First Team

by Larry Bond

  Ferguson angrily waved at him to stay down, but the sergeant didn’t seem to notice. He started hissing at him. When that didn’t work, Ferguson started to climb over the rail. But he put his hand on the joystick controlling the platform, inadvertently telling it to descend. He jerked his hand back but the machine continued downward, the lever locked. Conners saw him finally, scanned the nearby area, then limped toward him, reaching the platform as it hit its stop.

  Both men waited, guns ready. No one appeared—the noise of the platform was just one more background sound of people doing their jobs to get the plane ready.

  “Hey,” said Ferg. “You think we can shoot out the tires?”

  “Why don’t we toss a couple of grenades inside?” suggested Conners. He bent over the platform.

  “Now you’re talking,” said Ferguson, pulling him onto the scaffold and standing up to hit the lever. The machine began to rise.

  Conners reached to his vest for his grenade, patting his chest before realizing he wasn’t wearing his combat webbing; he wasn’t in his SF gear, of course. He reached down to his pocket for the grenade he’d had back at the fence, but it was gone. He’d already used it.

  “Get the grenades ready,” said Ferguson, as the ramp hit its stop.

  “I only have a pair of flash-bangs,” said Conners.

  “All right,” said Ferguson. “We’ll get the tires and maybe the engines once the action gets close. In the meantime, let me check out what’s going on inside here.” They were just below the rear cargo door of the plane—a door that had been added as part of the operation to turn the large jet into a flying dirty bomb. Ferguson turned and looked inside the jet. The space was narrow, lined with metal containers—actually carefully packed radioactive materials and explosives arranged in a precise pattern to maximize the spread of the material at detonation. Ferguson climbed inside, scaling a row of boxes that had been bolted to the floor; he felt as if he were inside a kid’s giant Erector set.

  Conners heard someone yelling, then saw a strobe light flashing against the walls. The plane started to move.

  Not wanting to leave Ferguson behind, Conners screwed up his strength and got to both feet, the pain pounding every muscle and nerve and fat cell in his body. He threw his pistol into the hold and lurched across the open space onto the plane platform.

  Ferguson ducked as the gun flew in, then fell with the shifting momentum of the aircraft. He got up, grabbed Conners, and started to push him toward the open door space, ready to jump back, but it was already too late—the platforms were a good ten feet away.

  27

  OVER CHECHNYA

  Fifteen miles from the airfield, Major Greg Jenkins put his hand on the control for his F-117A’s IRADS system, jacking up the contrast on the target. During the Gulf War, the Stealth fighters had had to rely on laser-guided bombs, which robbed the pilot of some flexibility during the attack as the system had to lase its target. But Jenkins and his flightmates were firing GPS-guided munitions. Their targets had been preprogrammed before takeoff, and while the pilot could override them, his gear showed him there was no reason to. He got a steering cue on his HUD, the computer compensating for the wind.

  As he swung to the proper position, Jenkins hit the red button on his stick, which gave the computerized bombing system authority to drop the bomb. The bay doors behind him opened with a clunk—air buffeted the plane, and warning lights blinked on the dash, reminding him he was a sitting duck, an easy and very visible radar target as long as the plane’s symmetry was broken.

  This was the longest part of the flight. Even though it took the automated systems only a few seconds to eject the bombs, in these few seconds Jenkins was the most mortal of men, obvious to the radars and a slow, barely maneuverable black target in a light sky.

  And then the buffeting stopped with a loud clunk, and the warning lights were gone, and though he was too busy to glance over his shoulder—and the view too obstructed to see—Major Jenkins knew he had just nailed his prize and would live to celebrate it.

  Van Buren listened as the F-117A pilots checked in, announcing that their missiles had been launched. The Hercules with the first drop team was late, about three minutes behind schedule. But they were into it now, no turning back; the gunship was just coming on station, its first task the van that Ferguson was supposed to hit.

