by Clancy, Tom
Rodgers lowered his hands and turned. He indicated, by gestures, that he was going to the other car.
The security guard who had been on the radio said something. One of the other guards fired a round. Rodgers dropped to the road. The other rear tire exploded with a loud wheeze. The guard said something else. Translated, it probably meant, “Now they are definitely not going anywhere.”
They also did not return fire. Perhaps they were waiting for Rodgers or the guards to make themselves better targets. The soldiers probably did not want to damage the car or motorcycles.
Suddenly there were new sounds, a low whine from the direction of the city. Through the noontime haze Rodgers saw several police cars approaching, their top lights flashing.
Now the men in the van pointed automatic weapons out three windows and opened fire. Rodgers jumped back into the car, which was still running. He left the driver’s side door open and threw open the passenger’s side door to give the security guards a little added protection. The guards returned fire as they moved behind the open doors, driving the soldiers back into the van. There were two guards on the passenger’s side and one on the driver’s side.
This was not going to get them the information they needed.
Lying with his feet on the passenger’s side, Rodgers swung back behind the wheel. He sat very low and put the car in drive, steering it slowly toward the van, the guards firing around the sides of the open door, the pops of each round nearly drowned by the clang of the bullets striking metal. When the rental car touched the rear bumper of the van, Rodgers asked to borrow one of the guns. The innermost guard on the driver’s side was not at a good angle to hit the van. He gladly surrendered his weapon. Rodgers fired a burst through his own windshield to smash it, then sat back and pushed the window out with his foot. Tucking the gun into his belt, he climbed through it onto the hood of the car, and from there to the roof of the van. He moved quietly, on his knuckles and the balls of his feet. He stopped above the cab. He knew that if he fired through the roof he might kill one or more of the men. He also knew that the survivors would fire back. Instead, he motioned for the security guard on the driver’s side to stop firing. Drawing his gun, Rodgers crouched on the edge of the driver’s side but facing the passenger’s side. He waited until the driver poked his hand out to return fire. Then he jumped down, landing on his feet and facing the driver. That was only one gunman he had to worry about. The others would not fire for fear of hitting the man at the wheel.
Rodgers slammed the man’s extended arm against the side of the car and pointed his automatic at the man’s head.
“Drop it!”
The soldier probably had no idea what Rodgers was saying. But he released the weapon, and the others ceased firing. Perhaps they were looking to get a shot at Rodgers. Fortunately, the side of the van afforded him a slight degree of cover.
The security guards shouted something. Rodgers heard a series of thumps as the other weapons fell. He edged forward toward the window. He did not release the man’s arm but twisted it, holding the palm. The move was known as a kodogash. The pain in the victim’s wrist guaranteed that he would move where Rodgers wanted him to go. And right now, Rodgers wanted him to remain a shield.
Rodgers looked into the window. The men had their hands raised defensively. There were no weapons. He used the gun to motion for the men on the passenger’s side to get out. They did, arms lifted higher now. The security guards moved from behind the doors of Rodgers’s car. The former general released the driver and gestured for him to get out the other side. The frightened man scooted out just as the police arrived. Rodgers tucked the gun back into his belt and walked toward the back of the van. He went through a pile of papers on the passenger’s seat of his car. He pulled out a set of blueprints and grabbed his cell phone. He opened the large document on the hood of the car and motioned for the security guards to bring one of the men over. The man was pulled roughly toward the red Xiali.
Rodgers pointed at the diagram. “Boom!” he shouted, throwing his fingers outward to simulate a blast. Then he ran a hand palm-up over the blueprint. “That’s universal for ‘Tell me what the hell I want to know, or I’ll slap you silly.’ ”
The security guard obviously understood. He said something to his captive, who muttered something back and pointed a trembling finger at the diagram.
“Shit,” Rodgers said and got on his phone.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Xichang, China Thursday, 11:49 A.M.
Hood reached the holding clamp before the marines arrived. The clamp was one of two huge, inverted L-shaped structures that held the rocket in place as the boosters fired. Ignition typically occurred four to six seconds before liftoff. When the two powerful engines had built to maximum thrust, the clamps were drawn back so the rocket could lift off. The clamps were about the size of a fullsized semi, bent at the rig and slung over flanges on the bottom of the boosters. In front of him were stacked pipes that carried coolant to the launchpad. They were heavily insulated with a ceramic thermal coating to keep the contents from boiling and exploding during the launch. To the left was an equipment rack the size of a cottage. It was set well back from the raised launchpad and contained various monitors, cameras, and other recording devices. There were also several emergency generators there, used to keep the rocket functioning in case of a power failure during the postignition moments of the countdown. That was not a time when mission control wanted to have a dead, flaming rocket on their hands.
The entire area was protected by a massive blast shield. That would keep the equipment box and generators from being immolated during launch, but it would not protect a person from the heat or smoke it generated.
The marines showed up about a minute later. They were dressed in lab coats and coming from several different directions. A moment after that, the car that had brought Hood returned. Hood was shocked to see Anita get out. She was waving to him and shouting.
