First Team

by Larry Bond

  The operation would be coordinated with help from the unit’s specially equipped MC-17X, a jet-powered aircraft based on the C-17 and outfitted with comprehensive communications gear and a scaled-down side-looking radar adapted from the Joint Surveillance Target Attack Radar System (JSTARS) used by the regular Army to coordinate large-scale ground battles. Dubbed “Command Transport 3” in typical SF disinformation style, the one-of-a-kind MC-17X would remain beyond the border until the Stealth fighters launched their attack. At that point it could move forward and use its sensors to help the attackers.

  Once the attack was under way, the Russians would undoubtedly see it. While their reaction was difficult to predict, it was likely they wouldn’t be pleased. A flight of F-15 Eagles would accompany the command plane and be prepared to intervene.

  The Air Force had also provided two tankers with escorts to cover any contingencies. Two long-range, Special Operations Chinooks would stand by near the border as SAR aircraft; each would have a contingent of paratroopers aboard in addition to Air Force pararescue personnel who were being temporarily plucked from another section for the night.

  The planners had debated whether it might be possible to launch the airborne assault before hitting the missile defenses—the attack would tip the ground units off, costing the paratroopers the element of absolute surprise—but in the end decided it was too risky to fly the aircraft overhead without eliminating the antiair. As the intelligence officer began to explain why they were using the Chinooks rather than the Air Force Blackhawks—officially it had to do with the range, though there was a decided prejudice in favor of the massive two-rotor beasts among Van Buren’s staff—Corrine held up her hand.

  “Colonel, I’m going to accept that you and your people understand the logistical needs here much better than I do,” she said. “What you’ve outlined is fine, and I don’t need to cross-examine you on the nitty-gritty. Just make sure we have everything we need.”

  “We can accomplish the mission,” he told her—though he was pleased at the vote of confidence.

  “The question is—do we have the right place?” she said.

  “We won’t know until Ferg is inside,” said Van Buren. “It’s not a cautious approach, but once we have people in that space, there seemed to be no sense waiting another day or two days before launching the assault.”

  “Where is Mr. Ferguson now?”

  “He called a while ago to tell us he was infiltrating the base,” said Van Buren. “He should make his report in four hours. We’ll be ready to go; it’ll take us a little over two hours to launch the attack from that point. Assuming we have your permission.”

  “You’ll get it if the waste material is there. Where are they building the bombs?”

  “We’re not sure yet. One of those buildings,” said the colonel.

  “At what point will the Russians realize something is going on?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Van Buren turned to his Air Force staff officer, who explained that it was likely radar contacts would appear as soon as the F-117s launched their attack. By then, the C-130s would have to come up off the deck anyway. Under ordinary circumstances, the Russians would have from two to four aircraft standing by in the sector; if scrambled, they could reach the base within roughly fifteen minutes, though it was impossible to predict in advance what their readiness status would be.

  “What if we’re challenged?” Corrine asked.

  “Escorts come up from the border as a last resort,” said the captain.

  Corrine knew from the earlier briefings that alerting the Russians beforehand would almost undoubtedly tip off the terrorists; the military had been penetrated by various resistance groups. She’d contact them once the attack was under way, and hope for some cooperation—though she wouldn’t count on it.

  They were looking at her, waiting for approval.

  She thought back to her meeting with the president, the CIA director, and the others. They’d been worried about the May 10 intercept, unsure whether it was real or not—whether it was a real deadline, or just a day picked from thin air.

  It was May 8.

  “Proceed as you’ve planned,” she told Van Buren. “Pending word from Mr. Ferguson.”

  Van Buren smiled, but as he turned from the table he felt pangs of doubt. Questions flooded into his brain: Did he have enough men. Was the timetable too tight? Were the risks too great?

  He stepped back and looked at the map. Between the analysis the CIA had provided and Ferguson’s scouting, it was clear that there could be no more than two or three dozen fighters at the base itself; he’d outnumber them two or three to one and have twenty times their firepower. It was a good plan.

  Assuming the dirty bomb was there.

  18

  SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

  They’d missed a sentry point, a fact they didn’t realize until they were almost on top of it. Fortunately, it was located just below the ledge they were using to skirt down toward the access road, situated to give the men at the post a good view of the north. Ferguson saw it as he cleared a rock jutting from the side; two guerrillas were kneeling forward against the rocks just five feet below him.

  He froze, but either Daruyev or Conners kicked some rocks behind him. As one of the guards began to turn his head, Ferguson threw himself forward feetfirst, swinging his rifle up to use as a club. His left boot slammed into one of the sentries’ shoulder as he rose, and all three men rolled in a tumble, Ferguson temporarily sandwiched between the guerrillas.

  Whether because he had the advantage of surprise or fury, he managed to get to his feet without either man drawing a weapon; the butt end of his AK-74 slammed the nearest back against the rocks senseless. The other guard took a step backward, then slipped and fell down the embankment. Ferguson threw his rifle to the side and started after the man. By the time he reached the road he’d lost his own balance, sliding on his side and butt and landing a few yards behind the enemy guard, who was struggling to his feet.

