Hostile Fire (35 page)

Gardner drew the winning hand. “Got something here, Skipper. Not sure what it is. Small notebook and several letters, all in Arabic I’d guess, and a money belt with plenty of cash—U.S., Canadian, Peso notes, and a lot of dinars. It’s all in a fancy briefcase that used to have a lock on it. Should I have Rafii take a look?”

“That’s a roger, J.G.”

“Where are you, J.G.?” Rafii asked on the radio.

“Near the front, can’t miss me.”

Murdock examined the crate that held the bomb. The nuke was completely hidden under boards and what he figured were lead blankets. The crate had been lashed down with cargo straps and heavy ropes, more than a dozen of them, from tie-down points on the floor and both of the side walls. Murdock checked the floor. The big box had slid forward more than four feet during the crash, even with the overkill on the tie-downs.

“At least it stayed on the sled,” Lam said. He had been checking out the cargo as well.

“Sled?” Murdock asked.

“It’s on skids, the whole thing. We just hook up a small tractor to it and slide it up to the loading hatch.”

“Which is where?” Murdock asked.

Lam shone his flashlight to the stream side of the craft. There the door was three times as wide as the one on the left. Half of it had been torn away, the other half swung
outward at an odd angle where it hung on only half its hinges. Murdock judged the distance. It was almost twenty feet from the front of the crate to the hatch.

“So where is our tractor?” he asked.

Lam laughed. “Hell, Skipper, we’ve got sixteen little engines here who think they can. If you remember the little train story. Some air force guys I know said they sometimes had a problem with heavy items they parachuted out the end hatch of their planes. They carried a bucket of heavy grease with them and simply greased the front of the runners and then pushed and pulled like crazy. That was before they got rails and rollers and all that.”

“Let’s cut these tie-down straps and see what we have,” Murdock said. “Bradford. Find a spot and set up the box. We need to talk to Stroh.”

“Take me about five,” Bradford said on the net. “I’ll be outside the right-hand hatch.”

They undid some of the straps, cut others, and at last had the large crate free.

“Now, if we move this forward twenty feet, are we going to roll over this half of the aircraft?” Murdock asked. He and Lam went out the hatch and checked the way the big body had come to a stop against the side of the slope and the creek bed.

“This half of the fuselage won’t move an inch without a lot of C-5,” Lam said. Murdock agreed.

“Skipper, I’ve got the mighty one on the set,” Bradford said on the Motorola. Murdock found Bradford and took the handset.

“Oh, Mighty One,” Murdock said.

“Enough. Did you find the package?”

“We’ve got it and one live prisoner to question. Problem is how to get it out of here. Can the SH-60 lift something this heavy?”

“How much does it weigh?”

“When is the Pope going to convert to Islam?”

“Been talking with the navy. We figure that the sixty can’t do the job. Too damn heavy, especially if they used a lot of lead blankets. So we’ve brought in a special helper for you. They call it the Skycrane. We borrowed one from the my
army command in Miami. They call it the S-64. Skorsky builds it. It’s flying in here tonight. You know what time it is?”

“No idea. After dark and before daylight.”

“Will that be a hot LZ?”

“Stroh, you pick up on the lingo fast. No, this should be a secure LZ. We think we contained all of the terrs in one place. Oh, when the crane comes in here at daylight, have him bring two five-gallon buckets of heavy industrial grease.”

“Grease?”

“Grease. We’ve got to get the package up to the cargo door.”

“Sounds reasonable. The SH-60 gave us the coordinates. This bird has all the equipment needed for a lift—the cables, the slings, the hooks, the works.”

“Where are they taking it?”

“First back to Benito Juárez Airport. We’re making sure the officials there don’t know what it is. Then wherever it goes is not my concern, or yours.”

“Right, it’s out of our hands and we’re done and heading back to San Diego, right?”

“Maybe, maybe not. We’re working on something. First, who were the men helping what we understand was one Arab cohort of Fouad here in town? Oh, you haven’t said anything about survivors. Did Fouad or any of the three crew members survive?”

“We don’t think so. The nose of the plane is buried ten feet deep in a big pile of dirt. We haven’t even looked at it yet. We don’t know yet who the men were who helped Fouad’s man. Rafii might have something for us on that. We found a notebook and a bunch of letters, all in Arabic. I’ll touch you later.”

