First Team

by Larry Bond

  But of course that couldn’t be, since the plane was in Chechnya.

  Thomas at first resisted the obvious conclusion: that the terrorists were using the Sri Lankan company and owned two aircraft. He searched for more information about the Sri Lankan company and its other holdings: several very old 707s. He thought that the listing of the aircraft with the other firm must therefore be a mistake, since unlike the one believed to have flown from Chechnya this one made legitimate flights.

  The company had to be involved, and there had to be at least two planes. But the firm was not on any of the hot lists and had no connection to bin Saqr or any of the terrorist groups associated with Allah’s Fist, al-Qaida, or any other group. Thomas dismissed it once more as a mistake. But as he prepared to ask for a fresh affiliate search from the DCI Counterterrorist Center, it occurred to him that he was merely avoiding the obvious. He was, after all, doing what countless disbelievers in UFOs did—going through contortions to disprove what was right in front of their noses.

  Two planes. Bin Saqr had two planes, and access to legitimate identifiers belonging to the Sri Lankan company.

  Thomas jumped from his chair. His energy grew as he covered his materials; by the time he hit the corridor he was in a frenzy of conviction. He raced downstairs, impatiently submitted to the security checks, then walked so quickly to the sit room that he was short of breath.

  “You need a shave, Thomas,” said Corrigan, looking up from the desk.

  “Sri Lanka,” Thomas told him. “And I think they may have two planes.”

  “Two?”

  Thomas started to push his papers toward Corrigan. “Look at these registries.”

  “It’s all right, I trust you,” said Corrigan. “We’ll put Sri Lanka on the search list.”

  “Kankesaturai,” said Thomas. “The airport there—I have satellite photos of their facilities, and I’ve asked for information on flights out.”

  “What about Manila?”

  “It doesn’t fit yet.”

  Corrigan had taken a shower and a twenty-minute power nap, but he was still bogged down by fatigue. He struggled to focus on Thomas’s data and compute what it meant.

  “Would they bomb Sri Lanka?”

  “They’re not,” said Thomas. “They’re just refueling.”

  “Refueling?”

  “It must be. They could fly from there to Manila.”

  But they hadn’t bought enough fuel to refuel there. Did the Sri Lankan airline have a terminal at the airport?

  Thomas thought it didn’t, but he’d have to check.

  “Thomas?” said Corrigan. “What about LA? Is it the target?”

  “I don’t know,” said Thomas. “To get to LA they’d have to refuel, so it could be. But they didn’t buy enough fuel for that.”

  “What did they buy fuel for?”

  “A little water taxi, probably just a cover, a phony company.”

  “You sure?” asked Corrigan.

  “No. We should check it out,” said Thomas. He was back to his map—Hawaii had been just outside the range of targets from Sri Lanka. “We have to protect Honolulu,” he said.

  “Hawaii?”

  “Paradise!” Thomas practically shouted the word, realizing now the significance of the NSA intercepts he’d seen the first day he started.

  “You sure?”

  “Do it,” he said. “And Sri Lanka. We have to check there. And Manila.”

  “All right. Take a breath,” said Corrigan, picking up his headset. “Give me the names one at a time.”

  15

  MANILA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, PHILIPPINES— AN HOUR LATER

  When Rankin arrived, the airport had been locked down. No aircraft was allowed to land without escort, and none could take off except after a thorough search. U.S. and Philippine military authorities controlled the airspace around the islands, and security was so tight that Rankin and the others had to prove their identities even after an F-16 escorted them to the base.

  A temporary joint command task force had been established in an empty hangar, and they went immediately to find the commander. He turned out to be a lieutenant general from the Marines, who took one look at the unkempt men in front of him and demanded to know what the hell they were doing in a military command post.

  “We’re Special Forces, part of Special Demands and the operation that found the terrorists,” Rankin explained.

