First Team [First Team 01] Read online

  The SF soldier’s stomach problems had nothing to do with seasickness; the submarine was absolutely still in the water, or at least seemed to be. Conners tracked it to do with the volatile reaction of mustard and ham stemming from lunch. His wet suit snugged tightly against his stomach, pressing the two ingredients tightly together.

  One of the Navy SEALs charged with “delivering” them ashore asked if he was ready.

  “Beyond ready,” said Conners.

  Ferguson, going over some last-minute details with one of the submarine’s officers in the corridor behind him, laughed.

  Two ASDS crewmen were already aboard the minisubmarine. Unlike the earlier Seal Delivery Vehicle, the ASDS was a “dry pants” vessels; it kept its passengers warm and dry as it drove through the ocean, conserving their energy for the mission itself. Ferguson and Conners, along with the six SEALs who would make sure they got ashore, would swim the final half mile or so, and were geared up for their excursion in lightweight SCUBA outfits.

  From the outside, the ASDS looked like a boxy, oversized torpedo. Powered by batteries, it had tail fins and thrusters allowing it to thread through minefields, along with sophisticated sonar and sensors that could be used for a variety of surveillance tasks as well as self-preservation. Most often, however, the ASDS was little more than an undersea taxi, delivering its cargo to the hostile shoreline undetected. One of the SEAL team members dubbed it the Super Mario, after the pizza deliveryman in the famous video game.

  Which made Ferg and Conners the pizza.

  Pepperoni and anchovies, the way Conners’s stomach felt as he climbed aboard. The ASDS was parked next to a companion in what amounted to a garage on the top of the submarine. With the systems checked and active, the captain gave permission to begin flooding the compartment, opening the garage door for junior to drive off on his date. Door open, the ASDS slipped sideways from its hangar, then pushed silently from the Wappingers Falls, its pilot and navigator carefully double-checking their preplotted path against the shifting realities of the ocean.

  An hour later, Ferguson and Conners did one last equipment check and pulled their gear next to the hatchway at the stern of the boat. Their CIA-engineered breathing gear was even smaller than the Draeger gear the SEALs used, though like that breathing apparatus minimized telltale expelled air bubbles. Extremely lightweight, the face-formed masks they wore were connected to what looked like an oversized inflatable bib strapped to their chests. Once ashore, the equipment could be rolled up to the size of a portable umbrella. The downside was that it couldn’t hold much oxygen; it was intended to get them from the vessel to the surface and back, with about eight minutes to spare.

  But then they weren’t there to tour coral reefs.

  “Gonna be cold,” warned one of the SEALs, as Conners got ready to follow Ferg out.

  He wasn’t kidding. Though they were wearing wet suits and the Gulf water was warm by ocean standards, Conners shuddered as he released himself under the ASDS and began stroking toward the surface. Ferguson bobbed in the water a few yards away. The SEALs—perfect mother hens—swam around them, fussing and fretting, making sure that their two charges and their gear were okay. They were barely a hundred yards from shore, close to the remnants of an abandoned pier once used by an old cement factory on the shore beyond.

  The minisub had used a special radar to scan the shore just to make sure no defenses had sprung up overnight; even so, the SEAL swimmers conducted their own survey using night-vision devices adapted to a water environment. They held their hands out, keeping Conners and Ferg back until they were sure it was safe to proceed.

  “Gentlemen?” said Ferg. The swimming gear was equipped with com devices.

  “Just checking the lay of the land, sir,” said the petty officer next to him. “Don’t want to deliver you into a machine-gun nest.”

  “You won’t get a tip if you do,” said Ferg.

  The deliverymen finally gave the okay, and the pizza began swimming toward the shore.

  A half hour later, Ferg and Conners unpacked a pair of bicycles from the long plastic cases their SEAL companions had towed behind them to shore. Gear stowed beneath the broken timbers of the pier, they began pedaling toward their rendezvous point with an Iranian who had been recruited a year before by the CIA.

  The contact was the most vulnerable point of the mission. Ferguson never completely trusted a foreign agent, no matter who vouched for him or what he’d done in the past. But the native would make it considerably easier to check the onshore sites that might be connected to the waste operation.

  The cement factory sat at the far end of what in America would have been a port-area industrial park. There were several other abandoned facilities along the long access road to the highway that went north to the port itself. At the intersection with the highway sat a large area devoted to cargo containers; even though it was three o’clock in the morning, several work crews were unloading and moving containers. The two Americans pedaled past quietly, heading toward a field at the right side of the road where their contact, Keveh Shair, was supposed to be waiting.

  A small pin of light flashed in the distance as Ferguson and Conners approached. Stopping immediately, they split up, Conners moving to flank the position in case it was a trap. His stomach felt much better now that he’d gotten out of the wet suit.

