by Tom Clancy
“We better have us some air support ready,” he said after a moment. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
“What was that, sir?”
Thibodeau rose from his seat. “Tell the chopper pilots to fasten their goddamn seat belts, out.”
* * *
Manuel crouched behind the gate, his arm throbbing, the sleeve of his jumpsuit warm and moist where he’d been injured. His rapid movement had worsened the bleeding, but the sentry robot’s destruction was certain to draw security personnel to the area, and any holdup would increase the risk of capture. He’d have to attend to the wound later.
Making an effort to ignore his pain, he took a triangular slice of C4 explosive from his gear bag, peeled off its outer foil, and molded it carefully around the bottom of the gatepost. Next he extracted a twelve-inch segment of Primadet cord, one end of which was connected to an aluminum blasting cap, the other to a battery-powered timer about the size and shape of a marker pen. He inserted the end with the blasting cap into the saddle charge and set the timer’s simple dial mechanism for a five-minute delay. When he pulled the safety pin holding it in place, the arrow on the dial would start to turn, initiating the detonation sequence — but he couldn’t do that until his teammates finished wiring together the charges they had already planted on supports along the fence. The thin orange detonating cord would set off the linked charges almost instantaneously, and he intended to be well away from the area before that happened.
He settled down to wait. Several yards to his left a light shone in the guard booth’s broken window. The single wall he could see from his position was spattered with blood. A limp, upflung arm rested against it above the spot where one of the lifeless guards had fallen.
Manuel looked away from the booth, moving his gaze out along the perimeter fence to where the others were at their tasks, dark blurs against the deeper darkness. Blowing a gap in the fence hadn’t been his own idea. The watchmen on duty would have known the gate’s electronic access codes, and he’d proposed they be captured and made to unlock it at gunpoint. But Kuhl had formulated a minute-by-minute plan and wanted them killed before the jump team’s arrival. With the robot and guards in the compound’s western sector eliminated, he had reasoned there would be a surveillance lapse until backup security units could arrive. This would give Manuel’s group an opening to set their explosives while Teams Orange and Yellow carried out their end of the plan.
Manuel hadn’t argued. It was Kuhl’s role to make the final calls, and his to carry them out.
Now Manuel saw one of the other jumpers come scurrying up toward the gate, a length of ’det cord winding out behind him. Not a moment too soon, he thought. His wound was large and ugly, the torn flesh imbedded with sharp fragments of metal. He would need to take care of it soon.
He inhaled to clear his head, then took the cord from his teammate and inserted it into the charge he’d just primed.
“Bueno, Juan,” he said. “Where is Marco?”
“Coming,” Juan said. He gestured toward Manuel’s arm. “You all right?”
Manuel looked at him.
“Yes, all right,” he said. He willed himself not to stumble as he rose to his feet. “Radio Tomas and the others. Let them know we’re through here. Then I pull the pin.”
* * *
In the center of the compound, three levels underground, Thibodeau rushed through the monitor room’s entrance to find Jezoirski, Cody, and Delure agitatedly studying their displays.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” he said, noting their flustered expressions.
Delure swiveled his chair around to look at him.
“Sir, it’s Ned… the ’hog’s detected a group of intruders in its sector. Could be the same ones we saw at the western perimeter, there’s no way to tell.”
Thibodeau eyed the screen and made a low, apprehensive sound in his throat. He cared less about whether these were the same trespassers Wally had encountered than how they had gotten into the compound without initiating any perimeter alarms, and what the purpose of their intrusion might be. A man who relied heavily on instinct, he saw a pattern and tempo to their movements that took him back to his days as a Long Range Recon Patrolman with the 101st Air Cav in Southeast Asia, awakening suspicions that were almost too crazy to share.
But he could not ignore the guideposts of his own experience, and commanding a LRRP unit out of Camp Eagle had taught him plenty. Outrageous as it seemed at first blush, what was happening had all the earmarks of an airborne insertion. That would account for the intruders’ seeming ability to materialize out of nowhere, and also explain their otherwise mystifying cat-and-mouse game with Wally. They hadn’t taken on the ’hog because they needed to, but because they’d wanted to, as if their aim was to put the goddamned contraption through its paces.
Thibodeau pictured the confused expressions he’d seen on the faces of the men around him when he’d come bolting into the room — expressions that must have perfectly mirrored his own. He felt sure those looks would have given tremendous pleasure to the unwanted visitors rushing around out there at the installation’s margins. Certainly he’d have enjoyed that sort of thing on his runs through the jungle between 1969 and 1970. The slicks would swing down low over the trees wherever they saw pockets of North Vietnamese and quickly insert their LRRP teams, who would plunge into the brush seeking out targets of opportunity, causing disruption and confusion for the enemy. Faire la chasse.
“Can you give me a better fix on those bastards?” he said.
Delure fingered a button on his console to superimpose a digitized map over the radar image they’d been viewing.
“How’s that?”
“Good, good, now bring it in closer.”
Delure hit another button and zoomed the image. Thibodeau saw geographical features of the compound’s western grounds enlarge and clarify around the blips of light, indicating the intruders’ position.
