'At first glance, the goat shed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina could be anywhere in the world. Thirty goats were happily munching on their hay and staring at the blank concrete walls of the stable. Every few minutes one of the goats would stop chewing, begin gasping for breath, and then nonchalantly carry on eating as if nothing had happened.
In an equally non-descript room next to the shed, a young sergeant in combat fatigues was staring at the goats through a window fitted with one way glass. Two soldiers and a general were anxiously watching the sergeant. Every so often, the general would shake his head slightly and a worried look would cross his face.
The sergeant took another swig of coffee and then something extraordinary happened. Goat Number 17 let out a silent bleat, keeled over, and died.
"My God," said the general. "It works."
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