achieve an explosion generating critical mass. They initiated the Pentolite by vaporizing the wires in a precise sequence, using a huge surge of electrical current generated by a series of powerful capacitors.”
“What’s the problem with that?” Monica Wirth asked.
“First,” Wei-Liu said, “it was technically efficient but unwieldy—similar in many ways to the detonation system on the atomic weapons in the Manhattan Project. If you look at the photograph—” She slid the magnifying glass and one of the prints down the table to the chairman, who slid it to Monica Wirth, who passed it to the president. “See, sir, that boxlike attachment bolted onto the top of the device—it’s roughly two feet by three feet.”
Pete Forrest moved the glass back and forth across the photo. “Yes,” he said. “I see it. Cumbersome.”
“That’s the electrical component for the detonation package, sir.”
“Uh-huh,” the president said.
“So, as I said, it’s unwieldy. Second, under certain conditionsthe Chinese version of Pentolite can degenerate and become unstable, similar to the way mishandled dynamite sweats nitroglycerine. Third, there are the capacitors. They require a bank of storage batteries to keep them fully charged. And despite insulation, batteries can still generate both volatile fumes and static electricity under certain conditions. Static combined with fumes can result in a spark, which in turn can set off the Pentolite if the explosive has begun to deteriorate.”
“Give us the situation in a nutshell,” Rockman said.
“We’re basically talking about your terrorists driving around Western China with the equivalent of a thirty-million-pound mason jar of nitroglycerine in the back of their truck,” Wei-Liu said, matter-of-factly.
The president said, “Well, Miss Wei-Liu, thank you for putting all this in such unambiguous terms.” He paused. “Thank you for coming. And thank you, too, Roger.”
The energy secretary rose and slid the photos back toward Nick Pappas. “You’re welcome, Mr. President.”
The room remained silent as the two of them made their way out. As Wei-Liu passed Monica Wirth, the NSC adviser handed the young woman a note, which Wei-Liu read, folded, and dropped into the pocket of her jacket.
After the door clicked closed behind them, the DCI raised his hand. “Mr. President—” The CIA director was churning his legs and squirming uncomfortably in the chair, reminding Ritzik of the poor guy in the Preparation H commercials.
“Yes, Nick.”
“I can also report that NSA’s technical capabilities have confirmed Beijing has activated its rapid reaction forces and assigned them the task of hunting the terrorists down and retrieving the weapon.”
“Jeezus H. Kee-rist.” Robert Rockman’s palm slappedthe table surface. “What made you wait until now to give us
that
piece of intelligence? What’s next, Nick?”
“Just hold on, Mr. Secretary,” Pappas interrupted. “There also happen to be two pieces of hugely positive intelligence.”
The SECDEF crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders—body language that told Ritzik Rockman didn’t believe a word of it. Rockman rolled his chair across the floor. “And they are?”
“First, the Chinese are incapable of tracking the guerrillas by satellite because their birds take up to a week to be shifted.”
The secretary’s hand slapped the table. “I know that, Nick.”
“Last night, Chinese intelligence used its front companies to call every commercial satellite operation in the world in order to secure one-meter imagery of Xinjiang Autonomous Region. They tried the French. They called the Belgians, the Finns, the Germans, the Canadians, the Japanese, and finally all our own American companies.” Pappas tapped his pen on the table. “But CIA anticipated the move and successfully preempted Beijing. Last week, through half a dozen cover firms, CIA bought up exclusive rights to every bit of commercial
“What’s the problem with that?” Monica Wirth asked.
“First,” Wei-Liu said, “it was technically efficient but unwieldy—similar in many ways to the detonation system on the atomic weapons in the Manhattan Project. If you look at the photograph—” She slid the magnifying glass and one of the prints down the table to the chairman, who slid it to Monica Wirth, who passed it to the president. “See, sir, that boxlike attachment bolted onto the top of the device—it’s roughly two feet by three feet.”
Pete Forrest moved the glass back and forth across the photo. “Yes,” he said. “I see it. Cumbersome.”
“That’s the electrical component for the detonation package, sir.”
“Uh-huh,” the president said.
“So, as I said, it’s unwieldy. Second, under certain conditionsthe Chinese version of Pentolite can degenerate and become unstable, similar to the way mishandled dynamite sweats nitroglycerine. Third, there are the capacitors. They require a bank of storage batteries to keep them fully charged. And despite insulation, batteries can still generate both volatile fumes and static electricity under certain conditions. Static combined with fumes can result in a spark, which in turn can set off the Pentolite if the explosive has begun to deteriorate.”
“Give us the situation in a nutshell,” Rockman said.
“We’re basically talking about your terrorists driving around Western China with the equivalent of a thirty-million-pound mason jar of nitroglycerine in the back of their truck,” Wei-Liu said, matter-of-factly.
The president said, “Well, Miss Wei-Liu, thank you for putting all this in such unambiguous terms.” He paused. “Thank you for coming. And thank you, too, Roger.”
The energy secretary rose and slid the photos back toward Nick Pappas. “You’re welcome, Mr. President.”
The room remained silent as the two of them made their way out. As Wei-Liu passed Monica Wirth, the NSC adviser handed the young woman a note, which Wei-Liu read, folded, and dropped into the pocket of her jacket.
After the door clicked closed behind them, the DCI raised his hand. “Mr. President—” The CIA director was churning his legs and squirming uncomfortably in the chair, reminding Ritzik of the poor guy in the Preparation H commercials.
“Yes, Nick.”
“I can also report that NSA’s technical capabilities have confirmed Beijing has activated its rapid reaction forces and assigned them the task of hunting the terrorists down and retrieving the weapon.”
“Jeezus H. Kee-rist.” Robert Rockman’s palm slappedthe table surface. “What made you wait until now to give us
that
piece of intelligence? What’s next, Nick?”
“Just hold on, Mr. Secretary,” Pappas interrupted. “There also happen to be two pieces of hugely positive intelligence.”
The SECDEF crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders—body language that told Ritzik Rockman didn’t believe a word of it. Rockman rolled his chair across the floor. “And they are?”
“First, the Chinese are incapable of tracking the guerrillas by satellite because their birds take up to a week to be shifted.”
The secretary’s hand slapped the table. “I know that, Nick.”
“Last night, Chinese intelligence used its front companies to call every commercial satellite operation in the world in order to secure one-meter imagery of Xinjiang Autonomous Region. They tried the French. They called the Belgians, the Finns, the Germans, the Canadians, the Japanese, and finally all our own American companies.” Pappas tapped his pen on the table. “But CIA anticipated the move and successfully preempted Beijing. Last week, through half a dozen cover firms, CIA bought up exclusive rights to every bit of commercial
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