Cloudburst (20 page)

“Then it is possible, yes?” Bud asked.

Joe hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

For Bud the contemplation was over. He had his answer, and with that answer he reaffirmed decisions he had already made. Dear God. “Captain Anderson, could you defuse such a weapon?”

“If it’s on that plane and you can get me to it, yes. I’ve done it before.”

“We have to assume it is.”

“Joe, if you could ask Sadr any questions, what would they be?” Landau inquired, pointing to the tablet of paper. “Be simple and brief.”

Anderson allowed a hidden smile inside. “You guys have someone everywhere.”

“That’s not your concern,” Bud reminded him.

Joe grunted. There wasn’t much to think about. The questions were simple. He scribbled them on the lined paper, then tore off the sheet and handed it to the DCI.

“You’re leaving from Andrews in an hour,” Bud informed Joe.

“Only the secretary of Energy can activate my team.”

Bud no longer felt like being polite. “We are on the same side, Captain. Now, if you want, I’ll get the secretary on the phone and he can tell you personally. Or, I can go upstairs and get the president to sign the order. In either case you will be going—alone.”

“What?”

Bud was struggling with the security aspect of the situation. “Do you have to have your team? If not absolutely, then it’s solo.”

Joe would rather have a five-person team with him, but why protest? The NSA had obviously seen his file—the classified one—which told him that he had worked alone on his biggest job. “Whatever you say.”

“Good. Gather up whatever you need. The driver who brought you will see you to the field.” Bud thought Anderson looked less than pleased. He left immediately, with no goodbye or parting words.

Herb Landau tucked the sheet of paper in his inside pocket. He stood up with a shove of his arms on the chair. The suit felt baggy. It had to be more noticeable.

Bud stood, too, pinching his lips with two fingers. “He’s a little arrogant, Herb. I’m not sure I like him.”

“You don’t have to like him, son. Get used to it. You’ll work with more assholes than a proctologist if you stay in D.C. for a while.”

Bud opened the door for the DCI.

“Besides, he’s damn good at what he does.”

“He must be,” Bud replied, thinking a second later, to himself:
He better be.

London

“Don’t worry,” the ordnance expert assured the Scotland Yard officer. “Putty.”

The inspector assigned to the Domestic Terrorism Desk squeezed the material between his fingers. It felt much like his little girl’s modeling clay after it had sat out for a day or two, but not as flaky. There was a detonator—a mock one—protruding from the block of putty, obviously used to simulate explosives. The ordnance boys had dissected the explosive device, which turned out to be a harmless replica of the one that had all but destroyed a building less than a kilometer from where the fake was found. This was according to a note found with it. Trusting terrorists, the inspector had learned, could be deadly. But this seemed to be different: It was a warning.

“So our friends have a rather clever gadget here, do they?” the inspector commented. He was looking for a more descriptive outline of the explosive-laden vest that lay sliced open on the table. Several of the large pockets were open to view, and certain wires were neatly snipped at the points where they exited the pockets on the front and sides of the canvas garment.

“It seems so, sir. Eight pockets, each containing three pounds of high-explosive plastique. I don’t think we need to doubt that they have the real thing.” He poked the block of putty which approximated the size and weight of each pocket’s contents.

“Any more?”

“Well, the triggering mechanism is quite sophisticated. A deadman’s switch—this thumb switch, here.” He pressed it down, and released it, demonstrating its use. “If the chap holding this lets go—
boom
. Interrupter switches on each separate block of plastique. If a wire or wires are cut—
boom
. If the power is lost—
boom
. The only way to deactivate the thing is this.” The ordnance man pulled a small metallic box from the top left pocket. It had three red rocker switches on top and a rubber coated conduit running from the bottom to the other wire bundles. “We cut this conduit and the ones running from pocket to pocket. It’s green wire to one terminal, then red to another—no consistency. And in addition there are secondary links to the charges. There are these individual wires from the switch box to each charge, and a loop conduit from the box to number one, from there to number two, and so on. No dice cutting or defusing. Only the proper positioning of these switches will safe it.”

“Is it a onetime safe?”

“No. It can be engaged as often as desired. That way the chap doesn’t need to worry about getting his thumb tired.”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. Behind his back his thumbs were grating against each other. “Damn hideous.”

