by Tom Clancy
So, for starters, John decided, from now on a more senior Rainbow member would always accompany the teams into the field to provide support, someone the team leaders could lean against. Of course, they wouldn’t like the oversight right there at their shoulders, but that couldn’t be helped. With that thought he dismissed the meeting, and called Al Stanley into his office, where he presented his idea.
“Fine with me, John. But who are the seniors who got out?”
“You and me, for starters.”
“Very well. Makes sense—what with all the fitness and shooting training we subject ourselves to. Domingo and Peter might find it all a bit overpowering, however.”
“They both know how to follow orders—and they’ll come to us for advice when it’s needed. Everybody does. I sure did, whenever the opportunity offered itself.” Which hadn’t been very damned often, though John remembered wishing for it often enough.
“I agree with your proposal, John,” Stanley said. “Shall we write it up for the order book?”
Clark nodded. “Today.”
CHAPTER 9
STALKERS
“I can do that, John,” the Director of Central Intelligence said. “It means talking to the Pentagon, however.”
“Today if possible, Ed. We really need this. I was remiss in not considering the need earlier. Seriously remiss,” Clark added humbly.
“It happens,” DCI Foley observed. “Okay, let me make some calls and get back to you.” He broke the connection and thought for a few seconds, then flipped through his rolodex, and found the number of CINC-SNAKE, as the post was laughingly called. Commander in Chief, Special Operations Command at MacDill Air Force Base outside Tampa, Florida, was the boss of all the “snake-eaters,” the special-operations people from whom Rainbow had drawn its American personnel. General Sam Wilson was the man behind the desk, not a place he was especially comfortable. He’d started off as an enlisted man who’d opted for airborne and ranger training, then moved into Special Forces, which he’d left to get his college degree in history at North Carolina State University, then returned to the Army as a second lieutenant and worked his way up the ladder rapidly. A youthful fifty-three, he had four shiny stars on his shoulders now and was in charge of a unified multiservice command that included members from each of the armed services, all of whom knew how to cook snake over an open fire.
“Hi, Ed,” the general said, on getting the call over his secure phone. “What’s happening at Langley?” The special-operations community was very close with CIA, and often provided intelligence to it or the muscle to run a difficult operation in the field.
“I have a request from Rainbow,” the DCI told him.
“Again? They’ve already raided my units, you know.”
“They’ve put ’em to good use. That was their takedown in Austria yesterday.”
“Looked good on TV,” Sam Wilson admitted. “Will I get additional information?” By which he meant information on who the bad guys had been.
“The whole package when it’s available, Sam,” Foley promised.
“Okay, what does your boy need?”
“Aviators, helicopter crews.”
“You know how long it takes to train those people, Ed? Jesus, they’re expensive to maintain, too.”
“I know that, Sam,” the voice assured him from Langley. “The Brits have to put up, too. You know Clark. He wouldn’t ask ’less he needed it.”
Wilson had to admit that, yes, he knew John Clark, who’d once saved a wrecked mission and, in the process, a bunch of soldiers, a long time and several presidents ago. Ex-Navy SEAL, the Agency said of him, with a solid collection of medals and a lot of accomplishments. And this Rainbow group had two successful operations under its belt.
“Okay, Ed, how many?”
“One really good one for now.”
It was the “for now” part that worried Wilson. But—“Okay, I’ll be back to you later today.”
“Thanks, Sam.” One nice thing about Wilson, Foley knew, was that he didn’t screw around on time issues. For him “right now” meant right the hell now.
Chester wasn’t going to make it even as far as Killgore had thought. His liver function tests were heading downhill faster than anything he’d ever seen—or read about in the medical literature. The man’s skin was yellow now, like a pale lemon, and slack over his flaccid musculature. Respiration was already a little worrisome, too, partly because of the large dose of morphine he was getting to keep him unconscious or at least stuporous. Both Killgore and Barbara Archer had wanted to treat him as aggressively as possible, to see if there were really a treatment modality that might work on Shiva, but the fact of the matter was that Chester’s underlying medical conditions were so serious that no treatment regimen could overcome both those problems and the Shiva.
