“Next one ain’t gonna miss,” said Powder, already running toward the truck. He pulled a phosphorus grenade from his belt as he ran, thumbing away the tape that safed the pin and fuse. He set the grenade, tossing it at the last possible second as he threw himself to the ground.

The grenade wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the EE-11’s armor, but Powder merely wanted to blind the gunners with the flash while he and his teammate attacked from behind. The machine-gun fire ceased as soon as the grenade went off. Powder, head down, jumped back to his feet and raced around to the rear of the truck.

Liu stood there already, staking it out. One of the vehicle’s doors opened. Powder tensed, then realized that the hand that emerged held a white handkerchief.

“We ought to flatten the bastards,” he said to Liu over the corn unit.

“Just make sure they’re surrendering,” said a deep and commanding voice. He glanced back and saw that Captain Freah had joined them.

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0545

MINERVA LASHED THE WOMAN PILOT’S HANDS BEHIND her with the string from her boot, wrapping the lace over Bree’s wrists and then around a bolt at the side. It might not hold for long if she strained against it, but the American’s struggles would at least warn her.

Where would they go? For now, they were running along the course Madrone had plotted. But that was suicide.

Mayo nodded nervously as she slipped into the seat beside him. He began reading off bearings and instrument numbers—a status report. Everything was in perfect order.

“Why ten thousand feet?” he asked abruptly.

“Not now, Lieutenant. Just hold the course.”

Mayo started to say something, but thought better of it. Minerva folded her arms, staring at the darkness before her.

Pei, Brazil

8 March, 0550

DANNY MADE SURE POWDER AND LIU HAD THE PRISONERS under control, then approached the hangar building cautiously. He flipped Annie’s CIV visor back into IR mode. There was one person in the hangar that he could see; he lay prone on the floor behind a desk or some boxes with a view of the doorway.

A flash-bang in his hand, Danny went to the entrance and crouched down. He couldn’t see the man now—the boxes were too thick. He reached up with his grenade hand and flicked the visor into enhanced starlight mode. The aiming triangle appeared; he lowered his aim toward the boxes, then stepped forward, slowly turning his attention around the hangar.

Empty.

Something moved behind him.

He threw himself down, then saw it was only Powder.

“Shit, sorry,” said his point man through the laser com.

“Down,” hissed Danny, pointing toward the boxes.

Powder nodded, then began working his way sideways to the left. Danny slid toward the opposite wall.

“Get away from the gun, motherfucker!” shouted Powder, who’d come up behind the Brazilian.

Danny rose slowly. The Brazilian didn’t move.

“He’s dead, Captain,” said Powder, moving in slowly.

“Hold on. Stop,” said Danny. He clicked the CIV visor control, examining the object in front of the dead Brazilian. It looked like the guts of a small rocket, or maybe a large artillery shell.

“What’s up?”

“There’s a bomb or something sitting in the middle of the floor. It’s got a timer. Go see if you can find some lights. No, wait a second.” Freah lowered himself to his knees. There was a radiation symbol on the interior of the metal casing, heading about a paragraph’s worth of closely printed letters. “You read Portuguese, Powder?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Go get Bison,” Danny said. “Tell him we have a bomb to disarm. Tell him it may be a tricky one, and to bring his full set.”

“Sniffer too?”

“Especially the sniffer. And Powder, get the Satcom. Go very fast.”

Dreamland

8 March, 0200 local (Brazil 0600)

MACK PACED OUTSIDE TM, TRYING TO CONTAIN HIS fury.

He knew exactly what Madrone would do, how he would fly. He’d get around the F-l5’s if they weren’t careful.

Hell, even if they were careful. Because they’d be too damn full of themselves.

Been there, done that himself.

To be put on ice. Bullshit. Bullshit!

He could have the MiG fueled on his own authority.

Not armed, though. That would take an order from Bastian. Technically. Odds were no one would question him if he said it was approved.

God, they couldn’t just leave him on the ground. At least let him talk to some of the pilots, give them advice. They friggin’ thought he was a traitor. Damn them all.

Pej, Brazil

8 March, 0613 local

“CAPTAIN, I’M ASSUMING THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT.”

“Annie, I need your help,” Danny said. The Army transports were just arriving outside, making it difficult to hear. “I’m looking at what I think is a nuclear warhead wired to a timer that’s supposed to go off in thirty-seven minutes.”

“Why do you think it’s a warhead?”

“Our sniffer says it’s full of uranium.”

“Read me the scale level.”

“Okay. Uh, hang on.” He fumbled with the small Geiger counter, clicking it through its modes. About the size of a lunchbox, the field unit could detect the depleted uranium used for A-10 cannon shells at about fifty yards. Whiplash carried similar units for toxic chemicals and known gas agents. “497.83,” said Danny, “on the, uh, hundredths, no, thousandths scale.”

“That’s fine,” said Annie. “How large is the device?”

“About the size of an artillery shell.”

“How far away are you?”

“About three feet, max.”

“Tsk. I believe your unit may be doubling the reading.”

“Is it a bomb?”

“Well, you’re the one looking at it. The reading is certainly high enough. Interesting—you’re in Brazil?”

“Interesting? What should I do?”

“Technically, Captain, I am not an expert on nuclear devices.”

“The NSC is supposed to be getting me one,” Danny told her. “But right now, you’re the best I got, Annie.”

“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, Captain.” Annie sighed. “What does Sergeant Bison think?”

Bison came on the line and described the setup of the wiring to her. Danny squatted down on his knees about a foot from the timer, which he had uncovered by pulling the top off the trunk that was inside the boxes. The timer had several folds of wires running off it, including one that led to a large brick of C-4. Bison thought that was a booby trap, and Klondike agreed.

“So what the hell do we do?” Freah finally asked his sergeant.

“She’s thinking, Captain.” Bison nodded a few times, then began describing the thick group of wires that fed into the front of the device.

Danny nearly had a heart attack as his munitions expert pulled at the winds of black tape.

“Wants to talk to you, Captain,” Sergeant Bison said finally, giving the radio handset back to him.

“Creative,” said Annie. “I’m not an expert on tactical nuclear devices, but in my experience, the device sounds rather primitive. Most likely it is primed by a focused explosive device, which would propel an atomic pellet into a cup of material toward the base. Rather like the Hiroshima bomb, in a way, except that there the mechanism—”

“As powerful as that?”

“Oh, no. Only half. Probably even less—maybe a tenth, assuming I’m right about your sniffer reading. I don’t particularly like those devices; I saw two that malfunctioned in the Gulf, once when the consequences could have been very serious. Of course, the real key isn’t so much the size of the warhead as the design of the explosive lens that initiates the reaction. An American bomb that size could wipe out a city the size of New York, whereas a Pakistani bomb would barely destroy twelve or thirteen blocks. They’re quite hopeless as designers because they don’t have the hang of focusing the explosion. On the other hand—”