Tom Clancy - Op Center 12

by War of Eagles

  “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 coordinated 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.

  “No,” the marine replied. “I told my coworkers to head for the command bunker once we were rescued.”

  Hood looked at the young man as the car sped off. “Are you all right?”

  “Intact, sir,” the marine said.

  Anita turned and regarded the young man. “You are not a scientist,” she declared.

  The marine put the gun in its holster. He did not answer. He looked out the window at the retreating launchpad.

  “Who are you?” Anita demanded.

  Hood responded. “He’s just a man who may have helped save your space complex and your father’s government.” Hood smiled. “Speaking of saving, thanks for pulling us out of there.”

  Anita looked at Hood. Gunfire continued to hit the car. Depending on the angle, the shots rang like a bell or sounded like a cat scratching. The sedan left the asphalt and began racing across the field that separated the launchpad from the Technical Center. The rutted ground caused the car to bump and rattle. The high, rigid grasses sounded like steel wool along the chassis. But all of the sounds, all thought and lingering questions, vanished when the booster lit up. It was about three quarters of a mile behind them. Hood heard a deep blast, then felt the car tremble. Everything from the license plates to the seat belts rattled, like teeth. The vehicle was literally bumped forward, skidding slightly as a shock wave hit the car. The invisible fist rolled over the roof and rattled the grasses in front of them. The air itself was distorted as the hot wind blew through.

  Hood and the marine turned. The helicopters went into retreat as opaque, lumpy waves of gray-and-white smoke spilled from the bottom of the rocket. The rocket towered above the flat countryside, stark against the distant mountains. It was quickly obscured as thick clouds crawled in all directions. The smoke all but smothered the red orange flames that flashed deep within. A second wave of air rushed toward them, superheated gas from the postignition burn. The air in the car quickly grew very hot. The smell of melting rubber filled the interior as the seams around the windows softened.

  “What is the time frame?” Anita asked anxiously.

  “You mean, when do we know if we’ve succeeded?” Hood asked.

  “We are twenty seconds from what should have been liftoff,” the marine answered. He was looking at the digital numbers on his watch.

  Hood was impressed that he was professional enough to do that. Though he realized, of course, that they would know soon enough how things were going. If the clamp blew up, they had failed.

  It occurred to Hood that these could be the last moments of his life. Even if the clamp were destroyed, and the bomb with it, the rocket could still fall over. If it did, the size of the explosion would depend upon how much fuel remained in the tanks. Dying was bad enough. Dying, knowing that Tam Li had succeeded, even without the explosion, would be worse. Even if the prime minister moved to have him arrested, there were powerful elements in the government that would back the general, men who wanted a final showdown with Taiwan.

 
; The clamps and most of the rocket were entirely obscured by the thickening exhaust. The rumbling roar was all around as the engines strained to carry their payload aloft.

  “The first-stage rockets only have another fifteen seconds of burn in them,” the marine said. “They’re going to shut off at approximately the moment the bomb would probably go off.”

  “Probably?” Anita said.

  “The bomber does not benefit if it explodes after the rocket has lifted off,” the marine informed her.

  Hood was only half-listening to the exchange. Once again, he was impressed with the marine’s clear-headed reasoning and the pertinent facts he had picked up during his tenure. Though it also made Hood sad. Unlike Op-Center’s late Striker force, this man had enjoyed some prep time before going on his mission, as well as time to reconnoiter on the ground. That made a great deal of difference.

  “Five seconds,” the marine announced, looking at his wristwatch.

  The smoke was now black and gray. More than the fuel was burning. The pipes they had been hiding behind were probably gone. There was a small red-and-yellow flash from the area of the transformer. The intense heat must have destroyed everything behind the blast shield.

  The car continued to bounce across the field. It was sweltering and extremely stuffy inside, but they did not dare open the windows. Though the helicopters appeared to have left, the car would still afford them some protection from any shrapnel that might come flying off the rocket.

  The marine lowered his wrist. “Zero,” he said.

  A moment later the rumbling stopped. The only sounds were the thumping of the car as it raced across the final stretch of the field. The smoke dissipated slowly, and the rocket was visible wherever the sunlight found its white skin.

  “Oh, shit,” Hood said.

  It was an involuntary remark, uttered as he watched flames claw at the base of the rocket. The bomb had not exploded. They had apparently succeeded in melting the device. But smoke was curling from behind every plate and rivet as fire crawled up the depleted booster. Whatever was under the exterior skin was burning: tubing, electronics, everything flammable.

  It was making its way to the second stage.

  A stage that was fueled.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Xichang, China Thursday, 12:02 P.M.

  “Purge the second-stage fuel!”

  Prime Minister Le Kwan Po was sitting at a communications console in a private room of the Technical Center. He had declined an offer to be evacuated. He wanted to see this through. And his daughter was still out there.

  Five crews were quickly mobilized. Through a headset, he was listening to the conversation taking place at the command center. The discussion was between the mission director and the chief of launch operations. Because of the expedited countdown, technicians had not been able to fully drain the fuel from the upper stage before the hoses were burned. The director’s command was unequivocal, but the CLO had reservations. A color monitor in the console showed the burning rocket. A pair of technicians were sitting on either side of the prime minister. One of them was on the telephone with an observation tower near the front gate.

  “Sir, there is very little fuel in there. If we release it, we will feed the fire, and we risk a complete vehicular meltdown,” the CLO said.

  “The plutonium core will likely survive the heat,” the director said. “It may not survive an explosion if the flames get that high.”