  His hope that Ferg had somehow made it disintegrated a few seconds later as the gunship pilot reported a direct hit on the van, with “shitloads of secondaries.”

  As the gunship began mopping up the two ZSU-23s left at the north end of the field, Van Buren said a silent prayer for his friend and Conners, then made himself get up and check on his men.

  28

  SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

  The plane had already gotten outside the hangar when Ferguson heard the first rumble. There were shouts from below and explosions in the distance.

  “Let’s get to the cockpit,” he told Conners. “We’ll stop the bastards from taking off.”

  Conners grunted and started after him. As Ferguson began to run, he heard a sound similar to a vacuum cleaner and felt the aircraft starting to shake. The dim light narrowed. The engines whined to life.

  “The door,” yelled Conners.

  Ferguson tripped as he ran. He grabbed his rifle, but then stopped himself from firing as the mechanism slapped shut. They were in the dark.

  “There’s got to be some sort of switch if it’s powered,” Ferguson told Conners. “We’ll get it later if we have to. Let’s try to get in the cockpit. Come on.”

  Ferguson reached the wall at the front of the plane and slapped at it with his hands, trying to feel for a ladder or something that would take him up to the flight deck, which on a 747 sat at the top of the plane, almost like the second story of a two-story building. There was no ladder, and he couldn’t find a handhold. He went to the side, found a place to climb up, but lost his balance and tumbled to the floor of the plane, smacking his head so hard as he landed that he temporarily lost consciousness.

  Conners, unable to climb, felt around with his hands for a ladder or steps. As he did, he smelled metal burning. A loud secondary explosion sounded in the distance, rocking the jet.

  “Get down here, you guys,” he called to the assault team, as if they might hear him over the engines on the plane. He stepped back, pulled his rifle up, and aimed it at the door. But as he started to press the trigger, the plane jerked forward. Conners lost his balance, and the three slugs buried themselves harmlessly in the material wedged along the roof of the fuselage.

  29

  OVER CHECHNYA

  The AC-130 located not one but two different active antiaircraft batteries. The first shot from its howitzer nailed one of the ZSU-23s in the center of its chassis, causing the four barrels to fold in on themselves midshot. Flames crescendoed in every direction, red and yellow streamers that unfolded like the petals of a flower.

  The pilot of the AC-130 U “U-boat” had to come hard south to get a shot on the second battery, which had been located to the east of the camp proper. As he pulled the big Herk on to her mark, he saw that the Chechens had moved an airplane onto the end of the runway.

  They were committed to the flak dealer, which began spraying lead in their direction. The pilot got a cue on his target screen and hit the trigger, but the shot trailed off as the Herk hit a sudden updraft current. He worked the stick and the rudder as if he were piloting a World War II dive bomber, homing in on its prey. Sparks flew across his bow, but he had the shot. The large aircraft shuddered, then seemed to push forward and simultaneously dip her right wing. They’d been hit—but they’d also nailed the ZSU-23-4.

  30

  SOUTHERN CHECHNYA

  Samman Bin Saqr realized with the first explosion that he had miscalculated badly—it was not the Russians who had found him, but the Americans. As calmly as he could, he worked the plane, starting the engines, securing the hatches, moving forward on the runway.

  His flight engi
neer had not come aboard, but that was a minor matter. He began to turn as he reached the northern end of the runway, his right wing nearly scraping the side of the building as he turned. He hesitated for a second, fearful that in his ineptitude he had failed Allah. But then God smiled at him—he cleared the building and had the nose of the plane pointing into the wind, directly down the runway.

  “Let us proceed,” he told his copilot, Vesh Ahmamoody. Vesh reached for the thrusters, propelling the flying bomb into the sky.

  ACT V

  Mischief, thou art afoot,

  Take thou what course thou wilt.

