Tom Clancy's Power Plays 1 - 4

by Tom Clancy

  The anti-vehicular mines they had set were simply but cleverly camouflaged, wrapped in tar paper to blend in with the pavement. By day they would have been difficult for a driver to spot. At night they would be completely invisible.

  Moments after they left the access road to rejoin their teammates, Tomas and Raul heard a low whirring sound close by to the right. They were turning to investigate, their FAMAS rifles at the ready, when the security robot sped nimbly up on them, a tubular apparatus on its side swiveling in their direction, liquid issuing from its nozzle in a pressurized stream.

  Neither man got to trigger his weapon before the polymer superlubricant fanned over them, drenching them at first, and then abruptly solidifying in a thin layer over their skin, combat garb, and the ground under their boots.

  Raul's immediate thought was that they had been sprayed with a disabling foam, but he quickly realized this substance was something very different--more like dry ice in the way it hardened, except scarcely cooler than the air around him. Indeed, it was almost as if the fluid had altered his physical state rather than its own, as if every part of him that it touched had metamorphosed into smooth, slick glass. All at once he couldn't hold onto his rifle. The more he tried, the more slippery his grip became. His eyes widening in alarm and incomprehension, he watched the weapon leap from his hands, snapping out the cable that joined it to his helmet display like a hooked fish at the end of a line, then dangling almost ludicrously from his helmet. He snatched at it, his fingers making wild grabs at its stock and barrel, but it slid out from between them and dropped near his feet.

  He was bending to recover it when the soles of his boots lost their traction and his legs went skating out from under him.

  The ground came up hard against his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. He attempted to scramble upright, and only flopped onto his side. Tried again and slid back down. The grass beneath him was stiff and slippery. His clothes were as unbending as molded plastic. His skin was brittle and much too tight. Out of the comer of his eye he saw Tomas skidding about on his stomach in the same helpless, flailing manner that he was, looking weirdly like a man trying to swim across solid ice.

  He screamed then, his mind hurtling over the edge of fear to full-blown panic, screamed at the top of his lungs, and was still crying out when the security cars dispatched by Thibodeau came racing up the access road behind them.

  The same road where, moments ago, the two invaders had planted their mines.

  The three dark-blue quick-response cars beat their air support out of the gate by several minutes--partly because their drivers had been closer to the motor pool than the chopper pilots were to the helipad, and partly because the Skyhawk copters had longer crank times than the armored Mercedes 300 SE sedans, which sprang to life with the turn of an ignition key.

  The drivers knew going into their pursuit that the lag would be a problem. Their chopper-automobile teams were equipped with integrated thermal tracking systems that allowed them to accurately pinpoint the location of their quarry, accomplishing this by means of a microwave video link between the Skyhawks' pod-mounted surveillance equipment and receivers on the chase cars' dashboards. But without the aerial transmissions from the helicopters, the men in the cars were relying on nothing more sophisticated than their headlights to spot the intruders.

  Tragically, they also lost any chance of being forewarned about the concealed mines awaiting them on the access road.

  There were two men in the first car besides the driver, one seated next to him, another in the rear. Neither passenger ever knew what hit him. The driver did see an almost unnoticeable dark patch on the roadway about three yards before the mine came up on him, and thinking it was a bump or pothole, tried to swing around it. But the high speed at which he was traveling made that almost impossible.

  The mine went off with a booming explosion as the edge of his left tire rolled over it. The Mercedes shot up into air, its front end bucking higher than the rear. While its armor-plated chassis had been designed to withstand a direct and sustained small-arms assault, its undercarriage was vulnerable to the blast of orange flame that went tearing into it, instantly killing all three of its occupants. A second later the vehicle came down on its right side and rolled crazily forward on two wheels before tumbling onto its roof, fire jetting from its shattered windshield.

  His eyes large with shock and horror, the driver of the second vehicle pumped his brake furiously, swerved sideways, and went shooting past the ruined vehicle, coming close enough to see the charred, blistered remains of a face amid the flames in its rear window. Then his tires tripped a second mine and there was another roaring explosion. The last thing he heard as his vehicle was blown apart was the sound of his terrified scream mingling with those of his passengers.

