Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power
Page 34
They reached the corner and waited. Pupshaw had run
over and caught up to them. No sooner had he
350 UP-CENTER
arrived than the middle of the street erupted into a
bright billowing cloud of orange smoke.
The wind blew the smoke toward them, which was why they
had selected that site. Before it arrived, George,
Scott, and Prementine had walked into the middle
of the street. They stopped and knelt and pointed toward
the smoke with their right hands. As they did, they lowered
one end of the headphones into the manhole cover
holes. A few seconds before the smoke reached
them, they hoisted it up and moved it aside.
Sondra whipped a palm-sized flashlight from the
pocket of her windbreaker and shined it down. The
light was not only for illumination: once the operation was
underway, hand signals and onstoff signals from
flashlights would be their normal form of communication.
As the Interpol street plans had indicated, there
was a ladder just inside. She went down quickly,
followed by August, Aideen, and Ishi Honda.
The other four men went down next, the
burly Pupshaw waiting on the ladder to pull the
lid back over the hole.
The entire operation took less than fifteen
seconds.
The sewer was approximately ten feet tall and it
was easy to walk through it. The system was flushed at
noon and one a.m., and refuse was slightly more than
knee-deep. But the relief of being inside and on the
way compensated for the discomfort of the viscous liquid and
its stench. They followed Sondra's flashlight to the
west and the catacombs.
As they walked, August put in his EAR
plug-Extended Audio Range. This device
looked like a hearing aid and allowed secure audio
reception within a two
BALANCE OF POWER 351
hundred mile range. A Q-tip- shaped
microphone taped to his chest allowed him
to communicate with Interpol headquarters.
The sewer turned to the north at a brick wall that
stood almost shoulder-high. There was a nearly
threefoot gap at the top-the entrance to the
catacombs. DeVbnne handed the flashlight
to Private George while Private Scott
boosted her up and over. It had been
agreed ahead of time that she would handle point for the
mission. August was next in line followed
by Aideen, with Corporal Prementine bringing up the
rear. Private DeVonne was still suffering from
occasional emotional slumps over X. Col.
Squires's death. That had occurred during her first
mission with Striker. However, August was pleased
to see that she'd been completely focused since
they'd reached Madrid. And she was even more so down
here-moving like a cat, quiet and alert. Since
they'd entered the sewer, not a rat had passed that
she'd failed to notice.
After the seven Strikers and Aideen had gone over the
brick wall, they pressed on following a map
Luis had had printed out. It wasn't as easy
moving in here. The roof was only five feet high
here, and the rubble and dirt crunched loudly under their
feet. Their clothes were clammy at first, then thick
and hard as they dried in the cool, extremely musty
air.
Suddenly, August stopped.
"Incoming message," he whispered to the others.
The Strikers formed a tight circle around him.
Sondra reminded in front and Corporal
Prementine stayed behind. The other Strikers
and Aideen had gathered
352 OP-CENTER
close in on either side. Their proximity would enable
Colonel August to speak quietly if there were
new orders.
"Are you in?" Luis asked.
"We're about fifty feet into the catacombs,"
August replied. Since the audio line was
secure, scrambled on both ends, there was no chance
of it being intercepted and no reason to speak in code.
"We should reach the dungeon in about three minutes."
"You'll probably get the go-ahead then," Luis
informed him. "We've just heard from the spotters."
"What's happening?" August asked.
"Maria Camejas has been taken outside, into the
courtyard," he said. "It looks like she's
bleeding."
"Those shots we heard-?"
"Very possibly," Luis agreed. "The problem
is, it doesn't look like those will be the last ones."
"What do you mean?"
"It looks as if one of the officers is selecting
men for a firing squad," Luis told him.
"Where?" August asked.
"Outside the chapel," he said.
August snapped his fingers at Sondra and pointed
to the map. She immediately brought it closer and turned the
flashlight on it. He indicated for her to turn it
over to the blueprint of the palace.
"I'm looking at the map now," August said.
"What's the most direct route to the-was
"Negative," Luis replied.
"Sir?"
" "This update is
not
to be acted upon. We wanted you to know what was going
on in case you hear the
BALANCE OF POWER 353
volley. Darrell has already consulted with General
Rodgers and Director Hood at Op-Center and
they concur that your target must remain Amadori.
If he's beginning to execute prisoners, it's
vital that he be contained as soon as possible."
