First Team (49 page)

Support would be provided by an AC-13 OH gunship, which would train its howitzer on any pockets of resistance. Once the base was secured, the dirty-bomb facilities would be examined and secured. Depending on the exact situation—one of the reasons Van Buren wanted to be on the scene himself—it would either be blown up or merely prepared for Russian occupation. Guerrillas considered of value would be ex-filtrated along with the assault troops.

The operation would be coordinated with help from the unit’s specially equipped MC-17X, a jet-powered aircraft based on the C-17 and outfitted with comprehensive communications gear and a scaled-down side-looking radar adapted from the Joint Surveillance Target Attack Radar System (JSTARS) used by the regular Army to coordinate large-scale ground battles. Dubbed “Command Transport 3” in typical SF disinformation style, the one-of-a-kind MC-17X would remain beyond the border until the Stealth fighters launched their attack. At that point it could move forward and use its sensors to help the attackers.

Once the attack was under way, the Russians would undoubtedly see it. While their reaction was difficult to predict, it was likely they wouldn’t be pleased. A flight of F-15 Eagles would accompany the command plane and be prepared to intervene.

The Air Force had also provided two tankers with escorts to cover any contingencies. Two long-range, Special Operations Chinooks would stand by near the border as SAR aircraft; each would have a contingent of paratroopers aboard in addition to Air Force pararescue personnel who were being temporarily plucked from another section for the night.

The planners had debated whether it might be possible to launch the airborne assault before hitting the missile defenses—the attack would tip the ground units off, costing the paratroopers the element of absolute surprise—but in the end decided it was too risky to fly the aircraft overhead without eliminating the antiair. As the intelligence officer began to explain why they were using the Chinooks rather than the Air Force Blackhawks—officially it had to do with the range, though there was a decided prejudice in favor of the massive two-rotor beasts among Van Buren’s staff—Corrine held up her hand.

“Colonel, I’m going to accept that you and your people understand the logistical needs here much better than I do,” she said. “What you’ve outlined is fine, and I don’t need to cross-examine you on the nitty-gritty. Just make sure we have everything we need.”

“We can accomplish the mission,” he told her—though he was pleased at the vote of confidence.

“The question is—do we have the right place?” she said.

“We won’t know until Ferg is inside,” said Van Buren. “It’s not a cautious approach, but once we have people in that space, there seemed to be no sense waiting another day or two days before launching the assault.”

“Where is Mr. Ferguson now?”

“He called a while ago to tell us he was infiltrating the base,” said Van Buren. “He should make his report in four hours. We’ll be ready to go; it’ll take us a litde over two hours to launch the attack from that point. Assuming we have your permission.”

“You’ll get it if the waste material is there. Where are they building the bombs?”

“We’re not sure yet. One of those buildings,” said the colonel.

“At what point will the Russians realize something is going on?”

“Hard to say.”

Van Buren turned to his Air Force staff officer, who explained that it was likely radar contacts would appear as soon as the F-l 17s launched their attack. By then, the C-130s would have to come up off the deck anyway. Under ordinary circumstances, the Russians would have from two to four aircraft standing by in the sector; if scrambled, they could reach the base within roughly fifteen minutes, though it was impossible to predict in advance what their readiness status would be.

“What if we’re challenged?” Corrine asked.

“Escorts come up from the border as a last resort,” said the captain.

Corrine knew from the earlier briefings that alerting the Russians beforehand would almost undoubtedly tip off the terrorists; the military had been penetrated by various resistance groups. She’d contact them once the attack was under way, and hope for some cooperation—though she wouldn’t count on it.

They were looking at her, waiting for approval.

She thought back to her meeting with the president, the CIA director, and the others. They’d been worried about the May 10 intercept, unsure whether it was real or not—whether it was a real deadline, or just a day picked from thin air.

It was May 8.

“Proceed as you’ve planned,” she told Van Buren. “Pending word from Mr. Ferguson.”

Van Buren smiled, but as he turned from the table he felt pangs of doubt. Questions flooded into his brain: Did he have enough men. Was the timetable too tight? Were the risks too great?

He stepped back and looked at the map. Between the analysis the CLA had provided and Ferguson’s scouting, it was clear that there could be no more than two or three dozen fighters at the base itself; he’d outnumber them two or three to one and have twenty times their firepower. It was a good plan.

Assuming the dirty bomb was there.

~ * ~

18

SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

They’d missed a sentry point, a fact they didn’t realize until they were almost on top of it. Fortunately, it was located just below the ledge they were using to skirt down toward the access road, situated to give the men at the post a good view of the north. Ferguson saw it as he cleared a rock jutting from the side; two guerrillas were kneeling forward against the rocks just five feet below him.

