I reached down, pulling at the chains to unwrap them. As I did, one of the goons leapt off the stairway above me, aiming for my head. He hit my shoulder instead, sending me tumbling off balance against the wall. I swung my arms, flinging the chain into his face.
There was a fire hose and an alarm a few feet away. I waddled to the alarm, my feet still tangled in the chain, and pulled it.
Nothing happened.
Breaking the glass on the door to the hose, I pulled out the nozzle and punched the lever around, pressurizing it.
But I had no target. I was behind the vats of chemicals, out of view of the others. The guard who’d jumped was on the ground nearby, his head looking a little like a smashed mango.
I got the chain off my feet a few seconds before bullets began spraying in my direction. I looked up, pointing the hose in the direction of ricochets. Water spurt out, then died — they’d shut off the water to the building after taking it over.
There wasn’t time to curse. Flopping down, I crawled toward the gap between the two vats for better cover. There I managed to pull the last chain from my hands. I started to throw it down, then realized it was the only weapon I had. Draping it around my neck, I grabbed a metal pipe that ran up the nearby vat and climbed King-Kong-with-Fay-Wray style to the top. Except I didn’t have a pretty girl under my arm.
The tango who’d been shooting came down the narrow space behind the vats, looking for me. He reached the space a few seconds after I got to the top of the vat. I curled my knees against the piping then threw the chain at his head.
Bull’s-eye!
But not on him. Murphy had chosen that moment to have a few pipes burst. One sprang out from its restraints and intercepted the chain, snagging it like the neck of a roadrunner caught by a bola.
If I could get a running start, I could jump on the bastard, I thought. I reared back, then promptly slipped on the top grating of the vat and fell inside.
It was a long way down. My life flashed before my eyes, and it wasn’t pretty.
Closing my eyes tight, I held my breath and plunged through the surface of the liquid back-first. Instantly I tried to swim upward and get out of whatever I was in. Part of me kept waiting to feel the burning sensation that I was sure was my fate; the rest just acted instinctually, pushing me from the vat.
There wasn’t all that much liquid in the container; in fact, all I had to do was stand to reach the surface. The liquid came just to my chest.
I wasn’t burning at all. The smell was strong but not overwhelming. In fact, it was rather pleasant.
I’d fallen into a vat of alcohol.
Head swimming, I made my way to the side and climbed up to the top, just in time to see my pursuer’s feet come over the edge of the rim. I pushed against the side of the vat and waited until he crouched down. Then I pulled him in.
Diving on top of him, I held him under until he had no more fight. Then I grabbed his gun from the liquid and climbed back up the side of the vat.
They were shouting in the big room, moving hoses and pipes around. Inadvertently I’d disturbed the mechanism they’d set up to finalize their creation of the gas, and they were working to get it back together.
I caught my breath, unsure what to do. Shoot the controls? Would that stop the process — or set it in motion?
Before I could decide, there was a loud crash at the far end of the building. I turned and saw the train cars rolling through the still closed door.
The cavalry had arrived.
( VI )
Cavalry is a figure of speech, of course. What actually had arrived was the engine from the 8:07 local, borrowed by Doc, Trace, and Shotgun as they rode to my rescue. Homing in on the watch, they’d realized where I was being held, and with Shunt’s help, figured out that the terrorists must be mixing their magic elixir inside. They’d borrowed the engine and used it to push the cars into the barn, intending to disrupt the chemical production and rescue me at the same time.
It was an excellent plan, but the tangos had foreseen the possibility that they might be attacked during the home stretch of their project. As three different SWAT teams followed the train cars into the building, one of the chemists jumped from his chair at the mixing station and ran in the direction of the door where I’d come in.
I thought he was running away, but when he slowed and raised his hand toward the fire alarm, I realized it must have been rewired for something else.
Lucky these guys use the same MO. Then again, once you’ve come up with a clever plan, why change it?
I fired the AK47.
And missed.
10
( I )
Hell of a time to fail my basic rifle proficiency, eh?
In my defense, the shot was a little over two hundred feet in a relatively dark room. The gun was sopping wet. And, and, and … aw hell, I just missed the damn bastard.
The tango pulled the alarm.
* * *
What happened next can be described in a single word:
Nothing.
The terrorists had rigged a doomsday device and connected it to the fire alarms throughout the building, very much like they had intended to do at the stadium. The wires were connected to blasting caps, which would blow a number of the vats and send the chemicals that were already prepared out into the atmosphere.
But the setup was complicated, and the key detonation wires had been done in series not in parallel. Break the wire in one place, and none of the others would work.
I’d done that inadvertently when I’d fallen. That’s why nothing happened when I set off the fire alarm.
What?
Am I saying that, if not for my clumsy escape and subsequent fall, the building would have blown up when I hit the alarm?
Yes.
And the explosions would have released several hundred gallons (as opposed to several thousand) of VX gas?
