Shadow Watch pp-3

by Tom Clancy

  He had waited for nearly five minutes when his eye caught a slight shuffle of movement in the brush above him. Then, at last, the guerrillas came threading down the slope, scurrying from the foliage one and two at a time and descending onto the pass just yards in front of the car.

  There were a half dozen of them altogether, coarse, rugged men that shared many of the driver’s dark tribal features. They had assault rifles slung over their shoulders — Kalashnikovs, Berettas, MP5’s. Their clothing was grimy from long wear, and ranged from combat fatigues to the name-brand American denims, athletic jackets, and sneakers that had become status symbols in the Asian and Eastern European nations where they were often cheaply manufactured before being shipped to the States, given an inflated value, then exported to the very countries in which they had been made to be sold at an astronomical profit. It was another of the delicious ironies that had occurred to Sergei today, bringing to mind an image of the legendary serpent devouring its own tail.

  But he had no time now to mull these things. The apparent leader of the group, a taut, sharp-nosed man in fatigues with a long diagonal scar on his right cheek, was moving up closer to the car, two of his clansmen several paces behind him. He held in his right hand a worn leather satchel, and would be no less eager than Sergei to complete their business.

  When he reached the Citroen’s front grille, Sergei lifted his own case off the floor and turned to the stocky guard beside him.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Molkov nodded. A short-barreled Micro-Uzi hung outside his shirt. Weighing under five pounds and just ten inches long with its tubular metal stock folded, the compact submachine gun was scarcely larger than a pistol. In front, Alexandre displayed an identical SMG, as well as a shoulder-holstered Glock 9mm, with equal impunity. They had driven out of Tirana with the weapons stashed beneath their seats, but now were too far from any policed area to worry about having to conceal them. The control of the outlaw bands that occupied these mountains was based on ancient clan ties and validated by strength of arms. Brandishing the guns in open view was as much a matter of earning their respect as it was of physical protection.

  Leaving the Albanian behind the wheel, the three of them got out of the car and walked around its front grille. As they did, Sergei’s companions fell in on either side of him, Molkov to his right, Alexandre to his left. The guerrillas stood very still on the road and eyed them warily. There was no sound except for a brief ripple of birdsong that seemed to be sucked into the vast and hollow silence of the chasm below like a brightly colored ribbon caught in a vacuum.

  Sergei approached the man with the scar on his face, a cord of tension once again twisting in his stomach. On the surface, the transaction he was about to conclude seemed almost routine — an exchange of money for black-market goods on some remote alpine pass in a country that was known for its illicit trading, and that amounted to nothing more than a parenthesis on the European continent. He did not know exactly where he was, would not be able to find this forsaken place on the map once he left it behind.

  But it was here, in what were appropriately called the Mountains of the Damned, that he was about to commit treason on a scale previously unheard of, perhaps even expand the very definition of the word to new conceptual bounds. Indeed, if he were to contemplate it, he imagined he might feel like a swimmer who had gone out farther from shore than ever before, each stroke fueled by a little inner dare, his confidence sustained with occasional backward glances to reassure himself he was still within sight of land, until at one point he turned and saw nothing but ocean ahead, ocean behind him, ocean stretching off infinitely in every direction, and suddenly realized that some trick of the tide had swept him off in an eyeblink, carrying him beyond the point of no return.

  But enough, he admonished himself. Enough of that. He had made his choices and there was a deal to be done.

  He and the guerrilla leader looked each other over with obligatory nods of acknowledgment. Then Sergei set his suitcase down on the hood of the car, thumbed open its combination latches, and raised the lid.

  The guerrilla leader glanced down into the case.

  “Yes,” he said in Russian, something like wonder on his features. “Yes, yes.”

  “It’s all inside,” Sergei said. “The component, of course, as well as detailed instructions and schematics for its placement within the larger device. And a little something extra that you may tell the purchaser is both a test and a taste.” Ah, yes, a taste. Like caviar. Or a vintage cigar. “Everything that will be needed in Kazakhstan.”

  “You are certain the information is reliable?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve provided it in duplicate, both on disk and paper.” Sergei gave the guerrilla another moment to study the contents of the briefcase, then closed its lid. “Now the payment.”

  A thin smile touching his lips, the guerrilla nodded, then presented his satchel to Sergei.

  Sergei felt a spark of excitement at the weight of its contents. Suddenly his fingers were trembling. Holding it by the strap with one hand, he lifted its flap with the other and looked inside.

  It took him a moment to react, and when he did it was with shock and icy disbelief. He paled, all the blood in his body seeming to flush to his feet.

  The satchel was filled with thick packs of blank white paper cut to the approximate size of American banknotes and bound together with rubber bands.

  He snapped his eyes up at the guerrilla leader, saw that his smile had tightened at its corners, then turned quickly to Molkov.

  “These bastards have dared to cheat us,” he said.

  Molkov was staring at him without expression.

  “Did you hear me?” Sergei’s voice was furious as he upended the satchel, letting the rectangular bundles of paper spill to the ground. “There’s no money!”

  Molkov kept staring at him.

  Gaping with bewilderment, Sergei spun toward Alexandre.