“Right.”

“Our friends in America won’t be pleased to hear this.”
And I have to be the bloody one to tell them!

Pope AFB

The crew of the huge green-and-black C-141B Starlifter sat in their seats, strapped in and ready to fire up the four turbojets if and when the word came. It hadn’t yet. They were no different from the ‘boys in black’ in that a go meant a chance to prove themselves. Their civilian superiors would deny that their troops harbored any such feelings, afraid that it might paint an unwanted Rambo image. Shortly another crew would come on station to relieve them, and again they would go to their bunks for another few hours of sleep.

A quarter mile away the boys in black enjoyed no such respite. They sat on the wing of a loaned 747 in a massive hangar at the extreme east end of Pope Air Force Base. The aircraft, politely acquired from the airline, was configured identically to the interior of the
Clipper Atlantic Maiden
. Civilian carriers often lent aircraft to the military for counter-terrorist training. The airline, mindful that it was their aircraft on the ground in Libya, had called first to offer. The
Clipper Angelic Pride
arrived an hour earlier and was immediately moved into hangar 9. Its crew and several engineers familiar with the 747-400 were ‘quarantined’ with the JSOC liaison team in the adjacent command post.

Major McAffee stepped from the port number three door onto the wing. He was dressed in full assault gear, colored black, with a low holster on his right hip and a stubby MP5KA4 stockless submachine gun in hand. A black titanium helmet and attached respirator hung from a rubber hook on his web gear. The rest of the team looked much the same, bathed in an unusual orange glow from the reflection of the overhead lights off the pumpkin-colored walls.

The eight men had just finished their first full-dress run- through of the aircraft, an activity designed to give them a look at the interior as they would see it in a real takedown, but having the added undesired effect of drenching them in their own sweat. No matter how light- or vapor-permeable their gear was supposed to be, it was never enough. Their sustained and rapid movement was part of the cause, but the stress was more of it. Even the mock takedown was stressful. It was supposed to be. The team had to psych up for a go, with no thought that they wouldn’t get it.

“That’s the first one,” Blackjack said. “We’ll do at least two more, but first we’ve got some intel.” The men perked up at that. “It looks like at least four bad guys—maybe just that many. They probably have SMGs. We’re told they’re Uzis, and if they have those you can bet they have frags and pistols. Standard stuff. That’s the good news. British Intelligence gave us some stuff through 22 SAS about twenty minutes ago.” He didn’t mention that the information had been forwarded surreptitiously to Delta from their SAS counterparts
ahead
of the official message. That was probably still in the Pentagon. Not everything had changed. “There was a blast in London earlier today and an inert duplicate of the bomb was left close by.” McAffee explained the specifics of the device, as the British had determined, and contents of the note left with it. “So the head bad guy is wearing this thing. All he has to do is release the switch.”

Antonelli snorted. “Hell of a deadman.”

“Exactly.” Blackjack looked at each man. ‘Tear it apart.”

After a few seconds contemplating his knees Graber spoke up, “If this guy is dedicated he’ll blow it—no doubt in my mind. Especially if he sees us coming through the door. They know we don’t go looking for prisoners.”

“What if we do that?” Lieutenant Quimpo suggested. “I mean, if we take out the other bad guys and just, you know, point at him, maybe he’ll hesitate. If he does we might be able to get him talking long enough to get the hostages off.” Quimpo saw the skeptical looks. “Hey, it’s slim. I know.”

“Nah,” Goldfarb commented. “He’s probably a fanatic. He’ll blow it. We’ve gotta make sure he doesn’t…somehow.”

Graber thought about that. “How?”

McAffee sat down. The men were now in a loose circle, discussing the possibilities.

Langley

“DONNER received and acknowledged the order,” DDI Drummond said. He looked out the window past the DCI. He sipped lemonade from a wide ice-filled tumbler. “He got real bold.”

“How so?” Landau asked.

“He sent the Rome station a message…direct.” The ice clinked in the half-empty glass. “Apparently he wasn’t too happy we didn’t listen to him.”

