First Team [First Team 01] Read online

  “And you’re a fuckin’ Marine,” sneered Murphy, who said nothing else as he walked back to the DC-8.

  “How did they know that?” asked Massette.

  “By smell,” said Rankin, pulling out his sat phone to call Corrine.

  ~ * ~

  10

  ON THE GROUND IN CHECHNYA

  One by one, Van Buren’s team slipped into the cave while the rover moved forward to catch the guerrillas’ attention. The terrorists aimed their weapons at it, but did not fire; the audio feed picked up muffled conversation as the guerrillas discussed what to do about the miniature beast.

  “Couple of people behind them,” whispered Peterson.

  Van Buren was the next-to-last person inside. The team moved along the wall, crouching behind a low row of machines and broken crates. The point man stopped behind a pair of molded plastic chairs and aimed his M-4 toward the balcony.

  “I can get one,” he whispered.

  “Just hold,” said Van Buren. “Let the other team move into position.”

  He nudged to the side, trying to locate Kalman. He thought he saw something moving in the dim light filtering in from the outside but couldn’t be sure. He resisted the temptation to run across and find him.

  The rover stopped just before the wall beneath the guerrillas’ position, then backed slowly and began making a circle, primarily to draw their attention but also to check through an area of crates at the back to see if anyone was there. The second team, meanwhile, had entered from the back door and made its way to the edge of the ramp, using a simple scope device to observe the interior.

  The seconds ticked off like the long hours of an interminable schoolday. Van Buren took a slow, controlled breath, vision narrowed to the dim viewer of the night-gear monocle. He fought off distractions—the thought of what he might tell his son about the mission tickled him a moment, then disappeared.

  “Ready,” whispered Peterson.

  “We go on the bang,” said Van Buren. “Shield your eyes.”

  The rover slid to a stop. One of the guerrillas stood and started to get down, climbing over the rail so he could go to it and examine it. The arm on the unit clicked, but nothing happened, the lieutenant having trouble manipulating it correctly.

  Just pull the damn thing, Van Buren thought to himself. Then bam—the grenade flashed and exploded, a big Fourth of July firecracker going off at the back of the cave. The point man took out the terrorist on the balcony, while Yeger blasted the one who’d jumped down to examine the rover. A second flash-bang, tossed by the team at the ramp, exploded, followed by a pair of short bursts from MP-5s.

  Van Buren ran across the open floor, looking for Kalman. Something hard bounced off his back—a ricochet that caught just the right angle—and he felt a stinging numbness in his arm. But he pushed up to his feet and found his man hunkered behind a row of long crates.

  In the forty seconds or so that it took for the others to finish securing the hangar, the numbness in Van Buren’s arm spread to his neck, then up and around his face. His legs stiffened and he felt as if he were being choked. He grabbed Kalman by the arm, pulling him toward the mouth of the cave.

  What would he tell James?

  Van Buren reached the mouth of the cave, where men in space suits fell on Kalman, who was already protesting that he was fine. Someone shouted in Van Buren’s ear:

  “Colonel, we’re advised that a convoy of Russian armored vehicles is on the highway roughly one hour away.”

  “All right,” said Van Buren. His jaw hurt to move. “We’re wrapping up. Prepare the aircraft. Get the demolitions people in—blow the roof down.”

  “Make it quick in there,” warned Peterson.

  “Go, let’s go,” said Van Buren. “Where are Ferg and Conners?”

  “They’re not here,” said Yeger. “We have two prisoners, two dead men.”

  “Outside, get everyone outside.” He turned to go back in but someone stopped him—Peterson.

  “Your suit,” she said, pointing. “It’s torn.”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Over here!” she yelled. There was a strict protocol, and not even Van Buren could avoid it. Medics swarmed around.

  “No blood,” said someone.

  “Thank God,” said someone else.

  “I’m OK,” said Van Buren.

  “Hit the back of the vest,” said a medic. “Concrete.”

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  “Make sure it didn’t get into his skin.”

  “No blood.”

  “I’m OK,” insisted Van Buren. Dizziness and nausea swirled in his head; he pulled his hood off, breathing the crisp night air, hoping it would revive him.

  “I want a board,” said the medic next to him. “Piece of concrete ricocheted and hit your back. Your spine may be bruised.”

  “No, that’s not necessary,” said Van Buren, his head clearing. “Did we get Ferguson and Conners?” he asked. “Where’s Ferg? Where the fuck is he?”

  “They’re not here,” said one of the sergeants whose team had secured the buildings, then conducted a search. “AC-130 is using its infrared to locate guerrillas. There’s two groups moving out down the road, and all those guys have guns. Ferguson and Conners aren’t here. They must’ve gone out on the plane.”