“More of Tam Li’s men are coming!” she cried. “My father just warned us about it—”
As she spoke, the helicopters that had been circling the perimeter converged overhead.
“Get away!” Hood yelled, motioning her back. “We’ll deal with this!”
Anita hesitated.
“Go!” he shouted. This was something else he did not need to worry about. Not now.
Anita got back in the car, but she did not leave. The driver pulled up beside the large equipment bay.
Hood looked back at the marines. He pointed up and shouted, “Bad guys!”
The marine leader nodded and directed his people to stay back, under cover. They took up positions behind large wheels that controlled the flow of coolant to the rocket. A system of hoses was designed to keep the booster and its mechanisms from being affected by the intense heat of ignition. The external hoses were released at launch. The remaining liquid raced through the rocket, turning to steam and being vented as the rocket rose.
Hood crouched beside the clamp as the marine leader continued running toward him. A slight overhang of metal from the clamp afforded Hood some protection overhead. Huge fuel lines stacked along the pad protected him in front. Fortunately, the helicopter could not come much lower. Between the pipes and the transformer there was not enough room to accommodate the rotor radius.
As he waited for the marine to move confidently along the coolant pipes, Hood felt a flash of anger—at himself. This was not the trade Hood was supposed to be practicing. This was not like a natural disaster or terrorist attack where bystanders pitched in. Hood had put himself in this position. Twice before he had been in situations like this, once in the Middle East where an Op-Center team was missing, and once when he rescued his daughter from UN hostagetakers. In both cases he had strong personal reasons for being there. Not now. He was a bureaucrat, not a soldier. He should be back at the White House drinking coffee in an air-conditioned office with CNN reporting on what other crazy damn souls were doing.
This was stupid. Worse than
that, it was irresponsible. His presence could be a burden to the process, a distraction to the marines. It had already drawn Anita here, risking her life.
The marine arrived, ready to work.
Kick yourself later, Hood told himself. Right or wrong, he was here in the thick of this.
“Do you have weapons?” Hood asked.
“Yes, sir,” the marine said as he threw off his lab coat. He pulled an M-9 semiautomatic from a holster under his left armpit. “It doesn’t have the kind of reach they’ve got up there. We need them a lot closer before it’ll do any damage. But, sir, we have worse problems.”
“How can it be worse?”
“I just heard from General Rodgers. The bomb is in here, sir.” The marine rapped his knuckles on the clamp.
Hood swore.
“Exactly, sir,” the marine said.
Bullets pinged above them. The marine pushed Hood down slightly. Hood felt his age under the kid’s firm hands.
“Does Rodgers know anything else?” Hood asked.
“Nothing helpful,” the marine went on. “According to what the general gleaned from his prisoner—and this makes sense—the explosive has a double-jeopardy trigger. It blows either when the clamp lifts or when the timer hits zero. If the bomb detonates, the clamp will most likely be destroyed, the rocket will fall over, and the fuel will be ignited by the fire from the bomb.”
“Same result.”
“Yes, sir.’
“In nine minutes?” Hood said, glancing at his watch.
“My timer gives us seven, sir,” the young man replied with unflappable Marine-bred directness. “The problem is, sir, even if we had the tools, I do not know that we can get to the device in time. Cutting through the clamp will take longer than we have. General Rodgers said he is standing by to help, as are Chinese security forces. Unfortunately, the men with the guns are all on Tam Li’s side.”
“Of course they are,” Hood said bitterly.
They built the goddamn bomb into the clamp, Hood thought. It was smart and devious and well-planned.
Gunfire chattered from the helicopters. The gunmen were not at a good angle to hit Hood or the marine. In addition to the overhang, the gantry and various pipes impeded their view. He found himself wondering which would be the better way to die: shot or incinerated. There was something surreal about the calm with which he asked himself that question.
“Cutting through them,” Hood muttered, repeating what the marine had said.
“Sir?”
Hood glanced behind him. The rocket loomed, the boosters almost overhead. Each opening was the diameter of a good-sized swimming pool. “What if we could actually do that?”
“How, sir?”
“I watched all the Gemini and Apollo missions as a kid. Sometimes those rockets would flame and not take off. What if we did that?”
“Turn on the boosters and melt our way through?”
“Right. We can ignite the thrusters without lifting the clamps, give them a good frying, then shut the rocket down.”
“If we weaken them, the rocket would fall over anyway,” the marine pointed out.
“That in itself probably would not cause the plutonium cell to be destroyed,” Hood suggested.
“True. And the heat might be enough to slag the bomb,” the Marine said.
“That’s what I am hoping,” Hood said.
“Sir, it is a chance.”
“Alert General Rodgers and have him pass that along to the launch crew,” Hood said. “Then help me figure a way to get us out of here.”
The marine input the text message to Rodgers. He was poised and focused as bullets chewed at the concrete several feet away, spitting splinters at the two men. He was an inspiration to Hood, who was squatting to the man’s left, slightly behind him. Hood had not noticed until now that the marine had positioned himself almost directly between the helicopter and Hood.
