First Team [First Team 01] Page 14

  “That’s one reason we want the native,” said Ferguson. “I know that’s a risk,” he added, looking at Slott. The DDO had put considerable energy into rebuilding the humint network in Iran, and Ferguson’s proposal would jeopardize it.

  “It is a risk,” agreed Slott. “But then so is the rest of the plan.”

  Corrine watched Ferguson as he discussed the situation with Slott; it appeared they would jeopardize if not burn at least one native agent, and they were debating whether to take him out with the Team or not.

  What a macho bozo, she thought; he probably would blow up the ship if he had the chance and call it an accident. The president’s fears were on the mark—these idiots were cowboys.

  And she still hadn’t figured out exactly how Special Demands operated. Though it was obviously under the deputy director of operations and therefore part of the operations directorate, it didn’t belong to any of the “normal” operation desks or areas and seemed to have unusual access to resources, both within the Agency and the military. Corrine hadn’t had a chance yet to look at the executive order or the NSC paperwork explaining it, let alone go over to CIA headquarters and research the files to get some perspective on Special Demands. That would require some time to negotiate the protocols, and would probably require working in a “safe”—an ultrasecure area where she would be literally locked in with material.

  She’d get on that as soon as the meeting was over.

  “You have a time frame?” Slott asked Ferguson.

  “Van needs another day or two to pull the rest of the elements together,” Ferg said. “Forty-eight hours from now we can go; we’ll have details for you twelve to eighteen beyond that. Swordfish is already in the Gulf. They’ll be ready to go by the time we fly in. Yada yada yada.”

  “I’d like to hear the details if you don’t mind,” said Corrine. “What’s Swordfish?”

  A smile spread over Ferguson’s face, and he leaned back farther in the chair, his head now draped against the hard back. He waited for Slott—it would have to be Slott—to tell Miss Alston that operational details would be restricted to an absolute need-to-know basis, since even an inadvertent comment could put many people in danger.

  But instead of telling her to mind her own business, Slott patiently explained that Swordfish was an in-house term for a submarine adapted for Special Operations. Several were prepositioned around the world; they carried a pair of Advanced SEAL Delivery Vehicles, basically minisubs that could be used to deposit Ferguson and his SF squad near the port.

  “What happens if there is waste on the ship?” Corrine asked, stubbornly returning to the point that bothered her the most. “Will you blow it up?”

  “Should we?” said Ferguson.

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “Well that settles it. We won’t.”

  “What will you do?” Corrine asked Slott.

  “That would be an upper-level decision,” the DDO told her. “At the moment, our main concern is just figuring out what’s going on.”

  “You can’t just blow it up,” she insisted.

  “Why the hell not?” said Ferguson.

  “Because it’ll be radioactive.”

  “And?”

  “Civilians will die.”

  “Better them than us,” said Ferg.

  “We’re not going to just blow it up. It’s not our call. Stop egging her on, Ferg,” said Van.

  “Is there a definite connection between this ship and the May 10 message?” asked Corrine.

  “What May 10 message?” asked Ferguson.

  “The one predicting an attack. Because if so, this can’t be part of the operation. It would take weeks for a ship to get from Iran to an American port.”

  Ferguson knew about the message, of course, but considered it a red herring; the NSA was always forwarding intercepts, fueling rumors and endless speculation. “It’s irrelevant,” he said, getting up. “Are we through?”

  Slott nodded. The others got up as well.

  “She bothers me,” Ferguson told Van in the hallway.

  “Gee, and here I thought you were in love.” He started walking up the steps. “You can’t just piss people off. You have to play by the rules.”

  “I do play by the rules.”

  “Whose? Yours?”

  “Rules are rules.” They reached the elevator level. Ferguson nodded at the security people, then punched the button for the elevator. “She’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

  “They’re just concerned about the prisoner. She’ll be gone in a week.”

  “Don’t count on it,” said Ferguson, getting into the elevator. “Want to have lunch?” he asked Van Buren.

  “Can’t. Got to go see an old friend.”

  “I’ll talk to you before I fly back.” Ferguson saw Corrine approaching as the doors closed. “I’m going to drive out to the shooting range this afternoon,” he added loudly. “If I pretend I’m shooting at innocent children, I’m bound to do pretty damn well.”

  “Jesus, Ferg,” said Van Buren, after the doors closed.

  ~ * ~

  5

  SUBURBAN VIRGINIA

  Though the session had gone longer than he’d expected, Van Buren managed to head out in time to keep his lunch appointment with Dalton. His friend had suggested an out-of-the-way restaurant in suburban Virginia named Mama Mia’s, but the place wasn’t exactly a pizza parlor. A tuxedoed maitre d’ met him at the door. The man nearly genuflected when he mentioned Dalton’s name, leading the way through the dining room to a table at the far end of the room, obviously selected for privacy. Dalton grinned when he spotted him, amused by his friend’s awkwardness in the rather elegant surroundings. The fourth son of a working-class family with eight children, Van Buren still felt considerably more at ease in a McDonald’s—or an Army cafeteria, for that matter.

