by Tom Clancy
Noonan crested the hill and started driving down to where the team was, wondering what the hell he’d be able to do. Bugging the building, his usual job, meant getting close. But it was broad daylight, and getting close would be a mother of a task, probably beyond the range of possibility until nightfall. Well, at least he’d taken care of his primary function. He’d denied the enemy the chance to use cell phones—if they’d tried to, which he didn’t know. He slowed the car for his approach, and saw Peter Covington in the distance conferring with his black-clad shooters.
Chavez and Clark were doing much the same thing, standing still a few yards from Clark’s official car.
“The perimeter needs firming up,” Ding said. Where had all these vehicles come from? Probably people who happened to be in the area when the shooting started. There was the usual goddamned TV van, its satellite dish erected, and what appeared to be a reporter speaking in front of a handheld Minicam. So, Chavez thought, now the danger to his family was a goddamned spectator sport.
Grady had to make a decision, and he had to make it now. If he wanted to achieve his goal and make his escape, it had to be now. His gun-containing parcel was sitting on the ground next to his rental car. He left it on the ground with Roddy Sands and walked to the farthest of the Volvo commercial trucks.
“Sean,” a voice called from the cargo area, “the bloody phones don’t work.”
“I know. We begin in five minutes. Watch for the others, and then carry on as planned.”
“Okay, Sean,” the voice replied. To punctuate it, Grady heard the cocking of the weapons inside as he walked to the next, delivering the same message. Then the third. There were three men in each of the trucks. The canvas covers over the cargo areas had holes cut in them, like the battlements of a castle, and those inside had opened them slightly and were now looking at the soldiers less than a hundred meters away. Grady made his way back to his Jaguar. When he got there he checked his watch. He looked at Roddy Sands and nodded.
Team-2’s truck was starting down the hill to the hospital. Noonan’s car was directly in front of it now.
Popov was watching the whole area with his binoculars. A third military truck came into view. He looked at it and saw more men sitting in the back, probably reinforcements for the people already outside the hospital. He returned his attention to the area that already had soldiers. Closer examination showed . . . was that John Clark? he wondered. Standing away from the others. Well, if his wife were a hostage now, that made sense to let another—he had to have a second-in-command for his organization—command the operation. So, he’d just be standing there now, looking tense in his suit.
“Excuse me.” Popov turned to see a reporter and a cameraman, and closed his eyes in a silent curse.
“Yes?”
“Could you give us your impressions of what is happening here? First of all, your name, and what causes you to be here.”
“Well, I—my name—my name is Jack Smith,” Popov said, in his best London accent. “And I was out here in the country—birding, you see. I was out here to enjoy nature, it’s a nice day, you see, and—”
“Mr. Smith, have you any idea what is happening down there?”
“No, no, not really.” He didn’t take his eyes away from the binoculars, not wanting to give them a look at his face. Nichevo! There was Sean Grady, standing with Roddy Sands. Had he believed in God, he would have invoked His name at that moment, seeing what they were doing, and knowing exactly what they were thinking in this flashpoint in time.
Grady bent down and opened his parcel, removing the AKMS assault-rifle from it. Then he slapped in the magazine, extended the folding stock, and in one smooth motion stood to straight and brought it to his shoulder. A second later he took aim and fired into the group of black-clad soldiers. A second after that, the men in the trucks did the same.
There was no warning at all. Bullets hit the side of the truck behind which they’d been sheltering, but before Team-1 had the time to react, the bullets came in on their bodies. Four men dropped in the first two seconds. By that time, the rest had jumped away and down, their eyes looking around for the source of the fire.
Noonan saw them crumple, and it took a second or so of shock for him to realize what was happening. Then he spoke into his tactical radio: “Warning, warning, Team- 1 is under fire from the rear!” At the same time his eyes were searching for the source—it had to be right there, in that big truck. The FBI agent floored his accelerator and dashed that way, his right hand reaching for his pistol.
Master Chief Mike Chin was down with a bullet in each upper leg. The suddenness only made the pain worse. He’d been totally unprepared for this, and the pain paralyzed him for several seconds, until training reasserted itself, and he tried to crawl to cover. “Chin is hit, Chin is hit,” he gasped over the radio, then turned to see another Team- 1 member down, blood gushing from the side of his head.
Sergeant Houston’s head snapped off his scope, and turned right with the sudden and unexpected noise of automatic-weapons fire. What the hell? He saw what appeared to be the muzzle of a rifle sticking out the side of one of the trucks, and he swung his rifle up and off the ground to the right to try to acquire a target.
Roddy Sands saw the movement. The sniper was where he remembered, but covered as he was in his camouflage blanket, it was hard to track in on him. The movement fixed that, and the shot was only about a hundred fifty meters. Holding low and left, he pulled the trigger and held it down, walking his rounds through the shape on the side of the hill, firing long, then pulling back down to hit at it again.
Houston got one round off, but it went wild as a bullet penetrated his right shoulder, blasting right through his body armor, which was sufficient to stop a pistol round but not a bullet from a rifle. Neither courage nor muscle strength could make broken bones work. The impact made his body collapse, and a second later, Houston knew that his right arm would not work at all. On instinct he rolled to his left, while his left hand tried to reach across his body for his service pistol, while he announced over the radio that he was hit as well.