  The Glock was in his hand, raised level with Sergei’s chest. Its silenced barrel spat twice, and Sergei reeled backward and dropped to the road, killed instantly, his jacket stained red where both shots had penetrated his heart. A look of confusion and betrayal was frozen on his face.

  Molkov glanced down at the corpse a moment, nodded approvingly, then turned to the guerrilla leader.

  “Now,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s have the payment.”

  The outlaw gestured briskly toward one of his men, who stepped forward to pass him a leather satchel much like the one Sergei had been given. He opened the bag himself, then angled it so both Russians could easily see inside. This time it was stuffed with authentic packs of U.S. bills.

  “It’s all here. Send our regards and goodwill to your bochya, Vostov,” he said, using the Russian slang term for godfather as he handed the satchel over to Molkov with a little bow.

  Molkov removed one of the banded packs at random and riffled its edges with his thumb, holding it close to his eyes. Satisfied, he put it back inside, closed the bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Okay,” he said to Alexandre. “Let’s go.”

  They turned back toward the waiting Citroen, careful to avoid stepping in the blood that had pooled around Sergei’s body.

  It was Alexandre, chancing to glance through the windshield, who noticed that their driver was no longer in the car, his door flung wide open. Instantly realizing what that meant, he jerked his head toward Molkov.

  But by the time he opened his mouth to warn him, it was too late for either of them.

  * * *

  Even as the Citroen had arrived and their leader and comrades-in-arms broke cover to meet it, a dozen other members of the Albanian fis, or outlaw clan, had remained concealed amid the vegetation uphill, their attention and weapons trained on the road.

  Everything had gone wholly according to plan. When the Russian physicist was shot by his supposed body-guard, the Citroen’s driver had taken advantage of the momentary distraction to exit the car unnoti
ced and plunge into the roadside brush, putting himself safely out of harm’s way and leaving his brethren with a clear field of fire.

  They had watched their leader hand the second satchel to the larger of the Russian gangsters. Watched him open it and inspect its contents — again, exactly as anticipated. As soon as he had confirmed receipt of their actual payment to the second Russian, the men lying in wait had readied themselves, their guns angled downward, their targets in steady view. To insure that the Russians would not be alerted to the deception in time to use their own weapons on their clansmen below, they had held their fire until the mafiyasi started back toward the car, turning away from the guerrillas.

  In the moment before the trap was sprung, it appeared the wiry Russian had recognized the deception and turned to alert his partner.

  He hadn’t had the chance. The gunmen on the slope opened up on the Russians, cutting both down where they stood. The volleys continued for several seconds, spraying the dead bodies, riddling the left side of the car, near which they had fallen, with bullet holes, dissolving its windshield in an avalanche of jagged glass shards.

  At last the shooting ceased, its echoes rapidly swallowed by the engulfing silence of the defile. Bits of leaves and branches that had been trimmed by the gunfire fluttered to the road.

  Down below, the guerrilla leader waved approvingly to the men behind the screen of foliage, then strode over to Molkov’s bullet-riddled corpse and knelt to retrieve the satchel of money that was still slung over his shoulder.

  Their mission had been easily accomplished.

  Now all that remained was to inform Harlan DeVane.

  NINE

  HOUSTON, TEXAS APRIL 18, 2001

  The Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, a cluster of one hundred buildings located off Interstate 45 midway between downtown Houston and the Galveston Island beaches some twenty-five miles southward, is the primary administrative, testing, and astronaut training facility for NASA’s manned space exploration program. Its Mission Control Center (Building 30), a windowless, bunkerlike structure at the core of the 1,620-acre complex, has been the locus of ground support and monitoring operations for American space flights since the Gemini 4 launch in June 1965, and contains two Flight Control Rooms — or fickeres—manned round the clock by large teams of flight controllers for the duration of any given mission. For the thousands of scientific researchers, engineers, and management officials who have dedicated their lives to “the expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and space”—the agency’s mandate as defined in its Eisenhower-era charter — the JSC is where that goal has been advanced through imagination, intelligence, audacity, ingenuity, and irrepressible perseverence. For the far smaller handful of candidates who apply and qualify for the astronaut program, it is something even beyond that, a kind of Oz where they are bestowed the magical ruby slippers that will transport them to their hearts’ most wished for destination… only not the familiar terrestrial landscapes of home, as was the case with Dorothy, but the beckoning, mysterious heavens.

  “Just click your heels together three times and say there’s no place like Betelgeuse,” Annie Caulfield muttered dryly to herself, aware she was about to make one of the most crucial decisions of her life. Immersed in thought, she sat looking out her office window at the tram that was moving across the JSC’s landscaped grounds as it delivered personnel and visitors to its various installations. Then she rotated her swivel chair and began absently studying the three framed photos on her otherwise bare desk. By chance the first one her eye fell upon was of her parents, Edward and Maureen, an 8 x 10 taken five years ago at a party to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  Annie smiled a little. Their preferred travel itineraries aside, she’d had a thing or two in common with Dorothy in her formative years, being an only child whose beginnings had been in rural Kansas. Her father had operated a one-man air transport service, and their family had lived so close to the airfield where he’d hangared his rattletrap Cessna that Annie could observe his take-offs and landings from her second-floor bedroom window.

