Rainbow Six (1997) (4 page)

“Buenas noces,”
Ding said quietly from less than ten feet away, his gun up and aimed at the side of #2’s head. The man’s eyes caught the blue steel that had to be a gun, and the distraction was just right. John’s right hand came around, his forearm snapping up, and the back of his fist catching the terrorist in the right temple. The blow was enough to stun.

“How you loaded?”

“Low-velocity,” Ding whispered back. “We’re on an airplane, ’mano,” he reminded his director.

“Stay loose,” John commanded quietly, getting a nod.

“Miguel!” Number 3 called loudly.

Clark moved to the left side, pausing on the way to get a cup of coffee from the machine, complete with saucer and spoon. He then reappeared in the left-side aisle and moved forward.

“He said to bring you this. Thank you for allowing me to use the bathroom,” John said, in a shaky but grateful voice. “Here is your coffee, sir.”

“Miguel!” Number 3 called again.

“He went back that way. Here’s your coffee. I’m supposed to sit down now, okay?” John took a few steps forward and stopped, hoping that this amateur would continue to act like one.

He did, coming toward him. John cowered a little, and allowed the cup and saucer to shake in his hand, and just as #3 reached him, looking over to the right side of the aircraft for his colleague, Clark dropped both of them on the floor and dove down to get them, about half a step behind Alistair’s seat. Number 3 automatically bent down as well. It would be his last mistake for the evening.

John’s hands grabbed the pistol and twisted it around and up into its owner’s belly. It might have gone off, but Alistair’s own Browning Hi-Power crashed down on the back of the man’s neck, just below the skull, and #3 went limp as Raggedy Andy.

“You impatient bugger,” Stanley rasped. “Bloody good acting, though.” Then he turned, pointed to the nearest stewardess, and snapped his fingers. She came out of her seat like a shot, fairly running aft to them. “Rope, cord, anything to tie them up, quickly!”

John collected the pistol and immediately removed the magazine, then jacked the action to eject the remaining round. In two more seconds, he’d field-stripped the weapon and tossed the pieces at the feet of Alistair’s traveling companion, whose brown eyes were wide and shocked.

“Sky marshals, ma’am. Please be at ease,” Clark explained.

A few seconds after that, Ding appeared, dragging #2 with him. The stewardess returned with a spool of twine.

“Ding, front office!” John ordered.

“Roge-o, Mr. C.” Chavez moved forward, his Beretta in both hands, and stood by the cockpit door. On the floor, Clark did the wrapping. His hands remembered the sailor knots from thirty years earlier. Amazing, he thought, tying them off as tight as he could. If their hands turned black, too damned bad.

“One more, John,” Stanley breathed.

“You want to keep an eye on our two friends.”

“A pleasure. Do be careful, lots of electronics up there.”

“Tell me about it.”

John walked forward, still unarmed. His junior was still at the door, pistol aimed upward in both hands, eyes on the door.

“How we doing, Domingo?”

“Oh, I was thinking about the green salad and the veal, and the wine list ain’t half bad. Ain’t a real good place to start a gunfight, John. Let’s invite him aft.”

It made good tactical sense. Number 1 would be facing aft, and if his gun went off, the bullet was unlikely to damage the aircraft, though the people in Row 1 might not like it all that much. John hopped aft to retrieve the cup and saucer.

“You!” Clark gestured to the other stewardess. “Call the cockpit and tell the pilot to tell our friend that Miguel needs him. Then stand right here. When the door opens, if he asks you anything, just point over to me. Okay?”

She was cute, forty, and pretty cool. She did exactly as she was told, lifting the phone and passing along the message.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and #1 looked out. The stewardess was the only person he could see at first. She pointed to John.

“Coffee?”

It only confused him, and he took a step aft toward the large man with the cup. His pistol was aimed down at the floor.

“Hello,” Ding said from his left, placing his pistol right against his head.

Another moment’s confusion. He just wasn’t prepared. Number 1 hesitated, and his hand didn’t start to move yet.

“Drop the gun!” Chavez said.

