Countdown: H Hour by Tom Kratman Page A

nosir,” answered Hallinan, normally somewhat light skinned and now gone positively pale in anticipation of what was coming.
    “Ah.” That was still conversational. But then Warrington’s voice rose a notch. “So you were too fucking stupid to pay attention? Or was it that in your incarnate ignorance and arrogance you figured that applied to everybody but you? Did you figure that your ever-so-fucking precious ego was so important that the mission didn’t matter?”
    “Sir, I—”
    “Shut the fuck up,” Warrington snarled. “If I ever thought your opinion was worth listening to, I don’t think so right now.” Elbows on desk, he began massaging his temples as if suffering from a terrible migraine. Yes, boss, I remember that a commander is always on stage.
    “Now let me tell you what you’ve done,” he continued, and proceeded to do just that in an echo of the problems he’d previously listed for Stocker and Pierantoni. He embellished as seemed fit.
    When he was pretty sure all the color that could disappear from Hallinan’s face was gone, Warrington added, “Maybe you don’t think it’s a such big deal, compromising the mission and such. Certainly nothing to match the bruise to your poor widdle ego. So what if over a hundred million dollars gets paid to terrorists to do Satan knows what with? Small change, right? No big fucking deal?”
    Warrington stood then and sneered. “You stupid piece of dog shit. I ought to just have them weight your feet and toss you over the side. Maybe the frigging fish will get more use out of you then we’re likely to.”
    He began pounding the desk. “What”—bang—“the”—bang—“fuck”—bang—“were”—bang—“you”—bang—“thinking? Oh, silly of me; you weren’t thinking. You’re too goddamned stupid for thought. You’re a six-foot assemblage of shit masquerading as a soldier.”
    Warrington stopped the ass-chewing then, just glaring at Hallinan with feigned disgust. Then, turning to Pierantoni, he asked, “Recommendations., Sergeant Major?”
    “Despite current appearances,” the sergeant major answered, “he hasn’t always been the worthless pile of used tampons he currently appears, sir. They say suffering is good for the soul. I’d recommend three days bread and water.”
    Again glaring at Hallinan, Warrington announced, “So be it. Sergeant Hallinan, commencing at—”
    Whatever Warrington had been about to say was cut off by Pearson’s voice, coming over the ship’s intercom. “All hands and passengers, this is the captain speaking. Assembly on the mess deck in twenty minutes. Commanders of the ground force to my cabin immediately.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

    A world without nuclear weapons would be
    less stable and more dangerous for all of us.
    —Margaret Thatcher

    Yacht Resurrection , between the coast of Kudat
    and the island of Pulau Banggi, South China Sea

    The corporal poured tea for Janail and Mahmood. Valentin Prokopchenko had set his scotch aside and would not, for politeness’ sake, drink it while the Moslems were in his presence. Daoud al Helma had been left above, guarding Mahmood’s testing equipment and the more personal baggage.
    “You can do an exterior test of both devices now,” said Prokopchenko. Here, too, English was the only common tongue. “Upon deposit of half the agreed sum, in the escrow account I have given you, you may partially disassemble and evaluate one device, of your choosing. Upon full deposit, you may take delivery. I trust this is acceptable to you.”
    Janail looked at Mahmood for confirmation. He knew nothing about such things.
    The scientist nodded. “It’s all right, Janail. I can tell—to a better than ninety-five percent certainty—with the testing materials I have brought.”
    Turning back to Valentin, he asked, “Where and how did you come upon not one but two such warheads?”
    “I had them built,” answered the Russian. “More specifically, as the warheads on what the West