"I understand," August said, and he did. The mission
objective was crucial. But the colonel felt the
same nauseating kick in the gut he'd experienced
in 1970 when his battle-weary company engaged a
vastly superior North Vietnamese force
outside of Hau Bon on the Song Ba River in
Vietnam. August needed to cover the
company's retreat and selected two men to stay behind
with a pair of standoff rifles and hold the road as
long as possible. He knew he would probably
never see those two soldiers again, but the life of the
company depended upon them. He also knew he would
never forget the crooked half-smile one of the men
gave him as he looked back at the company. It was
a boy's smile-a boy who was struggling very hard
to be a man.
"As soon as you're in position under the Hall of
Tapestries," Luis said, "Darrell wants you
to get into gear. He expects to give you the go command
within the next ten to fifteen minutes."
"We'll be ready," August replied.
He briefed the team succinctly and then ordered them
forward. There was no extraneous conversation. The
Strikers reached their target in just over two
minutes, after which Colonel August ordered them
to remove their outer clothes. Beneath their damp jeans and
jackets were kevlar-lined black jumpsuits.
Reaching into their grips, the Strikers traded their
Nikes and
354 OP-CENTER
sandals for black "grippers," high-top sneakers
with dee
ply ridged hard-rubber soles. The
customized soles were designed to keep the wearer from
slipping on slick surfaces and to enable them to stop
suddenly and with precision. They were backed with kevlar
to help prevent anyone from shooting up through a floor
to bring the soldiers down.
The Strikers also strapped black leather sheaths around
their thighs; the sheaths contained eight-inchlong serrated
knives. A loop around the other thigh contained a
pencil-thin flashlight. They tucked Uzis under their
arms and pulled black ski masks over their heads.
When they were ready, August moved them from the
catacombs to the dungeon. Six of the Strikers
went ahead two at a time, the middle group of two
leapfrogging over the first pair and the last pair moving
up to take their place. Aideen was teamed with Ishi
Honda. This allowed the two stationary pairs to cover
the front and rear, respectively. They reached the
dungeon in slightly over three minutes. It
looked exactly like it had in the photographs
they'd seen back at Interpol.
The one exit from the dungeon was an old wooden
door at the top of the long and very narrow staircase.
The only light came from Sondra's flashlight and
from the imperfect fit of the door. August motioned for
Privates Pupshaw and George to check
the door. August was prepared to blow it if they had
to, though he'd prefer to enter with a little less thunder.
After a minute, Pupshaw came running back.
"The hinges are rusted all to hell," he whispered
into August's ear, "and the MD'S giving me a reading
of
BALANCE OF POWER 355
some kind of lock on the handle on the outside."
The MD was the metal detector. Slightly
larger than a fountain pen, the MD was primarily
used to find and define landmines. However, it could also
"see" through wood.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to go through the door.
Colonel," Pupshaw said.
August nodded. "Set it up."
Pupshaw saluted and ran back upstairs.
Prementine joined them. Together, the men rigged a
thumbnailsized amount of C-4 around the handle and
around each hinge. They stuck a remote-control
detonator, about the size of a needle, into each
wad.
As they were working, August received word from Luis.
Maria was being interrogated by an outside wall and a
firing squad had been assembled. It was time to move
out.
Luis thanked them again and wished them luck. August
promised to contact Luis when it was all over. Then
he disconnected the microphone and stowed it in his
grip. The action must not be broadcast, even
to Interpol. The United States could not be connected
with what was about to transpire and even an inadvertent
recording or misrouting of the signal would be
disastrous.
Like the other Strikers, August slipped the grip
on his back. It was flat and lined with kevlar; the
bulletproof material provided extra cover for the
soldiers. Joining the others, August gave
Pupshaw the order to proceed. Once the door was
opened they'd proceed in serpentine fashion,
Sondra still at point, Prementine at the rear.
The object was to get to the throne room as
356 OP-CENTER
quickly as possible. They were authorized to shoot- arms
and legs if possible, torso if necessary.
The Strikers stood at the foot of the steps and
covered their ears as Pupshaw twisted the top of what
looked like an elongated thimble. The three small
charges erupted with a bang like a popped paper bag.
Door planks flew apart in jagged fragments,
carried in all directions by three thick,
gray, lumpy clouds.
"Go!" August shouted even before the echo of the blast
had died.
Without hesitation Private Sondra DeVonne
bolted up the stairs, followed in a tight line by the
rest.
THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 11:08 a.m. Madrid, Spain
There is no way in hell that I'll allow this
to happen,
thought Darrell McCaskey.
McCaskey had one thing in common with Paul
Hood. The two men were among the very few OpCenter
executive officers who had never served in the
military.
No one held that against McCaskey. He'd joined
the New York City Police Academy
straight out of high school and spent five years in
Midtown South. During that time he did whatever was
necessary to protect the citizens of the city he served.
Sometimes that meant repeat felons would "
'trip"" down the concrete steps of the precinct
house when they were being booked. Other times it meant
working with "old school" mobsters to help keep the
rough new gangs from Vietnam and Armenia
out of Times Square.
McCaskey received several commendations for bravery
during his tenure and was noticed by an FBI
recruiter based in Manhattan. He joined the
agency and after spending four years in New York was
moved to FBI headquarters in Washington. His
specialty was foreign gangs and terrorists. He
spent a great deal of
358 OP-CENTER
time overseas, making friends in foreign law enforcement
agencies and contacts in the underbellies of other
nations.
He met Maria Comeja on a trip to Spain and
fell in love with her before the week was out. She was
smart and independent, attractive and poised,
desirable and hungry. After so many years
undercover-pretending to be hookers and school teachers
and countless flower delivery women-and even more years
competing with men on the police force, she welcomed
McCaskey's genuine interest in her thoughts and
feelings. Through Luis, she arranged to come to the
U.s. to study FBI investigative
techniques. She had a hotel room in
Washington for three days before she moved in with
McCaskey.
McCaskey hadn't wanted the relationship to end.
God, how he had not. But McCaskey made the
rules in the relationship, just as he did in the
street. And he tried to enforce them. Like his street
rules, they were designed to be beneficial. But
whether he was trying to get Maria to stop smoking or
to accept less dangerous assignments, he stifled
the character, the recklessness that helped make her so
extraordinary. Only when she left him and
returned to Spain did he see the things she'd added
to his life.
Darrell McCaskey had lost Maria once.
He had no intention of losing her again. There was no
way in hell that he was going to sit at Interpol
headquarters, safe and comfortable, while General
Amadori had her executed.
As soon as he'd finished talking with Paul Hood
and Mike Rodgers on the secure line in
Luis's office,
BALANCE OF POWER 359
McCaskey turned to the Interpol director.
Luis was sitting at the radio waiting to hear from
Striker. His father was seated beside him. McCaskey
informed Luis that he wanted the Interpol chopper.
"For what?" Luis asked. "A rescue
attempt?"
"We have to try," McCaskey said as he rose.
"Tell me you disagree."
Luis's expression indicated that he didn't-though
he didn't appear comfortable with the prospect.
"Give me a pilot and a marksman,"
McCaskey said. "I take full
responsibility."
Luis hesitated.
"Luis,
please,"
McCaskey implored. "We owe this to Maria and
there isn't time to debate it."
Luis turned to his father and spoke briefly in
Spanish. When he was finished, he buzzed his
assistant and gave him an order. Then he turned
back to McCaskey.
"My father will be the liaison with Striker," Luis
said, "and I told Jaime to have the helicopter
ready to go in five minutes. Only you won't need
a marksman and you won't take responsibility.
Those jobs, my friend, are mine."
McCaskey thanked him. Luis left to oversee
the preparations while McCaskey lingered in the room
for two minutes. That was how long it took
for him to make preparations of his own. Then he ran
up the stairwell to the rooftop. Luis met him a
minute later.
The small, five-person Bell JetRanger
rose into the clear late morning sky from the roof of the
ten-story building. The Royal Palace was just under
two minutes away. The pilot, Pedro, was
ordered to fly
360 OP-CENTER
directly to it. He was patched in to the spotters,
who told him exactly where Maria was. The
spotters also informed him that it looked as if a
five-man firing squad was being marched in her
direction. The pilot passed the information on
to McCaskey and Luis.
"We're not going to be able to talk them out of this,"
Luis said.
"I know," McCaskey replied. "And I don't
care. The woman has guts. She deserves our
best effort."
"That isn't what I mean," Luis said. A
small gun rack in the rear held four weapons.
Luis eyed them unhappily. "If we shoot
only to chase them off, they'll return fire. They
could bring us down."
"Not if we do it right," McCaskey said. Off in
the distance the high, white engirdling balustrade of the
palace, with its statues of Spanish kings,
appeared over the surrounding treetops. "We go in