Rainbow Six

by Tom Clancy

  “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.

  “Sean?”

  G
rady turned. “Yes, Roddy?”

  “There they are,” Sands pointed out. The black-clad soldiers were standing behind their army trucks, only a few meters from the trucks the Irishmen had driven to the site.

  “I only count six, lad,” Grady said. “We’re hoping for ten or so.”

  “It is a poor time to become greedy, Sean.”

  Grady thought about that for a second, then checked his watch. He’d allotted forty-five to sixty minutes for this mission. Any more, he thought, would give the other side too much time to get organized. They were within ten minutes of the lower limit. So far, things had gone according to plan. Traffic would be blocked on the roads, but only into the hospital, not away from it. He had his three large trucks, the van, and two private cars, all within fifty meters of where he was standing. The crucial part of the job was yet to begin, but his people all knew what to do. Roddy was right. It was time to wrap everything up and make his dash. Grady nodded at his subordinate, pulled out his cell phone, and hit the speed-dial button for Timothy O’Neil.

  But it didn’t work. Lifting the phone to his ear, all he heard was the fast-busy signal that announced that the call hadn’t gone through properly. Annoyed, he thumbed end and redialed . . . and got the same result.

  “What’s this? . . .” he said, trying a third time. “Roddy, give me your phone.”

  Sands offered it, and Grady took it. They were all identical in make, and all had been identically programmed. He thumbed the same speed-dial command, and again got only the fast-busy response. More confused than angry, Grady nonetheless had a sudden empty feeling in his stomach. He’d planned for many things, but not for this. For the mission to work, he had to coordinate his three groups. They all knew what they were to do, but not when, not until he told them that it was time.

  “Bloody . . .” Grady said quietly, rather to the surprise of Roddy Sands. Next Grady simply tried calling a mobile operator, but the same fast-busy signal resulted. “The bloody phones have stopped working.”

  “We haven’t heard from him in a while,” Bellow observed.

  “He hasn’t given us a phone number yet.”

  “Try this.” Tawney handed over a handwritten list of numbers in the hospital. Bellow selected the main ER number and dialed it on his cell phone, making sure to start with the 777 prefix. It rang for half a minute before it was picked up.

  “Yes?” It was an Irish-sounding voice, but a different one.

  “I need to talk to Mr. Casey,” the psychiatrist said, putting the call on speaker.

  “He’s not here right now” was the reply.

  “Could you get him, please? I need to tell him something.”

  “Wait,” the voice answered.

  Bellow killed the microphone on the portable phone. “Different voice. Not the same guy. Where’s Casey?”

  “Some other place in the hospital, I imagine,” Stanley offered, but the answer was dissatisfying to him when no voice came back on the phone line for several minutes.

  Noonan had to explain who he was to two separate police checkpoints, but now the hospital was in sight. He called ahead on his radio, told Covington that he was five minutes away, and learned that nothing had changed.

  Clark and Chavez dismounted their vehicle fifty yards from the green trucks that had brought Team-1 to the site. Team-2 was now on its way, also in another green-painted British Army truck, with a police escort to speed their way through the traffic. Chavez was holding a collection of photographs of known PIRA terrorists that he’d snatched off the intelligence desk. The hard part, Ding found, was to keep his hands from shaking—whether from fear or rage, he couldn’t tell—and it required all the training he’d ever had to keep his mind on business rather than worrying about his wife and mother-in-law . . . and his unborn son. Only by looking down at the photos instead of up at the country was this possible, for in his hands he had faces to seek and kill, but the green grass around the hospital was merely empty landscape where there was danger. At times like this, the manly thing was to suck it in and pretend that you had it under control, but Chavez was learning now that while being brave for yourself was easy enough, facing danger to someone you loved was a very different situation, one in which courage didn’t matter a damn, and all you could do was . . . nothing. You were a spectator, and nothing more, watching a contest of sorts in which lives dear to you were at grave risk, but in which you could not participate. All he could do was watch, and trust to the professionalism of Covington’s Team-1. One part of his mind told him that Peter and his boys were as good as he and his own people were, and that if a rescue could be done, they would surely do it—but that wasn’t the same as being there yourself, taking charge, and making the right things happen yourself. Sometime later today, Chavez thought, he would again hold his wife in his arms—or she and their unborn child would be taken forever from him. His hands gripped the computer-generated photographs, bending the edges, and his only comfort was in the weight of the pistol that hung in the hip-holster tucked into the waistband of his trousers. It was a familiar feeling, but one, his mind told him, which was useless at the moment, and likely to remain so.

