Shadow Watch (1999)

by Tom - Power Plays 03 Clancy

  Assuming it occurred without disaster striking first.

  Ricci studied his map, feeling stretched thin in every sense. His exhaustion and jet lag, the haste with which he’d needed to organize his guard force, the ongoing logistical problems of building it up to a reasonable level of adequacy, Petrov’s frequent curve balls and increasing restrictions upon his authority ... the whole kit and kaboodle was grating on him. Nor had there been a bit of encouragement in anything he’d heard about the strike on the terrorist camp in the Chapadas. Whoever had been occupying that base had flown the coop aboard the Lockheed, which had itself vanished without a trace. And if they were as good and well-equipped as his information led him to believe, Ricci figured they’d have a network of safe, tucked-away airfields where they could make layover and refueling stops en route to their ultimate destination.

  And where do you think that’s going to be? he thought. Come on, take a guess.

  Ricci studied the map, thinking they were out there someplace close by, knowing it with a strange and implacable certainty he could not have explained to any other human being ... with the possible exception of Pete Nimec. Sometimes when he was with the BPD and had worked a criminal investigation to where a bust was imminent, he’d been able to feel the accelerating energies of the thing with his nerve endings, the way he supposed animals in a forest could sense a coming storm.

  They were out there, out there someplace—but where? Even the weather was working to his disadvantage. As long as the low-pressure front remained in a holding pattern over southern Kazakhstan, the Hawkeye-II satellite would be wearing what amounted to a blindfold of clouds, severely reducing its capabilities. To offset this handicap, Gordian and Nimec had shipped Ricci another of their little toys, a SkyManta unmanned air recon vehicle that looked for all the world like a flying saucer in some 1950’s-era drive-in masterpiece. Earth versus the Aliens from Zanthor. He’d seen other drones in his military days, including the Predator, which had been in its experimental stages at the time, and was eventually given over to the exclusive use of the Air Force’s 11th Reconnaissance Squadron ... the Predator, and another UAV called the Hunter, both of which had outwardly resembled conventional airplanes.

  UpLink’s pilotless vehicle was in another class. While far from a scientific wizard, Ricci was a quick study, and his understanding based upon Nimec’s apprisal was that its outer shell was called a “smart skin,” a composite alloy imbedded with microelectromechanical systems—MEMS was the acronym Pete had used—which included sensors tiny enough to be carried by ants, and which gave it the ability to pick up infrared heat concentrations, plus near-real-time video, and most significantly under present meteorological conditions, synthetic aperture radar images that could penetrate the cloud cover hindering his surveillance efforts. Pitch black like a Stealth bomber, it had a circumference of thirty-five, maybe forty feet, making it difficult to eyeball from the ground at night. Also, something about its saucer shape, he wasn’t quite sure what, would allow it to slip past ground-to-air radar arrays even more easily than aircraft with Stealth design.

  The technical operators that had brought the SkyManta from Kaliningrad had launched it about an hour back, and Ricci was leaving it to them to keep tabs on its transmissions. If anything of interest turned up, they’d give him a shout. But what he’d needed this evening was a few hours of solitude, a chance to simply think.

  Ricci looked at the map, running his fingertip over the topographical features of the Cosmodrome’s surrounding terrain. Everywhere he looked, there were tucks and folds in the hills where an assault force with a basic knowledge of cover and concealment techniques could have been assembling for days or even weeks. And whereas they could choose the time and place to hit—and hit they would, said his own low-tech internal sensors—he was shackled by Petrov’s hairy-chested exercise in self-assertion.

  Shaking his head again, leaving the map on the table as he rose to brew some coffee, Ricci wished himself the best of luck trying to stop them if that hit came soon.

  Dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Voenno Kosmicheskie Sily, Kuhl rode up to the checkpoint station at the north gate of the Cosmodrome in the two-seat cabin of an MZKT-7429 military semi-trailer truck. He was on the passenger side. Oleg, a native Ukrainian with whom he had seen action in many mercenary operations, was at the wheel. In back were Antonio and four of Kuhl’s best, most dedicated men from Brazil— men who had replaced the original occupants of the truck, actual Russian Military Space Police, now dead in a ditch some miles away with bullets from Antonio’s .22-caliber pistol in their heads. With Kuhl and his men aboard the trailer was the High Power Microwave cannon—tested and proven when used against the commuter train outside Sao Paulo—and its smaller but far more potent cousin, the long-range Havoc HMP device that would be placed aboard the Russian space station module. Using ISS’s solar array as its power source, it would be both reusable and retargetable—allowing Harlan DeVane to virtually destroy the electronic infrastructure of any major city on earth at his remote command.

  There were five sentries at the gate. Two wore the dark blue attire of UpLink’s security team; three had VKS uniforms like Kuhl’s—but with privates’ patches on their field jackets.

  Kuhl slipped his hand off the MP5K beside his seat. The Russian presence might make using it unnecessary.

  As Oleg slowed the truck to a halt before the gate, one of the Sword guards approached, coming around to the driver’s-side window.

  “We need your identification, please,” the guard said in English. Then in choppy guidebook Russian: “Pakuhzhee-tyeh, pa-zhal-stuh rigis-tratsiuh. ”

  Oleg was reaching down for his own submachine gun when Kuhl nodded slightly for him to be still, unrolled his window, and leaned his head out.

  “What is this?” he said, speaking English with a fabricated Russian accent. “Do you realize I am an officer of the military police?”

  The Sword guard looked calm but determined.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience, sir, but my detail’s been assigned security of this entry point, and if you’d just show your papers we can let you right on through.”

  Kuhl feigned affront and gestured toward the Russian watchmen.

  “What is this?” he barked in Russian. “Am I to be insulted by these outlanders?”

  The Sword guard might not have understood his words, but his tone made their meaning clear.

  “Sir,” he said. “I assure you this is strictly a routine check—”

  Suddenly one of the Russian guards stepped up past the American, slapped his hand against the truck’s rear panel, and waved it forward, signaling one of his men to open the gate.

  “Nye byespakoytyes!” he told the driver in Russian. “Go on through!”

  Oleg nodded and put his foot on the accelerator.

  The Sword guard watched with dismay as the huge semi began rumbling past the checkpoint.

  “Just a minute—”

  “Nyet!” the Russian said, puffing himself out. “He is commanding officer of our military guard, not common criminal!”

  The Sword guard looked at him, weighing his options. He could order his men to stand the truck down, but the damn thing was going full steam ahead, and they’d have to raise their weapons against it to do so. On the other hand, this was the third such dispute he’d had with the Russians since coming on shift tonight to suddenly find they’d crashed his party, and both times before they had bristled but ultimately yielded to his authority. Assholes that they were, he had to bear in mind they were acting on orders from higher-ranking assholes—and allowing a minor confrontation to trigger an out-and-out donny-brook would only complicate his job if something serious requiring their cooperation cropped up. Maybe it would be best to radio ahead, have the brass tussle it out, let these guys save a little face.

  He turned away from the Russian and flicked on his communications headset.

  Inside the truck, Kuhl had already turned on his own trunked radio a
nd ordered his strike team to mobilize.

  On receipt of Kuhl’s command, the small army he had gathered in the foothills southeast of the Cosmodrome burst into hurried activity, emerging from behind artificial boulders, foliage, stone panels, and other blinds, peeling the camouflage netting off their vehicles, moving from the pockets of concealment where they had patiently hidden while going about their preparations. Often over the past week, and again earlier that night, advance scouts handpicked by Kuhl had reported back with descriptions of the launch center’s eastern perimeter defenses, indicating they would be unable to withstand a direct, concentrated, lightning-fast strike. Resistance would become more intense once VKS and American reinforcements were called up from other areas of the center, but the attackers did not have to worry about penetrating it too deeply. Their objectives were limited: move in, put on a good show, move out.

  They did not suspect that, in the interests of putting on the best, most convincing show possible, the scouts, under orders from Kuhl himself, had lied to them.

