First Team [First Team 01] Page 31

  Tru continued down the hallway, past a baggage-screening area to a large empty room. Various machinery sat at the far side of the room, piled and bunched up near the wall. To the left was a set of metal garage-style doors. Tru went to one, bent and opened it, waiting for her so he could close it behind them.

  Corrine shivered as the outside air hit her. Tru walked to the left, steering around a large yellow tractor used to move aircraft. Jets were lined up along the rear of the terminal building, crews zipping back and forth as they were prepped and loaded. Tru’s shoulders rolled back and forth as he ducked past them; the short man strolled past the lineup of aircraft as if he were lord of the place.

  Corrine followed as he turned to the left at the end of the building, walking out beyond a large Russian airliner toward a two-engine Airbus, which sat alone in the sea of concrete. The Airbus—an A310, capable of holding over two hundred passengers— had the red livery and insignia of the Turkish National Airline, THY. Corrine expected to find a smaller plane beyond it, but when Tru crossed around to the left side of the aircraft she realized this was the only plane there. A rickety-looking push ramp was at the door directly behind the cockpit; two men in coveralls were standing nearby.

  Her contact bounded up the steps to the open cabin door. Corrine hesitated at the bottom of the steps, then clambered up. As she reached the cabin, the men below grabbed the boarding ladder and pulled it away.

  “Think you can button up?” Tru asked from the flight deck. “There’s a diagram on how to shut it.”

  Corrine struggled at first, the movement slightly awkward, but once the door was moving toward the side it slapped in easily. She pushed through the curtain to her left, only to find that the rest of the airliner was completely empty.

  “No movie today,” said Tru behind her. “Come sit up here with me.”

  “Don’t you need a copilot or a navigator or something?”

  “Nah. I know where I’m going. But I do get lonely.”

  Corrine slid into the seat normally reserved for the first officer. The A310 had a glass cockpit, with the latest flight controls and data systems. While normal flight protocol would call for a two-member flight crew, an experienced pilot could fly the aircraft by himself. Tru was already talking in Russian with a member of the ground crew assigned to him, and in a few minutes the airplane’s engines spun to life. The pilot turned to her, gave her a smile, then released the brakes and began trundling down the access ramp, taking a place in the lineup to the runway.

  “I don’t think we’re bugged, but you never know,” he told her. “I did do a check.”

  “Thanks,” she said, as he turned the plane to the flight line.

  ~ * ~

  15

  SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

  While Ferguson had been talking with Van Buren, Conners had studied the sat photos and the 3-D simulation, trying to correlate it with what he had seen. The easiest way—”easiest” being a relative term— was up what seemed to be a secondary road through a canyon at the southern end of the base, but the approach was bound to be mined. Conners thought they might be able to get down a ravine on the northeast side of the mountain, since they were already beyond the lookouts who would guard it. The satellite data showed an old dumping ground at the base of the slope; a double fence ran a few yards away from it.

  “That’s a steep slide,” said Ferguson.

  “I can make it,” said Conners.

  “What about Daruyev?”

  Their prisoner was sitting a few yards away, hands manacled and a hood covering his face.

  Conners didn’t say anything. It would be easiest, he thought, to kill him.

  “Can’t do that,” said Ferguson.

  “Just leave him here,” said Conners.

  “Nah.” Ferguson looked at the satellite photos again. If they could see where they were going, it might be possible to go down the slope with the prisoner. Even so, they’d also have to worry about at least one and probably two lookout positions that had a view near the bottom.

  “There’s a Russian satellite that moves overhead just about 1600 hours,” said Ferg. “If we figure these lookouts and everybody on the base will make themselves scarce then, maybe we can get through then.”

  “That gets us at the fence while it’s still light,” said Conners.

  “Yeah?”

  “Safer in the dark.”

  “Not going down the hill. That spot there can be seen from both the base and this lookout here.”

  “If that’s a lookout. Still safer in the dark, Ferg. Even if these guys have night gear, which we haven’t seen at all. To get there by 1600 we have to leave now.”

  “You feeling tired?”

  “Why don’t we just wait another night?”

  “Longer we wait, Dad, the more chance we have of getting nailed. Besides, if we get down there and check out the place as soon as it’s dark, we’ll have more time to get away if the place is clean.”

  “You really think it is?”

  “No way, or I wouldn’t be going down. But it’s a possibility.”

  “What do we do then?”

  Ferguson shrugged. “We go back, get the truck, and look behind door number three.” He reached into his rucksack for the bread the old woman had given them. “Hungry?”

  Conners took the bread. “What I could really use is some coffee.”

  “What I could really use stands about five-five, and has handles right here,” said Ferg.