  Scarcely a dozen yards behind him, the third car's driver succeeded where the others hadn't. Chunks of metal and blasted pavement raking his hood, he wrenched his steering wheel sharply to the left, jolting off the road and onto the bordering lawn, his tires spinning up clots of soil and grass. With precious extra seconds to react, the man at the wheel of the last car veered in the opposite direction, also screeching to a halt in time to avoid sudden death.

  In the darkness beyond the road, two members of Orange Team lay in silent hiding. Both intruders had moved off slightly ahead of their companions after sowing the road with mines, managing to outpace the northern perimeter's security robot and stay well beyond its surveillance range.

  They lingered where they were for several moments, peering at the conflagration through their night-vision glasses, watching the dazed survivors of the ambush stagger from their cars. Then a fresh explosion shook the compound to the west, sending a ragged wedge of fire into the sky.

  Blue Team's success violently confirmed, the two men retreated into the shadows. Their trap had been sprung, but they were not yet finished here tonight.

  The final stage of the operation was about to get under way.

  Kuhl stared ahead into the explosion's glare and imagined its shock waves sending ripples through the hearts of his opposition. He had planned tonight's mission carefully, overseen its every detail, and his preparation was bringing its dividends in results.

  Now he heard a tearing metallic sound like some inhuman cry of agony, and saw a crumpled section of the perimeter fence launch into the air and then plunge earthward in a shower of sparks and debris.

  It was time.

  Kuhl turned to his driver and instructed him to give the signal to mobilize. He nodded in response, and flicked his headlights and taillights on and off once.

  The driver at his rear did the same, and then the driver behind him, the signal rapidly making its way down the line of jeeps.

  Their engines coming to life, they began rolling toward the fire and thunder of the blasts, the way into the installation open before them.

  His face chalk-white, Thibodeau passed the radio headset back to Delure with an unsteady hand. Even underground, the detonations around the compound had been audible as muffled thuds, the last and most powerful of them shaking the walls as if there had been an earthquake. But it was not until after they'd heard from the ambushed quick-response team--or what was left of it, God help those poor boys--that he had started to tremble. Now, in the ominous silence that had followed the blasts, he realized only a supreme effort of will would make that trembling stop.

  Thus far they, whoever they might be, had outmaneuvered and outthought him. Been ahead of him at every stage. And that couldn't be allowed to continue.

  He meshed his hands behind his back and paced the room, his teeth clenched, struggling to exert control over himself.

  What was happening out there? And what was he going to do about it?

  He figured the best way to start answering those questions, or trying to answer them, was by reviewing what he already knew--bad as it all was. The west gate was down, the most direct route there blocked by the fiery wreckage of his own chase vehicles. A group of h
eavily armed, well-trained men had penetrated the installation and were now rampant within its borders. And they had proven themselves capable of ruthless murder as well as sabotage.

  He didn't yet know the size of their force. Nor could he know their ultimate goal. But it was a sure thing their plans extended beyond scattered attacks at the periphery of the compound.

  No matter what they wanted, it would be in the core manufacturing and storage areas. Possibly even the living quarters--there were some very important members of the ISS scientific team on the facility. He had already ordered these areas sealed up tight, but did he have the manpower to maintain that seal against a concentrated strike?

  Thibodeau stopped pacing and laid a hand on Delure's shoulder.

  "How many people we got protecting the buildings?" he asked.

  "Fifteen, twenty, sir."

  "That'd be our full day and night details. Am I right?"

  "Yes, sir. With the exception of the men in the cars and choppers. And whoever's off base."

  Thibodeau nodded. A handful of Sword operatives and other staffers preferred the long daily commute from Cuiaba to the isolation of living on the compound.

  He was silent a moment, his jaw tight. Ahead of me all'a way, those devils, while I been dancing like a turkey on hot coals.

  He suddenly released Delure's arm, strode over to a steel supply cabinet across the room, and extracted a Zylon ballistic vest from inside it.

  "You boys hold the fort down here," he said, and slipped into the vest. "I'm goin' topside."

  The jeeps stopped briefly about ten meters after passing through the gap in the fence. Little blazing islands of debris were spread over the grass around them, casting dashes of light and shadow across the faces of their occupants.

  The remnants of Blue Team and Orange Team were waiting there as arranged. They scurried into the vehicles.

  Manuel climbed into Kuhl's jeep without assistance, but not without difficulty. He could hear droplets of his own blood splashing the rear seat as he settled into it beside Antonio.

  "You performed well," Kuhl said. He sat perfectly still in front.

