Man O' War, стр. 16

"Well, there's obviously something down there that's got his nose going," agreed Hawkes. Getting down on his hands and knees, the ambassador crawled forward, saying, "And if we want to shut him up, I guess I'm going to have to see what it is."

As soon as Hawkes began to move for the truck, Disraeli dropped down onto his belly and scrambled forward under the 4 X 4's front axle. The ambassador frowned, then shoved himself forward, pushing himself along the ground on his back. Disraeli stayed calm as his master approached. Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkes could see that the dog was staring upward, his muzzle pointed straight at the section of undercarriage beneath the driver's seat.

"You see anything?" called Keller.

"Yes," came Hawkes voice. "I certainly do."

The ambassador began wiggling his way back out from under the 4 X 4. Disraeli simply went forward, coming out from beneath the front bumper. Keller and Stine both met Hawkes on his side of the truck. The foreman asked, "So, what had that damn mutt so geared up, anyway?"

Hawkes held up a thin, round disk, smaller than a slice of bread. It was made out of a dull black metal, unpainted, with no markings of any kind.

"What the hell is that?" asked Keller, taking it from the ambassador's outstretched hand.

"They didn't have them when I was in the service, but I've seen them over the past few years." Reaching down to scratch Disraeli's head, he said, "It's a bomb, Ed. A very sophisticated one."

While the foreman turned the slim device over and over in his hands, Hawkes told the retriever, "Good dog, Dizzy. Good dog."

"Yeah," muttered Keller, still turning the bomb over and over in his hands. "Damn good dog."

6

HAWKES TURNED THE EXPLOSIVE OVER ONE LAST TIME, then put it aside, setting it down on his nightstand. He had studied the device—rolled it over and over in his hands, just plain stared at it—long enough. Maybe it was time to let it be for a while, time to get out of his dirty clothes, steam himself off, and get some sleep.

Sure, sleep. Ought to be easy to sleep tonight.

Like the ambassador, almost everyone on the ranch was too excited—or too nervous—to sleep. Discovery of the bomb had unleashed an excited tidal wave of curiosity among Hawkes's workers. All of his people—wranglers, field hands, the cooks, gardeners, housekeepers—had wanted to see it, wanted to know where it came from.

He thought back over the pertinent questions that had poured out of them. Was it planted recently? Had it been there for years and no one knew? How powerful was it? Was it set to go off? Did it have a timer release? Electronic detonation? Pressure? Altitude? Who did it?

Accusations had followed the questions. It was the Deutchers. Payback time. No—Clean Mountain. With Hawkes dead, they could get the ranch easily. Hah—it was the damn government. The ambassador was making them look bad by refusing to go to Mars. That's this damn government's way. Doubt it—probably the damn Martians. They don't want the boss up there. They just want to keep bleeding the taxpayers dry so they can go on playing space cadet. Big picture, ya, monkey—it's all of 'em . . . Deutcher probably financed it, CME provided the men, Mars the bomb, and the damn Senate approved it.

That's just crazy. You're nuts.

Am I? It's a Martian bomb, ain't it?

The field hand who had come up with the last theory, former corporal Anthony Celdosso, had been right about that much, anyway—the bomb did come from a Martian factory. He had been discharged only a year earlier and was up on what was current in the national arsenal. Hawkes liked to hire ex-soldiers. He got along well with servicemen and-women. They worked hard, knew how to follow orders, and kept their distance from their commander. Benton Hawkes did not like people getting too close.

Bet you wished you had a few more friends now, eh?

The ambassador reached down next to his chair to stroke Disraeli's head. As a reaction to the voice within his head, he told the dog, "Good boy. Good old, bomb-sniffing wonder dog. Was your steak big enough tonight?"

Understanding enough of Hawkes's tone, the dog licked his master's hand. Starting to come up off the floor, the ambassador pushed at him gently, discouraging him from rising. Disraeli was a loyal dog, but an old one. It had been an exciting day and by rights the retriever should have been asleep hours ago. Hawkes rubbed the loose fold of skin at the back of the dog's neck, telling him, "No, no . . . good boy. Go to sleep. Go on, go to sleep." His eyes drifted back to the bomb, and he added softly, "One of us should get some."

Reaching over, he picked the small disk up again and brought it back to eye level for one more inspection. Tony had explained what it was exactly, and how it worked. Officially named the Graamler 10SA-11, it was affectionately known to those whose used it in the field as "li'l kick in the head."

A Graamler could be set off by fixed timer, electronic signal, altitude, even voice command. It had been set to detonate anytime the 4 X 4 descended to 1,500 feet above sea level—which meant the next time Hawkes left his property for anywhere at all.

And that detonation would have been the end of things.

The device had the power to incinerate the entire truck and anyone in it. It would have left a crater in the road approximately three feet deep and twelve feet in diameter. Everything present within the circumference of its aggravation range would have been incinerated—almost atomized.

Tony could tell that the device had not been present for long. It was too clean, for one thing. For another, it was a new type of toy—barely out of prototype development when the corporal had been discharged.

"So," mused Hawkes softly, not wanting to disturb the