  Ferguson slung his MP-5A5—a SEAL-issued version of the familiar submachine guns designed to withstand a wet environment—over his back and started walking slowly toward the light. Rubble lay everywhere before him in the lot, and even if he didn’t want to give Conners time to find his position, he would have had to move slowly. The two men were connected through their Team communications system.

  “Stop,” said a voice in Farsi.

  A pair of shadows appeared roughly where the light had been. Ferg wasn’t wearing a NOD, and had trouble making them out.

  “How we doing?” he asked Conners.

  “Two guys, guns. Truck back by the road.”

  “OK,” said Ferg quietly. The shadows were moving toward him. He held his hands out, said the password—Ayatollah.

  One of the shadows laughed.

  “I thought it was funny, too,” said Ferg.

  “Mr. Ferguson?” said a heavily accented voice in English. “I’m Keveh.”

  The two shadows materialized into a pair of bears. The one on the left had an early model M-16 in his paws. The one on the right stepped toward Ferguson, extending his hand.

  There was a black pistol in it, aimed now at his head.

  “Shit,” said Conners over the com system.

  Ferg stood motionless.

  “Where did you go to school?” demanded Keveh.

  “Yale.”

  “Who was your Philosophy Two teacher?”

  “Xavier Ryan. Never met a Greek he didn’t like,” said Ferg. “Which is why he only lasted a year. I had Daniel Frick for conceptual physics. Now that was a kick-ass class. You know, if you run fast enough, you don’t weigh anything?”

  “Excuse the precaution,” said Keveh, lowering the gun.

  “Not a problem,” said Ferg. “What’d you do, download my course transcript?”

  “A friend checked it. You understand here, there are precautions. I understood there would be two of you.”

  “Yeah. He has you both covered at the moment. Excuse the precaution.”

  ~ * ~

  T

  he Islam Qaatar, originally built in India, was one of two ships being worked on at the Al-Haamden Dry Dock. It was impossible to see the ship from the road, but the yard looked as if it were only sparsely guarded.

  “Easiest thing for us to do,” Ferguson told Keveh as they drove by a second time, “we go in as workmen. We don’t have to stay very long; we just plant some automated sensors and split. Maybe I take some pictures.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Keveh. “They’re bound to have a list of who works there.”

  “You sure?”

  Keveh s
hrugged.

  “How about a government inspector or something?”

  “Doesn’t happen.”

  “Then we’ll have to figure something else out. Let’s go grab some food,” said Ferg.

  The Iranians took them to the edge of the city in an area that was the equivalent of an American middle-class suburb. The houses were only two or three years old, fairly close together, with identical white facades offset around the circular roadways. It was still dark, but Ferguson and Conners went in through the side door under the carport, stumbling against furniture before Keveh met them with his pin flashlight pointed toward the floor. He led them into a back room that had twin beds, then disappeared to get some food.

  “I don’t trust him,” said Conners.

  “Specific reason or general paranoia?” asked Ferg.

  Conners shrugged. He didn’t have a real reason.

  Ferguson took out his sat phone. While he could communicate with the submarine and Rankin by calling a number that connected with a SpecOps/Navy ELF underwater system, there was no need; they’d planned to spend the day reconnoitering. He called Corrigan instead, telling him they were ashore safely and proceeding.

  “Anything new?” Ferg asked.

  “Corrine Alston is pissing off everybody in sight,” said Corrigan. “She’s been in the library.”

  “Good place for her.”

  “Slott’s trying to find out what the hell the story is. I have Lauren babysitting her. I don’t trust her with any of the guys. Her legs are too sleek.”

  “I hadn’t noticed. Any new satellite data?”

  “Still being studied.”

  “Jesus—”

  “We may have something for you in a couple of hours.”

  “All right. I’ll call you back,” said Ferg, as Keveh returned with a bowl and two plates.

  Conners and Ferguson sat against the beds to eat, the bowl between them and their plates perched on their knees. The food was a kind of meatless stew. Conners had only a few bites; now that his stomach had settled he didn’t want to provoke it again. Ferguson, though, ate two helpings, then eyed what was left on Conners’s plate.

  “All yours,” said Conners.

  “Better not,” said Ferg. “Might make me fart.”

  “At least.”

  Ferg pulled up his shirt and retrieved the plastic envelope containing the satellite photos and diagrams of the dry-dock area. He penciled in the guard post he’d seen, shading the two spots where searchlights covered the perimeter. The security was concentrated around the roadway, probably intended more for its deterrence value than anything else. It was possible that there were cameras or high-tech detectors scattered around the yard; there was no way to tell for sure until they were inside.

  He expected there would be more guards. The situation didn’t look promising.

