Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (408 page)

“What’s this?” the technician inside asked.

“I’m from Hereford. We’re taking this cell off-line right now.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!” Noonan turned so that the guy could see the holstered pistol on his hip. “Call your boss. He knows who I am and what I do.” And with no further talk, Noonan walked to the master-power panel and flipped the breaker, killing transmissions from the tower. Then he sat in front of the computer control system and inserted the floppy disk he’d carried in his shirt pocket. Two mouse clicks and forty seconds later the system was modified. Only a number with a 777 prefix would be accepted now.

The technician didn’t have a clue, but did have the good sense not to dispute the matter with a man carrying a gun.

“Anybody at the other one—on the other side of town?” Noonan asked.

“No, that would be me if there’s a problem—but there isn’t.”

“Keys.” Noonan held his hand out.

“I can’t do that. I mean, I do not have authorization to—”

“Call your boss right now,” the FBI agent suggested, handing him the land-line receiver.

Covington jumped out of the truck near where some commercial trucks were parked. The police had established a perimeter to keep the curious at bay. He trotted over to what appeared to be the senior cop at the site.

“There they are,” Sean Grady said over his phone to Timmy O’Neil. “Sure, and they responded quickly. Ever so formidable they look,” he added. “How are things inside?”

“Too many people for us to control properly, Sean. I have the twins in the main lobby, Jimmy here with me, and Daniel is patrolling upstairs.”

“What of your hostages?”

“The women, you mean? They’re sitting on the floor. The young one is very pregnant, Sean. She could have it today, looks like.”

“Try to avoid that, lad,” Grady advised, with a smile. Things were going according to his plan, and the clock was running. The bloody soldiers had even parked their trucks within twenty meters of his own. It could scarcely have been better.

Houston’s first name wasn’t really Sam—his mother had named him Mortimer, after a favored uncle—but the current moniker had been laid on him during boot camp at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, eleven years before, and he hadn’t objected. His sniper rifle was still in its boxy carrying case to safeguard it from shock, and he was looking around for a good perch. Where he was standing wasn’t bad, the sergeant thought. He was ready for whatever the day offered. His rifle was a virtual twin to that used by his friend Homer Johnston, and his marksmanship was just as good, too—a little better, he’d quickly tell anyone who asked. The same was true of Rifle One-Two, Sergeant First Class Fred Franklin, formerly an instructor at the Army’s marksmanship training unit at Fort Benning and a deadly shot out to a mile with his huge MacMillan .50 bolt-action rifle.

“What d’ya think, Sam?”

“I like it here, Freddy. How about you go to that knoll past the helo pad?”

“Looks good to me. Later.” Franklin hoisted the case onto his shoulder and headed off that way.

“Those people scare me,” Roddy Sands admitted over the phone.

“I know, but one of them is close enough to take out at once, Roddy. You take that job, lad.”

“I will, Sean,” Sands agreed from inside the cargo area of the big Volvo truck.

Noonan, now with the keys to the other site, was back in his car and heading that way. The drive would take twenty minutes—no, more, he realized. Traffic was backing up on this “A”-class road, and though he had a gun on his hip, and even police identification, his car didn’t have a siren and gumball machine—an oversight he himself had never considered, to his sudden and immediate rage. How the fuck had they forgotten that? He
was
a cop, wasn’t he? He pulled to the shoulder, turned on his emergency flashers, and started leaning on the horn as he sped past the stopped cars.

Chavez didn’t react much. Instead of looking angry or fearful, he just turned inward on himself. A small man, his body seemed to shrink even further before Clark’s eyes. “Okay,” he said finally, his mouth dry. “What are we doing about it?”

“Team-1 is there now, or should be. Al is running the operation. We’re spectators.”

“Head over?”