“A non.” He pointed at a curving blue line on-screen. “Take a look at where they are.”
Delure gaped up at him. “Near the west drive. That’s the quickest route from our motor vehicle pool to the perimeter.”
Thibodeau nodded.
“Get the ‘hog on their asses, an’ this time hit ’em with something stronger than fancy lights,” he said. “Our chase cars gon’ be on that road any minute!”
* * *
The anti-vehicular mines they had set were simply but cleverly camouflaged, wrapped in tar paper to blend in with the pavement. By day they would have been difficult for a driver to spot. At night they would be completely invisible.
Moments after they left the access road to rejoin their teammates, Tomas and Raul heard a low whirring sound close by to the right. They were turning to investigate, their FAMAS rifles at the ready, when the security robot sped nimbly up on them, a tubular apparatus on its side swiveling in their direction, liquid issuing from its nozzle in a pressurized stream.
Neither man got to trigger his weapon before the polymer superlubricant fanned over them, drenching them at first, and then abruptly solidifying in a thin layer over their skin, combat garb, and the ground under their boots.
Raul’s immediate thought was that they had been sprayed with a disabling foam, but he quickly realized this substance was something very different — more like dry ice in the way it hardened, except scarcely cooler than the air around him. Indeed, it was almost as if the fluid had altered his physical state rather than its own, as if every part of him that it touched had metamorphosed into smooth, slick glass. All at once he couldn’t hold onto his rifle. The more he tried, the more slippery his grip became. His eyes widening in alarm and incomprehension, he watched the weapon leap from his hands, snapping out the cable that joined it to his helmet display like a hooked fish at the end of a line, then dangling almost ludicrously from his helmet. He snatched at it, his fingers making wild grabs at its stock and barrel, but it slid out from between them and dropped near his feet.
He wa
s bending to recover it when the soles of his boots lost their traction and his legs went skating out from under him.
The ground came up hard against his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. He attempted to scramble upright, and only flopped onto his side. Tried again and slid back down. The grass beneath him was stiff and slippery. His clothes were as unbending as molded plastic. His skin was brittle and much too tight. Out of the comer of his eye he saw Tomas skidding about on his stomach in the same helpless, flailing manner that he was, looking weirdly like a man trying to swim across solid ice.
He screamed then, his mind hurtling over the edge of fear to full-blown panic, screamed at the top of his lungs, and was still crying out when the security cars dispatched by Thibodeau came racing up the access road behind them.
The same road where, moments ago, the two invaders had planted their mines.
The three dark-blue quick-response cars beat their air support out of the gate by several minutes — partly because their drivers had been closer to the motor pool than the chopper pilots were to the helipad, and partly because the Skyhawk copters had longer crank times than the armored Mercedes 300 SE sedans, which sprang to life with the turn of an ignition key.
The drivers knew going into their pursuit that the lag would be a problem. Their chopper-automobile teams were equipped with integrated thermal tracking systems that allowed them to accurately pinpoint the location of their quarry, accomplishing this by means of a microwave video link between the Skyhawks’ pod-mounted surveillance equipment and receivers on the chase cars’ dashboards. But without the aerial transmissions from the helicopters, the men in the cars were relying on nothing more sophisticated than their headlights to spot the intruders.
Tragically, they also lost any chance of being forewarned about the concealed mines awaiting them on the access road.
There were two men in the first car besides the driver, one seated next to him, another in the rear. Neither passenger ever knew what hit him. The driver did see an almost unnoticeable dark patch on the roadway about three yards before the mine came up on him, and thinking it was a bump or pothole, tried to swing around it. But the high speed at which he was traveling made that almost impossible.
The mine went off with a booming explosion as the edge of his left tire rolled over it. The Mercedes shot up into air, its front end bucking higher than the rear. While its armor-plated chassis had been designed to withstand a direct and sustained small-arms assault, its undercarriage was vulnerable to the blast of orange flame that went tearing into it, instantly killing all three of its occupants. A second later the vehicle came down on its right side and rolled crazily forward on two wheels before tumbling onto its roof, fire jetting from its shattered windshield.
His eyes large with shock and horror, the driver of the second vehicle pumped his brake furiously, swerved sideways, and went shooting past the ruined vehicle, coming close enough to see the charred, blistered remains of a face amid the flames in its rear window. Then his tires tripped a second mine and there was another roaring explosion. The last thing he heard as his vehicle was blown apart was the sound of his terrified scream mingling with those of his passengers.
Scarcely a dozen yards behind him, the third car’s driver succeeded where the others hadn’t. Chunks of metal and blasted pavement raking his hood, he wrenched his steering wheel sharply to the left, jolting off the road and onto the bordering lawn, his tires spinning up clots of soil and grass. With precious extra seconds to react, the man at the wheel of the last car veered in the opposite direction, also screeching to a halt in time to avoid sudden death.
