Nucflash sts-3

by Keith Douglass

  “Watch out!” she screamed. “They’ve got guns! They’re trying—”

  She was interrupted by a long, staccato burst of fire off the balcony from which she’d just fallen. Ricochets whined off the street a few feet away, and a fleck of broken stone stung her cheek. With a smooth, powerful movement, the police officer swept her up in his arms, spun about, and dashed down the pavement. Automatic gunfire followed them, stabbing at them through the dark… then abruptly ceased.

  Moments later, in a sheltered doorway down the street, the bobby hung his overcoat over her shoulders and proceeded to question her. She told him everything, not even lying when he asked her what she and Sharon had been doing in the pub when O’Malley had picked them up, and minutes after that she could hear the wailing of approaching sirens.

  Poor Sharon…

  “Well, miss,” the bobby said. She was shivering violently now, despite the heavy coat, and he guided her to the stoop within the doorway and made her sit down. “I guess that’s one trick you’ll always remember, eh?”

  “Not if I can help it,” she said, and then she started crying. God, how she wanted to forget the sight of Sharon’s ruined face.

  0425 hours

  Barracks, 23 SAS Training Center

  Dorset, England

  Someone was shaking Roselli by the shoulder. When he opened his eyes, a flashlight was glaring in his eyes. “What the fuck?”

  “Sorry, mate,” a Britisher’s voice said from the blackness behind the light. “Rise and shine. We got a hot flash in a few minutes ago. Briefing in thirty, and you Yanks are invited.”

  Roselli groped in the darkness for his watch on the tiny nightstand next to his rack and peeled back the Velcro cover. When he squinted at them hard, the luminous digits told him what he already knew… that it was zero-dark-thirty in military parlance and entirely too early for civilized people to be up and about.

  SEALs, however, never thought of themselves as civilized, and neither, evidently, did their SAS hosts. As he swung his legs over the side of the rack and set them on the cold linoleum deck, his tormenter straightened to shake Magic Brown, occupying the upper rack above Roselli’s head.

  “What’s up, Razor?” Jaybird asked from across the aisle that divided the barracks into two long lines of double-decker bunks. He was already half dressed, pulling his fatigues from the seabag hanging at the head of his rack.

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Roselli replied, mimicking the Brits. “I suppose that’s why God invented briefings.”

  “If this is another exercise,” “Professor” Higgins said from his bunk, “I’m going to vote that we declare war on England without delay.”

  The briefing room was tucked away in one corner of the Dorset HQ complex, not far from the barracks, a wood-floored room half filled with folding metal chairs. Roselli, Higgins, Brown, and Sterling had arrived to find several SAS officers and noncoms already present, including Major Roger Dowling-Smythe and Sergeant Major Dunn, both of whom had supervised the CQB exercise, now impeccable in neatly pressed and creased fatigues. SAS Colonel Howard Wentworth was there as well, as was a rather plain man in civilian clothes, who had the look that Roselli had come to associate with intelligence people worldwide.

  On a tripod at Wentworth’s back was a corkboard to which several photographs had been attached. Roselli recognized them as photos he’d seen a few days ago… security shots from Heathrow Airport of a couple of possible North Korean agents. The L-T had flown over to Wiesbaden to talk to the Germans about those two.

  “Gentlemen,” Wentworth said, standing, a few moments after the Americans had found places for themselves and sat down. “This morning, about three hours ago, the Middlebrough police picked up a girl fleeing from a row house on the west end of the city. Shots were fired from the building.

  “Normally, this would be a matter for the local police to handle, but it happens that the young woman in question was able to identify both O’Malley, late of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, and these two Koreans, Major Pak and Captain Chun… though according to their passports, they seem to be calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Kim these days.

  “This is something of a major break for our side. You see, it seems that Pak, his girlfriend, and O’Malley, who was his primary contact in this country, all gave our security people the slip two days ago.” He glanced at the intelligence man, who looked away, clearly discomfited. “We still don’t know what happened, but I gather that some highly placed ministers were quietly contemplating hara-kiri with the knowledge that two potentially dangerous enemy agents were wandering loose around the countryside, presumably in the company of some equally dangerous people from across the Irish Sea.”

