Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power

by Balance of Power [lit]

  Instead, she forced her trembling hand down the front

  of her jeans. She found the cigarette and she drew

  it out. She rolled onto her side and peeled the

  paper away to get at the match. It was a trick

  she'd come up with years before when she worked undercover.

  Being frisked usually cost her her cigarettes. This

  way she got to keep a match. In a bind, fire

  was an ideal offensive weapon.

  Her eyes were adjusted to the dark and she

  looked around. There was a group of music stands in the

  corner. She looked overhead and saw what she'd

  expected to see: a pair of sprinklers. There was

  one by the door in front and the other by the door that led

  to the dining room.

  Perfect.

  She crawled over to the stands. Her limbs were still

  shaking. She promised that she wouldn't ask much of

  them; only the strength to get her through the next hour

  or so.

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  When she reached the corner she got to her knees and

  then stood. She was wobbly but able to remain on her

  feet. Her jaw was beginning to ache and she was glad for

  that: the pain kept her alert. She staggered toward the

  door, set the stand down, and removed her sweater.

  She took off her denim shirt, put the sweater

  back on, then dropped the shirt a few feet from the

  door.

  Once, when she had gone undercover to expose

  police abuses in Barcelona, Maria was arrested

  with a group of hookers. She had used her hidden

  match to melt the soles of her shoes. The smell

  brought the guards as they were about to rape a woman in a

  cell down the corridor. She literally

  arrested one of them with his pants down. This time she

  needed more than the stench of burning rubber. She needed

  something that would catch their eye.

  She set the stand beside the door then knelt beside the

  shirt. Carefully, she struck the match against the

  bottom of her shoe. It occurred to her how useful

  shoe bottoms had been this morning. The match

  flared. She shielded it as she moved it toward the

  shirt. She touched it to the collar and the garment began

  to smoulder. A moment later it erupted in flame.

  Maria crept back to the music stand. Struggling

  to her feet, she picked up the stand and leaned against the

  wall beside the door. She was breathing heavily to fight

  down the rising nausea caused by the blows to her

  belly. This wasn't the first time Maria had been

  punched. She'd been hit by rioters, junkies,

  an angry motorist, and once-only once-by a

  jealous lover. She'd struck most of them back;

  she'd sent her lover

  BALANCE OF POWER 307

  to the hospital. But this was the first time she'd been

  held and beaten. The indignity of the attack and the

  cowardice of the attackers tasted worse than the

  blood that formed a shallow pool in her cheeks.

  Flames consumed the shirt quickly. A

  thick column of dark, gray smoke rose behind the

  door. But the smoke wasn't going high enough, fast

  enough. So Maria stretched the music stand out and

  jostled the burning pile. There was a soft hiss.

  Fiery shards and dark, red-rimmed ash flew from the

  shirt in all directions. They winked out after a

  moment and drifted to the ground. But the smoke from the

  stirred shirt swirled higher and higher.

  Now it was high enough. An instant later an alarm

  went off, followed by the two sprinklers.

  As soon as the water sprayed down, Maria stuck

  the music stand back in the shirt. She pushed it around

  like a mop. The shirt came apart in small pieces

  and she spread the ash over the floor.

  She heard footsteps and moved back beside the

  door-on the right side. She was still holding the stand.

  The footsteps stopped.

  "You two wait here," said one of the men, "in case

  she tries to get out."

  Good,

  Maria thought. One soldier was coming in alone. That would

  make this easier. The door flew out and the soldier

  ran in. As he did he slid on the wet ash and

  landed on his back, hard. Maria immediately raised the

  music stand aboveeaher head. She drove the

  short, metal tripod legs into his face and he

  screamed. His fall and shriek were a blur of action.

  They obvi-

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  ously surprised the soldiers in the corridor and

  caused them to hesitate.

  That was the beauty of elite soldiers, she thought.

  They were young, fit, and nowhere near as experienced as

  ragged old warriors.

  Their hesitation was all Maria needed. She tossed

  the music stand away and let her weak legs have their

  way: she literally fell over, face first, onto the

  soldier. She landed across his waist.

  Across the holster.

  Maria knew that the two men in the hallway wouldn't

  shoot her. Not yet. As the fire bell clanged and

  water rained down on Maria, the two soldiers

  rushed forward. At the same time, swearing viciously

  and vowing to rape her, the hurt soldier tried to push

  Maria off. She let him. As she rolled over,

  she slid the 9mm pistol from his holster. She

  released the safety and without hesitation fired a shot

  into his knee. He screeched and blood splattered

  her face. But Maria didn't seem to notice as

  she got up on one knee, aimed low at

  the other two soldiers, and fired. The pistol coughed

  twice and blood splashed outward from their knees.