  “Typical Ferg, always looking for another party.” Van Buren walked with one of the medics to a second area, where he was to shed his gear and take a cocktail of anti-radiation drugs as a precaution. “Where’s communications? Somebody get me hooked up to Ms. Alston. Everybody else—let’s go, saddle up. Come on, you know the drill. Go. Go.”

  ~ * ~

  11

  SRI LANKA—AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER

  The ground crew Samman Bin Saqr had chosen was waiting at the hangar when he landed, alerted by his message. Two fuel trucks met him in the apron area; he permitted himself a short respite, climbing down from the plane as it was “hot pitted,” refueled, and prepped so it could leave without hesitation.

  The terrorist leader made his way down to the tarmac where his men were working feverishly. The replacement crew met him as planned, fully expecting to fly the plane to its target. Samman Bin Saqr studied both men, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

  “You will take the first officer’s seat,” he told him. He turned to the other man, who had been trained as the copilot. “Go with the others. Your time will come.”

  Both men nodded, without commenting, and moved to their respective tasks. One of the maintenance people walked toward the rear of the aircraft.

  “Where are you going?” said Samman Bin Saqr sharply. He had handpicked the maintenance people, just as he had chosen all of the people involved in the project. But now he feared that the Americans had somehow managed to infiltrate his team.

  The man pointed toward the side-loading cargo door. The door had been welded shut early in its overhaul; only the specially built opening at the rear had been used to load the aircraft.

  “Leave it,” said Samman Bin Saqr. “Leave the plane as it is.”

  The man started to object. Samman Bin Saqr turned to the head of the ground team, who was just trotting up to see what the problem was. “Shoot him,” he said.

  He heard the shot as he walked back toward the cockpit. Samman Bin Saqr permitted himself a short pause on the steps, waiting as the fuel trucks finished. He was taking off several hours too soon, but it couldn’t be helped. It wouldn’t do to wait. He had an appointment with destiny.

  By the end of the day, America’s island paradise would be a hell of unimaginable proportions. His legacy would be known for decades, perhaps even centuries, to come.

  ~ * ~

  F

  erguson knew they were on the ground, but nothing else made sense to him. He could hear the engines humming at idle. He wondered if they had been forced down, unsure whether that would mean the rear door would be opened or if the plane would simply be blown up.

  He fished in the darkness for
his rifle. He found his rucksack, then crawled over it, still searching for the AK-74. Conners lay half on it, breathing unevenly. He’d thrown up all over himself.

  The first sign of radiation poisoning? Or was it simply motion sickness?

  Ferguson pulled the rifle out from under the sergeant’s body. As he retrieved it, the 747 began to roll. He began firing wildly at the floor of the plane, thinking he might strike the landing gear or otherwise disable it. The plane’s engines were so loud he could barely even hear the gun as it fired. He burned the clip, slapped it away, grabbed the last one from his ruck and fired again, even more wildly, peppering the back of the plane.

  Ferguson lost his balance as the jet pushed its nose up into the air. He tumbled against the metal, landing near the cargo bay door that he had come in through. Desperate, he pulled out his pistol and fired wildly at what he thought was the door’s locking mechanism; two bullets ricocheted off to his right, and if any of the others hit, they had no effect on the lock.

  “Shit,” he said. He gave in to his frustration, slamming the heel of his gun against the metal-grate floor, pounding it down and screaming, venting his fury at the plane, cursing himself for stupidly boarding it, cursing the bastard terrorists, cursing his inability to think clearly and come up with a plan. He punched and kicked the floor until not just his hands but his shoulders and thighs were numb.

  When finally he had purged his rage, he sat back up in the darkness and tried to figure out what to do next.

  ~ * ~

  12

  ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3, OVER THE PERSIAN GULF—AN HOUR LATER

  Corrine listened to Van Buren finish his summary of what they had found at the base. He had three additional prisoners aboard his aircraft, which was about fifteen minutes from the Turkish border. Two of his men had sustained small wounds. The radiation exposure to the team was within acceptable limits.

  The facility had been temporarily sealed off by exploding several large charges near the entrances. The damage would not preclude the facility from being repaired and reused; presumably the Russians would have to see to that themselves. They were already en route.

  Of more immediate concern: A smorgasbord of waste material had been stored in the cave. The plane that had taken off was a flying radiation bomb.

  And Ferguson and Conners were undoubtedly on it.

  “Thank you, Colonel. Job well done,” she told him. Then she looked up at the communications specialist. “Put the president through now,” she told him.

  The young man nodded, doing his best to hide his anxiety at channeling a transmission from the commander in chief. One of the president’s aides came on the line, and the specialist pointed at Corrine as the White House connection went through.

  “Well, dear, you are making a considerable amount of noise in Moscow, so I cannot imagine what is going on in the Caucasus,” said the president.