“It is best that you do what he says,” John added, in his educated Spanish. “Or my friend will kill you.”

His eyes darted automatically around the cabin, looking for his colleagues, but they were nowhere to be seen. The confusion on his face only increased. John took a step toward him, reached for the gun, and took it from an unresisting hand. This he placed in his waistband, then dropped the man to the floor to frisk him while Ding’s gun rested at the back of the terrorist’s neck. Aft, Stanley started doing the same with his two.

“Two magazines . . . nothing else.” John waved to the first stew, who came up with the twine.

“Fools,” Chavez snarled in Spanish. Then he looked at his boss. “John, you think that was maybe just a little precipitous?”

“No.” Then he stood and walked into the cockpit. “Captain?”

“Who the hell are you?” The flight crew hadn’t seen or heard a thing from aft.

“Where’s the nearest military airfield?”

“RCAF Gander,” the copilot—Renford, wasn’t it?—replied immediately.

“Well, let’s go there. Cap’n, the airplane is yours again. We have all three of them tied up.”

“Who are you?” Will Garnet asked again rather forcefully, his own tension not yet bled off.

“Just a guy who wanted to help out,” John replied, with a blank look, and the message got through. Garnet was ex-Air Force. “Can I use your radio, sir?”

The captain pointed to the fold-down jump-seat, and showed him how to use the radio.

“This is United Flight Niner-Two-Zero,” Clark said. “Who am I talking to, over?”

“This is Special Agent Carney of the FBI. Who are you?”

“Carney, call the director, and tell him Rainbow Six is on the line. Situation is under control. Zero casualties. We’re heading for Gander, and we need the Mounties. Over.”

“Rainbow?”

“Just like it sounds, Agent Carney. I repeat, the situation is under control. The three hijackers are in custody. I’ll stand by to talk to your director.”

“Yes, sir,” replied a very surprised voice.

Clark looked down to see his hands shaking a little now that it was over. Well, that had happened once or twice before. The aircraft banked to the left while the pilot was talking on the radio, presumably to Gander.

“Niner-Two-Zero, Niner-Two-Zero, this is Agent Carney again.”

“Carney, this is Rainbow.” Clark paused. “Captain, is this radio link secure?”

“It’s encrypted, yes.”

John almost swore at himself for violating radio discipline. “Okay, Carney, what’s happening?”

“Stand by for the Director.” There was a click and a brief crackle. “John?” a new voice asked.

“Yes, Dan.”

“What gives?”

“Three of them, Spanish-speaking, not real smart. We took them down.”

“Alive?”

“That’s affirmative,” Clark confirmed. “I told the pilot to head for RCAF Gander. We’re due there in—”

“Niner-zero minutes,” the copilot said.

“Hour and a half,” John went on. “You want to have the Mounties show up to collect our bad boys, and call Andrews. We need transport on to London.”

He didn’t have to explain why. What ought to have been a simple commercial flight of three officers and two wives had blown their identities, and there was little damned sense in having them hang around for everyone aboard to see their faces—most would just want to buy them drinks, but that wasn’t a good idea. All the effort they’d gone to, to make Rainbow both effective and secret, had been blown by three dumbass Spaniards—or whatever they were. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police would figure that one out before handing them over to the American FBI.

“Okay, John, let me get moving on that. I’ll call René and have him get things organized. Anything else you need?”

“Yeah, send me a few hours of sleep, will ya?”

“Anything you want, pal,” the FBI Director replied with a chuckle, and the line went dead. Clark took the headset off and hung it on the hook.

“Who the hell are you?” the captain demanded again. The initial explanation hadn’t been totally satisfactory.

“Sir, my friends and I are air marshals who just happened to be aboard. Is that clear, sir?”

“I suppose,” Garnet said. “Glad you made it. The one who was up here was a little loose, if you know what I mean. We were damned worried there for a while.”

Clark nodded with a knowing smile. “Yeah, so was I.”