  The men cried out and crumpled in the doorway.

  As water continued to sprinkle down on her, Maria

  stuck the pistol in her waistband. Then she waddled

  over on her knees and relieved the writhing

  soldiers of their weapons. The knee wounds pleased

  her. There wouldn't be a day in the lives of these men that

  they didn't think of her. The pain and disability would

  be a constant reminder of their brutality.

  She pulled off the soldiers" neckties and quickly

  bound their wrists. Then she stuffed unburned sections

  BALANCE OF POWER 309

  of her shirt into their mouths. The bonds and gags

  weren't as secure as she'd have liked, but there

  wasn't a lot of time. She used the jamb to help

  her stand. As soon as she was sure her legs would

  hold her, she started shuffling quickly down the hall in

  the opposite direction from which she'd come. The

  corridor enclosed the main floor in the center of the

  palace. Continuing in this direction would bring her

  back to the Hall of Halberdiers and the throne room.

  As she released the safeties of the two pistols in

  her hands, she vowed that this time she would have her audience

  with Amadori.

  TWEIWYIVIIW

  Tuesday, 9:03 a.m. Madrid, Spain

  Luis Garcia de la Vega strode into the

  commissary. With him was his father, retired General

  Manolo de la Vega of the Spanish Air

  Force. Beca
use Luis couldn't be sure who on his

  staff might be sympathetic to the rebel faction, he

  wanted someone behind him he knew he could rely on.

  As he'd told McCaskey, he and his tall,

  white-haired father rarely agreed on political

  issues. Manolo leaned to the left, Luis to the

  right.

  "But in a crisis," he said, "where Spain itself is

  at risk, I trust no one more."

  The room was empty except for the seven Strikers,

  Aideen, and McCaskey. The Interpol officer

  walked over to Darrell McCaskey, who was

  helping Aideen put together her grip. The Strikers

  had already packed their gear and were marking and examining

  tourist maps of the city.

  "Anything new?" McCaskey tiredly asked

  Luis.

  "Yes," Luis said as he pulled McCaskey

  aside. "A fire bell went off at the palace

  approximately ten minutes ago."

  "Location?"

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  "A music room in the southern wing of the palace,"

  Luis said. "The palace called the fire department

  to say it was a false alarm. But it wasn't. One

  of our spotters used heat-goggles and found the hot

  spot. The fire was extinguished, according to the spotter."

  "Whoever's running things in the palace took quite a

  risk," McCaskey said, "considering all the

  treasures in there. I don't assume that's standard

  operating procedure."

  "Not at all," said Luis. "The bastards didn't

  want anyone coming in. A half hour before, they also

  turned away a Civil Guard patrol when it

  attempted to make its daily inspection of the

  grounds."

  "If Amadori is there, they won't turn away

  Striker," McCaskey vowed. "Hell, they

  won't know what hit them. What does the prime

  minister's office have to say about the situation?"

  "They're still not acknowledging, officially, that

  Amadori has effectively seized power,"

  Luis replied.

  "What about unofficially?"

  " 'Most of the top government officials

  have already sent their families to France, Morocco, and

  Tunisia." Luis frowned. A moment later the

  frown became a smirk. "You know,

  Darrell-I'll bet my family and I could get

  a table at the best restaurant in town tonight."

  "I'll bet you could," McCaskey said, smiling

  weakly. He walked back to the table where Aideen was

  checking the equipment Interpol had provided for her.

  These included a camcorder-which was linked

  312 OP-CENTER

  to a receiver in the communications office-a first-aid

  kit, a cellular phone, and a gun.

  Aideen made sure the camcorder battery was

  fully charged. As she did, McCaskey checked

  the clip of the 9X19 Parabellum Super Star

  pistol she'd been issued. Aideen had already

  inspected it. But she realized that McCaskey was

  probably anxious and needed to keep busy. After

  examining the weapon he returned it to her

  backpack.

  As the Strikers pulled on their backpacks,

  McKaskey studied Aideen to make sure that she

  looked like a member of a tour group. She wore

  Nikes, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. In

  addition to the backpack, she carried a

  guidebook and bottled water. She

  felt

  like a tourist-right down to the jet lag. As

  McCaskey looked at her, Aideen gazed

  longingly at the empty table behind him. She'd been

  able to sleep on the return flight from San

  Sebastian. But all the nap had done was take the

  edge off her exhaustion, and she knew it was just a

  matter of time before she crashed. She glanced behind her

  at the vending machines and contemplated a Diet

  Pepsi. She weighed the value of the caffeine against

  the risk that she'd have to find a bathroom before the

  mission was completed. That was something she'd learned

  to take inffconsideration during long, daytime stakeouts in

  Mexico City. Two hours could seem very, very long

  when you couldn't leave your post.