  ~ * ~

  16

  BUILDING 24-442, SUBURBAN VIRGINIA

  Thomas stared at the tube, watching as it filled with a list of green letters denoting files of intercepted, deciphered, and translated intercepts tangentially related to Verko. He chose one at random and opened it; it was a Russian interior ministry estimate of how long it would take to clear land mines in the region. Thomas chose another, which referred to the need for firefighting apparatus. A third was filled with gibberish, though whether that was a glitch on the American side wasn’t clear.

  Thomas got up from his desk. He’d piled up his papers and reports so he could pace from wall to wall; it helped him think.

  Why set up a base at an old airport, he thought to himself, unless you have an airplane? And yet there were none there, at least not according to the sat photos or anything else he’d seen.

  If it were big enough, Thomas realized, an airplane would be the perfect delivery system. Packed full of explosives and waste, you could crash it into a city, or maybe explode it above—death would rain everywhere.

  So where was the plane?

  He sat back at the computer and did a search of Interpol and the FBI looking for stolen planes. Nada. Then he realized that it wasn’t absolutely necessary to steal an entire plane. It might make more sense to take different parts, ship them in by truck, and put the airplane together. He found different sites where plane parts could be purchased. Then he made a few calls for background information and data. A rather cranky FBI intelligence expert told him that it would be next to impossible to put a plane together from parts; not only would it cost much more than the aircraft itself, but finding people with the expertise to assemble everything would be a nightmare.

  Besides, there would be records of the purchases anyway, and you’d need a ton of shell companies to obscure what you were doing.

  Stubbornly, Thomas clung to the theory. The agent’s objections led him to a file listing parts purchases that had been blocked because of Customs concerns, and it was on that list that he found a company whose name matched the gibberish in the NSA intercept he had opened.

  Thomas hand-copied the symbols, then went back to the intercept, holding the paper up to the screen. Then he went back to the Customs database and did a general search. There were no hits. But a similar try in one of the Interpol networks led to an Algerian airline company, which Thomas already knew was on a list of possible fronts for Islamic militant groups. The gibberish was actually an acronym for an airline company name in Ara
bic.

  He stood up from his desk, cracked all of his knuckles, then sat back down and began running requests for information on the airline and any company it did business with.

  ~ * ~

  17

  INCIRLIK, TURKEY

  By the time Corrine Alston’s plane arrived, the mission and its various contingencies had been fairly well mapped out. Colonel Van Buren met her at the foot of the plane, holding out his arm as she stepped somewhat wobbly onto the tarmac. Corrine smiled but didn’t take his hand, walking toward the Hummer with a crisp step that belied her fatigue.

  The Special Forces command unit was sequestered in a distant hangar at a far corner of the base. A pair of Hummers containing advanced communications gear was parked at one side of the space. Another vehicle—a modified civilian Ford Expedition— sat outside, data from its satellite dishes snaking through the long cable on the floor. A quartet of communications specialists sat in front of flat panels and keyboards at a station behind the Humvees. Besides being able to communicate with troops in the field and the Pentagon at the same time, the specialists could tap a few keys and get realtime information from sources that ranged from the NSA wiretaps to specially launched Predator aircraft.

  It was also rumored that they could order McDonald’s-to-go around the globe, though the com specialists cited the fifth amendment on the topic.

  Near the communications section, a large topographical map of the target area sat in the center of two large folding tables, along with a number of satellite photos and hand-drawn diagrams depicting various phases of the operation. Van Buren’s G-2 captain gave the briefing, laying out what they knew and working through the overall game plan. To circumvent detection by the Russian air defenses in the region, radar-evading Stealth fighters and special C-130s equipped to fly below radar level would be used. The attack would begin with four Stealth fighters firing on the air defenses. With the defenses secured, a company of SF troops would jump from an MC-130E, aiming to land along the southeastern end of the airstrip. A second company of SF troopers, along with technical experts and a company of men trained in handling hazardous waste, would be aboard an MC-130E, prepared either to land once the strip was secured or to jump in if necessary. Van Buren would be aboard this aircraft so that he could personally supervise the operation on the ground.

  Support would be provided by an AC-13 OH gunship, which would train its howitzer on any pockets of resistance. Once the base was secured, the dirty-bomb facilities would be examined and secured. Depending on the exact situation—one of the reasons Van Buren wanted to be on the scene himself—it would either be blown up or merely prepared for Russian occupation. Guerrillas considered of value would be ex-filtrated along with the assault troops.

  The operation would be coordinated with help from the unit’s specially equipped MC-17X, a jet-powered aircraft based on the C-17 and outfitted with comprehensive communications gear and a scaled-down side-looking radar adapted from the Joint Surveillance Target Attack Radar System (JSTARS) used by the regular Army to coordinate large-scale ground battles. Dubbed “Command Transport 3” in typical SF disinformation style, the one-of-a-kind MC-17X would remain beyond the border until the Stealth fighters launched their attack. At that point it could move forward and use its sensors to help the attackers.