  “You dressed,” said Dalton, smirking, as the host pulled the seat out for him. “I was afraid you’d show up in combat boots.”

  “I had a meeting,” said Van Buren. He reached across the table. “How the hell are you?”

  “I’m just kick ass,” said Dalton.

  The maitre d’ dropped the napkin in Van Buren’s lap with an expert flick of the wrist, then faded away.

  “You have to get used to that,” added Dalton.

  “Which?”

  “Pomp and circumstance.”

  “Whoo-haw.”

  “Whoo-haw’s good.”

  A waiter appeared at Van Buren’s elbow. “To drink, sir?”

  There was a bottle of Pellegrino on the table. “I’ll have that,” said Van Buren, pointing at the bottle. The waiter nodded, then disappeared.

  Dalton stopped Van Buren from reaching for the bottle. “I can’t take you anywhere. He’s coming back with a bottle.”

  “What, you’re too good to share?”

  “Hey, I could have AIDS for all you know.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, living in D.C.”

  “Nah, Reston’s a million miles away,” said Dalton. They fell into some easy talk about their respective families, both men bragging a bit about their kids. Dalton had a girl who was just entering college. She was heading north to Brown University. A generation ago, her yearly tuition would have paid for a nice house.

  “Ridiculous how expensive everything is,” said Dalton.

  The food was excellent—Van Buren had a tuna that was delicious despite being barely cooked—and the conversation continued at such a leisurely pace that the colonel began to think his old friend had forgotten why he had set up the lunch in the first place. But that was not true at all; Dalton was merely salting the territory.

  “Have you heard about Star Trek?” he said after the plates were cleared away. “It’s going to be upgraded.”

  To anyone else in the restaurant, the question would have seemed innocuous, even incoherent. But Van Buren recognized that it was an oblique reference to the Pentagon’s advanced warfare operations center, which was sometimes referred t
o as the Starship Enterprise. Among other things, the center made it possible for real-time strategic information to be supplied to a commander in the field. The Cube was a scaled-down though more up-to-date version.

  It was also, of course, highly secret.

  “I’m not sure what movie you’re talking about,” said Van Buren.

  Dalton smiled, raising his eyebrows but saying nothing as the waiter stepped over to ask if they’d like dessert. Both men opted only for coffee—decaf for Dalton.

  “My company’s going to do the upgrade. And there’s a lot more business on the horizon,” said Dalton. “A lot.”

  “Movie business must be nice,” said Van Buren.

  “Is it ever.”

  The coffee arrived, along with a plate of complimentary cookies. Dalton took one, broke it in half, and nibbled at the edges.

  “We need someone who can talk to people, important people, and impress them,” said Dalton. “Tell them what life is like in the real world.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Van Buren. He eyed the cookies—they were fancy Italian jobs, the sort his family sometimes got around the holidays—but decided to stick with the coffee.

  “You wouldn’t believe the salary,” said Dalton. “And that would just be the start.”

  “This a salesman’s job?”

  “Hardly.” Dalton sipped his coffee. He’d expected resistance and wasn’t put off. “Congressmen, senators—they need to know they’re getting a straight story. No bullshit. And with what’s happening in the world—God, the stakes are immense. Every edge we can give the people in the field. Well, you know that yourself.”

  Van Buren wondered exactly how much Dalton knew about his present assignment. His old friend was obviously well connected—maybe too well connected, he thought to himself.

  “We’ve done other projects you’re familiar with,” added Dalton, confident that he had set the hook. His strategy wasn’t mendacious—everything he said was absolutely true, and he knew that Van Buren would do a great job. He also knew that the job would benefit Van Buren as well. And why not? Van Buren had been wounded twice and earned a bronze star; he was a bona fide, no-bullshit hero. He deserved to have a little downhill time.

  “I can’t go into the specifics. You could ask around, though. Vealmont Systems does have a reputation in the right circles.” Dalton reached in his pocket and took out his business card, sliding it on the table. “The number on the back is the first year’s salary. You’d be a vice president.”

  Van Buren slid over the card, staring at the front quixotically for a moment. He hadn’t realized that his friend was president of the firm.

  The number on the back was 500k.

  “Half a million?”

  Dalton just smiled.

  “Salary?”

  Dalton continued to grin.

  “To do what?” asked Van Buren.

  “Serve your country,” said Dalton, his voice as serious as it got. “Help make sure the right technology gets to the people who need it.”

  “This is a lot of money,” said Van Buren.