  Perhaps that had been what eventually led to her interest in sky-watching, she didn’t know, but when she was coming up on her eighth birthday Annie had asked for and received an inexpensive 60mm Meade refraction telescope for her gift, along with a Carl Sagan Cosmosphere that she had used to locate the planets, constellations, and galaxies from her porch on countless spring and summer evenings, Dad helping her level and rotate the tube on its tripod until she was old enough to manage it by herself. Seven years later he’d helped her accomplish another of her goals in the same attentive, patient way and given her flying lessons. By the time she was eighteen Annie had earned her license and was making air runs for him during breaks from school.

  It seemed a sure thing in hindsight that her obsessions with astronomy and flying would converge into a desire to become an astronaut, though her decision to start her career by joining the Air Force had come as a total surprise to her mother and father. It had also been a source of great anxiety to them given the potential risks of warfare, risks that seemed particularly high in an age of limited regional conflicts for which the military relied heavily, and often exclusively, upon airpower to achieve their precision objectives. But her proficiency in the cockpit during her years of active duty had convinced her she could cut it with NASA, and Annie had submitted her application to its Astronaut Selection Office long before her F-16 Fighting Falcon was reduced to burning scrap metal while on a surveillance mission over northern Bosnia.

  After her rescue, she had been reassigned stateside by her C.O. in keeping with standard Air Force policy to shunt pilots who had been downed in combat away from the theater of operations, regardless of their eagerness or apparent fitness to get back in the air — the understandable concern being that they might have suffered some hidden trauma that would cause them to blink for a split second when they needed to act, or conversely, overreact to a perceived threat, not a good idea either way when you were roaring over enemy territory at speeds upwards of five hundred miles per hour. Whatever inclination she’d had to argue the matter had been offset by her concern for her parents, whose fears for her safety had been borne out by events. For nearly a week before NATO searchers picked up the signal from her emergency locator beacon, it had been thought likely she had perished in the crash of her plane, and she hadn’t wanted to put them through that kind of gut-wrenching ordeal again.

  She had been elated after getting contacted for an initial NASA interview within weeks of her transfer, but then had come the long, tortuous screening process of reference checks, re-interviews, and physical examinations prior to her qualifying for finalist status, to be followed by another series of prelims, and then the nail-biting wait for a conclusive yea or nay.

  When Annie was notified that her candidacy had been accepted, her excitement had been so intense she had felt as if she might soar beyond the bonds of gravity without benefit of a spacecraft, knowing full well that there was still no guarantee she would ultimately be sent into space. Before that would come two rigorous years of basic astronaut training during which her skills would be developed and subject to constant evaluation. But she had attained the high ground and was, as Tom Wolfe had put it in The Right Stuff, within sight of Olympus. Nothing would stop her from going the rest of the distance.

  Driven by her lifelong ambition, and aided by an innate self-discipline and passion to excel that her parents had always reinforced, she’d applied herself to the challenges of training with a kind of fierce, single-minded dedication, come through at the top of her class — right up there with Jim Rowland — and been selected for formal mission training immediately upon graduation.

  Annie and Jim had flown their first shuttle mission together in 1997, he as commander, she as pilot.

  Now she rapped her fingers on her desk, her eyes leaving the photo of her parents on the left end of the row for the one on the far right, an official NASA group shot of the
crew on the flight that had “put her on the bronco’s hump and broken her cherry,” to quote not a famous writer this time, but rather the ever tactful Colonel Rowland. Of the seven men and women on that shuttle, two had been Turnips besides Jim and herself — mission specialists Walter Pratt and Gail Klass. It had been the multitalented, multilingual Gail, a computer scientist and electrical engineer by trade, who had designed their unique crew patch and translated the motto she and Jim had concocted into Latin… to give it class and authenticity, she had explained.

  Ah, Jimmy, how I wish you were here with some dumb wisecrack, preferably one built around an obscenity… as if you knew any other kind, Annie thought. Sorrow infiltrating her smile, she studied his face as it appeared in the starch official public-relations shot. Somehow his prankish sense of humor had managed to show through the stiffly formal pose their photographer had elicited from him.

  She expelled a long, sighing breath and shifted her attention to the middle picture frame, having bypassed it a few seconds earlier, precisely because she had known it would make her struggle to keep her emotions under control unwinnable.

  Behind the frame’s nonreflective glass panel was a montage she had painstakingly composed from photo clippings of Mark, her children, and herself, using dozens of snapshots taken over the years, the images overlapping like the recollections they stirred within Annie. She was no Gail Klass in the creativity department, and most of her choices had been of the typical doting-mother, loving-wife sort that would have drawn afflicted little smiles had they been shown to friends or coworkers, boring them to death like nothing else besides home videos of birthday parties and backyard barbecues. Here was Mark proudly displaying a flounder he’d hooked from a fishing pier on Sanibel Island; here Linda on a playground seesaw; here the kids on a Christmas morning three years ago, still in their pajamas, wading into the presents under the tree; here the entire family at Disney World photographed by a roving six-foot-tall Mickey Mouse. And in the center…