“Two days,” Killgore said. “Maybe less.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Dr. Archer agreed. She had all manner of ideas for handling this, from conventional—and almost certainly useless—antibiotics to Interleukin-2, which some thought might have clinical applications to such a case. Of course, modern medicine had yet to defeat any viral disease, but some thought that buttressing the body’s immune system from one direction might have the effect of helping it in another, and there were a lot of powerful new synthetic antibiotics on the market now. Sooner or later, someone would find a magic bullet for viral diseases. But not yet: “Potassium?” she asked, after considering the prospects for the patient and the negligible value of treating him at all. Killgore shrugged agreement.
“I suppose. You can do it if you want.” Killgore waved to the medication cabinet in the corner.
Dr. Archer walked over, tore a 40cc disposable syringe out of its paper and plastic container, then inserted the needle in a glass vial of potassium-and-water solution, and filled the needle by pulling back on the plunger. Then she returned to the bed and inserted the needle into the medication drip, pushing the plunger now to give the patient a hard bolus of the lethal chemical. It took a few seconds, longer than if she had done the injection straight into a major vein, but Archer didn’t want to touch the patient any more than necessary, even with gloves. It didn’t really matter that much. Chester’s breathing within the clear plastic oxygen mask seemed to hesitate, then restart, then hesitate again, then become ragged and irregular for six or eight breaths. Then . . . it stopped. The chest settled into itself and didn’t rise. His eyes had been semi-open, like those of a man in shallow sleep or shock, aimed in her direction but not really focused. Now they closed for the last time. Dr. Archer took her stethoscope and held it on the alcoholic’s chest. There was no sound at all. Archer stood up, took off her stethoscope, and pocketed it.
So long, Chester, Killgore thought.
“Okay,” she said matter-of-factly. “Any symptoms with the others?”
“None yet. Antibody tests are positive, however,” Killgore replied. “Another week or so before we see frank symptoms, I expect.”
“We need a set of healthy test subjects,” Barbara Archer said. “These people are too—too sick to be proper benchmarks for Shiva.”
“That means some risks.”
“I know that,” Archer assured him. “And you know we need better test subjects.”
“Yes, but the risks are serious,” Killgore observed.
“And I know that,” Archer replied.
“Okay, Barb, run it up the line. I won’t object. You want to take care of Chester? I have to run over to see Steve.”
“Fine.” She walked to the wall, picked up the phone, and punched three digits onto the keypad to get the disposal people.
For his part, Killgore went into the changing area. He stopped in the decontamination chamber first of all, pushed the large square red button, and waited for the machinery to spray him down from all directions with the fog-solution of antiseptics that were known to be immediately and totally lethal to the Shiva virus. Then he went through the door into the changing room its
elf, where he removed the blue plastic suit, tossed it into the bin for further and more dramatic decontamination—it wasn’t really needed, but the people in the lab felt better about it then—then dressed in surgical greens. On the way out, he put on a white lab coat. The next stop was Steve Berg’s shop. Neither he nor Barb Archer had said it out loud yet, but everyone would feel better if they had a working vaccine for Shiva.
“Hey, John,” Berg said, when his colleague came in.
“ ’Morning, Steve,” Killgore responded in greeting. “How’re the vaccines coming?”
“Well, we have ‘A’ and ‘B’ working now.” Berg gestured to the monkey cages on the other side of the glass. “ ‘A’ batch has the yellow stickers. ‘B’ is the blue, and the control group is red.”
Killgore looked. There were twenty of each, for a total of sixty rhesus monkeys. Cute little devils. “Too bad,” he observed.
“I don’t like it, either, but that’s how it’s done, my friend.” Neither man owned a fur coat.
“When do you expect results?”
“Oh, five to seven days for the ‘A’ group. Nine to fourteen for the control group. And the ‘B’ group—well, we have hopes for them, of course. How’s it going on your side of the house?”