He froze, but either Daruyev or Conners kicked some rocks behind him. As one of the guards began to turn his head, Ferguson threw himself forward feetfirst, swinging his rifle up to use as a club. His left boot slammed into one of the sentries’ shoulder as he rose, and all three men rolled in a tumble, Ferguson temporarily sandwiched between the guerrillas.

Whether because he had the advantage of surprise or fury, he managed to get to his feet without either man drawing a weapon; the butt end of his AK-74 slammed the nearest back against the rocks senseless. The other guard took a step backward, then slipped and fell down the embankment. Ferguson threw his rifle to the side and started after the man. By the time he reached the road he’d lost his own balance, sliding on his side and butt and landing a few yards behind the enemy guard, who was struggling to his feet.

The man began to run. Ferguson gave chase. After a few steps, he realized with surprise that he wasn’t gaining—that in fact, the guerrilla was faster than him. He kept running, in disbelief that he had encountered someone faster than him. Ferguson had won both the hundred- and four-hundred-meter track sectional championships when he was a senior in prep school, and would probably have finished first in the states had he not had the flu the day of the meet—or so he legitimately believed, having finished second and third. He kept sprinting, expecting that the man would soon tire, but it was Ferguson who finally had to slow his pace, and by the time the man left the trail to plunge down another spot in the rugged mountain, Ferguson was so far behind him that he lost him in the wooded copse below. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the trees from the trail, repeating the word “fuck” over and over, still not believing that he had lost the race. Finally he retreated back up the road, walking, stretching his legs which were fairly stiff and depleted after the exertion.

Conners—who had no legacy as a track star to uphold—trussed the guerrilla whom Ferguson had knocked cold, made sure he didn’t have any weapons, then climbed back up to get Daruyev.

“Let’s go,” Conners told him, wary that he might be planning a trick. They went back to the lookout spot; Ferguson returned shaking his head.

“Fucker outran me,” said Ferguson.

“Shit,” said Conners.

“Fucker outran me. Can you fucking believe that?”

“You shot him?” asked Conners, even though he hadn’t heard a shot.

“Fucker outran me.”

“Ferg—he got away?”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Ferguson slapped his hands on his hips, cursing again. He looked down at the lookout post. There was no radio, nothing in fact beyond the rifles that the two men had had. He went over to the trussed guard, who was curled over on his stomach and still out of it. Ferguson searched him slowly; the man had nothing but lint in his pockets.

“Probably means they change guards pretty regularly,” said Conners.

“Yeah. That and they can count on hearing gunshots.”

Neither fact was a real plus.

“Best bet is to try to get inside before our friend reaches the next post,” said Ferg. “Doable?”

Conners shook his head.

“Well let’s take a shot anyway,” said Ferg. They were running behind, and now were at least an hour and a half from the start of the slope, which would take several more hours to descend. It was unlikely they’d make it to the base by sunset, let alone when the satellite would make it easier to approach.

“Going to be a bigger problem for the assault team,” said Conners. “We’re going to have to tell them.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Ferg. “But let’s make sure this is the place anyway. They won’t jump if they don’t hear from us.”

“That supposed to be encouraging?”

Ferg laughed and went over to Daruyev. He tapped him on the shoulder.

“How’s it going?” Ferguson asked him.

“If a guard ran from his post,” said Daruyev, “he may not turn himself in. It would be a sign of cowardice. He’d be shot.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not counting on that,” said Ferg.

“He may try to ambush you.”

“That’d be easier to deal with,” said Ferguson, glancing at Conners. He took the Chechen’s elbow and set him in motion, gently nudging him toward the incline and the trail. Conners took the lead, his eyes squinting and his body tightening almost into a squat. He disliked point, not because he was afraid of being shot, and not because he was up front, where any screwup would be obvious, but because it always left his neck buzzing. The muscles along his spinal column inevitably spasmed and pulled against the nerves somehow. There was no way to relax or stretch them, at least in his opinion, without completely dropping his guard.

About ten minutes later, they came to a shallow ridge that ran down across the mountain like an indentation on cardboard to guide a fold. The rift didn’t show up too well on the sat photo, but it looked like it would cut off about a third of the hike down. It would also keep them from the view of the first lookout, though not the second. The only problem was a decent drop to the main slope about a hundred feet above the junkyard.

Ferguson studied it, trying to puzzle out if they’d be able to get down from the point where the ridge ended. According to the three-dimensional rendering, the dropoff was twenty feet nearly straight down.

“What do you think, Ferg?” asked Conners.

If they took the shortcut and couldn’t figure out a way down, they’d have to come all the way back up. The mission would be scrubbed for at least a day—assuming the terrorists hadn’t found them by then.