  A murmur of low-voiced conversation rose in the room as the SAS troopers passed comments back and forth. Roselli heard one young man mutter darkly about a “bloody cock-up.”

  “In any case, we have them now. We suspect that this flat in Middlebrough is a safe house run by the Provos. From the woman’s description, there were at least five people living there, probably more. It’s a big house, four stories, and it could hold quite a mob. Most of the people she saw there were armed, and of course the bobby was able to confirm the presence of automatic weapons, though he wasn’t able to tell what kind.

  “Also, according to the woman, O’Malley is now dead. Apparently, well, it was O’Malley who brought the young lady in question and a girlfriend of hers home, and it seems that was a breach of the house rules. O’Malley was shot by Pak. Pak’s girlfriend shot our informant’s friend, but the informant was able to make a break for it and escape out onto the street, where she, ah, attracted the notice of the police.

  “Naturally, the police were called in. The officer who picked up the girl reported being taken under fire, and there were reports of gunfire called in from other houses in the neighborhood. The police have cordoned off the area and are trying to open up communications with the people inside. They still don’t have a good idea about how many people we have inside, or how well armed they might be.

  “As of zero four hundred hours this morning, the Minister of Defense has put this unit on full alert, and I am calling a Class One stand-to. We have the helos loading now at the field. We will deploy A Troop, full takedown kit and harness, to a staging area two miles from the scene. Any questions?”

  Roselli raised his hand. “Sir. Any chance us SEALs could tag along?”

  Wentworth grinned at him. “Absolutely. I can’t promise you a combat slot, but at least this will give you Yanks a chance to see how the SAS does things in the real world. Any other questions? Okay, let’s move out!”

  6

  Saturday, April 28

  0710 hours

  Rüsselsheim, Federal Republic of Germany

  Murdock awoke suddenly, momentarily wondering where he was. Then he sensed the sleek, warm, naked form of Inge Schmidt sprawled in the tangle of sheets at his side, and remembered. Carefully, so that he wouldn’t wake her, he pulled away and stretched. His watch read 0710 hours… late for a SEAL who rarely slept past 0530.

  But then, they’d been awake for a long time last night. He wasn’t at all sure exactly when he and Inge had finally gotten to sleep.

  Despite his careful movements, her eyes opened. “Good morning, my wonderful lover.”

  “Morning, beautiful. Sleep well?”

  “Mmm. Delightfully.” She reached over, running her fingers softly down the plank-hard slabs of muscle on his stomach. “You know, that steak was marvelous, but since last night, I’ve acquired a prodigious appetite for seafood. Especially SEAL. Delicious.”

  Gently caressing her left breast, he grinned at her from across the pillow. “Plenty more where that came from. Want another helping?”

  “You know, I don’t mind if I do. I understand the British eat fish for breakfast. What are they called?”

  “Kippers?”

  “Yes, kippers. Me, I much prefer raw SEAL for my breakfast.” Raising herself up on one elbow, sh
e leaned over, lightly kissing his chest, then slowly running her tongue down his torso, pausing here and there to lick or kiss, her golden, shoulder-length hair brushing lightly enough across his skin to tickle.

  This shouldn’t be happening, Murdock thought. It couldn’t be happening. Not so suddenly… so unexpectedly…

  Except for a low moan escaping from Murdock as he closed his eyes and slumped back against his pillow, nothing more was said for several minutes.

  The telephone rang on Inge’s bedside table, a harsh, intrusive explosion of sound.

  “Oh… damn,” Murdock said, with considerable feeling. Inge reached across his body to pick up the receiver. “Ja?” She listened for a moment to a voice that Murdock could just barely hear as a murmuring buzz. Her eyes met his. “Ja… yes, Chief. He is here.” She handed the phone to Murdock. “Your Master Chief MacKenzie.”

