First Team (60 page)

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.

~ * ~

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.