  The man began to run. Ferguson gave chase. After a few steps, he realized with surprise that he wasn’t gaining—that in fact, the guerrilla was faster than him. He kept running, in disbelief that he had encountered someone faster than him. Ferguson had won both the hundred- and four-hundred-meter track sectional championships when he was a senior in prep school, and would probably have finished first in the states had he not had the flu the day of the meet—or so he legitimately believed, having finished second and third. He kept sprinting, expecting that the man would soon tire, but it was Ferguson who finally had to slow his pace, and by the time the man left the trail to plunge down another spot in the rugged mountain, Ferguson was so far behind him that he lost him in the wooded copse below. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the trees from the trail, repeating the word “fuck” over and over, still not believing that he had lost the race. Finally he retreated back up the road, walking, stretching his legs which were fairly stiff and depleted after the exertion.

  Conners—who had no legacy as a track star to uphold—trussed the guerrilla whom Ferguson had knocked cold, made sure he didn’t have any weapons, then climbed back up to get Daruyev.

  “Let’s go,” Conners told him, wary that he might be planning a trick. They went back to the lookout spot; Ferguson returned shaking his head.

  “Fucker outran me,” said Ferguson.

  “Shit,” said Conners.

  “Fucker outran me. Can you fucking believe that?”

  “You shot him?” asked Conners, even though he hadn’t heard a shot.

  “Fucker outran me.”

  “Ferg—he got away?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Ferguson slapped his hands on his hips, cursing again. He looked down at the lookout post. There was no radio, nothing in fact beyond the rifles that the two men had had. He went over to the trussed guard, who was curled over on his stomach and still out of it. Ferguson searched him slowly; the man had nothing but lint in his pockets.


  “Probably means they change guards pretty regularly,” said Conners.

  “Yeah. That and they can count on hearing gunshots.”

  Neither fact was a real plus.

  “Best bet is to try to get inside before our friend reaches the next post,” said Ferg. “Doable?”

  Conners shook his head.

  “Well let’s take a shot anyway,” said Ferg. They were running behind, and now were at least an hour and a half from the start of the slope, which would take several more hours to descend. It was unlikely they’d make it to the base by sunset, let alone when the satellite would make it easier to approach.

  “Going to be a bigger problem for the assault team,” said Conners. “We’re going to have to tell them.”

  “I don’t disagree,” said Ferg. “But let’s make sure this is the place anyway. They won’t jump if they don’t hear from us.”

  “That supposed to be encouraging?”

  Ferg laughed and went over to Daruyev. He tapped him on the shoulder.

  “How’s it going?” Ferguson asked him.

  “If a guard ran from his post,” said Daruyev, “he may not turn himself in. It would be a sign of cowardice. He’d be shot.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not counting on that,” said Ferg.

  “He may try to ambush you.”

  “That’d be easier to deal with,” said Ferguson, glancing at Conners. He took the Chechen’s elbow and set him in motion, gently nudging him toward the incline and the trail. Conners took the lead, his eyes squinting and his body tightening almost into a squat. He disliked point, not because he was afraid of being shot, and not because he was up front, where any screwup would be obvious, but because it always left his neck buzzing. The muscles along his spinal column inevitably spasmed and pulled against the nerves somehow. There was no way to relax or stretch them, at least in his opinion, without completely dropping his guard.

  About ten minutes later, they came to a shallow ridge that ran down across the mountain like an indentation on cardboard to guide a fold. The rift didn’t show up too well on the sat photo, but it looked like it would cut off about a third of the hike down. It would also keep them from the view of the first lookout, though not the second. The only problem was a decent drop to the main slope about a hundred feet above the junkyard.

  Ferguson studied it, trying to puzzle out if they’d be able to get down from the point where the ridge ended. According to the three-dimensional rendering, the drop-off was twenty feet nearly straight down.

  “What do you think, Ferg?” asked Conners.

  If they took the shortcut and couldn’t figure out a way down, they’d have to come all the way back up. The mission would be scrubbed for at least a day—assuming the terrorists hadn’t found them by then.

  On the other hand, if they didn’t chance it, the man he’d lost would sound the alarm anyway.

  “Let’s do it,” said Ferguson. “Let me take point.”

  19

  OUTSIDE YOPURGA, KYRGYZSTAN

  Rankin took a sip of the bottled water, swishing it through his teeth. The train had been parked on a siding about two miles out of town, waiting for reasons that weren’t obvious, at least to him. The guard had been increased and now included two helicopters, which he could hear hovering a short distance away. Kyrgyzstan had supplied two truckloads of soldiers, and the Russians had a helicopter working along the track, checking for sabotage, another new development.

  Rankin took another swig of the water, trying to stay awake. The waste receiving station lay about ten miles to the south; his operation was just about done. Obviously, the missing boxcar had contained the smuggled material, but he had to hang in until the bitter end.

  Then he could sleep.

  He ran his fingers across his scalp, digging in with his fingernails. Scratching was supposed to increase the blood flow, make your brain work better.