  “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Sorry for the interruption, L-T,” MacKenzie’s voice said. “Hope I’m not calling too early.”

  Damn the man. For a bleary moment, Murdock wondered how MacKenzie had known he was here. Then he remembered signaling the man out the window. Hell, Mac and Hopke had probably posted a security watch outside last night. So much for privacy.

  “What is it?”

  “Something’s happening. You’d better get squared away and get on in here.”

  “Where is ‘here’?”

  “BKA headquarters, of course. I just had a call from Dorset. Seems there’s been an incident over in England, and it might affect our boys.”

  Inge had returned her full attention to Murdock’s erection, and her ministrations were making it difficult for him to concentrate on MacKenzie’s words. Reaching down, he gently stroked her cheek, then guided her away from his lap. Nodding her comprehension, she shifted her position to simply cuddle close against his side, her hand on his chest.

  “What’s up?”

  “You know those tangos we were supposed to check on with Komissar?”

  Tangos — military slang for “terrorists.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seems the Koreans gave British intel the slip, then turned up in a row house in Middlebrough. There’s been an incident, one civilian hurt or killed, another escaped. Police have been fired at. The SAS is being assembled for a possible assault.”

  “Okay.” He sat up, swinging his legs out of bed. “I’ll be in quick as I can get there. You start the ball rolling on getting us a first-available military flight out of here.”

  “Already taken care of, Skipper. A C-130 with 3rd Support, leaving Wiesbaden Air Base at zero-nine-twenty. You’d better hustle.”

  “You’re talking to an echo.” He hung up. Inge was sitting up behind him, her arms around his neck.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  “Sorry. Some of my boys might be about to get themselves into a firefight. I have to be there.”

  “I understand.” She felt warm and very soft against his back. “I’ll drive you to the BKA. Just let me get washed up and dressed.”

  1230 hours

  Waterfront Rise

  Middlebrough, England

  Chun Hyon Hee gently eased aside the curtain on the third-floor window, keeping well back from the opening as she peered out into the bright daylight beyond. From here, she could see the police barricades, and beyond that the waiting, watching crowds of curious onlookers, the news media, the gawkers.

  It was a pity, really. The location of this safe house, which originally had been a place for Provos on the run from the British to lie low, had been ideal. The brownstone building housing the Waterfront Rise flats fronted on Northport Street, just across from the main entrance to the BGA Consortium’s Middlebrough port facility. From the third-floor front balcony, Chun had a splendid view of the entire expanse of the shipyard, from the storehouses and rail yards behind the fence, to the wharfs, piers, and shiploading machinery on the waterfront, to the harbor itself and the dozens of ships moored there, from lighters and small craft to mammoth oil tankers. To the right, beyond the Port Authority buildings at the south end of town, an enormous tank farm rose behind the skyline clutter of cranes and cargo gantries.

  Middlebrough had long been an industrial center in this part of England, but in recent years the influx of oil from the North Sea fields had transformed parts of the port into an important petroleum distribution center. Pipelines from the important Ekofisk and Bouddica oil and gas complexes midway between England and the southern tip of Norway snaked across 150 miles of sea bottom to rise onto the oil-scummed beach and enter the Middlebrough refinery complex. The facility was known as Teeside, even though the town properly of that name lay some distance inland, up the Tees River.

  Oil. Even now, twenty years and more after the embargoes and price hikes that had sent convulsions throughout the West, oil was the key to economic power in the industrialized world. And where one held economic power, one held political power as well. That was what Operation Saebyok was all about — power… political power enough to bring the West to its knees.

  That idiot O’Malley had jeopardized everything, everything. If he hadn’t brought those maech’unbu back to the safe house…

  Carefully, Chun released the curtain and stepped away from the window. Sooner or later the enemy was certain to assault the safe house, though she thought it likely that they would wait until night, when the defenders were tired and their reactions were slowed. In a way, Chun was looking forward to the showdown, even though it would mean that she, personally, could no longer take part in Saebyok. The operation would continue, of course, even after she was dead. She took comfort — and great pride — in that simple fact.