“General Rodgers is phoning the information to one of the English-speaking scientists here,” the marine said.
Hood nodded. His legs were beginning to cramp, but he dared not move. Not until he had to. He looked to his right at Anita’s car, which was still near the heavily reinforced equipment shed about three hundred yards behind them. He could not understand why she was just sitting there. He waved for her to go. The windows were darkly tinted, and he could not tell whether she had seen him.
The marine’s wristwatch flashed. He read the incoming message.
“The Chinese agree with the plan and are undertaking an expedited countdown,” the young man said.
“Which means we have to get the hell out of here,” Hood said.
“Affirmative, sir. They’re lighting them up in three minutes.”
Hood was looking ahead, trying to figure out how to get from their position to anywhere else. There was nothing that did not cross exposed spaces. The choppers were moving lower and converging. Their shots were coming at a different angle but still falling short of the spot below the clamp.
“Do you think they know what mission control is planning?” the marine asked.
“Doubtful. They would have been cut from the comm loop as soon as they showed their hand.”
Either way, it was not good for Hood, his partner, or Anita. In two minutes they would be under cryogenic propellant that was fired to a temperature of five thousand degrees.
Hood was scared now. He was aware of each breath, every heartbeat, all the perspiration that was running from his temples and armpits. He wanted it all to continue. He did not want this complex symphony of the taken-forgranted to end.
“Thoughts?” Hood asked.
“Only one, sir. The car.”
“Forget it. I am not going to ask the prime minister’s daughter to drive through the gunfire—”
“I’ve just watched the vehicle take multiple hits, sir,” the marine told him. “I think it’s armored.”
Son of a bitch. Hood glanced at the black sedan. The marine was right. Of course the vehicle was heavily protected. That was the car that traveled with the Chinese prime minister.
Suddenly, the sedan revved its engine and sped toward them. Anita must have heard from her father what was being planned. Hood was certain that the prime minister had told her to leave. Hood also did not doubt that she was going to try to give them a way out.
Hood watched anxiously as bullets flashed off the roof and hood. They dented the metal but did not go through it. White scrapes appeared on the windows as gunfire skidded across the dark surfaces. One of the choppers moved in lower. It evidently intended to try to pick off the men when they tried to get into the car.
Behind them, steam began hissing from vents in the rocket as coolant was pumped through thick capillaries in the metal skin.
The car stopped about twenty feet beyond the clamp, at a point where the coolant pipes turned away from the launchpad. The passenger’s side was facing the two men. The door opened.
“Come on!” Anita yelled.
The marine rose and peered over the topmost coolant pipe. He looked out and began typing a text message.
“We have to run for it,” Hood said.
“You’ll never clear that open space,” the marine told him. “Give me another few seconds.”
“These idiots may hit the rocket,” Hood said. “They’re shooting wild—”
“They won’t. The fireball would catch them, too.”
The kid was right. The chopper descended and fired more carefully on their position. Hood felt foolish as the men dropped back behind the pipes. The marine had a grasp of the obvious that Hood had somehow lost or misplaced. That was the problem with having a head too full of experience. Information was something you kicked around behind a desk. In the field, it obscured instinct and wisdom.
Fortunately, Hood did not dwell on his failings. The clang of the bullets on the metal was unnerving. The marine finished typing his message, then sent it to the other members of his team.
Suddenly they heard the drumbeat of co
ordinated fire from the other side of the sedan.
“Are the choppers within range?” Hood asked.
“No. They won’t be able to get any lower.”
“Then what are your guys firing at?” Hood asked.
“Just be ready to follow me,” the marine said as he moved into a crouching position facing the car.
Hood turned and looked over the marine’s shoulder. He looked past the sedan at the blast shield where it had been parked a minute before. Flashes were sparking off the transformer—one bullet after another in the same spot. Finally one of them punched through the gas tank and another followed it through. The hot shells ignited the fuel and caused a small blast that sent smoky plumes of dark smoke rolling upward.
“Follow me,” the marine said.
The young man rose, his shoulders hunched low, and moved to the edge of the pipes. Hood followed him. They stopped just a few feet from the car. As the smoke continued to blanket the area, the marine put his left arm around Hood’s shoulders. He pulled him close, shielding Hood with his own body.
“On my word we run for the car,” the marine told him.
The gunfire thinned as the smoke obscured the launchpad. Hood felt himself being ushered forward, even as the marine shouted, “Now!”
The two ran toward the car. Bullets pierced the thick cloud as they crossed the open space between their makeshift sanctuary and the car. It was only six or seven yards, but each step seemed like a long flight of stairs. Smoke and fear took Hood’s breath away as they ran ahead. As the smoke thickened, the driver beeped his horn to give them a beacon. Hood could hear the delicate whiz of gunfire and the jazzlike beat it produced as it struck metal and pavement. When they reached the car, Hood was shoved forward onto the leather seat. He scrambled across to make room for the marine. The young man literally dove in after him.
“Go!” the marine shouted as he turned and pulled the door shut.
“Is there anyone else we need to pick up?” Anita asked.