  —Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, 3.2.260—1

  1

  ABOARD EAST ASIA CARGO FLIGHT 203, OVER SIBERIA

  Rankin settled into the seat on the upper deck of the Antonov An-22, trying to compensate for the thin padding by adding one of the blankets he’d found in the overhead compartment. He hoped to start catching up on his sleep, though between the seat and the loud snores of Guns and Massette behind him—somehow managing to pierce the drone of the four turboprops on the wings—his prospects were rather dim.

  The An-22 the three SF soldiers were flying in had been designed in the 1960s as a long-distance freight hauler for the Soviet military; this particular version had ferried T-62 tanks around the country for nearly two decades before being surplused and then sold—illegally, though its papers demonstrated otherwise—to a small air-freight company based in Germany. The company had gone bankrupt, and one of its creditors ended up with the plane; the creditor had in turn sold it at auction, and within a few months the aircraft belonged to a private company partly owned by a man known to have connections with the Egyptian secret service. These connections were actually a cover for his true relationship with the American CIA, a connection that had allowed Corrigan to arrange for the Team’s transport to Japan relatively quickly.

  Though in Rankin’s opinion, delays that would have meant a more comfortable flight and something to eat would have been well worth the time. He hoped they’d be able to grab something in Tokyo before going back to the States. His end of the mission had been pretty much a wipeout. Worse, he knew from Corrigan that Ferguson and Conners had hit pay dirt and was pissed that he had missed it.

  The plane hit a run of turbulence and began skittering up and down like a kite. When it finally settled down, Rankin bunched the blanket up behind his head to take another go at trying to sleep. As he closed his eyes, his sat phone buzzed.

  “Rankin, we need you in Manila, right away,” said Corrigan. “We’re getting a flight for you into Tokyo.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re still pulling the details together. The assault’s under way, but we have information on a hangar in Manila. It fits with the LA theory. Things are fluid.”

  “I’m hungry,” Rankin told him.

  Corrigan couldn’t quite compute what the comment meant. He took a shallow breath, then stuttered. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want to get some food in Japan,” Rankin told him. “I’m starving.”

  “Shit, Rankin, I don’t have time for your crap,” said Corrigan, killing the line.

  2

  OVER CHECHNYA AND THE CAUCASUS

  Van Buren didn’t understand what they were telling him at first. There was so much happening around him and on the ground that it was difficult to keep everything in place.

  “There’s a plane—it’s taking off,” repeated the Air Force lieutenant. “It’s in the air.”

  “What kind of plane?” asked the colonel. The first assault team had just reached the ground. Resistance appeared unorganized.

  “A big jet—747. It’s off—they’re getting away.”

  “Tell the escort flight,” said the colonel. “Get someone on him. Tell Ms. Alston.”

  Corrine sat at the edge of her seat in the MC-17, listening to Air Force Major Daniel Gray explain what the AWACS data meant. Gray was tasked with coordinating the SF group’s actions with any and all Air Force units that were part of the operation; much of his job involved acting as a translator for the different parts of the mission.

  Russian fighters had been alerted to the activity and were now within ten minutes of the Chechen base. They were not answering radio hails. Meanwhile, the aircraft that had taken off from the base was a 747 and seemed to be heading for Iran. More than likely it was an Iranian aircraft being used as an escape plane by the Islamist terrorists.

  Or, wondered Corrine, was it loaded with radioactive material?

  “Where do you want our warplanes?” Gray asked.

  Corrine could send the F-15s to protect her people, or attempt to shoot down the plane; she couldn’t do both.

  Doubts and guesses crowded into her mind—what if the 747 crashed in a populated area? She pushed the questions away but hesitated a split second longer.

  What would the president do, she asked herself. That’s why she was there—to make the decision he would and take the heat for it.

  “I want to talk to the Russian commander,” said Corrine.

  “There’s no guarantee he’ll listen,” replied the major.