  “With respect, I do not see much difference between ‘likely’ and ‘may,’ ” the CLO pointed out. “And with the fuel on the ground, we will have a terrible fire to try to contain.”

  “We can contain a fire easier than fallout,” the director said. “Dump the fuel now before the fire climbs any higher.”

  “Yes, sir,” the CLO said.

  Le Kwan Po removed his headset but continued to watch the screen. “Where is my daughter’s car?” he asked the technician.

  “Safe,” he replied. “It is just leaving the field.”

  “Thank you,” the prime minister said.

  Anita and the others were safe for now, at least. The prime minister watched as what looked like steaming water poured from four spouts in the midsection of the rocket. One of the technicians explained that the mixture was composed of liquid oxygen and kerosene. The downpour hit the rising flames with a flourish, drawing sheets of flame from the smoke below. They rose on all sides like an orchestral crescendo, wrapping the rocket in a blanket of fire. The camera operator zoomed in on the payload, a gumdrop-shaped container perched atop the second stage. The flames did not yet reach that high, though ugly black smoke from the spilling fuel curled around it, driven by small air currents.

  “We’re losing her!” one of the technicians barked.

  Le Kwan Po watched as the top of the rocket began to list. The camera pulled back as the sixty-meter-high rocket pivoted unsteadily on its base, moving away from the gantry like a baby taking a first step. Apparently, both of the restraining clamps had been destroyed. Then the rocket began to fall toward the left, away from the support tower and into the unbroken wall of flame. Though the fuel tanks were nearly empty, spillage picked up on the lower side as the rocket tilted. The fires sizzled and flashed higher. In moments, the nuclear payload would fall into the inferno.

  Le Kwan Po could feel the tension of the other men as they watched the cataclysmic ballet.

  As the rocket vanished in the mound of coal-black smoke, a bright, white explosion flashed from somewhere inside.

  “What was that?” one of the technicians asked. “The payload should not have exploded that way.”

  “Could it have been the bomb?” the other man asked.

  Le Kwan Po said nothing. There was nothing to say. The men watched as the mountain of black smoke took on a pale, ashen color at the base. Long gray tendrils crawled through the gantry and up from the fallen rocket. The smoke thinned quickly, and the fires subsided considerably. The camera moved in. The rocket itself was still obscured by smoke and fire. Except for the skeletal gantry and a charred blast wall, the surrounding structures were devastated.

  “The coolant tank is gone,” one of the technicians said. There was joy in his voice. “That was what caused the flare. A blast of steam.”

  “Are we all right?” Le Kwan Po asked.

  “I think so, sir,” the technician replied tentatively. He peered closely at the monitor. “The coolant has a thirty-seven percent water content. It is designed to evaporate so the rocket does not have to carry it aloft. It appears the water has doused whatever fires it touched.”

  “There is no oil in the fuel mixture?”

  “No, sir,” the technician replied. “Only hydrogen and oxygen.”

  The gentle winds in the launch area caused the smoke to thin. The wreckage of the rocket was visible now, lying in puddles of fire and debris. The first stage was lying across the launchpad. The second stage and payload were separated from the first and from each other. They were spread across the asphalt. The payload section appeared to be intact.

  The Americans had done a formidable job.

  Le Kwan Po thanked the technicians for their hospitality, then left the bunker. He went up the concrete stairs to the main room. The guard had been watching the event with binoculars through the open doorway. She turned.

  “I am happy to say that your daughter has returned safely,” she said. “May I ask if the operation was a success?”

  “It is strange to call the destruction of our rocket a success, but I believe you can say that,” the prime minister said.

  The guard smiled for the first time, then returned to her desk. Le Kwan Po walked into the once-bright noon, which was now clouding over with smoke. Sirens screamed in the distance as the space center fire department rushed to the blaze. He saw all that in just a moment. Everything vanished as he saw his daughter step from the car. Anita ran forward and embraced her father.

  “I think you were five or six,” her father said.

  “Five o
r six?”

  “The last time you ran to me,” Le told her. There was a catch in his voice and tears on his cheek.

  Anita smiled warmly. “You should be pleased you raised such a self-sufficient daughter.”

  “I am more than pleased,” he said. “I am proud. Very, very proud.”

  Le broke the embrace as Paul Hood and another man walked by. They had walked well out of the way to give the prime minister and his daughter privacy. There would be time enough for that later. Right now he wanted to talk to the men.

  “Mr. Hood,” he said, speaking directly to the American in broken English.

  “Sir?” Hood said. He stopped.

  Le Kwan Po motioned for his daughter to interpret. “I want to thank you and your associates for everything you did out there.”

  “Sir, we got very lucky out there,” Hood said.

  “Men make their own luck,” the prime minister replied.

  “Perhaps,” Hood said. “But it looked to me like the coolant did a lot of the heavy lifting.”

  “The pipes were weakened because Mr. Hood and his friend hid there, and Tam Li’s men were shooting at them,” Anita said.

  “You see?” Le told her. “Nothing is entirely the work of chance.”

  Anita translated for Hood while Le regarded his Asian companion. He was a young man, dirty and slick with perspiration, but with eyes full of purpose. He was looking at his cell phone.

  “I would like to meet this other hero,” the prime minister said to Hood.

  “He is one of Mike Rodgers’s associates,” Hood said.

  The young man looked up as the prime minister offered his hand. “Thank you for the work you did today.”

  “I am glad I could help, sir,” the marine replied in Chinese.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “It is Kim.” The young man smiled.

  “You are not Chinese,” the prime minister said. “Korean?”