  “Maybe everybody’s so afraid of getting their hands chopped off for stealing that they don’t steal,” said Conners. “Or maybe this isn’t the boat.”

  “Yeah,” said Ferg. He pulled the area diagram to the top of his small stack. The two lots directly across from the dockyard warehoused construction materials, which arrived from an area to the south and were moved via flatcars. One of the photos showed items being taken off by crane in the eastern portion of the yard. There were two long sheds at the extreme western end, and what looked like train rails buried in the pavement running to the fence separating the dock area. If material were being brought down to be placed in the ship, it could come into the warehouse area, be stored in one of those two buildings—or any of the others for that matter—then moved across by flatcar and switcher engine simply by taking the fence section away.

  “You’re assuming they’re not breaking the waste into smaller containers somewhere else,” said Conners.

  “They may be,” said Ferg. “But this would be an obvious place, and since the sat boys haven’t seen it anywhere else, looking here makes sense.”

  “I guess. Didn’t move the needle on the rad meter when we drove past.”

  “Yeah,” said Ferg. “But we can’t totally rely on that. Maybe it’s shielded.”

  Conners, starting to sense a bust, said nothing.

  “Easy to get into the warehouse area,” Ferguson told him. He jabbed at the diagram. “We can walk right up this road. Guards are here and here. They have nothing on this side because of the water. So we come around here, look for radiation, check the sheds out, then go over to the shipyard.”

  “Going to take nearly an hour,” said Conners. “That’s about a mile and a half you’re talking just to get into the site. Hour at least on each of the buildings, then we have to get around that fence. Going to be a long night.”

  “Yeah.” Ferg leaned back against the bed. “You tired, Dad?”

  Conners shrugged. “Not really.”

  Keveh knocked on the door, then came in, holding a small ceramic teapot and three cups. He put the pot down and settled across from them.

  “You have milk for that?” Conners asked.

  The Iranian looked at him as if milk were the most ridiculous thing you could put in tea.

  “Cream or something like that?” Conners asked.

  Keveh shook his head.

  “Be tough,” Ferg joked. He took a sip. The liquid tasted like a cross between Earl Grey and 30w motor oil.

  “I was thinking we’d take a drive through the countryside,” Ferg told his host. “Couple of things I want to look at.”

  Keveh nodded. Ferg unfolded his map of the port area and gave him a general idea of where they were going. Keveh nodded.

  “When’s a good time?” asked Ferg.

  The Iranian shrugged. “Now.”

  “Well, let’s go then.”

  “Scuff your shoes first,” said Keveh, pointing down. “Those will stand out if we get out of the car. Nothing’s new here.”

  ~ * ~

  8

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LIBRARY AREA

  After hours of staring at the computer screen, the glare from the overhead fluorescents began to feel like sharp fingernails scratching at Corrine’s eyes. She hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep for the past four or five days, and between the fatigue, coffee buzz, and all the data she’d been trying to assimilate, she felt like she was back in law school, cramming for a final. She punched the keys to kill the file and stood up, looking at her watch.

  It was 6:05 P.M.; she’d missed lunch and dinner. Corrine got up from the desk, remembering that there was a package of Fig Newtons in her pocketbook, which because of security requirements she wasn’t allowed to bring into the reference area. She also wasn’t allowed to wear her shoes—instead, she had a pair of ill-fitting cardboard slippers that made her feel as if he she were a patient at a hospital with a library.

  That’s what they called it, with a little sign on the door. They even had a little old lady with bluish hair to help you.

  As counsel to the congressional Intelligence Committee, Corrine had been briefed on a number of clandestine operations, including two or three that featured cooperation between Special Forces and the CIA. The history of such operations extended to the Kennedy presidency; while they had been severely curtailed in the wake of the Vietnam War, they had gradually come back into favor and in fact enjoyed some success in Afghanistan during the war on terror. But the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office and “the Team” were unique in several ways:

  1. Missions were authorized and conducted without any paperwork whatsoever— no findings, no bureaucratic review, no audit, no log, no mention anywhere in the extensive operations files. Whereas a typical—if there were such a thing—CIA mission would stem from an NSC finding, Special Demands specifically didn’t need such findings, and in fact none were in the records, which meant there had been none. Nor were there any records of direct executive orders from the president authorizing specific Special Demands programs or missions.

  2. Missions were not authorized or reviewed at any level below or ab
ove DDO; there was apparently no way for anyone outside of the extremely small group of people involved even to know about them.

  3. The Team apparently combined collection and paramilitary functions—it collected intelligence, then immediately acted on it. While this, of course, had happened throughout the CIA’s history, and in fact started during the OSS days, the line here seemed deliberately fused, with the same mission gathering intelligence, then immediately acting on it.