When they entered through the massive doors, Smith found a group of men sitting in front of an easel containing a map of China. Next to the easel was something much more intriguing—a warhead about a foot and a half in diameter and a yard long resting on a wheeled cart. It had a new coat of paint, though beneath it bubbles suggesting rust could be seen. Not surprising for a weapon that had been retired when he was still in grade school.

Smith had to admit that he’d had doubts when he asked Klein to track down the warhead, but the man had once again come through. It was hard to believe that the only hope they had to stop the most advanced weapon ever developed was this dilapidated Cold War relic.

With one exception, the men were wearing flight suits similar to the one he’d been given, though theirs included insignias denoting name and rank. The exception was a craggy-looking man in mechanic’s coveralls. They all stood and saluted, but Smith didn’t return the salute, instead walking past them to stand next to the map. While Baron knew who he was and undoubtedly assumed he was working for military intelligence, it was better to remain anonymous to the others.

“You can call me Jon,” Smith said, making eye contact with the men in front of him. Baron had been personally ordered by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to put together the best men the Eighteenth Fighter Wing had to offer, and Smith had to admit they were an impressive crew. Whether it would be enough to prevent the greatest genocide in human history, though, remained to be seen.

He patted the warhead with his right hand and then pointed to the man in coveralls. “Where do you stand on getting this thing loaded underneath a plane?”

The man rose, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “Sir, that thing is an antique and the best thing we’ve got to carry it is a two-seater F-15 trainer that wasn’t designed for it.”

“I don’t want to hear problems,” Smith said. “I want to hear solutions.”

“Understood, sir. I’m going to get it done for you, but it ain’t going to be pretty. My guys are rigging up something in place of one of the fuel tanks. And there are no onboard systems to release it so we’re having to rig something up.”

“The only thing I’m interested in is if it’s going to work.”

“It’ll work. You’ve got my word on that, sir. But she’s gonna fly like a hog and you aren’t gonna have any missiles.”

“What about the Gatling gun?” Smith said.

“Yes, sir. The gun will be hot.”

“How much longer?”

“We’re making a few tweaks and then we’re going to do a third round of tests. We can have you in the air in twenty minutes.”