It was easier for Fred Franklin. Too far away for easy fire from one of the terrorists’ weapons, he was also well concealed under his blanket. It took him a few seconds to realize what was going on, but the screams and groans over his radio earpiece told him that some team members had been badly hurt. He swept his scope sight over the area, and saw one gun muzzle sticking out the side of a truck. Franklin flipped off his safety, took aim, and loosed his first .50-caliber round of the fight. The muzzle blast of his own weapon shattered the local silence. The big MacMillan sniper rifle fired the same cartridge as the .50-caliber heavy machine gun, sending a two-ounce bullet off at 2,700 feet per second, covering the distance in less than a third of a second and drilling a half-inch hole into the soft side of the truck, but there was no telling if it hit a target or not. He swept the rifle left, looking for another target. He passed over another big truck, and saw the holes in the cover, but nothing inside of them. More to the left—there, there was a guy holding a rifle and firing—off to where Sam was. Sergeant First Class Fred Franklin worked his bolt, loaded a second round, and took careful aim.
Roddy Sands was sure he’d hit his target, and was now trying to kill it. To his left, Sean was already back in his car, starting it for the getaway that had to begin in less than two minutes.
Grady heard the engine catch and turned to look back at his most trusted subordinate. He’d just gotten all the way around when the bullet hit, just at the base of Sands’s skull. The huge .50 bullet exploded the head like a can of soup, and for all his experience as a terrorist, Grady had never seen anything like it. It seemed that only the jaw remained, as the body fell out of view, and Team-1 got its first kill of the day.
Noonan stopped his car inches from the third of the trucks. He dove out the right-side driver’s door, and heard the distinctive chatter of Kalashnikov-type weapons. Those had to be enemies, and they had to be close. He
held his Beretta pistol in both hands, looked for a second at the back of the truck and wondered how to—yes! There was a ladder-handle fixture on the rear door. He slipped a booted foot into it and climbed up, finding a canvas cover roped into place. He forced his pistol into his waistband and withdrew his K-Bar combat knife, slashing at the rope loops, getting a corner free. He lifted it with his left hand, looked inside and saw three men, facing left and doing aimed fire with their weapons. Okay. It never occurred to him to say or shout anything to them. Leaning in, his left hand holding the canvas clear, he aimed with his right hand. The first round was double-action, and his finger pulled the trigger slowly, and the head nearest to him snapped to its right, and the body fell. The others were too distracted by the noise of their own weapons to hear the report of the pistol. Noonan instantly adjusted his grip on the pistol and fired off a second round into the next head. The third man felt the body hit his, and turned to look. The brown eyes went wide. He jerked away from the side of the truck and brought his rifle to his left, but not quickly enough. Noonan fired two rounds into the chest, then brought his pistol down from recoil and fired his third right through the man’s nose. It exited through his brain stem, by which time the man was dead. Noonan looked hard at all three targets, and, sure they were dead, jumped back off the truck and headed forward to the next. He paused to slap in a fresh magazine, while a distant part of his mind remarked on the fact that Timothy Noonan was on autopilot, moving almost without conscious thought.
Grady floored his car, hitting the horn as he did so. That was the signal for the others to get clear. That included the men inside the hospital, whom he’d been unable to alert with his cell phone.
“Jesus Christ!” O’Neil announced when the first rounds were fired. “Why the bloody hell didn’t he—”
“Too late to worry, Timmy,” Sam Barry told him, waving to his brother and running for the door. Jimmy Carr was there, and the final member of the inside team joined up ten seconds later, emerging from the door to the fire stairs.
“Time to go, lads,” O’Neil told them. He looked at the two main hostages and thought to wave to them, but the pregnant one would only slow them down, and there were thirty meters to his van. The plan had come apart, though he didn’t know why, and it was time to get the hell out of here.
The third military truck stopped a few yards behind Noonan’s personal car. Eddie Price jumped out first, his MP- 10 up in his hands, then crouched, looking around to identify the noise. Whatever it was, it was happening too bloody fast, and there was no plan. He’d been trained for this as an ordinary infantryman, but that had been twenty years ago. Now he was a special-operations soldier, and supposed to know every step before he took it. Mike Pierce came down next to him.
“What the fuck’s happening, Eddie?”
Just then, they saw Noonan jump down from the Volvo truck and swap out magazines on his pistol. The FBI agent saw them, and waved them forward.
“I suppose we follow him,” Price said. Louis Loiselle appeared at Pierce’s side and the two started off. Paddy Connolly caught up, reaching into his fanny pack for a flash-bang.
O’Neil and his four ran out the emergency-room entrance and made it all the way to their van without being spotted or engaged. He’d left the keys in, and had the vehicle moving before the others had a chance to close all the doors.
“Warning, warning,” Franklin called over the radio. “We have bad guys in a brown van leaving the hospital, looks like four of them.” Then he swiveled his rifle and took aim just aft of the left-front tire and fired.
