Neutron Force. Don Pendleton

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.