  Pak Chong Yong had escaped out the back of the safe house, moments after the prostitute had fled screaming out the front. Pak was the real key to Saebyok. The two of them both had the same training, the same knowledge, so that one could act as backup for the other should anything go wrong, but from the beginning, this had been Pak’s operation, Pak’s concept. Besides, Pak had been part of the original development team, and he knew the theory and the operation of the Device far better than did Chun.

  It was good that he had been able to escape.

  Of course, Pak had ordered her to escape with him, but she, with her usual practicality and sensibility, had pointed out that one of them had to stay behind and ensure that all of the records hidden at the site were destroyed, and that the German and Irish members of the unit would fight. Neither she nor Pak trusted their Western accomplices. The level of discipline, dedication, and obedience to orders among the Provos was appalling; they tended to be lazy, cowardly, and slow. The Germans among them were only slightly better. They were totally dedicated to the mission — especially the women, surprisingly enough to Chun — but always when given an order, it seemed they wanted to know why.

  Reaching out, she drew the curtain back once more, staring hard past the buildings across the street at the waterfront and dockyard facilities beyond. Pak was out there somewhere. He should have been able to make it clear to the docks before the police barricades had been erected. The unit kept a small boat there, just for such emergencies as this. With luck, Pak was out to sea and halfway back to the primary base by now.

  “Haeng’un ul pimnida, ” she murmured, wishing him luck. She’d slept with him a number of times, at first out of socialist duty since the two of them were expected to look and act like husband and wife… but lately she’d developed a genuine fondness for him. Pak Chong Yong had the dedication necessary to see this operation through to its glorious end. She thought she was probably in love with him. “Haeng’un ul pimnida, na e aein.”

  1245 hours

  SAS Command Center

  Outside Middlebrough, England

  “We’re not going to wait until tonight to take the bastards out,” Colonel Wentworth said. An architect’s blueprints were unrolled on the top of the folding card table before him. “We’re going to hit them now.”

  “What?” Se
rgeant Major Andrew Dunn said in mock surprise. “In broad daylight?”

  “Maybe we should go put our makeup on,” Trooper Frank Mclntyre put in. “Just for the telly cameras, you know.”

  “Hey, Roselli,” Trooper George A. Cartwright said, laughing. “How do you SEALs like being on TV?”

  “It’s happened,” Roselli said. He was thinking about the highly publicized Navy-Marine landing in Somalia several years back, when a joint SEAL/Marine Recon team had hit the beach smack dab in the middle of a waiting pack of journalists and cameramen, who’d been tipped off by someone in the high command. The result had been a cluster fuck if ever there’d been one, with the team taking up fighting positions squarely under the white glare of the film crew’s lights. “We don’t like it, but it’s happened.”

  Roselli and the other three SEALs of the SAS exchange training group were standing inside the large tent that had been set up as Colonel Wentworth’s operational field HQ, along with twelve SAS men in full battle garb — black Nomex coveralls, bulletproof vests, and combat harness. In one corner in the back, half-hidden in the shadows, a young, yellow-haired woman wearing camouflage Army BDUs several sizes too big for her and white bandages on her face and hands was talking quietly with a female British Army sergeant, who was questioning her and making notations on a large clipboard.

  “What’s the rush, anyway, Colonel?” Sergeant Vince Randolph wanted to know.

  “Major Dowling-Smythe is at the scene now with a couple of observers,” Wentworth said. He pulled a large and highly detailed street map out from under the blueprints and smoothed it out on the tabletop. “They have an infrared scope set up in this Port Authority office building on the top floor… right here. The major says there’s a great deal of heat coming from the target’s fourth floor.” He stopped and glanced at Roselli. “That’s the fifth floor to you boys from the colonies.”

  “Leave it to the Yanks t’ get it wrong,” Randolph said, and the others chuckled, including the four SEALs.