Yes.
And so I, Richard Marcinko, Demo Dick, the Sharkman, sometime defender of the free world, and Rogue Warrior par excellence, would have been responsible for the death of thousands of innocent Indians?
Check.
Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than smart.
( II )
The SWAT teams took care of the tangos in short order. One tried to hang himself on some of the wiring above one of the vats, but the wire gave way and all he ended up doing was breaking his legs. The others, wounded in the melee or killed by me, were taken into custody.
They told me later that the terrorists were about fifteen minutes from finishing the process and creating VX gas. They’d already created the precursor — something called transesterified N-N di-something or other — and were getting ready to react it with the sulfur. That’s why the place smelled like rotten eggs.
Or as Shotgun put it after he helped me down off the vat, “Who the hell had chili for dinner?”
* * *
All’s well that ends well, right?
The Games, which were just getting under way across town with a massive welcoming parade, had been saved. We’d saved the stadium, of course, and now thwarted the kidnapping. With the exception of Colina, whose injuries were relatively minor, no athletes had been hurt in the attempted kidnapping. More importantly, the attempt to douse the entire city with VX gas had been smashed. In the process, People’s Islam had been tripped up and depleted of its most devious members.
Add the helicopters and the action against India for Islam, and on the whole it hadn’t been a bad few weeks for Red Cell International.
There were, however, two large loose ends that needed to be tied up.
* * *
Loose end number 1: the source of several leaks from Special Squadron Zero.
Who was the traitor?
Loose end number 2: who was responsible for the weak-assed attack on the nuke warehouse?
Would 1 lead to 2? Were they related, or not?
Too many questions — time for a beer.
Or it would have been, had Sh
unt not called as we were on our way over to Dublin.
After we’d set up the keylogger in the Squadron Zero computers, Shunt decided to insert a virus so he could get copies of instant messages and Internet access logs on the different computers. The results had been a snooze fest — until now.
“Whoever is using the computer right now,” he told me when I answered the phone, “has got to be the spy.”
Whoever it was had just gotten a text message from a cell phone, then logged into the Indian intelligence network.
“What are they looking for?” I asked.
“Bulletins.”
“Maybe they heard about the hostage situation.”
“Maybe. But the phone isn’t one of the ones the members of Special Squadron Zero use. And I ran a quick reverse directory search — no known number. I think it’s part of the batch that came out of that store you visited. Same company. I’m trying to break into their computers now.”
I had Urdu change course and head to the old air base where Special Squadron Zero was headquartered.
“We’re at least fifteen minutes away,” I told Shunt. “Is there any way you can keep him on the computer?”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” he said.
Exactly twelve minutes later — Urdu used every shortcut he knew, and would have made Jimmy Johnson proud weaving his way through traffic — I walked into the commander’s office and found Corporal Nadar in the middle of a marathon porn session, delivered free courtesy of Shunt’s machinations.
He exhibited more than passing interest in breasts tied grotesquely with string. Not that I looked at the screen.
“Pleasure time’s over, Corporal,” I said in a loud voice. I had to talk loud to be heard over the screams on the screen.
The corporal jumped up.
“Commander Rick.”
“Time for you to take a little ride with me.”
He reached for the computer.
“You can let that play,” I said. “And it’s no use erasing the history on the browser.”
“I just — just a little entertainment.” He tried winking, but was too nervous to pull it off.
So to speak.
“I’m not interested in the porn,” I told him. “Did you do it for money?”
He tried to curl his eyebrows down, as if he didn’t understand what I was saying — but that didn’t work either.
“It’s no good, Corporal. I know you accessed the intelligence network. And I know you’ve been dealing with People’s Islam. You’ll do a lot better if you just admit it and cooperate.”
“With who, cooperate?”
That was actually a good question — the people I trusted in the Indian intelligence service could be counted on the hand of an armless man.
“I have some friends in the navy,” I told him, thinking of Admiral Yamuna, who could be trusted. “They’ll take good care of you.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Sergeant Phurem, walking in behind me. “This is an internal matter.”
I turned and saw Phurem. He’d unholstered his service pistol.
“It’s beyond Special Squadron Zero,” I told him.
“No, I think it is internal. We are family.”
I frowned, then grabbed the corporal’s arm.
“I’ll deal with him.”
“You will release him,” said Sergeant Phurem, moving the gun so that it was level with my chest.
Why was he being such a prick?
Oh, duh.
“He’s working for you?” I said.
“For a man with an international reputation, you are very slow-witted,” said the sergeant.
Not something I could argue with at the moment, to be honest.
“You’re the source,” I said belatedly. “Or you set it up. You’re not stupid enough to be F5 himself.”
The sergeant smiled a little. Obviously I was guessing, but it seemed logical — he’d arranged for the information from People’s Islam, and made sure we’d grab their guys. In exchange, we got everything we got on India for Islam.
