First Team (52 page)

“Where are you Ferg?”

“Inside the north building. I’m calling Van in. You at the cave yet?”

“No.”

“Wait for me then. Once we have the layout psyched, we have to take out a van for them.”

“You OK, Ferg?”

“Never felt better. Well, except after sex.”

~ * ~

23

ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3, OVER TURKEY

Corrine pushed the headset closer to her ear, having trouble hearing despite the fact that the volume was adjusted as loud as it would go.

“Please repeat,” she told Van Buren.

“We have material at the base,” he repeated. “Cesium in one of the buildings. Looks like medical waste. They’re checking out the possible work site now.”

“How much material?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“They weren’t transporting medical waste,” she said.

“I understand that. They’re still doing the recce. There’s a possible cave at one end of the base where most of the waste may be.”

Corrine pushed forward, leaning over the console in the jet. She had been looking for it all to tie into a neat bow, but that wasn’t going to happen.

She had to make the call. Just her. And it wouldn’t be neat, no matter what she did.

Suddenly, she realized why the president had sent her to Russia when she could have run the mission back home. Maybe the thing about proving herself was real, but more importantly, he wanted
her
to make the call on the mission—and not be pressured by the people around her at the CIA or Pentagon. If she were in the White House situation room, or the Tank, or anywhere, generals would be barking at her, cabinet members looking on, their underlings all taking notes.

Here, it was pretty much her, with no one of enough rank to awe her.

“Proceed with the mission, under my authorization.” She glanced at her watch to take note of the time for her log.

~ * ~

24

SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

Once he’d climbed through the window back outside the building, Ferguson decided that since he’d be exposed to any patrol on the perimeter as well the guard post at the gate, his best bet was to walk with his rifle slung over his shoulder, as if he were one of the terrorists.

Whether doing so fooled anyone or not, he made it to the field near the runway without being stopped or, as far as he could tell, seen. He slid down the shallow embankment, then began working south in Conners’s direction, which he had from the GPS reading on the phone. The glow from the mountain bunker had grown; he guessed the trucks had gone there, though he couldn’t see them or the opening itself.

Working his way south, he came to a deeper part of the ditch, then found himself walking in half a foot of water. He tried to step to the side but slipped down -deeper, falling into a foot of muddy, stagnant water. He crawled up out of the sludge like a primeval salamander. Clambering onto the runway, he decided that was as good a place as any to cross. He rose, and with his first step heard the sound of a pickup truck leaving the building behind him.

With his second step, he saw the truck’s headlights come on and arc across the field in his direction.

~ * ~

s Conners caught sight of Ferguson climbing from the ditch about twenty yards north of him, he saw the door to the north building open again and a truck emerge. But this time, the vehicle threw its lights on. Soldiers ran near the gate. Conners realized the man they’d lost earlier had finally reached the base and sounded the alarm.

The lights swung across the field as Ferguson started to run. A moment later, a machine gun began barking, a PK of some sort mounted on the back of the truck.

Conners threw the Russian grenade launcher off his back, setting it up to fire. As he did, Ferguson sprawled across the runway to his left, rolled back, and began firing his AK-74. The headlights on the pickup died, but the heavy machine continued to fire, chewing up the concrete just short of them.

Before Conners could sight the weapon, Ferguson had managed to reach the ditch. He ran to the north, away from Conners, and fired again, this time raking the side and catching one of the spare jerry cans of fuel in the back of the vehicle. The can exploded, and flames shot up, cooking off machine gun ammo in a thunderous orgy.

Conners let go of his weapon and took out the sat phone.

“We have a hot LZ,” he said, warning the assault team to expect gunfire.

Automatic fire stoked up again, this time from closer to the runway.

Corrigan was on the line, and Van Buren. Conners told them they were taking fire, described the arms he’d seen, and gave the basic layout of the firefight.

“We’ll be there as quickly as we can,” said Van Buren calmly.

~ * ~

25

BUILDING 24-442, SUBURBAN VIRGINIA

Thomas found it at the bottom of a small slip of blue paper that held a summary of a translated message dating back nearly a year.

Manila.

One of Bin Saqr’s companies had rented a hangar at Manila airport. They had also bought fuel there.

He secured his room and hurried down to tell Corrigan what he had discovered. His adrenaline was flowing and he felt light-headed as he waited to be cleared through the security and in to see Corrigan. But as he walked down the hall Debra intercepted him.

“I got it, I got it, I got it,” he told her, waving the small blue paper madly.

“Calm down, Thomas. Calm down,” she told him. “He’s really busy right now. The operation is under way.”

“I have to tell him,” said Thomas, and he pushed her aside, overcome by his conviction that he was right. He marched into the situation room.

As soon as he saw the analyst, Corrigan threw his hands up, trying to flag him to stop and be quiet. He was in the middle of a four-way conversation with Colonel Van Buren, Corrine Alston, and Conners. The Team had been discovered at the Chechen base.

“Manila,” Thomas hissed. “They’re going to Manila, and then LA.”

Corrine must have heard him, for she asked what was going on.

“We’re working up new intelligence,” said Corrigan, trying to sort everything out. His brain felt like it had taken some of the rounds exploding near Conners.

“We’ll be at the target inside forty minutes,” said Van Buren. “We’ll get them out.”

“Good,” said Corrine.

Thomas stood on the balls of his feet, bobbing slightly. Debra stood behind him, shaking her head.

“All right. What do we have?” Corrigan asked.

Thomas smoothed out the paper and explained. Corrigan’s brain was suffering from the effects of far too much coffee and far too little sleep; he couldn’t quite follow the logic.

“You were supposed to look for an airplane,” said Corrigan.

“Yes, but here—they have a hangar in Manila. They’ve purchased jet fuel,” said Thomas.

“What do they need fuel for if they don’t have an airplane?” said Corrigan.

“That’s my point!”

Corrigan put up his hand. “Okay,” he told Thomas. “See if you can flesh this out with more information. And Thomas, you can use the phone, right? You can call me, rather than running down here.”

“Is there one in my office?” asked Thomas, honestly not remembering seeing it.

~ * ~

26

SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

As soon as the truck blew, Ferguson turned and began running down the ditch toward Conners. As he reached him, a flare ignited above; the night went crimson, then bluish white, then quickly black.

“Cheap Russian flares,” he said, spotting Conners coming toward him.

“Stay down, Ferg. There’s another truck heading toward the top of the runway.”

“You call in Van Buren?”

Before Conners could answer, one of the guerrillas in the back of the truck began firing a machine gun. It took a few moments for the Americans to realize they weren’t being targeted.