“Lost one today.”
“This fast?” Berg asked, finding it disturbing.
“His liver was off the chart to begin with. That’s something we haven’t considered fully enough. There will be people out there with an unusually high degree of vulnerability to our little friend.”
“They could be canaries, man,” Berg worried, thinking of the songbirds used to warn miners about bad air. “And we learned how to deal with that two years ago, remember?”
“I know.” In a real sense, that was where the entire idea had come from. But they could do it better than the foreigners had. “What’s the difference in time between humans and our little furry friends?”
“Well, I didn’t aerosol any of these, remember. This is a vaccine test, not an infection test.”
“Okay, I think you need to set up an aerosol control test. I hear you have an improved packing method.”
“Maggie wants me to do that. Okay. We have plenty of monkeys. I can set it up in two days, a full-up test of the notional delivery system.”
“With and without vaccines?”
“I can do that.” Berg nodded. You should have set it up already, idiot, Killgore didn’t say to his colleague. Berg was smart, but he couldn’t see very far beyond the limits of his microscopes. Well, nobody was perfect, even here. “I don’t go out of my way to kill things, John,” Berg wanted to make clear to his physician colleague.
“I understand, Steve, but for every one we kill in proofing Shiva, we’ll save a few hundred thousand in the wild, remember? And you take good care of them while they’re here,” he added. The test animals here lived an idyllic life, in comfortable cages, or even in large communal areas where the food was abundant and the water clear. The monkeys had a lot of room, with pseudotrees to climb, air temperature like that of their native Africa, and no predators to threaten them. As in human prisons, the condemned got hearty meals to go along with their constitutional rights. But people like Steve Berg still didn’t like it, important and indispensable as it was to the overall goal. Killgore wondered if his friend wept at night for the cute little brown-eyed creatures. Certainly Berg wasn’t all that concerned with Chester—except that he might represent a canary, of course. That could indeed ruin anything, but that was also why Berg was developing “A” vaccine.
“Yeah,” Berg admitted. “I still feel shitty about it, though.”
“You should see my side of the house,” Killgore observed.
“I suppose,” Steve Berg responded diffidently.
The overnight flight had come out of Raleigh-Durham International Airport in North Carolina, an hour’s drive from Fort Bragg. The Boeing 757 touched down in an overcast drizzle to begin a taxi process almost as long as the flight itself, or so it often seemed to the passengers, as they finally came to the US Airways gate in Heathrow’s Terminal 3.
Chavez and Clark had come up together to meet him. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and Domingo held a card with “MALLOY” printed on it. The fourth man off was dressed in Marine Class-As, complete to his Sam Browne belt, gold wings, and four and a half rows of ribbons on the olive-colored uniform blouse. His blue-gray eyes saw the card and came to it as he half-dragged his canvas bag with him.
“Nice to be met,” Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Malloy observed. “Who are you guys?”
“John Clark.”
“Domingo Chavez.” Handshakes were exchanged. “Any more bags?” Ding asked.
“This is all I had time to pack. Lead on, people,” Colonel Malloy replied.
“Need a hand with that?” Chavez asked a man about six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than himself.
“I got it,” the Marine assured him. “Where we going?”
“Chopper is waiting for us. Car’s this way.” Clark headed through a side door, then down some steps to a waiting car. The driver took Malloy’s bag and tossed it in the “boot” for the half-mile drive to a waiting British army Puma helicopter.
Malloy looked around. It was a crummy day to fly, the ceiling about fifteen hundred feet, and the drizzle getting a little harder, but he was not a white-knuckle flyer. They loaded into the back of the helicopter. He watched the flight crew run through the start-up procedure professionally, reading off their printed checklist, just as he did it. With the rotor turning, they got on the radio for clearance to lift off. That took several minutes. It was a busy time at Heathrow, with lots of international flights arriving to deliver business people to their work of the day. Finally, the Puma lifted off, climbed to altitude, and headed off in an undetermined direction to wherever the hell he was going. At that point, Malloy got on the intercom.