“Yeah. You guys do good work. Later.”

Murdock looked at his watch in the flashlight’s beam. It was only 2240. He’d figured it was at least midnight.

“Skipper, you better get up here,” J.G. Gardner said. “We’re finding out some things.”

“Inside, forward?”

“Right.”

Fernandez had the prisoner in the front of the plane where the cargo bay had not been damaged much by the grenades. The prisoner sat on a box and stared at the side of the plane. Fernandez went first.

“Skipper, he says he’s Jesus Orlando and he’s only been with the group for six months. They call themselves the Toros Patriotico Nationales. They are dedicated to overthrowing the central government and setting up their own country here in central Mexico. Their leader was contacted two days ago to be ready for some action that would help the cause. This Arab man said he would contribute a million pesos to their war chest.”

“How did they know about the crash?”

“Their man at the airport told them, and they were gone an hour later in four medium-sized helicopters that the Arab man hired. They got here but found no survivors, and were waiting for a big helicopter to come and lift out the package. He doesn’t know what is in the crate.”

“Is he wanted by the Mexican
Federales?
”

“He says he is. Something about a bank robbery last year to help finance their movement.”

“We’ll turn him over to them when we get back to the airport.” Murdock looked at Gardner and Rafii. “What is in the book and the letters?”

Rafii frowned. “I’m not sure of all of it. Some is in code. But evidently these were the notebook and papers that Fouad carried. The letters are addressed to him. The notebook has a sketch of the bomb, and the three cities of choice for detonation: San Diego, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. Evidently it depended on how much trouble or lack of it they had getting over the border. They were scheduled to land at Tijuana Airport and go across at the Otay Mesa truck border crossing. They would use a truck with a fake center area where the bomb would be, and regular merchandise that goes across all the time would fill the rest of the truck. They had three border inspectors bribed. It shows their names and amounts of cash. Fifty thousand pesos each, that’s five thousand U.S. dollars’ worth.”

“So Tijuana was the destination.”

“There’s more from the letters. They are to and from two
of the cells that could be al-Qaeda operated. One is in Tijuana, and the other one is in La Mesa, right there next door to San Diego.”

“Does Stroh know about this?”

“We didn’t tell him,” Gardner said.

“He must have it from other sources. My guess is that we’re not quite done yet. My money is on a cooperative effort with the Mexican
Federales
in Tijuana and then a coop with the FBI in La Mesa.”

Murdock nodded as if agreeing with himself. Then he got back to business. “Okay, not much more we can do here tonight. J.G., put out two guards on four-hour shifts. Set up the changes. Tell the rest of the men they can have an MRE and find a nice dry spot up the slope to sleep. We’ll be busy enough when that flying crane gets here tomorrow. Sounds like overkill. That thing can lift half a regiment at one time.”

Murdock scowled at the prisoner. “Give our little friend here part of an MRE and then tie him up for the rest of the night. The
Federales
are going to have fun with him.”

Murdock woke up with a jolt. Then he relaxed. There were more than a dozen different birds calling and screeching and singing at each other. He knew at once where he was and what was at stake. He lifted up from the soft, dry forest mulch, moved the Bull Pup off his chest, and looked around. It was shortly past daylight. Some of the SEALs were up and moving.

Jaybird stood guard twenty yards away against a tall tree.

“Oh-six-thirty, Skipper. Figure that Skycrane will be here about oh-seven-hundred. Anything we need to do before he gets here?”

“Eat,” Murdock said. “It might be a few hours before we have the chance again. Any more of the terrs show up?”

“Quiet as the inside of a mortuary, Cap. Tomblike, you could say.”

They heard the big chopper coming when it was half a mile away. Jaybird threw out a red flare and Murdock checked his Motorola.

“Crash Site, this is Crane One. You still have the package?”

“Crane One, have it and ready. You sending down a couple of sling specialists on hoists to help us get this one ready?”

“Plan on lowering two men to assist. They come with the two buckets of grease. Good thinking.”