  “I understand that. In the meantime put enough F-15s between the MiGs and our ground force to protect them,” she said. “Tell the flight leader he has my permission to use whatever force he needs to protect our people. He can shoot the bastards down if he has to.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I’ll have to commit all four fighters to that intercept,” said the major. “The 747 is going to get away.”

  “Send our escort to pursue the plane,” she said.

  “We’re pretty far off, and that’ll leave us defenseless. If the Russians decide to come and get us—”

  “Go!”

  “They’re on their way.”

  Scorpion flight leader Major Cliff Salerno put his hand to the throttle and selected afterburner, goosing his F-15C onto the new coordinates. Scorpion One’s Pratt & Whitney F100s punched out roughly twenty-four thousand pounds of thrust, rocketing the plane over the speed of sound. The fierce acceleration slammed Salerno back against his ejection seat, the laws of motion desperate to remind him that he was still under their domain.

  The Eagle pilot checked his radar, sorting out what was going on in the air ahead. He was crossing over Armenia headed southeast; the assault team was striking a base to his left. The AWACS controller gave him an intercept vector for a 747-type aircraft, which ought to be roughly 150 miles off his right wing.

  “Your instructions are to terminate its flight,” added the controller.

  Salerno repeated the instructions, then double-checked with his wingmate, Captain Jed “Patsy” Klein, commanding Scorpion Two. Among the many calculations the two men now began was an assessment of their fuel status—they had to make sure they’d have enough to get back to a tanker or risk turning their multimillion-dollar interceptors into gliders. The 747, which was still too far ahead to be picked up by the Eagles’ APG-70 radars, was over the east coast of Lake Sevan.

  Armenia, which had been part of the Soviet Union before the downfall of the Communists, had no air force to speak of and provided very little threat to the American planes. The Russians, meanwhile, were concentrating on the Chechen base; the 747 was theirs—if they could catch it.

  The controller gave them fresh data for their intercept, adding that the 747 was flying exceptionally low in the mountains. At present course and speed they should have it on their screens within five minutes.

  The two aircraft were at twenty-six thousand feet above sea level, pushing toward a mountain that rose roughly thirteen thousand feet. Both planes were carrying four AMRAAM AIM-120 medium-range air-to-air missiles and two shorter-range ATM-9 Sidewinders. The Eagles were also equipped with 20 mm cannons. Any of those weapons would suffice to take down the airliner.

  “Be advised also we have a flight of Iranian MiG-29s operating on the northern border of Iran,” said the controller. “They haven’t reacted, but they’re there.”

&n
bsp; “Scorpion One,” acknowledged Salerno.

  Ferguson and Conners were tossed around the back of the plane like golf balls in a tumbling footlocker as the 747 zigged and zagged southward. Conners took his pistol out and fired wildly, but if the bullets made it through the heavy canisters of waste material strapped around the interior portion of the fuselage, they had no effect on the plane. Ferguson shouted at him to stop, but Conners kept firing until the clip ran out.

  “Stop!” Ferguson yelled, crawling toward him in the pitch-black darkness. “Stop!”

  “Ferg? What?”

  Ferguson reached Conners and touched his arm. It was wet with blood from his head wound.

  “Conners, stop shooting,” Ferg told him. “Let’s figure this out.”

  “Where are you?”

  “This is me holding your arm,” Ferguson told him. “What, you think I’m a ghost?”

  The aircraft jerked hard left and descended sharply, then twisted on its wing back to the right. Ferguson fished in the pack and retrieved the flashlight. He shined the beam on Conners’s face; the SF sergeant was pale and disoriented.

  “Fuckin’ cold, Ferg,” said Conners.

  “Yeah. Let’s figure this out,” Ferguson told him. “We’ll have to find a way to climb up to the flight deck at the front. There ought to be a door there.”

  Salerno acknowledged the fresh vector from the AWACS, then took a long, steady breath, reminding himself to stay calm. His wingmate, offset a few thousand feet in altitude and about a mile to his right, reported that he had a contact on his radar.