I guess I could understand horse trading, but afterward?
“So you were feeding information to the enemy?” I said. “Why?”
“India has many enemies,” said the sergeant. “It is a matter of perspective.”
“One of those enemies nearly killed thousands if not millions of people today.”
“And then, you know what would have happened?” Sergeant Phurem asked. “Then Hindus would have realized who their real enemy was. We would have dealt with Pakistan the way it should be dealt with. Not shaking their hand.”
It sounded almost noble the way he put it — a justification for helping terrorists kill innocent civilians.
“They gave you no money?” I said.
He gave me a crooked smile.
“You will keep your hands up and come with me quietly, or your death will be painfully slow.”
“And yours will be fast and furious,” said Doc, stepping out from behind the desk. He had a twelve gauge in his hands; the barrel was about a foot from Sergeant Phurem’s head.
I suppose if the sergeant had been a brave or misguided man dedicated to a cause, he might have shot me in the chest before he died. That would have sucked — at that range, even my Miguel Caballero vest would have bruised me taking the bullet.
But he wasn’t brave, and the only cause he was really dedicated to was enriching himself. He dropped the gun.
( III )
The person I really had to talk to about the sergeant and corporal was Minister Dharma, who after all was still the titular head of the unit.
Heh.
As it happened, I had arranged to meet the well-endowed minister that very evening, at one of the galas celebrating the opening of the Games.
It meant donning a tux and wearing an actual tie, but we all make sacrifices in the line of duty.
The event was sponsored by the Brits, and took place in a large hotel that they’d taken over for the Games. As I said earlier, the British really know how to do imperial decadence. The queen wasn’t there, but one of the young princes and his entourage were the official hosts, and the place teemed with diplomats, government officials, international celebrities, and Bollywood stars. It was the perfect place to get a parking ticket fixed.
Trace was my date, and let me say she looked as lovely in floor-length chiffon as she did in tartan shorts.
She’d returned to the athletic field earlier in the day just in time to help the Scots to a 15 – 0 trouncing of Australia in the opening round. The bookmakers were no longer accepting bets on her team.
We bypassed the paparazzi, gliding into the hotel ballroom through a side door. We were maybe two paces from the bar when a short, gnarly-looking man turned to me and practically spit. Before I could react, the woman he was with turned and gave me a death stare.
“Madam Secretary of State,” I said, nodding.
“Don’t Madam me,” she said, lips tight. “You screwed up a peace process I’ve been working on for months.”
“Moi?” I wish I could have had a good comeback there, but I was actually taken by surprise.
“You publicized the attack on the weapons site to make yourself look good,” she said.
“I publicized nothing. My lips were sealed.”
I made a motion with my hand across my lips. I may or may not have used only one finger to do so.
She shook her head, then turned and walked away.
I heard a loud sigh behind me and turned to find my friend from State Department intelligence.
“Why’d you piss her off?” he asked.
“Why do I piss anyone off?” I said. It was a rhetorical question, because honestly, I didn’t quite know how I had pissed her off.
“The Indians used the attack to back out of the talks,” he told me. “They’ve moved all their nukes.”
“They shouldn’t have gathered them in one place to begin with.”
�
�You think I don’t know that?” he said.
“Does she know that?” I gestured toward the secretary of State. How many fingers I used — again, I’d rather not say.
“Of course she does,” said my friend.
“Why’d she propose it?”
“Who said she proposed it?”
“Why did she go along with it then?” I asked. “If it was a dumb idea — why endorse it?”
“You don’t understand diplomacy.” He shook his head sadly, as if that was a major loss, like I’d spilled my drink or something.
The band started up at the other side of the room.
“Want to dance?” Trace asked.
“I’m here on business,” I said.
“I’m not talking to you.”
She smiled at my friend. They went off to trip the light fantastic. I slipped over to the bar — my motivations were purely medicinal, I assure you — then went in search of my prey.
Minister Dharma was holding court not far from the prince. The prince had a large group of admirers; hers was bigger. But her face lit up as soon as she saw me.
“The Rogue Warrior in the flesh,” she said. She raised her arms, as if parting the Red Sea. “You made it. My hero.”
Her attention was intoxicating … or maybe it was just the double helping of gin on an empty stomach. I offered my cheeks to her air kisses. Then I took her in my arms, bent her back, and showed her how a SEAL kisses.
A hundred pairs of eyes stabbed me in every body part. The minister caught her breath.
“Let’s talk out on the veranda,” I said, taking her hand.
“I need a drink,” she said.
“Take this one,” I told her, snatching a glass from one of her admirers.
He started to object. A frown persuaded him that wasn’t a good idea.
Minister Dharma and I walked arm in arm through a pair of French doors to the patio. Two members of the prince’s entourage were copping a smoke there.
“The prince hates smoking,” I said.
Somehow, that convinced them that they were done. They left us alone. I took the minister in my arms.
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