way” had changed over the years. In Vietnam the then Private Hayes had been the smallest man in his platoon and been “volunteered” to crawl down into the Vietcong tunnels and clear them out.
In Afghanistan they had lit up the tunnel entrances with fuel-air explosives that sent massive blast waves down the tunnels and then hit them from above with deep-penetrating guided bombs before heavily armed and armored Army Rangers had gone in wearing night-vision equipment and hurling tear gas ahead of them.
In Vietnam, Hayes had been sent down alone with a flashlight, a .45 and a knife.
The President nodded. “So you’re saying it’s a giant satchel charge.”
“Indeed, sir,” the general agreed. “An excellent metaphor.”
“But a ten-kiloton satchel charge, nevertheless, and two of them seem to be missing.”
“That does seem to be the situation.” Hayes gazed at Brognola as he said it. The general clearly thought Delta Force could have wrapped things up quite nicely, and like a number of military men before him, he was extremely curious as to why there was a man from the Justice Department in the room, much less why the big Fed seemed to be one of the key people in control of the operation.
The President shrugged at Brognola. “Hal?”
“We got the word from British MI-6 two hours ago. They have a contact in one of the Russian arsenals. He confirms the count is now six. We retrieved four of them in the Zervashan Mountains forty-five minutes ago. We have to assume the other two are taking a different route out of Tajikistan.”
“And we have no idea as to that route?”
“No, sir, we don’t. However, the team took a high-priority prisoner and they have hopes of getting some useful intelligence out of him.”
The President scowled deeply. Both rightly and wrongly, the United States reputation for fair and humane treatment of prisoners had been tarnished in recent times. “That had better be done by the book or not all, Hal.”
General Hayes chewed his lip. “I hate to suggest this, Mr. President, but we don’t have time to ship this guy to Guantanamo and go through normal procedures.”
The President stared at Hayes bluntly. “You’re suggesting torture.”
“I’m suggesting, sir, that while the yield is low and the fallout minimal, a nuclear demolition detonated above ground in an urban center would result in thousands of casualties.” Hayes let out a heavy sigh. “And I’m suggesting we have contacts in that region. Allies with less scruples than ourselves.”
“So…” The President steepled his fingers and looked into a very ugly place. “We wash our hands and let someone else do our dirty work.”
Brognola met the President’s gaze. “Sir, the team currently has the man in custody. They have been in this situation before and produced results in manners your predecessors found acceptable. Give them an hour.”
“An hour?” Both the President and the general stared at Brognola in shock.
The Justice man nodded. “They have very…forceful personalities.”
Dushanbe, Tajikistan
GOTRON KHAN WAS nervous. He had every right to be. The warlord was tied to a chair in a cellar, facing five of the most dangerous men on Earth. Khan sat beneath the single bare bulb and sweated while Phoenix Force stared at him, as silent as headstones. The criminal swallowed with difficulty and screwed up his courage. “I want a lawyer.”
The men of Phoenix Force regarded him like a bug.
“I have been exposed to illegal war gas and wish medical treatment…and an interview with Red Cross representative.”
Calvin James leaned against the wall with his arms folded. “You hungry, Khan?”
“I…” Gotron winced. His body had detoxified the CN/DM gas in his bloodstream, but he was still green around the gills and the violent stomach spasms he’d endured left him hunched and beaten as if he’d gone ten rounds out of his weight class. “I think n—”
“How about a nice, cold, greasy pork sandwich?” James suggested.
Khan paled.
“Mmm, tallowy.” James Calvin sighed. “With a nice, tall, cool glass of olive oil with a butter floater to wash it down and—”
The sweat sheening Khan’s brow began to run in bullets.
Hawkins shook his head at Calvin. “You are one sick dude.”
Gotron Khan was the man who was sick. The warlord was as white as a sheet.
McCarter gazed down at Khan condemningly. “Where are the rest of the nukes?”
“I…don’t…” Khan gasped.
McCarter pulled a spent grenade casing out of a ditty bag and wafted it in front of Khan. A hint of apple blossom and pepper was discernable in the close confines of the cellar. Khan made a gobbling noise as his stomach spasmed in recognition of the scent. It was said that fatigue made cowards out of all men, but pain and fatigue could be endured through training, personal toughness and willpower.
Chemically induced nausea leveled the playing field, and Adamsite gas would bring Superman to his knees.
Gotron Khan shook like a man who had spent a bad eight days sailing the North Sea in winter and had been told he was going back out.
“No…” Khan gasped. “N-no, please, I…”
McCarter held the spent casing a little closer to Khan’s nose. “Where.”
“I…cannot tell you.”
McCarter spun on his heel. “Gas him again.”
Gary Manning slipped a grenade out of his jacket and pulled the pin.
Khan shrieked. “No!”
The big Canadian kept his thumb on the cotter lever and raised an eyebrow at McCarter. The Englishman turned and stared down at Khan implacably. “Where?”
“I do not know, but—”
“But you might know someone who does?” McCarter suggested helpfully.
Khan’s eyes were riveted in horror at the cylindrical grenade in Manning’s hand. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps you’re about to puke so hard you’re going to bring up your bloody shoes.”
“No!” Khan’s eyes rolled in revulsion and terror.
“Or perhaps not.” McCarter shrugged noncommittally. “It’s up to you.”
“I—” Khan scuttled back as