First Team [First Team 01] Read online

  “Major’s not an honorary title,” Ferguson told her. “You don’t keep it after they kick you out, especially on a dishonorable discharge.”

  “How are things going?”

  “Shitty. I have some GPS coordinates on a guerrilla camp near here where our source is. I need satellite snaps ASAP. Not just library stuff—I need an 8X,” he added, requesting an up-to-date and detailed satellite image of the target area.

  “This is where you think Kiro is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have more information on him.”

  “Let me read you the coordinates first,” said Ferg. He actually didn’t “read” them—he’d recorded them using the phone’s GPS gear earlier and merely had to hit a key combination to send them over to her.

  “Got ‘em,” she said, as the transmission went through.

  “So how come the camp wasn’t in our brief?” he said.

  He could hear her checking back through their files to see.

  “Um, you’d have to ask Corrigan,” she said. “The notes here are that there was activity and probably a base.”

  “Cross out ‘probably.’”

  “It’s possible that the Russians don’t know.”

  “Right.”

  “FSB doesn’t.”

  “That I believe.”

  “Let me tell you about Kiro,” said Lauren.

  “Make it dirty.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “It’s late over here.”

  “Kiro is on the FBI wanted list. He’s gotten al-Qaida funding and blew up the Carousel Mall in Syracuse, New York, more than a year ago. We want him. Slott’s already approved an extraction.”

  “I think we just got hit with a sunspot,” Ferguson said. “I’m in Chechnya, but you just said something about New York.”

  More patiently than Corrigan would have, Lauren explained that Kiro was believed to be Muhammad al Aberrchmof, an Islamic militant thought to have escaped from Afghanistan during the American action there in 2002. He had gone to Pakistan, where he was responsible for a bombing in a Karachi nightclub. Then he had managed to slip into the United States through Canada, masterminding a suicide attack on a Syracuse shopping mall. Following that, he had been spotted in Georgia—the one next to Russia, not Florida—and was now believed to be leading some of the Chechens.

  “His friends are even worse. He seems to have met with Allah’s Fist, the people who tried to blow up Independence Hall and got the IRS center in Massachusetts,” said Lauren. “Nasty bunch.”

  “How associated?” asked Ferg.

  “Not sure. Allah’s Fist hasn’t done anything since the attack on the IRS center. The leader, Samman Bin Saqr, disappeared right after that attack, just fell off the map. He might be dead. In any event, you have a green light to bring Kiro out. They want this guy, Ferg. They want to put him on trial for murder.”

  “I can’t clip him?” said Ferg.

  The term, taken from the American mafia, was slang for an assassination. It had to be approved by Slott and the CIA director, either from a list of high-level terrorists or on the president’s direct command. An extraction generally applied to a lower level of terrorist or enemy prisoner of war, though there were exceptions.

  Three people had been killed in the mall attack, and dozens wounded. Ferguson shook his head—that ought to be enough to have the bastard’s heart cut out, no questions asked.

  Five hundred people had been killed or wounded in the IRS attack. Was that what it took?

  “They really want him, Ferg. They want a scalp. We don’t have a positive connection,” Lauren added. “But the people at the NSA have a voice match that we think is good, and there’s one photo. We’ll upload them.”

  “The Russians know who he is?” Ferguson asked.

  “Not as far as we know.”

  “We’re going to tell them?”

  “Not until you bring him home. Slott has been on Corrigan’s back since we made the connection. He wanted to call you right away. Corrigan held him off.”

  Ferg held the phone down and took a few steps along the front of the building, scanning in the distance of the road. The team was getting a little ragged; they’d been out in the field for about two weeks.

  If Kiro really was Aberrchmof, he ought to be grabbed.

  Then castrated, burned, and pissed on.

  He put the phone back to his ear.

  “Ferg?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, Beautiful.”

  “Colonel Van Buren has already been alerted.”

  “OK,” said Ferg, even though he knew an all-out assault on the fortress would be out of the question, even if they were absolutely sure Kiro was there. Too many Russian troops were nearby, ready to gum up the works. They’d either have to get the Russians in on the game or find a way to finesse it. “I’ll get with him,” he told her.

  “You need anything else?”

  “Well my inflatable doll sprang a leak last night.”

  “Very funny.” She killed the connection.

  ~ * ~

  10

  IRKTAN, CHECHNYA—TWELVE HOURS LATER

  Rankin spotted it, staring at the images upside down.

  “They run out that tunnel, then pick up the vehicle there,” he said, pointing at the laptop screen. “You can see the wheel in the hide.” Everybody squinted over the screen.

  “So we knock on the front door, they run out the back?” said Ferguson.