In the darkness beyond the road, two members of Orange Team lay in silent hiding. Both intruders had moved off slightly ahead of their companions after sowing the road with mines, managing to outpace the northern perimeter’s security robot and stay well beyond its surveillance range.
They lingered where they were for several moments, peering at the conflagration through their night-vision glasses, watching the dazed survivors of the ambush stagger from their cars. Then a fresh explosion shook the compound to the west, sending a ragged wedge of fire into the sky.
Blue Team’s success violently confirmed, the two men retreated into the shadows. Their trap had been sprung, but they were not yet finished here tonight.
The final stage of the operation was about to get under way.
* * *
Kuhl stared ahead into the explosion’s glare and imagined its shock waves sending ripples through the hearts of his opposition. He had planned tonight’s mission carefully, overseen its every detail, and his preparation was bringing its dividends in results.
Now he heard a tearing metallic sound like some inhuman cry of agony, and saw a crumpled section of the perimeter fence launch into the air and then plunge earthward in a shower of sparks and debris.
It was time.
Kuhl turned to his driver and instructed him to give the signal to mobilize. He nodded in response, and flicked his headlights and taillights on and off once.
The driver at his rear did the same, and then the driver behind him, the signal rapidly making its way down the line of jeeps.
Their engines coming to life, they began rolling toward the fire and thunder of the blasts, the way into the installation open before them.
* * *
His face chalk-white, Thibodeau passed the radio headset back to Delure with an unsteady hand. Even underground, the detonations around the compound had been audible as muffled thuds, the last and most powerful of them shaking the walls as if there had been an earthquake. But it was not until after they’d heard from the ambushed quick-response team — or what was left of it, God help those poor boys — that he had started to tremble. Now, in the ominous silence that had followed the blasts, he realized only a supreme effort of will would make that trembling stop.
Thus far they, whoever they might be, had outmaneuvered and outthought him. Been ahead of him at every stage. And that couldn’t be allowed to continue.
He meshed his hands behind his back and paced the room, his teeth clenched, struggling to exert control over himself.
What was happening out there? And what was he going to do about it?
He figured the best way to start answering those questions, or trying to answer them, was by reviewing what he already knew — bad as it all was. The west gate was down, the most direct route there blocked by the fiery wreckage of his own chase vehicles. A group of heavily armed, well-trained men had penetrated the installation and were now rampant within its borders. And they had proven themselves capable of ruthless murder as well as sabotage.
He didn’t yet know the size of their force. Nor could he know their ultimate goal. But it was a sure thing their plans extended beyond scattered attacks at the periphery of the compound.
No matter what they wanted, it would be in the core manufacturing and storage areas. Possibly even the living quarters — there were some very important members of the ISS scientific team on the facility. He had already ordered these areas sealed up tight, but did he have the manpower to maintain that seal against a concentrated strike?
Thibodeau stopped pacing and laid a hand on Delure’s shoulder.
“How many people we got protecting the buildings?” he asked.
“Fifteen, twenty, sir.”
“That’d be our full day and night details. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir. With the exception of the men in the cars and choppers. And whoever’s off base.”
Thibodeau nodded. A handful of Sword operatives and other staffers preferred the long daily commute from Cuiabá to the isolation of living on the compound.
He was silent a moment, his jaw tight. Ahead of me all’a way, those devils, while I been dancing like a turkey on hot coals.
He suddenly released Delure’s arm, strode over to a steel supply cabinet across the room, and extracted a Zylon ballistic vest from inside it.
“You boys hold the fort down here,” he said, and slipped i
nto the vest. “I’m goin’ topside.”
* * *
The jeeps stopped briefly about ten meters after passing through the gap in the fence. Little blazing islands of debris were spread over the grass around them, casting dashes of light and shadow across the faces of their occupants.
The remnants of Blue Team and Orange Team were waiting there as arranged. They scurried into the vehicles.
Manuel climbed into Kuhl’s jeep without assistance, but not without difficulty. He could hear droplets of his own blood splashing the rear seat as he settled into it beside Antonio.
“You performed well,” Kuhl said. He sat perfectly still in front.
Manuel leaned against the backrest, breathing hard. It felt as if a thousand white-hot needles had been jabbed into his arm. “Marco was killed. Two men from Orange Team had to be left behind.”
Kuhl remained motionless.
“Losses must be expected,” he said tonelessly.
Then he sliced his hand in the air and the jeep started to move again, the others following in close procession. The first thing Ed Graham thought when he spotted the jeeps from his Skyhawk chopper was that the sight reminded him of his many years as an LAPD pilot. His second thought was that the first thought was an odd and scary comment on modem American society, given how once upon a time it would have been the Hollywood sign and Mann’s Chinese Theater that were symbolic of Los Angeles, not maybe twenty men riding around in full combat gear.
His third thought, which followed within a heartbeat, was that he had better stop thinking and start acting toot-sweet, because he was right now looking down at a major shitload of trouble.
“Christ, we got us a helluva situation,” said the man seated at his right, almost yelling to be heard above the loud whop of the rotors. He reached for his communications handset. “Better radio for an assist and then shine the welcome light on our guests.”