  Before he could get to his request for a helicopter and troops to check out the boating operation, the general waved over one of his aides, a major whose shoulders were wider than some small cars.

  “Debrief these men,” said the general. “See what useful information they have for us.”

  “With all due respect, sir, the briefing should come from uh, the Team desk,” said Rankin. “We have our own orders—”

  “I’m countermanding your orders. You’re under my command now.”

  “Well, no, that’s not the way it works,” said Rankin.

  “What? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, soldier?” asked the general.

  “With respect, sir,” said Rankin. “We already have a job to do. We want to find these fucks.”

  The major looked like he was ready to grab Rankin by the neck and wrestle him outside.

  “You’re not addressing me, are you?” said the general.

  “Well, sir—uh, with respect,” said Rankin, his tone suggesting anything but. “Our orders come through a different pipeline.”

  “Have them debriefed, Major.”

  “Let’s go, soldier,” said the major, putting his hand on Rankin’s chest.

  Guns tugged at Rankin’s arm, and the two men followed the major outside, trailed by Massette. Had the Marine officer simply grilled them on what type of aircraft they were looking for, Rankin might have calmed down and simply called Corrine and asked her to talk to the thickheaded officer. But instead he started bawling Rankin out for disrespect; when the words “court-martial” left his lips, Rankin turned in disgust.

  “I don’t have time for this horseshit,” said Rankin, furious. He started to walk away.

  “Soldier, you get your butt back here until you’re dismissed,” said the major.

  Rankin’s graphic description of what the Marine officer could do with that particular instruction was deflected by Guns, who suggested that all parties concerned would benefit from a phone call to the Cube. He pulled out his sat phone—the major’s eyes grew a bit wide as he saw it—and dialed into Corrigan.

  Massette took advantage of the momentary diversion to pull Rankin away, and the two men walked away from the hangar.

  “Fucking asshole,” said Rankin.

  “He’s an officer; what do you expect?” said Massette.

  “Exactly,” said Rankin.

  Guns in the meantime managed to calm the major by handing the phone to him; Corrigan applied some of his PsyOp training, assuring the major that it was due to his unit’s efforts that the Philippines were considered secure—and by the way, the hippies who’d just arrived there were CIA employees, not familiar with the chain of command. Temporarily mollified if misinformed, the major handed the phone back to Guns. Corrigan told him to run down the water taxi service Thomas had found and stay the hell away from the lieutenant general until Corrine talked to him. The service had an office at Polillo, an island in the bay on the other side of Luzon.

  “How we supposed to get there?” Rankin asked Guns when he came back.

  “Corrigan suggested we rent a car.”

  “Screw that. We’re at a fucking airport.” Rankin craned his head around. There were several Marine Sea Stallion helos nearby, but it was a good bet the Marines wouldn’t be lending them out anytime soon. Nor would the Navy give up any of its aircraft if it had to check with the lieutenant general for clearance.

  On the other hand, there were four Philippine Air Force MD 500MG Defenders parked by an auxiliary building near an American Airlines flight that had been parked for a search.
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  “Beats driving,” said Massette.

  They made their way over to the helicopters, and after checking with their guards were directed to the colonel in charge of the unit The colonel had indeed been shunted away from the action by the Marines and was none too pleased about it. The MD 500s were older versions of the A-6 Little Bird scouts, which were used by SOAR and other SF units; though no longer on the cutting edge, they were still potent scouts and capable gunships. Rankin explained who they were and that they had a lead out on Polillo.

  “Why would the terrorists want a water taxi?” asked the colonel.

  Rankin could only shrug. “We won’t know until we get there,” he said.

  “Well, let us go then, all of us,” said the colonel, turning and snapping orders to one of his aides.

  “You’re beginning to sound like Ferg,” said Guns, as they climbed into one of the choppers.

  “Fuck you, too,” said Rankin.

  16

  OVER THE PACIFIC

  Ferguson stabbed the knife at the thick wire cable, unable to see in the dark what he was hitting.