  “That’s true. There’s very little overhead. The government already funds most of the R&D.” Dalton leaned forward. “Don’t let the zeroes throw you off. It’s the going rate around here, believe it or not. Everything’s more expensive these days. Look at college. The job’s an important one.”

  “Who do I have to kill?”

  “No one.” Dalton shook his head. “This is Washington, Charles. You’d be surprised at the number of people who consider that a paltry salary. And they haven’t done half of what you’ve done for your country. Nor would their hearts be in the right place.”

  Van Buren, a little too stunned to really process anything else, simply nodded.

  “This is the sort of thing you’ll be in line for after you make general anyway,” added Dalton, addressing what he expected would be a consideration once Van Buren thought it over. “Here you get a head start. You can bring Sylvia and your son here, have a good life. It’s not nine to five, admittedly, but there are opportunities, a lot more opportunities than in the Army. The work is important. It’s just that you won’t have people shooting at you anymore.”

  “Mmmm,” said Van Buren, draining his coffee.

  ~ * ~

  6

  CHECHNYA

  The mosque was a humble one, erected by traders more than a thousand years before. Its walls had seen the rise and fall of many fortunes; the trade route that once passed within sight of the spiraling minaret was long forgotten. Holes pockmarked the walls inside and out; the air within was stale, as if the building were afraid to expel the breath of its ghosts. But for Samman Bin Saqr the mosque was as treasured as any in his native Yemen—all the more so for the fact that it was considerably safer.

  The man before him had interrupted his meditation to tell him that it was the Americans who had kidnapped Muhammad al Aberrchmof, known to them by the nom de guerre of Kiro. In some ways this was a relief—Kiro had seen himself as something of a rival, and Samman Bin Saqr had evidence that he was plotting to siphon off some of his material to use on his own.

  Kiro, perhaps under the influence of his new Chechen friends, had been interested in cesium 137. Samman Bin Saqr had good stores of this gamma-ray-producing material, amounting to well over fifty pounds more than he actually needed. The waste was one of several used in many medical applications and particularly easy to obtain; had the circumstance been right, Samman Bin Saqr would have given Kiro some for his own use.

  But the circumstances were not right; Kiro was not a stable man, as his sudden devotion to the Chechen cause proved without a doubt. His recent inquiries—Bin Saqr had learned that he had gone so far as to send a messenger to speak to a man who had plotted against the Russians with a similar bomb in the 1990s—had alarmed the Russians, who quite properly feared that their capital would be targeted. They had arrested the messenger; surely Kiro had survived only by bribery.

  Samman Bin Saqr closed his eyes, trying to gauge the effect of Kiro’s capture. He had been careful to limit his access to information, but the Americans might yet stumble on something that would lead to him.

  No. Allah would not allow it. Still, the timetable must be moved up, even if it meant the mix of waste would not be optimum. Imperfection on this round would give him something to improve for the next.

  Bin Saqr’s inspiration had been to mix waste containing high-alpha radiation— obtained primarily from radioactive control rods and, in two cases, a very small amount of spent uranium fuel—with gamma-producing materials. The idea was to present the American Satan with a panoply of threats—short- and long-term. When his device exploded, the highly radioactive alpha-producing particles would be pulverized, entering the lungs of all those within a mile or more radius. Some would die immediately; others would linger in their illness.

  The gamma waves would do their duty more slowly, seeping into their bodies and causing leukemia and other cancers over five or ten or fifteen years—his legacy to the future.

  How many people would die? The scientists he had consulted could not agree. There was no model for such an event. It might only be a few hundred, and most of these by the explosive force needed to shatter and spread the waste material.

  Or it might be millions. There was no way of knowing.

  What he did know was that the effect would be deep and lasting fear. And Islam would be one step closer to the necessary final confrontation.

  There were many things to be done yet, adjustments to be made to assure success. But he was sure that he could accomplish them; so much else had been done in so short a time.

  “Honored one?” asked the messenger, waiting to see if there was an answer. Samman Bin Saqr had forgotten him temporarily.

  “I will return immediately. Send word to proceed expeditiously,” he said. Then he closed his eyes once more, picturing before him the delicious image of the American paradise in ghostly ruins.

  ~ * ~

  7
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  OFF OMAIM, PERSIAN GULF—TWO DAYS LATER

  Conners felt a brief wave of nausea hit him as he waited in the chamber between the SF section of the USS Wappingers Falls and the ASDS, or Advanced Seal Delivery System, a high-tech minisub “parked” against the hull above. The host submarine was a member of the Virginia class of (relatively) low-cost attack boats designed primarily for action in littoral or coastal waters. The boat had pulled to within ten miles of the Iranian coast and waited for darkness; the rest of the trip would be by ASDS.