  She decided to forgo the beverage.

  McCaskey, on the other hand, looked as though he

  were ready to crash now. When she'd first briefed him

  about Martha's assassination, she remembered think

  BALANCE OF POWER 313

  ing how calm he sounded. She realized, now, that it

  wasn't calmness: it was focus. She doubted whether

  he'd shut his eyes since Martha Mackall's

  death. She wondered whether this reflected his

  determination to avenge her death, determination to punish

  himself, or both.

  When McCaskey was finished with Aideen he turned

  to Colonel August. The officer was chewing gum and

  wearing a stubble. Sunglasses with Day-Glo green

  frames and reflective lenses were propped on his

  forehead. He was dressed in khaki-colored

  Massimo shorts and a wrinkled, long-sleeved

  white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just one turn.

  He looked like a very different man than the quiet,

  conservative soldier Aideen had met a few times

  back in Washington. August had a radio

  disguised as a Walkman to communicate with

  McCaskey. The volume dial was actually a

  condenser microphone. The colonel also carried

  bottled water. If it were poured onto the

  cassette in the Walkman, the tape-which was coated

  with diphenylcyanoarsine-would erupt into a cloud of

  tear gas. The dispenser would remain operational for

  nearly five minutes,

  "All right," McCaskey said. "You're going

  to wait at the east side of the opera house. And if

  you get chased away?"

  "We go to Calle de Arenal to the north," August

  replied. "We follow it east around the

  palace and enter the Campo del Moro. If that's

  blocked off, the fallback position is the Museo

  de Carruajes."

  "If you get shooed from there?"

  314 OP-CENTER

  "We go back to the opera house," August said.

  "North side."

  McCaskey nodded. "As soon as I hear from the

  spotters, I'll let you know where Amadori is.

  You'll consult your map and let me know which page of the

  playbook you're on."

  McCaskey was referring to the Striker SIT'S and

  SAT'S "playbook"-Standard Infiltration

  Tactics and Standard Assault Tactics.

  Colonel August and Corporal Prementine had

  adapted these plays for the palace. There were a total

  of ten options in each category. Which option they

  selected would depend upon the time they had available as

  well as the amount and type of resistance they

  expected. However, one thing was constant in each

  scenario: not everyone went inside. After the death of

  Striker leader X. Col. Squires, August

  retooled every play to make certain there was a crew

  to assist with the exit strategy.

  "As you know," McCaskey went on,

  "Aideen is going along solely to identify

  Maria and assist with her rescue. She won'
t be a

  combatant unless it becomes necessary. We've got a

  chopper on the roof and will be ready to move in with

  extra police if things get out of hand. Luis

  tells me that once you're inside, the only serious

  security problem you may face is the RSS."

  "Damn," August said softly. "How does he

  know Amadori's got one of those?"

  "The king had the system installed in all of the

  palaces," McCaskey said. "Bought it from the

  same American contractor who installed them up and

  down the Beltway. That's probably one of the

  reasons Ama BALANCE OF POWER 315

  dori chose the palace for his headquarters."

  The RSS-REMOTE Surveillance System-was

  a goggle-like visor that tapped into the video

  security system of a building. There was a keypad

  built into the side of the goggles and a black-and-white

  liquidcrystal display in the eyepieces. Together,

  they allowed the wearer to see what any of the security

  cameras were seeing. Small videocameras mounted

  to some of the newer units also enabled guards to share

  audio-visual information.

  "Brief your team," McCaskey warned.

  "If Amadori gets out of the throne room,

  pursuit's going to be very, very risky."

  August acknowledged.

  The other six Strikers were lined up behind Colonel

  August. McCaskey looked at them as he

  spoke. His eyes settled on Private

  DeVonne, who was at the end of the line. The

  African-American woman was wearing tight jeans

  and a blue windbreaker. It suddenly struck

  Aideen-as it must have struck McCaskey- how much

  she looked like a young Martha Mackall.

  McCaskey looked down. "You men and women know the

  mission and you know the risks. Colonel August

  tells me you also know the legal and moral issues

  involved. The President has ordered us to remove

  a frightening despot from power. We are to use any

  means at our disposal. We do not have his public

  support. Nor do we have the support of the lawful

  Spanish government, which is in chaos. If anyone

  is captured, he or she will not be acknowledged or

  assisted by either country, except through the traditional

  diplomatic channels. However, we do have this much:

  316 OP-CENTER

  the opportunity as well as the duty to save thousands

  of lives. I view that as a privilege.

  I hope you do as well."

  Luis stepped forward. "You men and women will also have the

  gratitude of many Spaniards who will never know what

  you did for them." He smiled. "And you already have the