  Once the attack was under way, the Russians would undoubtedly see it. While their reaction was difficult to predict, it was likely they wouldn’t be pleased. A flight of F-15 Eagles would accompany the command plane and be prepared to intervene.

  The Air Force had also provided two tankers with escorts to cover any contingencies. Two long-range, Special Operations Chinooks would stand by near the border as SAR aircraft; each would have a contingent of paratroopers aboard in addition to Air Force pararescue personnel who were being temporarily plucked from another section for the night.

  The planners had debated whether it might be possible to launch the airborne assault before hitting the missile defenses—the attack would tip the ground units off, costing the paratroopers the element of absolute surprise—but in the end decided it was too risky to fly the aircraft overhead without eliminating the antiair. As the intelligence officer began to explain why they were using the Chinooks rather than the Air Force Blackhawks—officially it had to do with the range, though there was a decided prejudice in favor of the massive two-rotor beasts among Van Buren’s staff—Corrine held up her hand.

  “Colonel, I’m going to accept that you and your people understand the logistical needs here much better than I do,” she said. “What you’ve outlined is fine, and I don’t need to cross-examine you on the nitty-gritty. Just make sure we have everything we need.”

  “We can accomplish the mission,” he told her—though he was pleased at the vote of confidence.

  “The question is—do we have the right place?” she said.

  “We won’t know until Ferg is inside,” said Van Buren. “It’s not a cautious approach, but once we have people in that space, there seemed to be no sense waiting another day or two days before launching the assault.”

  “Where is Mr. Ferguson now?”

  “He called a while ago to tell us he was infiltrating the base,” said Van Buren. “He should make his report in four hours. We’ll be ready to go; it’ll take us a litde over two hours to launch the attack from that point. Assuming we have your permission.”

  “You’ll get it if the waste material is there. Where are they building the bombs?”

  “We’re not sure yet. One of those buildings,” said the colonel.

  “At what point will the Russians realize something is going on?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Van Buren turned to his Air Force staff officer, who explained that it was likely radar contacts would appear as soon as the F-l 17s launched their attack. By then, the C-130s would have to come up off the deck anyway. Under ordinary circumstances, the Russians would have from two to four aircraft standing by in the sector; if scrambled, they could reach the base within roughly fifteen minutes, though it was impossible to predict in advance what their readiness status would be.

  “What if we’re challenged?” Corrine asked.

  “Escorts come up from the border as a last resort,” said the captain.

  Corrine knew from the earlier briefings that alerting the Russians beforehand would almost undoubtedly tip off the terrorists; the military had been penetrated by various resistance groups. She’d contact them once the attack was under way, and hope for some cooperation—though she wouldn’t count on it.

  They were looking at her, waiting for approval.

  She thought back to her meeting with the president, the CIA director, and the others. They’d been worried about the May 10 intercept, unsure whether it was real or not—whether it was a real deadline, or just a day picked from thin air.

  It was May 8.

  “Proceed as you’ve planned,” she told Van Buren. “Pending word from Mr. Ferguson.”

  Van Buren smiled, but as he turned from the table he felt pangs of doubt. Questions flooded into his brain: Did he have enough men. Was the timetable too tight? Were the risks too great?

  He stepped back and looked at the map. Between the analysis the CLA had provided and Ferguson’s scouting, it was clear that there could be no more than two or three dozen fighters at the base itself; he’d outnumber them two or three to one and have twenty times their firepower. It was a good plan.

  Assuming the dirty bomb was there.

  ~ * ~

  18

  SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

  They’d missed a sentry point, a fact they didn’t realize until they were almost on top of it. Fortunately, it was located just below the ledge they were using to skirt down toward the access road, situated to give the men at the post a good view of the north. Ferguson saw it as he cleared a rock jutting from the side; two guerrillas were kneeling forward against the rocks just five feet below him.

  He froze, but either Daruyev or Conners kicke
d some rocks behind him. As one of the guards began to turn his head, Ferguson threw himself forward feetfirst, swinging his rifle up to use as a club. His left boot slammed into one of the sentries’ shoulder as he rose, and all three men rolled in a tumble, Ferguson temporarily sandwiched between the guerrillas.

  Whether because he had the advantage of surprise or fury, he managed to get to his feet without either man drawing a weapon; the butt end of his AK-74 slammed the nearest back against the rocks senseless. The other guard took a step backward, then slipped and fell down the embankment. Ferguson threw his rifle to the side and started after the man. By the time he reached the road he’d lost his own balance, sliding on his side and butt and landing a few yards behind the enemy guard, who was struggling to his feet.