First Team (59 page)

“What about our guys?”

“We can go in, but we stay away from the hot spots and limit exposure. Nobody more than an hour, and no one inside without a suit.”

“I meant Ferguson and Conners.”

“If they haven’t been inside too long—well, it depends on where they are and what else we find. We’re talking about long-term effects, how close they are, how susceptible to cancer they may be. It’s complicated.”

“Bottom line is, sooner they’re out the better,” said Van Buren.

“Amen.”

A large storage area at the left of the hangar had fifty-gallon drums packed with middle-level waste, mostly cesium 137 and cobalt 60 from medical applications. These generated gamma radiation partly shielded by a low, thick wall separating the space from the main hangar area. Almost directly opposite it at the right side of the building, microscopic amounts of uranium filled several cement cracks, the remnants of the accident Peterson had speculated about. Besides presenting a danger, these traces suggested that the terrorists had had greater quantities and taken them away in the plane.

“This is what’s really scary,” said Captain Peterson, pointing to a chart display on one of the laptops. “That’s nitrate.”

“A bomb?” asked Van Buren.

“Has to be,” said Peterson.

“Uh-oh,” said one of the lieutenants driving AR.

A loud crack sounded through the speaker on the console. There was a flash in the screen, and the feed died. Cursing, the lieutenant’s fingers danced over the keyboard. Backup wire controls allowed the Rover to reverse its course, though the driver could not see where he was going and had to rely on the unit’s grid map.

“At least two guerrillas, maybe more, inside,” yelled the lieutenant on the monitor.

Van Buren pulled on his hood and ran toward the men crouched near the entrance to the hangar.

“Kalman’s in there,” said Lieutenant Yeger, who was in charge of AR’s four-man escort detail.

“Where?” said Van Buren.

“On the left.”

“Why did he go in?”

“He and Jacko went in to set up a backup relay antenna. The area where he was had been cleared. Jacko had started out, and Kalman was just about to. They were like, five yards apart, max.”

“Tell him to stay where he is.”

“I can’t. Radio’s out. Either he’s behind something that’s messing up the line-of-sight transmission, or the hangar shielding is killing it. I lost him on the com set.”

Peterson and two men dressed in the protective gear and carrying M4s ran up behind Van Buren as the guerrillas inside the mountain began firing at AR again. The rover stopped dead about a hundred feet from the entrance, its top blasted to pieces.

“We have to go in and get our people,” said the colonel. The hoods of the protective suits were equipped with voice-activated communications devices.

“Here,” said Peterson. “Come here and let me draw it out for you. There’s a few spots to avoid.”

She knelt and drew a diagram in the dirt, a kid working out a play in a pickup football game.

“This spot, you stay away from,” she said, showing where the worst of the radiation was. “Avoid these cracks. And keep your suit intact.”

The guerrillas were on a second level of the cave near the rear, above the hangar level. A team was waiting at the rear entrance to the facility, which Ferguson and Conners had used earlier. Yeger suggested that they make a feint at the entrance, drawing the attention of the people inside, while a team went in from the back. Van Buren agreed, after making sure they had their protective gear on.

The rear deck of the hangar where the gunmen were angled away, limiting their line of fire to the left side of the cave. This gave Van Buren’s men access to the interior—though it would bring them perilously close to the area contaminated by the uranium dust.

Of course, if the guerrillas came down to the main level, anyone going in could be easily cut down. The colonel decided to send a second rover—this one had no nickname, but looked almost identical to AR—inside to survey the area first. As they got ready to go, Peterson suggested they put a flash grenade on the robot to draw attention away if they needed to rescue Kalman or move under fire.

“No way to set it off,” said one of the rover controllers.

“Fuck hell there is,” said the diminutive woman. “Attach it to the front and pull the pin with the claw.”

Even Van Buren laughed at her eloquence.

Five minutes later, the robot ambled inside, not one but two grenades attached to the chassis by a thick band of duct tape. Peterson told them through the headset what she was seeing on the video. Her voice sounded almost seductive.

“You’re clean at the lip of the cave. One man, two on the ledge. There’s Kalman—he’s alive, I can see him moving. He’s on the left side, behind the lip of that wall,” she said.

“Team two ready at the back door?” Van Buren asked.

There was a slight delay while the message was relayed.

“Good to go,” said Peterson.

“Go,” said Van Buren.

~ * ~

9

HOKKAIDO, JAPAN

Rankin, Guns, and Massette unfolded themselves from the seats and walked toward the hatchway as the aircraft stopped rolling near the hangar area. Massette popped the door open, then jumped back—they were a good distance from the ground, with no ramp in sight.

A gray, four-engine DC-8 sat across the tarmac waiting for them, engines idling; the old aircraft had been leased by the American military and been commandeered to take them to Manila.

“Yo! Let’s go!” shouted a short, squat man, who stood on the ground about halfway between the two aircraft. “Let’s go!” he shouted again, his voice somehow loud enough to be heard over the idling engines. He was wearing civilian clothes, but his haircut and demeanor gave him away as military.

“Jump,” Rankin told Guns.

“Fuck,” said Massette, who could feel the pain in his leg already.

Rankin started to push him aside. Guns dropped to the floor and lowered himself, pulling his gear out with him as he hopped—literally, since he lost his balance and nearly toppled over—to the ground. Rankin just stepped off, though when he landed he wished he hadn’t, the sting punching his ankles. Massette finally decided to play it halfway, easing down to his butt and hanging his feet over before plopping to the ground.

“I’m Murphy,” said the man. “Where’s Rankin?”

“Yo,” said Rankin.

“You gotta get to Manila. This is your plane. Your boss has been trying to reach you.”

“Yeah, no shit. So who the hell are you?” said Rankin.

“I just told you.”

“You got to be a SEAL,” said Guns. “And I’m going to guess master chief, right?”

“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.