  “We’ve secured a terrorist facility in pursuance of U.S. and international law,” she told him.

  “I understand the Russian ambassador has a slightly different interpretation of the affair,” said the president. “As a matter of fact, the secretary of state is standing outside my door as we speak, and I hear that his white hair is clumping on my rug.”

  “Then perhaps someone from his legal team can dredge up Memo 13-2002, relating to the antiterrorist letter signed during the second Bush administration,” said Corrine.

  “You’re thinking like a lawyer,” said the president.

  “You don’t want me to?”

  “I’m not complaining, Counselor. Just offering commentary.”

  The president paused, distracted by one of his aides in his office. When he came back on the line, Corrine tried to seem more conciliatory and less tired.

  “Notifying the Russian government of the situation as it developed would have meant jeopardizing our people,” she told the president.

  “Now, now, I didn’t put you out there to be offering excuses. I’m expecting that you did the right thing and that the chips will fall where they may. As I understand the memo you cited,” the president added, his voice making it seem as an aside, “the letter covers the pursuit of terrorists, and there seems to be some concern that it means ‘hot pursuit.’”

  “I’m not sure I understand the difference between hot and cold,” said Corrine.

  McCarthy laughed, though she hadn’t meant it as a joke.

  “Mr. President, we think some of the terrorists managed to escape in an aircraft with considerable nuclear material on board. The aircraft was pursued and fired on by fighters that were part of our attack group, but it’s not clear that it was shot down; there’s heavy cloud cover in the area obscuring the crash site. I’ve authorized a team to survey the area, which will undoubtedly lead to more protests.”

  “Understood.”

  “The aircraft that escaped was a 747 that may have been set up as a bomb; we’re simply not sure. There’s also a good possibility that two of our people are aboard that aircraft.”

  The president remained silent.

  “If we didn’t get it, and it crashes somewhere,” said Corrine, “it’ll be a hell of a mess. I have a net set out, but if I just shoot it down, it may explode. The fallout is bound to be a problem. People may die.”

  “Am I speaking to my private counsel?” said McCarthy.

  “Yes,” she said, realizing that he wanted the communication to be confidential.

  “Shoot it down, girl.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. Keep me informed.”

  ~ * ~

  13

  OVER THE PACIFIC

  The flashlight batteries had gone out, but Ferguson realized he could use the light cast from the laptop’s screen to see, at least for short distances. He took it with him as he moved around the plane.

  The floor and ceiling panels were screwed in; it occurred to him that it might be possible to unscrew them and reach the control cable for the rudder and elevator in the tail. Ferguson knew nothing about how the controls worked, let alone whether they were hydraulic or electric. But he was so desperate to do something that he instantly became consumed by the idea, focusing on it as the one solution to the situation, the one real thing he could do. If he could find them, he might get through the cables somehow—hack them if they were wires, or use the bullets remaining in his pistol if they were metal to puncture them.

  He started looking along the floor first, mostly because it was the easier place to look. On his hands and knees, Ferg took his knife and began working at the screws, which had Phillips head crosses. He got three off and was working on a fourth when the laptop’s power conservation program kicked in, turning it off; he decided that was a good idea, and continued in darkness, feeling his way to each screw on the eight-foot-long panel. He found there was a trick to it—he set the knife tip in at a slight angle, then slapped at the handle with the palm of his hand, using as much force as he could to get the screw started. Once it moved, he could turn it a few times with the blade at a slightly different angle, and then use his fingers to finish it off. The screws were only an inch long, and with one exception came free fairly easily.

  Ferguson knew that if his plan succeeded, he would die in the plane. He saw no alternative; he realized that the metal jacket around the cargo bay contained waste material and explosives, and didn’t even bother getting the rad meter to see how bad it was. From the day that he had been told he had thyroid cancer he had faced the possibility of death, and the fact that it was closing in now did not bother him. He worried instead that the terrorists might succeed in flying the plane into some American landmark, or even crash it into a Third World city. He wanted to stop them, and would use all of his energy to do so.

  One of the screws refused to come off. Ferguson slapped at it, punching the end of the knife hard. He tried prying underneath it, and finally wedged the blade in. But then as he poked the dagger in the slit again, the tip of the knife
broke off.

  He lay with his head down on the deck for a full minute. Then he stabbed at the screw, playfully at first, then more seriously, managing to use the sheared edge as a chisel and pushing off the head. That broke the blade more, but not so badly that he couldn’t use it to help pry up the floor panel. He slid it down toward the back and brought over the laptop, turning it on so he could see.

  There was a solid layer of metal below him. When Ferguson climbed down to examine it, he found soldered seams. The thin cover took two blows from his knife and gave way.