  Rankin snorted. “Yeah, right. They could take two companies on before they felt the heat. Even then, you don’t have armor, you’re not getting in.”

  “What do you think, Dad?” Ferg asked Conners.

  “Got to figure they have at least one guy inside the cave at all times,” he said, pointing at the escape route. “I have to tell you, I don’t quite see the cave, let alone the tire or even the hide Skip’s talking about.”

  “It’s there,” said Rankin.

  “I’m not arguing with you. I just have older eyes.” Conners smiled at him. Rankin reminded him of a racehorse that had been shot up with amphetamines for a race, always jittery, sensitive to the touch. Great in the race, but hell before and after. “Be booby traps, probably twists and turns. You’d never get in that way.”

  “I don’t see us getting in at all,” said Rankin.

  “Yeah, Skip’s right on that. We’re going to have to make him come out,” said Ferguson. He got up and started pacing around, thinking over the situation. It was now almost noon. Every hour they stayed there increased the chances they would be found by either the Russians or the Chechen rebels, or both. They still had their informer, but even holding on to him was not without risk.

  The Russians had two companies in Irktan. That was probably the reason they didn’t attack the camp; they figured it wasn’t worth the effort.

  That would have to be changed.

  “Rankin, you see any guard posts on that back end there?” Ferguson asked.

  “They have people on this road way the hell over here,” he said, pointing at a highway nearly two miles from the rear of the fortress area. “The thing is, there’s no way in from the roads. So if they’re dealing with the Russians, they probably figure they don’t have to guard along this area here. Terrain’s for shit, and the Russians never go anywhere without either a caravan of armor or helicopters, or both. If you’re in the fortress, you don’t need to be anywhere else.”

  “And this?” Ferguson pointed to a ravine that ran out the back of the fortress.

  “The escape route,” said Rankin, repeating what he had told Ferguson earlier. “Got a bike right there.”

  The hide for the bike was visible on an earlier photo; the area was not quite as sharp in the most recent shot. But Ferguson decided it must still be there.

  “Why only one bike?” asked Guns.

  “Only one person is important enough to escape,” said Ferg.

  “Only one’s chicken enough,” said Rankin.

  “Maybe i
t’s for a messenger,” said Conners.

  “Could be,” said Ferguson. One of the briefs on the rebel organization that Lauren had posted with the satellite data emphasized that the leaders looked at the war as a long-term affair—survival was important. In his opinion, the bike was Kiro’s parachute, nothing else.

  “We might be able to sneak in that way, take them by surprise,” said Rankin.

  “We don’t know what’s beyond that opening,” said Conners. “Assuming it is an opening.”

  “Got to be,” said Rankin.

  “Yeah, OK. Listen, I gotta talk to Van,” said Ferguson, standing up. “In the meantime—Rankin, that mortar we have in the kit—”

  “The English piece of shit?”

  “The same,” said Ferguson. “You think you could rig it so some of the shells it fires don’t explode?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they fire and land somewhere, but don’t go boom.”

  “I could do that,” said Conners.

  “Yeah, I could figure it out,” said Rankin quickly.

  “Good. Only a couple. Don’t blow yourselves up, guys,” said Ferguson. As he jogged up the basement steps, the plan began to form in his mind.

  ~ * ~

  11

  IRKTAN, CHECHNYA—FOUR HOURS LATER

  Rankin finished setting the charge, waiting beneath the car behind the army headquarters building. He could hear Guns haranguing the guards a few feet away, asking about the clinic—demanding to know in very loud and seemingly drunk Russian why foreigners were allowed to poison people there.

  The guards were getting impatient. Rankin heard one of them shove Guns and rolled away from the car. They started kicking the Marine, who’d fallen to the ground as part of his diversion.

  It took Rankin all his self-control not to jump up and run to help his companion. Instead, he got up slowly, walking toward the battered Accord, where Conners was waiting with their Chechen informer.

  A woman was walking near the road. Rankin looked at her for a moment, worried that she would stop and say something to him. But she hurried on.

  The sergeant looked back in time to see one of the men give Guns a kick in the ribs, leaving him in a heap against the wall. He waited for him to make it to the corner and start across the street. Then Rankin opened the car door and pulled the Chechen informer out.

  “In two days,” he said, repeating the Chechen words Guns had told him. “Go to Sister. You’ll be paid.”

  The Chechen’s eyes were glued on the hundred-dollar bill in Rankin’s hand.

  “Two days. Understand?”

  The man nodded.

  “Now run.”

  The Chechen understood that. He shook his head and put up his hands.

  Rankin took the pistol from under his jacket. “Run,” he said. “Run.”

  He had to bring the gun up almost to the man’s face before he started.