  “So, what do I call you?” Bellow asked, when the phone line became active again.

  “You can call me Timothy.”

  “Okay,” the doctor said agreeably, “I’m Paul.”

  “You’re an American,” O’Neil observed.

  “That’s right. And so are the hostages you’re holding, Dr. Chavez and Mrs. Clark.”

  “So?”

  “So, I thought your enemies were the Brits, not us Americans. You know that those two ladies are mother and daughter, don’t you?” He had to know it, Bellow knew, and for that reason he could point it out as though giving away information.

  “Yes,” the voice replied.

  “Did you know that they are both Catholic, just like you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they are,” Bellow assured him. “You can ask. Mrs. Clark’s maiden name is O’Toole, as a matter of fact. She is an Irish-Catholic American citizen. What makes her your enemy, Timothy?”

  “She’s—her husband is—I mean—”

  “He’s also an Irish-Catholic American, and to the best of my knowledge he has never taken action of any kind against you or the people in your organization. That’s why I have trouble understanding why you are threatening their lives.”

  “Her husband is the head of this Rainbow mob, and they kill people for the British government.”

  “No, actually, they do not. Rainbow is actually a NATO establishment. The last time we went out, we had to rescue thirty children. I was there, too. The people holding them murdered one of the kids, a little Dutch girl named Anna. She was dying, Timothy. She had cancer, but those people weren’t very patient about it. One of them shot her in the back and killed her. You’ve probably seen it on TV. Not the sort of thing a religious person would do—not the sort of thing a Catholic would do, murdering a little girl like that. And Dr. Chavez is pregnant. I’m sure you can see that. If you harm her, what about her child? Not just a murder if you do that, Timothy. You’re also aborting her unborn child. I know what the Catholic Church says about that. So do you. So does the government in the Republic of Ireland. Please, Timothy, will you please think about what you’ve threatened to do? These are real people, not abstractions, and the baby in Dr. Chavez’s womb is also a real person, too. Anyway, I have something to tell Mr. Casey. Have you found him yet?” the psychiatrist asked.

  “I—no, no, he can’t come to the phone now.”

  “Okay, I have to go now. If I call this number again, will you be there to answer it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll call back when I have some news for you.” Bellow punched the kill switch. “Good news. Different person, younger, not as sure of himself. I have something I can use on this one. He really is Catholic, or at least he thinks of himself that way. That means conscience and rules. I can work on this one,” he concluded sobe
rly but with confidence.

  “But where is the other one?” Stanley asked. “Unless . . .”

  “Huh?” Tawney asked.

  “Unless he’s not in there at all.”

  “Huh?” the doctor asked.

  “Unless he’s not bloody there. He called us before, but he hasn’t talked to us in quite a while. Shouldn’t he be doing so?”

  Bellow nodded. “I would have expected that, yes.”

  “But Noonan has chopped the cell phones,” Stanley pointed out. He switched on his tactical radio. “This is Command. Look around for someone trying to use a cellular telephone. We may have two groups of subjects here. Acknowledge.”

  “Command, this is Covington, roger.”

  “Fuck!” Malloy snarled in his circling helicopter.

  “Take her down some?” Harrison asked.

  The Marine shook his head. “No, up here they might not even notice us. Let’s stay covert for a while.”

  “What the hell?” Chavez observed, looking at his father-in-law.

  “Inside-outside?” John speculated.

  Grady was at the point of losing his temper. He’d tried a total of seven times to make a call with his cell phone, only to find the same infuriating fast-busy response. He had a virtually perfect tactical situation, but lacked the ability to coordinate his teams. There they were, those Rainbow people, standing in a bunch not a hundred meters from the two Volvo trucks. This couldn’t last, though. The local police would surely start securing the area soon. There were perhaps a hundred and fifty, perhaps as many as two hundred people now, standing in little knots within three hundred meters of the hospital. The time was right. The targets were there.