“Can anybody tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“What did they tell you?”
“Pack enough underwear for a week,” Malloy replied, with a twinkle in his eye.
“There’s a nice department store a few miles from the base.”
“Hereford?”
“Good guess,” Chavez responded. “Been there?”
“Lots of times. I recognized that crossroads down there from other flights. Okay, what’s the story?”
“You’re going to be working with us, probably,” Clark told him.
“Who’s ‘us,’ sir?”
“We’re called Rainbow, and we don’t exist.”
“Vienna?” Malloy said through the intercom. The way they both blinked was answer enough. “Okay, that looked a little slick for cops. What’s the makeup of the team?”
“NATO, mainly Americans and Brits, but others, too, plus an Israeli,” John told him.
“And you set this up without any rotorheads?”
“Okay, goddamnit, I blew it, okay?” Clark observed. “I’m new at this command stuff.”
“What’s that on your forearm, Clark? Oh, what rank are you?”
John pulled back on his jacket, exposing the red seal tattoo. “I’m a simulated two-star. Ding here is a simulated major.”
The marine examined the tattoo briefly. “I’ve heard of those, but never seen any. Third Special Operations Group, wasn’t it? I knew a guy who worked with them.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dutch Voort, retired about five-six years ago as a full-bird.”
“Dutch Voort! Shit, haven’t heard that name in a while,” Clark replied at once. “I got shot down with him once.”
“You and a bunch of others. Great aviator, but his luck was kinda uneven.”
“How’s your luck, Colonel?” Chavez asked.
“Excellent, sonny, excellent,” Malloy assured him. “And you can call me Bear.”
It fit, both men decided of their visitor. He was Clark’s height, six-one, and bulky, as though he pumped barbells for fun and drank his sh
are of beer afterward. Chavez thought of his friend Julio Vega, another lover of free weights. Clark read over the medals. The DFC had two repeat clusters on it, as did the Silver Star. The shooting iron also proclaimed that Malloy was an expert marksman. Marines liked to shoot for entertainment and to prove that like all other Marines they were riflemen. In Malloy’s case, a Distinguished Rifleman, which was as high as the awards went. But no Vietnam ribbons, Clark saw. Well, he would have been too young for that, which was another way for Clark to realize how old he’d grown. He also saw that Malloy was about the right age for a half-colonel, whereas someone with all those decorations should have made it younger. Had Malloy been passed over for full-bird colonel? One problem with special operations was that it often put one off the best career track. Special attention was often required to make sure such people got the promotions they merited—which wasn’t a problem for enlisted men, but frequently a big one for commissioned officers.
“I started off in search-and-rescue, then I shipped over to Recon Marines, you know, get ’em in, get ’em out. You gotta have a nice touch. I guess I do.”
“What are you current in?”
“H-60, Hueys, of course, and H-53s. I bet you don’t have any of those, right?”
“ ’Fraid not,” Chavez said, immediately and obviously disappointed.
“Air Force 24th Special Operations Squadron at RAF Mildenhall has the MH-60K and MH-53. I am up to speed on both if you ever borrow them. They’re part of 1st Special Operations Wing, and they’re based both here and in Germany, last time I checked.”
“No shit?” Clark asked.
“No shit, Simulated General, sir. I know the wing commander, Stanislas Dubrovnik, Stan the Man. Great helo driver. He’s been around the block a few dozen times if you ever need a friend in a hurry.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. What else you know how to fly?”
“The Night Stalker, of course, but not many of them around. None based over here that I know of.” The Puma turned then, circling, then flaring to settle into the Hereford pad. Malloy watched the pilot’s stick work and decided he was competent, at least for straight-and-level stuff. “I’m not technically current on the MH-47 Chinook—we’re only allowed to stay officially current on three types—technically I’m not current on Hueys either, but I was fucking born in a Huey, if you know what I mean, General. And I can handle the MH-47 if I have to.”