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They were studied as they arrived by Colonel Beatty of the USAF and Squadron Leader Peck of the RAF, the two top photoreconnaissance analysts in the Black Hole.

The planning conference began at six. There were only eight men present. In the chair was General Horner’s deputy, the equally decisive but more jovial General Buster Glosson. The two intelligence officers, Steve Laing and Chip Barber, were there because it was they who had brought the target and knew the background to its revelation. The two analysts, Beatty and Peck, were required to explain their interpretation of the pictures of the area. And there were three staff officers, two American and one British, who would note what had to be done and ensure that it was.

Colonel Beatty opened with what was to become the leitmotif of the conference.

“We have a problem here,” he said.

“Then explain it,” said the general.

“Sir, the information provided gives us a grid reference. Twelve figures, six of longitude and six of latitude. But it is not a SATNAV reference, pinning the area down to a few square yards. We are talking about one square kilometer. To be on the safe side, we enlarged the area to one square mile.”

“So?”

“And there it is.”

Colonel Beatty gestured to the wall. Almost the entire space was covered by a blown-up photograph, high-definition, computer-enhanced, and covering six feet by six. Everyone stared at it.

“I don’t see anything,” said the general. “Just mountains.”

“That, sir, is the problem. It isn’t there.”

The attention switched to the spooks. It was, after all, their intelligence.

“What,” said the general slowly, “is supposed to be there?”

“A gun,” said Laing.

“A gun?”

“The so-called Babylon gun.”

“I thought you guys had intercepted all of them at the manufacturing stage.”

“So did we. Apparently one got through.”

“We’ve been through this before. It’s supposed to be a rocket, or a secret fight-bomber base. No gun can fire a payload that big.”

“This one can, sir. I’ve checked with London. A barrel over one hundred and eighty meters long, a bore of one meter. A payload of over half a ton. A range of up to a thousand kilometers, according to the propellant used.”

“And the range from here to the Triangle?”

“Four hundred and seventy miles, or 750 kilometers. General, can your fighters intercept a shell?”

“No.”

“Patriot missiles?”

“Possibly, if they’re in the right place at the right time and can spot it in time. Probably not.”

“The point is,” interjected Colonel Beatty, “gun or missile, it’s not there.”

“Buried underground, like the Al Qubai assembly factory?” suggested Barber.

“That was disguised with a car junkyard on top,” said Squadron Leader Peck. “Here there’s nothing.

No road, no tracks, no power lines, no defenses, no helipad, no razor wire, no guard barracks—just a wilderness of hills and low mountains with valleys between.”

“Supposing,” said Laing defensively, “they used the same trick as at Tarmiya—putting the defense perimeter so far out, it was off the frame?”