Landau shook his head. “I can understand. What he must think. All in all, though, I’m glad he’s coming out. He’s getting…oh, I don’t know…not careless, but fearless. We’ve gotten more of those ‘scoldings’ lately, just like his previous message.”

Drummond finished off the lemonade. “He’s been a good asset.”

“Better than anyone will ever know,” Landau added, his words accompanied by a crack of thunder nearby. “Damn! When’s this supposed to let up?”

“I think the paper said the day after tomorrow. Think positive: It’s not snow.”

He’s right about that.

“I’ll issue the extraction order at two today. Is that all right by you?” the DDI inquired.

“Of course. We better get Mike in here: It’s his department. Is he around?”

“I think he’s in a conference with S and T. I’ll check.” Drummond spun the DCI’s phone around and dialed Deputy Director, Operations Mike Healy’s office. “Nance, hi. Is Mike in with the brains?” The humor was common and good-natured. “Can you ask him to come up right away. No…the director’s office. Thanks.” He replaced the phone and turned it back to face the DCI.

Herb pointed to the glass. “You want some more?”

“Nope.”

A few minutes passed before the DDO entered, preceded by a polite rap. He was a pudgy man, one who had been behind a desk too long. Years of active service ‘in the field’ tended to keep one fit, not primarily for survival reasons, but because of the unbelievable amount of walking field officers often found themselves doing. But he was a lifer: a career Agency man. It was good to have one of those as a deputy, Herb knew, realizing further that he was damn lucky to have three as his chief deputies. And they were good
people
, which was more important to him.

“Boss…Drum.” He slapped the seated DDI on the shoulder and took the chair next to him. “Long time, no see.”

“We’re not the ones hiding,” Drummond jokingly accused him.

“What’s up?” Healy settled back, his hands folded on his lap.

“Mike,” Landau began, “we’re going to need a pickup.”

“Where?”

“Can you manage Benghazi? It’s a preset,” the DDI pointed out.

“DONNER?”

“You got it,” Drummond confirmed.

“Well,” Healy exhaled the word, “he’s given us some good stuff. Saved some lives, that’s for sure. When?”

“Probably tomorrow, late. I’m going to notify the Rome station. Logan’s been running him for the last six years.”
Administrators come and go
, Drummond thought,
but spooks always hang on
. “DONNER is gathering some final intel before he splits. His transmission of the information will be the signal he’s finished things. You have the location.”

“Yeah. That’s an addendum to the file,” Healy said.

“
Vinson
’s in the area. With all the ruckus her presence can be expected. Do you know if they’ve got any special ops people on board?”

“Not offhand,” Healy answered, “but I can check. In either case I’d like Logan to go in with the extraction team.”

The DCI looked at the DDI, pouting uncertainty and caution. “If you think it’s the best course, it’s your op.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“All right.” The director felt some sense of relief knowing that DONNER was soon going to come out. “Who’s going to receive the last message? Logan will be on the
Vinson
I presume.”

“I’ll brief the station chief on the whole thing. I think having him receive and relay it to us will be the best.”

Herb thought of the time. It was 11:45 on the East Coast. He did some quick addition to figure the time in Italy. “Maybe we should move up the warning to the station. I’d hate to have something happen where DONNER would have to leave sooner than we planned, and Logan not be in position.”

“Then let’s notify Rome as soon as we’re done here,” Drummond proposed. The others agreed.

“Good. Anything else?” Landau asked.

The DDI and DDO signaled that there was nothing, and the meeting ended. Everything would now begin. Alone in his office Herb Landau took the DONNER file from his safe. He wanted to read once again about the man who had done so much for a country he knew little about, and would now be called upon to finally turn his back on the land of his birth in one last act of treachery against it.

Los Angeles

It was just a fact of life, Francine Aguirre told herself. Her questioning of the desk clerk and motel manager—their twenty-seventh so far—had taken nearly twenty minutes because of the language barrier. L.A. being the melting pot that it was, the agents had to be prepared for communication difficulties. Francine—‘Frankie’—could joust in her native Spanish with the best of them, but Korean was as foreign to her as any language other than English was to her partner, Thom Danbrook. She knew it had to be amusing to any spectator who might have seen the two of them writing the words out and using hand gestures to get their messages across.