 

 

They’d been doing it for some time. The powder-blue vans—there were four of them—circulated throughout New York City, picking up homeless people and shuttling them to the dry-out centers run by the corporation. The quiet, kindly operation had made local television over a year ago, and garnered the corporation a few dozen friendly letters, then slid back down below the horizon, as such things tended to do. It was approaching midnight, and with dropping autumn temperatures, the vans were out, collecting the homeless throughout central and lower Manhattan. They didn’t do it the way the police once had. The people they helped weren’t compelled to get aboard. The volunteers from the corporation asked, politely, if they wanted a clean bed for the night, free of charge, and absent the religious complications typical of most “missions,” as they were traditionally called. Those who declined the offer were given blankets, used ones donated by corporate employees who were home sleeping or watching TV at the moment—participation in the program was voluntary for the staff as well—but still warm, and waterproofed. Some of the homeless preferred to stay out, deeming it to be some sort of freedom. More did not. Even habitual drunkards liked beds and showers. Presently there were ten of them in the van, and that was all it could hold for this trip. They were helped aboard, sat down, and seat-belted into their places for safety purposes.

None of them knew that this was the
fifth
of the four vans operating in lower Manhattan, though they found out something was a little different as soon as it started moving. The attendant leaned back from the front seat and handed out bottles of Gallo burgundy, an inexpensive California red, but a better wine than they were used to drinking, and to which something had been added.

By the time they reached their destination, all were asleep or at least stuporous. Those who were able to move were helped from one truck into the back of another, strapped down in their litter beds, and allowed to fall asleep. The rest were carried and strapped down by two pairs of men. With that task done, the first van was driven off to be cleaned out—they used steam to make sure that whatever residue might be left was sterilized and blasted out of the van. The second truck headed uptown on the West Side Highway, caught the curling ramp for the George Washington Bridge, and crossed the Hudson River. From there it headed north through the northeast corner of New Jersey, then back into New York State.

 

 

It turned out that Colonel William Lytle Byron was already in the air in a USAF KC-10 on a course track almost identical to, and only an hour behind, the United 777. It altered course northward for Gander as well. The former P-3 base had to wake up a few personnel to handle the inbound jumbos, but that was the least of it.

The three failed hijackers were blindfolded, hog-tied, and laid on the floor just forward of the front row of first-class seats, which John, Ding, and Alistair appropriated. Coffee was served, and the other passengers kept away from that part of the aircraft.

“I rather admire the Ethiopians’ approach to situations like this,” Stanley observed. He was sipping tea.

“What’s that?” Chavez asked tiredly.

“Some years ago they had a hijacking attempt on their national flag carrier. There happened to be security chaps aboard, and they got control of the situation. Then they strapped their charges in first-class seats, wrapped towels around their necks to protect the upholstery, and cut their throats, right there on the aircraft. And you know—”

“Gotcha,” Ding observed.
Nobody
had messed with that airline since. “Simple, but effective.”

“Quite.” He set his cup down. “I hope this sort of thing doesn’t happen
too
often.”

The three officers looked out the windows to see the runway lights just before the 777 thumped down at RCAF Gander. There was a muted series of cheers and a smattering of applause from aft. The airliner slowed and then taxied off to the military facilities, where it stopped. The front-right door was opened, and a scissors-lift truck moved to it, slowly and carefully.

John, Ding, and Alistair unsnapped their seat belts and moved toward the door, keeping an eye on the three hijackers as they did so. The first aboard the aircraft was a RCAF officer with a pistol belt and white lanyard, followed by three men in civilian clothes who had to be cops.

“You’re Mr. Clark?” the officer asked.

“That’s right.” John pointed. “There’s your three—suspects, I think the term is.” He smiled tiredly at that. The cops moved to deal with them.

“Alternate transport is on the way, about an hour out,” the Canadian officer told him.

“Thank you.” The three moved to collect their carry-on baggage, and in two cases, their wives. Patsy was asleep and had to be awakened. Sandy had gotten back into her book. Two minutes later, all five of them were on the ground, shuffling into one of the RCAF cars. As soon as they pulled away, the aircraft started moving again, taxiing to the civilian terminal so that the passengers could get off and stretch while the 777 was serviced and refueled.