Clark wavered, which was unusual for him. The best thing to do, one part of his mind told him quietly, was to sit still, stay in his office and wait, rather than drive over and torture himself with knowledge that he couldn’t do anything about. His decision to let Stanley run the operation was the correct one. He couldn’t allow his actions to be affected by personal emotions. There were more lives at stake than his wife’s and daughter’s, and Stanley was a pro who’d do the right thing without being told. On the other hand, to stay here and simply listen to a phone or radio account was far worse. So he walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out his Beretta .45 automatic. This he clipped to his belt at his right hip. Chavez, he saw, had his side arm as well.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Chavez lifted Clark’s desk phone and called the Team-2 building.

“Sergeant Major Price,” the voice answered.

“Eddie, this is Ding. John and I are going to drive over there. You’re in command of Team-2.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. Major Covington and his lads are as good as we are, sir, and Team-2 is suited up and ready to deploy.”

“Okay, I have my radio with me.”

“Good luck, sir.”

“Thanks, Eddie.” Chavez hung up. “Let’s get going, John.”

For this ride, Clark had a driver, but he had the same problem with traffic that Noonan was having, and adopted the same solution, speeding down the hard shoulder with his horn blowing and lights blinking. What should have been a ten-minute drive turned into double that.

“Who is this?”

“This is Superintendent Fergus Macleash,” the cop on the other end of the phone circuit responded. “And you are?”

“Patrick Casey will do for now,” Grady answered smugly. “Have you spoken with the Home Office yet?”

“Yes, Mr. Casey, I have.” Macleash looked at Stanley and Bellow, as he stood at his command post, half a mile from the hospital, and listened to the speaker phone.

“When will they release the prisoners, as we demanded?”

“Mr. Casey, most of the senior people are out of the office having lunch at the moment. Mainly, the chaps in London I spoke to are trying to track them down and get them into the office. I haven’t spoken with anyone in a position of authority yet, you see.”

“I suggest that you tell London to get them in quickly. I am not by nature a patient man.”

“I need your assurance that no one has been hurt,” Macleash tried next.

“Except for one of your constables, no, no one has been hurt—yet. That will change if you take action against us, and it will also change if you and your friends in London make us wait too long. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do understand what you just said.”

“You have two hours until we begin eliminating hostages. We have a goodly supply, you know.”

“You understand, if you injure a hostage, that will change matters greatly, Mr. Casey. My ability to negotiate on your behalf will be greatly reduced if you cross that line.”

“That is your problem, not mine” was the cold reply. “I have over a hundred people here, including the wife and daughter of your chief counterterrorist official. They will be the first to suffer for your inaction. You now have one hour and fifty-eight minutes to begin the release of every political prisoner in Albany and Parkhurst prisons. I suggest you get moving on that immediately. Good-bye.” And the line went dead.

“He’s talking tough,” Dr. Bellow observed. “Sounds like a mature voice, in his forties, and he’s confirmed that he knows who Mrs. Clark and Dr. Chavez are. We’re up against a professional, and one with unusually good intelligence. Where could he have gotten it?”

Bill Tawney looked down at the ground. “Unknown, Doctor. We had indications that people were looking into our existence, but this is disquieting.”

“Okay, next time he calls, I talk to him,” Bellow said. “I’ll see if I can calm him down some.”

“Peter, this is Stanley,” Rainbow Five called over his tactical radio.

“Covington here.”

“What have you done to this point?”

“I have both riflemen deployed for overwatch and intelligence gathering, but I’m keeping the rest close. I’m waiting now for a building diagram. We have as yet no firm estimate of the number of subjects or hostages inside.” The voice hesitated before going on. “I recommend that we consider bringing Team-2 in. This is a large building to cover with only eight men, should we have to move in.”

Stanley nodded. “Very well, Peter. I will make the call.”

“How we looking on gas?” Malloy asked, looking down as he orbited the hospital.

“A good three and a half hours, Colonel,” Lieutenant Harrison answered.

Malloy turned to look into the cargo bay area of the Night Hawk. Sergeant Nance had the zip-line ropes out and hooked into the eyebolts on the floor of the aircraft. That work done, he sat in the jump seat between and behind the pilot/copilot seats, his pistol clearly visible in his shoulder holster, listening in on the tactical radio like everyone else.