  The blade deflected off something hard. He pounded again, felt it slap through something softer. Ferg pulled it out and stabbed once more. The knife found the plastic covering of the cable, cut through—he hacked at it, confidence beginning to build. But with his next blow he felt the knife tip break. Stopping, he leaned back and put the knife into his belt, then reached up to feel the spot with his fingers. A thick collar ran beneath the plastic; beneath that was a piece of pipe. He took the knife out and hacked more carefully, prying away material until he had about six inches’ worth of it exposed about the thickness of a fist.

  “I’m going to try shooting through it,” he told Conners. “You with me, Dad?”

  “I’m here, Ferg.”

  Ferguson adjusted his feet, then leaned on his left arm, trying to get into position so he could brace his arm as he fired. He shifted around twice, leaning back and forth.

  “Yeah, here we go,” he said. Ferguson pushed his forehead against his arm to help steady it, then pressed the trigger.

  17

  ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3, OVER THE PERSIAN GULF

  As soon as Corrigan described the Sri Lanka connection, one of the operators at a nearby console put up his hand and started waving at Corrine. “There’s a Sri Lankan aircraft approaching grid space F-32,” he said. “It’s a 747.”

  “Get planes on it.”

  “They’re already approaching.”

  The aircraft in question was a cargo version 747 just entering air space over Malaysia. It took about three minutes to arrange for a radio feed directly into the pilots’ circuit. Slammer One-Four and Slammer One-Six were about sixty seconds from having the plane in visual distance. It had already been checked electronically, and Corrine’s own information confirmed that the plane was on a scheduled flight to Brunei.

  “We want them to land at Subang,” Corrine told the pilots. Subang Air Base was part of Kuala International Airport. Two American Special Forces soldiers were assigned as advisors to an army unit there, and the Malaysian military had been contacted to stand by and secure any diverted aircraft. “They’re to land there immediately.”

  “Understood,” said the lead pilot, Commander Daniel “Wolf” Clarke. Wolf and his wingman were coming toward the 747 at about thirty-eight thousand feet, at roughly a thirty-degree angle from its nose. The Sri Lankan pilot had not yet answered their hails.

  “Four MiGs from Malaysian Number 17 squadron preparing to take off,” relayed one of the controllers.

  “I don’t think the Navy needs their help,” said Major Gray.

  Corrine’s aircraft was several thousand miles away, helping coordinate the search over Iran for the supposedly downed jet, which more and more looked as if it hadn’t been downed at all. The interplay between the two Tomcat pilots made her feel as if they were just a few miles away—as if she might go to one of the windows at the front of the aircraft and spot them up ahead.

  “Slam Six, you getting a response?” Wolf asked his wingman.

  “Negative, Four. You sure these guys speak English?”

  “Yeah all right, I see him, correcting—stay with me six. Definitely a 747.”

  “SF Command Transport 3 copies,” said Gray. “You have a 747 in sight. Does it have markings?”

  “Negative. No markings. No markings at all,” said Wolf. “They’re holding course. We’re coming around.”

  The two F-14s banked, circling around so they could come at the 747 from the rear. Though as far as they knew it was incapable of offensive actions, they nonetheless approached it gingerly, their adrenaline level steadily climbing. The Sri Lankan plane still had not answered their calls on any frequency, nor had it acknowledged the order to land. The Tomcat crews were close enough to see in the cockpit, but the Sri Lankan pilots steadfastly refused to look in their direction. It was five minutes from landfall.

  “There’s no way they don’t they see them,” Gray told Corrine.

  “Get their attention,” Corrine told the Navy flight. “Make sure they know you’re there.”

  The Navy aviator hesitated for just a moment, then requested permission to fire a few rounds “across the bow.”

  “Yes,” said Corrine. “Do it.”