  The soldiers didn’t see him until he was a good distance down the block. One began yelling; the other knelt to aim at him. As he prepared to fire, Rankin pushed the button on the radio detonator, blowing up the car.

  ~ * ~

  W

  hen Ferguson heard the explosion, he dropped the round into the LI 6, involuntarily ducking back as the 81 mm projectile whipped upward from the small mortar. In quick succession, he loaded and fired five more rounds from the British-made weapon, raining a half dozen shots on the Russian headquarters. Had these been normal rounds, they would have done considerable damage; the bombs weighed a bit over nine pounds, much of it explosive. Rankin had fiddled with them, essentially turning them into duds. Still, it was very possible that the attack would injure someone, and while Ferguson had no particular love for the Russians or locals, his own people and the Mormons were down in the village. He finished with the dud rounds and moved the mortar to bomb out the road; these rounds sounded the same as they left the tube but their booms were potent cracks that shook the air even where he was positioned, roughly two thousand meters away.

  Ferguson kicked over the mortar, then kicked dirt all around to make it seem as if there had been more people there. Grabbing his gear, he hiked up the ridge he’d scouted earlier, tracking down, then across the hills to a point north of the Chechen stronghold, where he was supposed to meet Rankin and Guns. Conners was already watching at the rear of the fortress; if Kiro tried to escape before the rest of the team got there, Ferg had told him to blow him away Authorized or not, the death would not be lamented in Washington.

  It took nearly an hour for Ferguson to reach the rendezvous point. As he reached it, he heard an airplane approaching and worried that perhaps the plan had succeeded a little too well—perhaps the Russians were so angry they’d pound the guerrillas so severely that they wouldn’t have a chance to escape.

  The jet was too high and too fast for Ferguson to see. It circled twice over the camp, which was between two and three miles away. On its second orbit the steady hush of the jet seemed to stutter. Then it roared louder than before. Ferguson instinctively ducked; a few seconds later he heard the muffled thud of two medium-sized bombs exploding near the fortress.

  As the plane zoomed away, the CIA officer climbed up the rock with his MP-5 and Remington over his shoulder, looking in the direction of camp. White smoke curled into the sky from beyond the rocks, but he couldn’t see the fort itself from where he was.

  “That bomb get you, Dad?” he asked Conners.

  “Thought we were on silent com,” grumbled the SF soldier.

  “Just checking.” 64 I Larry Bond and Jim DeFelice

  Ferguson went back to the ledge and stowed his gear, then took his binoculars and scouted the approach, adjusting his com set to make sure he’d hear the team when they got into range. He sat down cross-legged, shotgun in his lap, submachine gun at his side, and made himself as comfortable as possible to do the thing in the world he hated the most—wait.

  ~ * ~

  G

  uns had been beaten pretty badly, but he was able to walk, and when the car exploded, Rankin ran around the block and met him as they’d arranged. The mortar shells began falling in the field short of the center of town; the timers on the other charges he’d set around town began going off. Rankin applied the coup de grace to the attack by igniting the charge on their Accord; a fireball shot straight up from the gas tank, a spectacular show that would have rated a ten at a fireworks display.

  They took a quick left turn off the main drag and jumped in a truck they’d stolen earlier. Guns slumped against the door as Rankin drove around to the road that led to the rendezvous point.

  “Fuckin’ Russkies don’t have a clue,” he told the Marine, who merely groaned in response. “They’re little rabbits, cowering in their holes. Assholes had any sense, they’d have their knives out—cream us just as soon as look at us.”

  In Rankin’s opinion, the Russians’ entire posture had invited attack—he would have had a better perimeter force, better sweeps, checkpoints—he wouldn’t have let a couple of foreigners, one of them a gimp, waltz right out of town under his nose. A machine gun would have commanded the top of the ridge beyond the road, wiping them out as they drove.

  “You complaining?” Guns asked him, as they stopped to get rid of the truck just beyond the ridge.

  “I’m just saying they’re awful lazy.”

  “They kick pretty good.”

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was worried they were going to arrest you.”

  “Ferg said they wouldn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, Ferg’s not always right.”

  “Think they broke my rib.”

  “Bastards. We shoulda killed every one of them,” said Rankin.

  He climbed on top of the truck and turned his field glasses back toward the town. Two BMPs, armored personnel carriers mounting a light cannon, had taken up a position at the nearest end of town.

  “They coming for us?” Guns asked.

 
“Not yet. They better get their act together, or we’re back to square one.”

  “You don’t think blowing up the commander’s car will piss them off?”

  Rankin spun around so quickly he nearly fell off the truck. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

  “With what? Your binoculars?” Ferguson looked at Guns, who was hunched over the front of the truck. “You all right, Marine?”