  He could always take a pill if he had to. Ferg called them “pseudobenz”—though they worked like pep pills, they were chemically different and allegedly nonaddictive. Rankin didn’t trust that, and had never actually taken one, not even to familiarize himself with the sensation. As far as he knew, Ferguson hadn’t either, nor did he push the pills very much—one of the Team leader’s few redeeming characteristics.

  Actually, Ferguson had a few positive characteristics, but Rankin didn’t like him anyway.

  Rankin reached for the door handle, deciding to stretch his legs. He was just getting out of the car as the sat phone beeped.

  “Rankin.”

  “Alston,” said Corrine on the other end. “What’s it look like there?”

  Rankin gave her an update.

  “I think we should pull the plug on the surveillance,” she said. “We have some action going down.”

  “OK,” he said.

  “Corrigan will get you transportation,” she said.

  The line went dead before he could say anything else.

  20

  SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

  The ravine ended in a shallow chimney, almost like the section of a funnel emptying onto the more gentle slope. They had twenty feet of rope with them but no way of securing it above.

  “We lower Daruyev, then you climb down,” Ferguson told Conners.

  “And what the hell are you going to do?”

  “I’ll just jump,” said Ferguson.

  “Well one thing’s in our favor,” said Conners. “It’s 1355. The guards’ll be hiding from the Russian satellite.”

  “Try to smile as we go down,” Ferguson told him. “Make some Russian photo reader’s day.

  “Better I give him the finger.”

  Ferguson took the rope and went to the prisoner, wrapping the end around his chain and making a knot that Daruyev could reach to untie.

  Then he took the hood off. “I want you to see where you’re going,” Ferguson told him.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s going back when you’re down.”

  The Chechen nodded reluctantly.

  “You’re trusting him?” said Conners, taking the rope.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” said Ferg. “We have a deal.”

  Daruyev said nothing. Conners mentally calculated how he’d shoot him if the bastard ran.

  Once they started to lower the Chechen, there was no way to see where he was. They kept paying the rope out against the rock at the lip of the drop, straining as it cut into their hands. Finally, they felt a tug. He’d made it.

  “You’re up, Dad.”

  “You sure you got me?”

  “If I don’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Conners eased himself downward, putting his legs against the side of the narrow chimney to try and ease the strain on Ferguson. Even so, Ferguson felt himself being pulled forward as he neared the bottom; his feet started to slip, and if Conners hadn’t jumped the last yard or so, he might have gone over. He tossed down the rope, slung his pack and guns on his back, and told them to get out of his way.

  The sides of the chimney were exposed enough for him to get down about ten feet fairly easily. When they ran out, he began working down the left side, reaching down gingerly to a decent hold and pushing his knees in at one point to maintain his balance. He’d gotten another four feet lower when he felt his grip loosening; Ferg flailed with his foot, and caught something, but then felt his other leg twist around behind him, his muscles too fatigued to follow his brain’s command. Fearing he would fall on his back or head, he threw his upper body against the rock, sliding down against the mountain.

  Daruyev and Conners, who’d been waiting to help him, both grabbed him as he fell, keeping him from tumbling down the slope.

  “Thank you, boys,” said Ferguson, spitting the dirt from his mouth.

  “You are committed,” said Daruyev.

  “We call it crazy,” said Conners, taking point down the slope.

  The Russians had used the bottom of the gully as a junkyard, and the men had to pick their way over
piles of wrecked chairs and office furniture as they made their way down the last fifty yards or so. The sun’s shadows were starting to darken the bowl between the mountains where the base was, but if anyone happened to come up along the perimeter fence, they’d be seen easily. Ferguson and Conners stopped constantly, aware that they were pushing their luck.

  Finally, Ferguson reached the perimeter fence. He could hear the sound of generators humming and some other machinery. The two large hangar buildings were across the field to his left, but the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere closer. As he craned around to get a better view, he saw a vehicle moving on the left just before the start of the runway. He slid down, watching as it moved behind the buildings to the perimeter road.

  “What do you think?” Conners asked, sliding down with Daruyev.

  “They’re working on something,” said Ferg. He took out the rad meter; its needle didn’t budge. Disappointed, he slid it back into his pocket.

  They could hear another vehicle approaching. Ferg and Conners settled back against two large, wrecked filing cabinets, waiting as it passed. The vehicle stopped somewhere to their right, though there was no way to get an angle and see where.

  “What’s in the mountain?” asked Conners, when the truck didn’t appear.

  “Good question. We’re going to have to go in and find out.”

  “There’s probably a cave or something, with the entrance disguised so you can’t see it from above,” said Conners.

  Ferguson shrugged, though he agreed. “I think it’s dark enough to get past that first fence at least. We can go through over there—see where it meets the ground?”

  “What about our friend?” asked Conners.

  “Let’s leave him here and pick him up later,” said Ferguson.

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Better than bringing him in, don’t you think?”

  They used another one of their handcuffs to tie him to a large piece of a desk near the bottom of the pile. Daruyev complained that he couldn’t sit comfortably. Ferguson rearranged some of the metal refuse, and the Chechen was able to hunch his legs up under himself into a squat, which for some reason seemed more comfortable to him.