Kidrey shook his head quickly, but not fast enough to keep the Tinman from launching into what even Doberman understood as an agitated denunciation.

“I’m sorry, relax, relax,” Doberman told him. “You’re going to have a heart attack. Shit.”

Kidrey said something and Tinman calmed down. The Special Forces sergeant gave the pilot a half wink, then turned back to the Ancient Mechanic and asked him a few more questions. Words flew back and forth, punctuated by nods and deep gestures. Doberman felt like he had stepped into a carnival sideshow.

“Now I’m not saying I believe any of this, you understand,” said Kidrey, turning back to Doberman. “But, did, uh, the sergeant here give you a cross or something?”

“Well, he gave it to my wingmate. I don’t believe in that superstitious crap.”

“Oh.”

Doberman didn’t like his tone, but before he could say anything Kidrey turned back to Tinman and resumed their coded conversation. It was amazing to him that someone as skilled as the Tinman— whose mechanical genius was obviously the only reason off-the-wall fuel drop worked— could believe in witchcraft.

Or whatever the hell they were “patoising” about.

Kidrey finally turned back to Doberman with an apologetic smile. “Thing is Captain, and like I say, I don’t necessarily believe this, okay? Some of the old-timers, they see the world as kind of two parts. There’s us, and then there’s this whole other thing, spirits you’d call it. A few people can go back and forth.”

“Back and forth, what?”

Kidrey shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, especially if, you know, you’re not one of them.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Well.” Kidrey laughed. “I’m not saying it does.”

“But Tinman does.”

“See, the old-timers believe people with cauls are kind of special. They got the power. Like karma or something?”

Doberman nearly choked. “You’re talking about luck?”

“That’s not it,” said Kidrey, shaking his hand quickly. Tinman looked as if he was going to stoke up again, but the sergeant leaned back and laid his hand on Tinman’s arm, calming him. ”They think it’s power. Not luck. Definitely not luck.”

“And I got it?” Doberman asked incredulously.

“Oh, yeah, big time. See, stuff like that cross he gave you is supposed to focus it. The whole thing comes from Europe or Africa or somewhere. I haven’t a clue. The word my mom used means ‘nightwalker’ in kind of pig-French.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t use that other word.”

“What word?”

“The one you were going to use. The one that starts with a W.”

Doberman had, in fact, been going to ask if Kidrey’s mother was a witch. Instead, he glanced over at Tinman, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to get Tinman all twisted up again, but you don’t believe in this bullshit, do you?”

“Well,” whispered the sergeant back, “I would say it’s kind of in the category of stuff that couldn’t hurt. You know, like throwing salt over your shoulder, lucky pennies, that kind of stuff. If you know what I mean.”

Doberman leaned back. The Tinman was nodding, a very satisfied look on his face.

The entire fucking world had gone nuts.

“Thing is, I have seen some stuff I can’t explain,” added Kidrey. “So you never know.”

The Tinman pointed his crooked finger at Doberman. His eyes grew large and his cheeks began to inflate. Undoubtedly a huge pronouncement was on the way. That or the geezer was going to have a heart attack, which would really screw them big-time.

“All right, all right, I’ll take the goddamn cross,” said Doberman. “Shit.”

The Tinman’s smile could have lit an airfield.

As Wong had suspected, the bombs had not been sufficient to penetrate the bunker. He was annoyed though not surprised that his advice hadn’t been solicited on targeting; it had been his experience at Black Hole that no one there appreciated his abilities.

Be that as it may, he had a relatively straightforward solution— take out the doors, which he calculated could be done with as little as 130 kg of high explosive.

It was beyond the doors that things got complicated.

His experience with Russian sites that featured these door types told him that it led directly to a concrete-reinforced hallway precisely three meters long. At the end of the hallway— which were generally adapted from an existing mine shaft— there would be a stairwell at an exact ninety-degree angle. It would general contain twenty steps downward to the storage area in the direction of the passive ventilation pipe. From there any of three different configurations could be used. The result was the same, however— an isolated storage area.

He now tentatively identified the materials being placed there as biological, thanks to an admittedly third-hand description of a truck and single courier that had appeared at the facility. He hesitated drawing other conclusions from the absence of protective gear; the Iraqis had uniformly proven idiotic. Indeed, the incident could be viewed as a Rorschach.

“Which means what, exactly?” asked Colonel Klee, who had sat through the briefing with uncharacteristic patience.

“Which means that it means whatever the interpreter wants it to mean,” said Wong. “It’s open to many possibilities.”

“Like what?”

Wong sighed. It was always such a chore briefing people outside their area of specialty.

“It could be that they assume we would notice a large force and they want to remain inconspicuous. It could mean that they were delivering lunch or paperwork or perhaps orders to someone inside, though I assure you this is an unmanned facility. It could and most likely means that they are simply stupid.”

“There are definitely weapons there?”

“I didn’t say that. I said there is a strong possibility. There are only indications and inferences. If they respond to the bombing, that would be another strong indication.”

“You’re talking like a goddamn intelligence officer again, Wong. I don’t like it.”

“With all due respect, you asked for my opinion. As far as being an intelligence officers, let me remind you that I am attached to Admiral…”

“All right, I don’t want your goddamn Pentagon job classification again. How are we going to blow this thing up?”

“If we merely block the stairway with enough rocks we will accomplish the same thing,” said Wong. “And we can do so quite simply, though admittedly there will be a high coefficient of variables beyond skill involved.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I think he’s trying to say it’ll take some luck,” said Major Wilson.

It was the first time Wong had heard him say anything intelligent since they met, and he nodded before describing his plan. Wong’s preferred solution called for an F-117A Nighthawk flying a pair of Paveways through the doors. The difficulty for the Paveways was in the first shot; if it was off target, it could trigger a landslide which would effectively protect the interior from the second explosion. Unlike a crushing blow inside, exterior damage could be removed easily and would present only a nuisance. The warhead of the Paveways was actually a bit bigger than optimum, and not optimally shaped for this penetration, but the F-117s had a very limited choice of weapons if their stealth profile was to be maintained.

“What’s your less preferred way?” asked the colonel.

“A Maverick model G could pierce the door, if it hit precisely three-fourths of the way up,” said Wong. “There is an advantage in that weapon since it is unlikely to trigger a shock wave of sufficient size to block the entrance. But the second missile has to follow on within two seconds to take advantage of the initial shock, and avoid the likely rockfall. While this could theoretically be accomplished…”