  “Sir, we’ve got something from SkyManta.” The young op who had come pounding at Ricci’s trailer door was flushed and breathless. “Looks like this is it.”

  Ricci stared at him from inside the entrance, coffee cup in hand.

  “What’s it picked up?”

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty jeeps, the controllers say the IR video’s clear as day. They’re heading in convoy toward the east side of the compound.”

  The launchpad area, Ricci thought. He hadn’t wished himself luck a moment too soon.

  “How close are they?”

  “Two, maybe three miles, sir. There’s a whole network of gullies along that way. Caves in the hills, scrub ... it’s possible they could have been hiding there for a while....”

  “Let’s worry about the present.” Ricci took a breath. “Those remote gun platforms that were brought in, what are they called?”

  “The TRAP T-2s.”

  Ricci nodded.

  “They’re all in position? Exactly the way they were when we conducted firing exercises?”

  “Yes, sir. Every inch of ground in that sector’s covered by overlapping fire. We have at least fifteen of them just out beyond the gate—same number at each of the other perimeters—”

  “Grab a few off each line, but just a few. Three, four. Leave the rest where they are. That’d bring us to about thirty guns at the point of attack. Have the additions emplaced right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ricci wanted to tell the kid not to call him “sir.” He wasn’t his uncle, and Sword wasn’t the military. But his preferred form of address was something for later.

  “Notify the firing and Quick Response teams, make sure they’re all in their tac vests—”

  “That’s SOP, sir.”

  “Make sure anyway. ”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jesus, Ricci thought.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m heading out to the snoop-mobile to see the pictures for myself.”

  Minutes after Kuhl had gotten past the gate sentries with what amounted to a nod and a wave, the truck stopped briefly in a quiet section of the compound, where his men had placed the dish atop its trailer’s roof and switched on the pulse generator. They had then driven on to within two hundred feet of the long cargo-processing facility in which the ISS service module was being stored prior to installation in the launch vehicle—a movement that was scheduled to occur the very next morning.

  The concrete building was guarded exclusively by VKS troops, and only a sprinkling of them at that. None seemed interested when the cargo hauler pulled up at a moderate distance. It was one of their own trucks, and there were vehicles coming and going constantly in the days preceding a launch. Although Kuhl had been prepared for the eventuality of having to deal with Sword personnel, he was not surprised by their absence. One could always depend on Russian pride. That, he thought, and the impoverished economy that had ensured their facility would not be hardened against the incapacitation of their electronic alarm systems by microwave pulse, an expensive upgrade in shielding they could scarcely have afforded.

  He turned to Oleg.

  “Go around back,” he said. “Tell the others they are to activate the cannon when ready.”

  The snoop-mobile was all boxed-in commotion. As Ricci entered, he saw men and women hunched over every one of the instrument consoles lining its sides, the radiance from the displays and lighted controls casting pale flickers of color across their faces.

  He glanced up at a flat-panel monitor on the wall above one of the consoles, and instantly saw SkyManta’s aerial IR video view of the approaching jeeps.

  “Those pictures,” he said, moving up beside the woman in the operator’s seat. Her name tag read Sharon Drake. “They’re called near real-time, that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir, again.

  “How near is near?”

  “What you’re seeing happened less than two seconds ago.”

  “Putting the attack force how close?”

  Sharon hit a button to superimpose grid coordinates over the image.

  “A little less than a quarter mile,” she said.

  “Any movement near the other gates?”

  She shook her head. “Not according to aerial IR scans, ground surveillance cameras, or reports from the guard posts.”

  Ricci thought a moment. Things just weren’t making sense. Nimec’s briefing had indicated the attack on the Brazilian ISS facility was a multi-pronged and precisely coordinated affair, planned around a detailed knowledge of the compound’s layout. There had been airborne infiltration, scattered ambushes, the works. Though its objectives remained a question mark, there was no doubt that whoever had directed it was proficient in commando-style dispersal and distraction tactics. What he was seeing here, this column of jeeps coming at their guns, was a suicide run.