The heavy bullet ripped through the fender as though it were a sheet of newspaper, then slammed into the iron block of the six-cylinder engine. It penetrated one cylinder, causing the piston to jam instantly, stopping the engine just as fast. The van swerved left with the sudden loss of engine power, almost tipping over to the right, but then slamming down and righting itself.
O’Neil screamed a curse and tried to restart the engine at once, with no result at all. The starter motor couldn’t turn the jammed crankshaft. O’Neil didn’t know why, but this vehicle was fully dead, and he was stuck in the open.
Franklin saw the result of his shot with some satisfaction and jacked in another round. This one was aimed at the driver’s head. He centered his sight reticle and squeezed, but at the same moment the head moved, and the shot missed. That was something Fred Franklin had never done. He looked on in stunned surprise for a moment, then reloaded.
O’Neil was cut on the face by glass fragments. The bullet hadn’t missed him by more than two inches, but the shock of it propelled him out of the driver’s seat into the cargo area of the van. There he froze, without a clue as to what to do next.
Homer Johnston and Dieter Weber still had their rifles in the carrying cases, and since it didn’t appear that either would have much chance to make use of them, right now they were moving with pistols only. In the rear of their team, they watched Eddie Price slash a hole in the rear cover of the second Volvo truck. Paddy Connolly pulled the pin on a flash-bang and tossed it inside. Two seconds later, the explosion of the pyro charge blew the canvas cover completely off the truck. Pierce and Loiselle jumped up, weapons ready in their hands, but the three men inside were stunned unconscious from the blast. Pierce jumped all the way in to disarm them, tossed their weapons clear of the truck, and kneeled over them.
In each of the three Volvo trucks, one of the armed men was also to be the driver. In the foremost of the three, this one was named Paul Murphy, and from the beginning he’d divided his time between shooting and watching Sean Grady’s Jaguar. He saw that the car was moving and dropped his weapon to take the driver’s seat and start the diesel engine. Looking up, he saw what had to be the body of Roddy Sands—but it appeared to be headless. What had happened? Sean’s right arm came out of the window, waving in a circling motion for the truck to follow. Murphy slipped the truck into gear and pulled off to follow. He turned left to see the brown van Tim O’Neil had driven stopped cold in the hospital parking lot. His first instinct was to go down there and pick his comrades up, but the turn would have been difficult, and Sean was still waving, and so he followed his leader. In the back, one of his shooters lifted the rear flap and looked to see the other trucks, his AKMS rifle in his hands, but neither was moving, and there were men in black clothing there—
—One of those was Sergeant Scotty McTyler, and he had his MP-10 up and aimed. He fired a three-round burst at the face in the distance, and had the satisfaction to see a puff of pink before it dropped out of sight.
“Command, McTyler, we have a truck leaving the area with subjects aboard!” McTyler loosed another few rounds, but without visible effect, and turned away, looking for something else to do.
Popov had never seen a battle before, but that was what he watched now. It seemed chaotic, with people darting around seemingly without purpose. The people in black—well, three were down at the truck from the initial gunfire, and others were moving, apparently in pursuit of the Jaguar, virtually identical with his, and the truck, now exiting the parking lot. Not three meters away, the TV reporter was speaking rapidly into his microphone, while his cameraman had his instrument locked on the events down the hill. Popov was sure it was exciting viewing for everybody in their sitting rooms. He was also sure that it was time for him to leave.
The Russian got back into his car, started the engine, and moved off, with a spray of gravel for the reporter in his wake.
“I got ’em. Bear’s got ’em,” Malloy reported, lowering his collective control to drop down to a thousand feet or so, his aviator’s eyes locked on the two moving vehicles. “Anybody in command of this disaster?” the Marine asked next.
“Mr. C?” Ding asked.
“Bear, this is Six. I am in command now.” Clark and Chavez sprinted back to Clark’s official car, where both jumped in, and the driver, unbidden, started in pursuit. He was a corporal of military police in the British Army, and had never been part of the Rai
nbow team, which he’d always resented somewhat. But not now.
It wasn’t much of a challenge. The Volvo truck was powerful, but no competition for the V-8 Jaguar racing up behind it.
Paul Murphy checked his mirror and was instantly confused. Coming up to join him was a Jaguar visually identical to the—he looked, yes, Sean was there, up in front of him. Then who was this? He turned to yell at the people in the back, but on looking, saw that one was down and clearly dead, a pool of blood sliding greasily across the steel floor of the truck. The other was just holding on.
“This is Price. Where is everyone? Where are the subjects?”
“Price, this is Rifle One-Two. I think we have one or more subjects in the brown van outside the hospital. I took the motor out with my rifle. They ain’t going nowhere, Eddie.”
“Okay.” Price looked around. The local situation might even be under control or heading that way. He felt as though he’d been awakened by a tornado and was now looking at his wrecked farm and trying to make sense of what had taken place. One deep breath, and the responsibility of command asserted itself: “Connolly and Lincoln, go right. Tomlinson and Vega, down the hill to the left. Patterson, come with me. McTyler and Pierce, guard the prisoners. Weber and Johnston, get down to Team-1 and see how they are. Move!” he concluded.