  The bursts lasted no longer than a second and a half. The big plane lurched off its flight path, seemingly in the direction of Slammer One-Four. Wolf tucked his wing and cleared away from the Boeing’s path. It took a few seconds for the two Tomcat pilots to sort out the situation and make sure they weren’t in each other’s way.

  The Boeing pilot, meanwhile, began accelerating, his nose pointing downward.

  “He’s descending,” Wolf radioed. “But he’s still not answering our hails.”

  “He’s not heading for the airfield,” said Gray. “He’s going south. He’s on a direct path for Singapore. He’ll make landfall in two minutes. We have to get him over the water. Now.”

  Singapore sat more than two hundred miles to the south of Kuala Lumpur, a fat and inviting target. And in fact while the cities and towns along the coastline were considerably smaller and much, much poorer, they were all potential targets, once the aircraft was over land.

  “Slammer One-Four, fire more warning shots,” said Corrine. “Advise him that we will shoot him down if he does not immediately respond to your commands.”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “Do it again,” said Corrine. She pushed her sweater away from her wrist, noting the exact time on her watch.

  Samman Bin Saqr felt something in the aircraft giving way or breaking behind him; there was noise deep in the cargo bay, something like a muffled explosion, though the engines themselves seemed in order.

  The explosives had been packed and arranged to prevent accidental ignition; his engineers bragged that neither lightning nor fifty rounds from an American 20 mm cannon would set them off until the proper moment. But there had definitely been a sharp crack in the back, a noise that to him sounded like an explosion.

  With no way to check the problem, he checked his position on the GPS device, making sure that it coincided with the internal navigation equipment. There was no deviance; the plane would fly itself perfectly to the target once he left.

  “Basher One-Four to Command Transport Three. No response.”

  Corrine watched the seconds adding themselves one by one to the window on her watch. There was no question in her mind now that she was going to order the plane shot down; she wanted merely to wait until the last possible second—the lawyer in her forming the opening argument.

  The seconds clicked off until there were forty left.

  “Basher One-Four, has the aircraft responded?”

  “Negative,” said Wolf, surprised that she asked again.

  “Shoot it down. Now,” said Corrine. “Do not let that aircraft go over land.”

  “Basher One-Four, confirming order to shoot down Sri Lankan cargo aircraf
t registry 5SK.”

  “Confirmed. Shoot it down immediately,” said Corrine.

  The Navy pilots traded terse commands, then Wolf took the shot, opening up with his cannon from point-blank range from behind the airliner.

  “He’s going in,” said Basher One-Six.”

  “Watch yourself! Watch!”

  The two aircraft had to pull off as debris flew from the stricken 747. The terrorist plane turned into a fireball, spinning toward the ocean just short of the coastline.

  18

  OVER THE PACIFIC

  Ferguson squeezed off another shot. He’d cleared right through the pipe, but as far as he could tell, nothing had changed. He put the gun next to the edge and fired again. This time his weight wasn’t quite balanced, and he slid; unable to catch himself, he tumbled down to the deck.

  “Ferg. Ferg!” yelled Conners.

  “Yeah, I’m all right. I shot clean through the mother-fucker.”

  “Maybe they have a backup. Or maybe that’s not the control cable.”

  Ferguson climbed back up, taking the knife. He felt thin wires in the hole, and described them to Conners.

  “If we weren’t in an airplane, I’d say they were for detonators,” said Conners when he finished. “Or something thin.”

  “Lights maybe?”

  “I guess.”

  “I think it’s a backup explosive system,” said Ferguson. “Maybe we can find the bombs and blow up the plane.”

  Conners didn’t say anything. He sat back against the side, pulling up his shattered leg. It wouldn’t bend. The blood and vomit had dried, but his head still pounded. “How fucked are we, Ferg, with this radiation?” he asked.

  It was about the last question Ferguson was expecting, and he started to laugh. “Oh, pretty fucked,” he said.

  “How much? We going to get cancer?”

  “You think we’re going to get out of this without getting blown up?” Ferguson asked.