  He expelled a breath. “The TRAP T-2s ... what’s the max distance their operators can stay back from the firing line?”

  Sharon leaned over toward a lean, bespectacled black man at the console to her immediate right.

  “Ted, I need you to tell me—”

  “Sixty meters,” he said without looking up from his screen.

  Ricci did an approximate mental conversion. Two hundred feet, give or take.

  “Notify the men at the perimeter that they’re to fire soon as the jeeps are in range,” he said. “I want two thirds of the weapons on lethal settings ... we hit them with gas and fireworks first, give them a chance to back off. They keep coming, it’s shoot to kill. The QR teams should be ready as our second line of defense.”

  Ted nodded.

  “Sir,” Sharon said, looking quickly over her shoulder at Ricci. “Something’s happening here I don’t understand.”

  He made a winding gesture with his hand.

  “I’m getting an IR hot spot like nothing I’ve ever seen before from inside the center ... at the north end.”

  “We have pictures?”

  “ ’Manta’s nanosensor range is far beyond its electro-optical—”

  “In plain English, Sharon, please.”

  “It can detect heat and energy emissions from a distance, but video’s limited to point of sight ... objects directly below it.”

  Ricci ran a hand back through his hair.

  “North end’s the industrial section,” he said. “Bring up a map of the area. I want to see exactly what buildings are over there.”

  Computer keys clicked to his right. Ted gestured to a monitor in front of him.

  “Done,” he said.

  “Sir.” This from another man who had come rushing over from across the trailer a second earlier. “Don’t know if it’s relevant to what we’re seeing here, but we just got word from north sector of some friction between our people and a couple of VKS guards at their checkpoint.”

  “Friction over what?”

  “Russian with lieutenant’s boards arrives in a truck, gets into a snit
about showing us his documents, the VKS guards override our security procedures and wave him through. Same kind of thing we’ve been dealing with all week. We’ve already lodged a complaint with VKS command, but I thought you should know.”

  Ricci looked at him.

  “When did it happen?”

  “About ten minutes back.

  Ricci studied the map on the screen. Yes, yes, of course. That fit the M.O. Fit it just perfectly.

  “The cargo-processing facility,” he said, leaning over Ted’s shoulder. “You realize what’s kept in there?”

  Ted craned his head around and stared back at him for a long time before replying, his eyes wide behind his lenses.

  “The ISS module,” he finally said.

  TRAP T-2 was another of those ubiquitous acronyms used by weapons and technology designers—the initials here standing for Telepresent Rapid Aiming Platform (Version) T-2.

  As specifically configured for UpLink International, the sixty TRAP T-2s situated around the Cosmodrome consisted of a mix of tripod-mounted VVRS M16 assault rifles and Heckler & Koch MSG semiautomatic shotguns linked via microwave video, fiber-optic umbilical cable, and precision target-acquisition-and-firing software to man-portable control stations with handheld viewfinders and triggering units. The weapons platforms utilized two types of surveillance cameras: a wide-field camera on the tripod, and another on the receiver of the gun that provided a shooter’s-eye perspective through its 9-27X reticular scope. Their video images were transmitted both to the firer and command-and-control centers from which the engagement was being directed.

  In plainest English that would almost certainly have satisfied Ricci, the TRAP T-2s allowed their users to hit their opposition with heavy, accurate fusillades of gunfire from locations that were secure and relatively out of harm’s way, making them ideal for installation defense.

  Following Ricci’s orders to the letter, the Sword remote gun teams in their trailers behind the east perimeter fence waited until they could see the whites of their attackers’ eyes—figuratively speaking—on the displays of their viewfinder/joystick control units before rotating the TRAP T-2’s outside the fence into position, firing off salvos of 70mm smoke, white phosphorous, and CS rounds, while broadcasting a cease-and-desist warning alternately in Russian, English, and Kazakh. They had almost no hope the CS could be used to any effect, as the men in the jeeps were wearing gas masks, but were keeping their fingers crossed that the pyrotechnics would give the attackers pause.