“Well, we’re going to be here for a while,” the Marine said.

“Sir, what do you think about—”

“I think I don’t like it at all, Lieutenant. Aside from that, we’re better off not thinking very much.” And that was a bullshit answer, as everyone aboard the Night Hawk knew. You might as well tell the world to stop turning as to tell men in this situation to stop thinking. Malloy was looking down at the hospital, figuring approach angles for a long-wire or zip-line deployment. It didn’t appear all that difficult to accomplish, should it become necessary.

The panoramic view afforded from flying above it all was useful. Malloy could see everything. Cars were parked everywhere, and some trucks were close to the hospital. The police cars were visible from their flashing blue lights, and they had traffic pretty well stopped—and elsewhere the roads were clogged, at least those leading
to
the hospital. As usually happened, the roads leading away were wide open. A TV truck appeared, as though by magic, setting up half a mile or so from the hospital, on the hilltop where some other vehicles were stopped, probably rubbernecking, the Marine thought. It always happened, like vultures circling a carcass at Twentynine Palms. Very distasteful, and very human.

Popov turned when he heard the white TV truck stop, not ten meters from the rear bumper of his rented Jaguar. It had a satellite dish on the roof, and the vehicle had scarcely halted when men stepped out. One climbed the ladder affixed to the side and elevated the oddly angular dish. Another hoisted a Minicam, and yet another, evidently the reporter, appeared, wearing a jacket and tie. He chatted briefly with one of the others, then turned, looking down the hill. Popov ignored them.

Finally, Noonan said to himself, pulling off the road at the other cell site. He parked his car, got out, and reached for the keys the technician had given him. Three minutes later, he uploaded his spoofing software. Then he donned his tactical radio set.

“Noonan to Stanley, over.”

“This is Stanley.”

“Okay, Al, I just cut off the other cell. Cell phones ought to be down now for this entire area.”

“Very good, Tim. Come this way now.”

“Roger, on the way.” The FBI agent adjusted the headset, hanging the microphone exactly in front of his mouth and pushing the earpiece all the way in as he reentered his car and started off back toward the hospital.
Okay, you bastards,
he thought,
try using your fucking phones now.

As usual in emergency situations, Popov noted, you couldn’t tell what was happening. At least fifteen police vehicles were visible along with the two army trucks from the Hereford base. His binoculars didn’t allow him to recognize any faces, but he’d seen only one of them close-up, and that was the chief of the unit, and he’d be in some command post or other rather than visible in the open, assuming that he was here at all, the intelligence officer reminded himself.

Two men carrying long cases, probably riflemen, had walked away from the camouflage-painted trucks, but they were nowhere to be seen now, though . . . yes, he saw, using his binoculars again, there was one, just a jump of green that hadn’t been there before. How clever. He’d be a sniper, using his telescopic sight to look into windows and gather information, which he’d then radio to his commander. There was another one of them around somewhere as well, but Popov couldn’t see him.

“Rifle One-Two to Command,” Fred Franklin called in.

“One-Two, this is Command,” Covington responded.

“In position, sir, looking down, but I don’t see anything at all in the windows on the ground level. Some movement of the curtains on the third floor, like people peeking out, but nothing else.”

“Roger, thank you, continue your surveillance.”

“Roger that. Rifle One-Two, out.” Several seconds later, Houston reported similar news. Both men were in perches, with their ghillie suits disguising their positions.

“Finally,” Covington said. A police car had just arrived, its occupant delivering blueprints of the hospital. Peter’s gratitude died in a moment, when he looked at the first two pages. There were scores of rooms, most of them on the upper levels, in any of which a man with a gun could hide and have to be winkled out—worse, all of those rooms were probably occupied with real people, sick ones, whom a flash-bang might startle enough to kill. Now that he had the knowledge, its only immediate benefit was to show him just how difficult his mission would be.