Moments later the big, skinny-looking chopper came over. It was the stripped version with no cargo or troop pod, just the cockpit and the six rotors powered by twin turbines. The boom fuselage looked like a long stick with a rudder and a four-bladed propeller. It hovered two hundred yards downstream, where it could drop down to fifty feet and miss the
tall trees. Two men came down on slings, which were promptly pulled up. The grounded men hiked up toward the crash, each with a bucket.

Murdock met them.

“Morning, Commander,” one said. “I’m Sergeant Caldwell and this is Corporal Broderson. Where’s the package?”

“Morning. I’m Murdock. Glad you could come to our party.” He took them into the fuselage and showed them the prize. The terrorist’s bodies had been dragged out of the plane and dumped out the uphill passenger side door.

The two lift specialists shook their heads at the problem. “We have to get it up to the door, then reach in the cables and rig them on this crate, all around it if possible.”

“If not, will the sides of the crate hold the weight?” Jaybird asked.

“That’s what we’ll find out,” Broderson said. “If they won’t, we’ll know it before we pull it out of the plane.” He went to the open door and waved at the Skycrane pilot. The big bird came down to about a hundred feet and let down a pair of cables. Attached to them was a sling made of cables that looked welded together. Caldwell unhooked the sling from the drop cables and they were hoisted back into the Skycrane, which moved off to lessen the rotor wash below.

It took six SEALs on each section of the heavy cable sling to get it up to the plane’s cargo hatch and hoisted inside. Caldwell stood staring at the crate.

“Don’t tell me what’s inside. I don’t want to know. I just have to figure out where to put the slings. First, let’s use that grease and some of your men and see if we can pull this creature up near the door.”

Broderson spread the grease in front of both of the four-by-four timbers that served as the skids for the package.

“It’s always easier to pull an object than it is to push it,” Caldwell said. They attached some of the cables to the front of the big crate, and ten SEALs on both sides pulled. The crate moved slowly until more of the grease came under the skids, then it eased forward until it was directly opposite the outside door.

“Have to go through endways,” Caldwell said. The men pushed and tugged and turned the crate sideways until it was
aimed at the door. Then Caldwell and Broderson went to work with hammers. They broke out part of the crate at the bottom near the front and back on both sides and fed the heavy cables through and under the crate, then out holes on the far side. After a half hour of tugging, swearing, and sweating, the SEALs and the air force men got the slings in position and the large inch-thick lift rings chained together on the top of the crate.

Caldwell took out a handheld radio and talked to the pilot.

“Sir, have the package ready for a try. Slings are under the whole crate, so no problem of the crate breaking and spilling the goods. Drop down so we can attach the cables to the sling. We’ll have to bring the cables inside the fuselage, then let you lift it as much as you can and ease it out the door without letting it roll down the hill.”

“I have the picture, Sergeant Caldwell. Moving now. Cables down in about three.”

The inch-thick hoist cables slithered down from the big crane in the sky, with heavy foot-long hooks that had safety clamps dangling from them. The air force men grabbed them as they eased down to the freight hatch on the big plane.

“Easy, Cap, easy, three feet more. Now we’re hauling them inside and making the hook.” Two SEALs helped on each of the big hooks, dragging them inside and lifting them to the top of the crate.

“Easy, Cap. Hold her steady.” It was Caldwell on his radio. The hooks were both on the sling and the safety clamps in place over the open throat of the hooks.

Caldwell waved at the SEALs. “Out of here. Clear back at least thirty yards on each side. Count your men, Commander. I don’t want to mash up a SEAL down here today.”

The SEALs scattered. Caldwell and Broderson remained in the fuselage, one on each side of the big crate.

“Ready, Cap,” Caldwell said on the radio to the pilot. “Move us easy at first until the slack is taken up. Aye, that’s the way. Now a bit more. Right, the crate is sliding toward the door. Easy, easy! Slower. Yes. We’re at the door. Now get directly over us so you can lift it straight up at the roof of the aircraft in here.”

“Moving slightly forward,” the pilot radioed. “Yes, now. Slowly.”

“Good, Cap, she’s off the floor, hold her a minute, yes, all looks right. Now ease away from the fuselage. Away. That’s right. More, you can see the crate now halfway out of the craft, off the floor, not hitting the top of the freight hatch. More, another four feet. Yes!”