and came up clean."
Nervous laughter all around. This was thrilling. The Navy, a Delta Force Commander, even the CIA were scared. The harder they were, the more disturbed they looked, he noted; the act violated their most deeply cherished rules of engagement. Whoever the thieves were, they played by a totally different field manual. Cundieffe thought of the peculiar custom of the Plains Indians, called counting coup . Bands of warriors would steal into forts and mark their white enemies' heads with charcoal or paint, to show them how safe they really were. He doubted the Admiral would appreciate the anthropological precedent, however, and so kept it to himself.
Captain Roger Stenson, Naval Intelligence: "As far as our best intel goes, softkill option weapons don't exist. The Pentagon's research on all nonlethal projects was shelved in '94. Our friends at JSOC—" a nod to the black-uniformed officer "—have made use of subsonics and chemical incapacitants, but nothing like an EMP wave ever got past the testing stages. The KGB and GRU only did minimal research on those projects under the Soviets, with the same results. France, Germany, Japan and South Korea are all still trying it, but, again, they can't induce a seizure in a single subject in a lab, let alone an entire base. There are about fourteen private corporations around the world pursuing EMP weapons technology as a sideline, but they're years away from anything remotely like what the Admiral has described."
"I think the Admiral's here to report a flying saucer," said Willis Kopko, the NSA rep. More laughter.
The Admiral flushed so red Cundieffe expected him to spit blood. "Please, would you shut the hell up until I've finished the goddamned briefing? Thank you. Now, a sentry from the north gate and one on the flight control tower made their routine check-ins every thirty minutes during that time, and received the proper countercodes until oh-three hundred. They were on a tape. At oh-two hundred five hours, a civilian outside the base saw two helicopters flying low over the desert, headed east. They were inside for only an hour, and when they left, they were loaded down."
"Shithouse mouse, it's an inside job," said Sibley, the CIA rep. "They've got your fucking codes, back to front."
"At oh-three ten," Meinsen went on, "the security hut personnel had come to and phoned in the breach. We scrambled helicopters and alerted NRO, who snapped these Keyhole satellite prints of the area."
He stood back as the lights dimmed, and a projection of a satellite photograph came up on the wall. Cundieffe studied it for a few moments, feeling as if he was looking at one of those Magic Eye stereogram prints that his mother seemed to think he enjoyed. A blocky spiderweb lay tacked out on the desert, bedizened with dewy spots of luminescence that indicated vehicles and other large heat sources. This was China Lake. Around it, the desert spread like the rumpled sheets of a vast bed. With digital enhancement, Cundieffe knew, the Admiral could zoom in to examine cacti and Joshua trees and shotgunned beer cans until Y2K day, but he wouldn't find any helicopters. The stormy, purple knot his face had become told all in the room that he was well aware of this. He nodded toward the military end of the room, though Cundieffe hadn't seen anyone move to address the group. "Yes, Mort?"
Lt. Col. Mort Greenaway of Delta Force cracked his knuckles over his report and fixed Meinsen with his fierce gaze. Cundieffe could see in those eyes that he'd already been braced by the Admiral, and was plenty peeved about something. Cundieffe could easily enough read the tight-beam message that leapt from the Admiral: Mort, did your Delta assholes pull some kind of psycho wargame maneuver on one of my bases?
And the equally naked broadcast from Greenaway, who'd just tumbled on to why he, and not a SEAL Team Commander, was here: Admiral, has one of your elite units gone rogue?
When he finally spoke, the
Nervous laughter all around. This was thrilling. The Navy, a Delta Force Commander, even the CIA were scared. The harder they were, the more disturbed they looked, he noted; the act violated their most deeply cherished rules of engagement. Whoever the thieves were, they played by a totally different field manual. Cundieffe thought of the peculiar custom of the Plains Indians, called counting coup . Bands of warriors would steal into forts and mark their white enemies' heads with charcoal or paint, to show them how safe they really were. He doubted the Admiral would appreciate the anthropological precedent, however, and so kept it to himself.
Captain Roger Stenson, Naval Intelligence: "As far as our best intel goes, softkill option weapons don't exist. The Pentagon's research on all nonlethal projects was shelved in '94. Our friends at JSOC—" a nod to the black-uniformed officer "—have made use of subsonics and chemical incapacitants, but nothing like an EMP wave ever got past the testing stages. The KGB and GRU only did minimal research on those projects under the Soviets, with the same results. France, Germany, Japan and South Korea are all still trying it, but, again, they can't induce a seizure in a single subject in a lab, let alone an entire base. There are about fourteen private corporations around the world pursuing EMP weapons technology as a sideline, but they're years away from anything remotely like what the Admiral has described."
"I think the Admiral's here to report a flying saucer," said Willis Kopko, the NSA rep. More laughter.
The Admiral flushed so red Cundieffe expected him to spit blood. "Please, would you shut the hell up until I've finished the goddamned briefing? Thank you. Now, a sentry from the north gate and one on the flight control tower made their routine check-ins every thirty minutes during that time, and received the proper countercodes until oh-three hundred. They were on a tape. At oh-two hundred five hours, a civilian outside the base saw two helicopters flying low over the desert, headed east. They were inside for only an hour, and when they left, they were loaded down."
"Shithouse mouse, it's an inside job," said Sibley, the CIA rep. "They've got your fucking codes, back to front."
"At oh-three ten," Meinsen went on, "the security hut personnel had come to and phoned in the breach. We scrambled helicopters and alerted NRO, who snapped these Keyhole satellite prints of the area."
He stood back as the lights dimmed, and a projection of a satellite photograph came up on the wall. Cundieffe studied it for a few moments, feeling as if he was looking at one of those Magic Eye stereogram prints that his mother seemed to think he enjoyed. A blocky spiderweb lay tacked out on the desert, bedizened with dewy spots of luminescence that indicated vehicles and other large heat sources. This was China Lake. Around it, the desert spread like the rumpled sheets of a vast bed. With digital enhancement, Cundieffe knew, the Admiral could zoom in to examine cacti and Joshua trees and shotgunned beer cans until Y2K day, but he wouldn't find any helicopters. The stormy, purple knot his face had become told all in the room that he was well aware of this. He nodded toward the military end of the room, though Cundieffe hadn't seen anyone move to address the group. "Yes, Mort?"
Lt. Col. Mort Greenaway of Delta Force cracked his knuckles over his report and fixed Meinsen with his fierce gaze. Cundieffe could see in those eyes that he'd already been braced by the Admiral, and was plenty peeved about something. Cundieffe could easily enough read the tight-beam message that leapt from the Admiral: Mort, did your Delta assholes pull some kind of psycho wargame maneuver on one of my bases?
And the equally naked broadcast from Greenaway, who'd just tumbled on to why he, and not a SEAL Team Commander, was here: Admiral, has one of your elite units gone rogue?
When he finally spoke, the
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