  Manuel leaned against the backrest, breathing hard. It felt as if a thousand white-hot needles had been jabbed into his arm. "Marco was killed. Two men from Orange Team had to be left behind."

  Kuhl remained motionless.

  "Losses must be expected," he said tonelessly.

  Then he sliced his hand in the air and the jeep started to move again, the others following in close procession. The first thing Ed Graham thought when he spotted the jeeps from his Skyhawk chopper was that the sight reminded him of his many years as an LAPD pilot. His second thought was that the first thought was an odd and scary comment on modem American society, given how once upon a time it would have been the Hollywood sign and Mann's Chinese Theater that were symbolic of Los Angeles, not maybe twenty men riding around in full combat gear.

  His third thought, which followed within a heartbeat, was that he had better stop thinking and start acting toot-sweet, because he was right now looking down at a major shitload of trouble.

  "Christ, we got us a helluva situation," said the man seated at his right, almost yelling to be heard above the loud whop of the rotors. He reached for his communications handset. "Better radio for an assist and then shine the welcome light on our guests."

  Ed nodded, his hands working the sticks. Mitch Winter was the best copilot on the installation. They thought alike and got along well, which made partnering together easy.

  He took the bird down lower as Mitch sent his message out to base and the rest of their fleet. A hundred feet beneath them, the jeeps had come to an abrupt halt, their drivers and passengers craning their heads back, staring directly up at the Skyhawk.

  Peering out his bubble window, Ed briefly released the cyclic and hit the chopper's Starburst SX-5 searchlight. At the same time Mitch touched a button on his comm unit to shift from radio to public-address mode.

  The searchlight's 15-million candlepower beam washed over the men in the convoy, its stark illumination transfixing them, turning night into brilliant noonday.

  Ed glanced at Mitch. "Okay, all yours."

  Mitch nodded and raised the control mike to his lips. "Stay where you are and--"

  "--drop your weapons!"

  Bathed in merciless light from above, Kuhl thrust his head out his open window and looked back down his row of jeeps, shielding his eyes with one hand. The command booming from the helicopter's PA had been unequivocal. His response would be equally straightforward.

  "Open fire," he shouted. "Ahora!"

  The four members of Yellow Team had approached to within a few yards of the building, darting from one position of concealment to the next like specters in the night. Their probings had led them to conclude that their primary objective was too heavily guarded to be achieved, but they had been prepared with flexible alternatives and the one ahead of them looked much more vulnerable.

  Pausing behind a maintenance shed to check their weapons, they heard the burp of automatic gunfire from off near the west gate, and then the overlying sounds of cars and helicopters converging on the area.

  It might for all intents and purposes have been a prearranged cue.

  Moving as one, they slipped toward their target.

  Bullets rattling against his underfuselage, Graham shoved forward on the cyclic and added collective to pull pitch. The cockpit's lightweight boron shielding had literally saved his ass, but he wasn't about to press his luck by taking any more direct hits. Not without being able to return fire owing to Brazilian restrictions against Sword's fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft being fitted for attack capabilities. Muito obrigado to whoever came up with that one.

  As the Skyhawk banked into a steep climb, he glanced out his windscreen and quickly noted the firepower his attackers were bringing to bear. Neither the rifles nor the HMDs to which they were connected looked like anything he'd ever seen before.

  "I'm sticking around till you get a shot of those lunatics out to the chase teams, Mitch," he shouted, nodding toward the television screen on their console. "I don't want anybody being surprised by their hardware."

  Mitch returned his nod and reached for the video controls. Gripping the sticks hard, Graham figure-eighted back toward the jeeps to get his nose pod aligned for a good camera angle--and then some of the gunmen abruptly jumped from their vehicles and began darting for cover.

  There was, he observed, a considerable amount available to them, mainly crawler cranes, bulldozers, excavators, wheeled compactors, and other heavy equipment that had been rolled into the area for construction of some new buildings. They were big and stationary, their sheer size making them ideal places to hide behind.

  Graham continued to orbit the scene in a weaving pattern. Out beyond the bulking machinery he saw the radial web of access routes that led in toward the installation's hub, and turning his gaze northward, spotted the burning ruins of two chase cars on the main roadway from the motor pool. An emergency rescue vehicle and additional cars had pulled up nearby. A number of security men were walking up and down the road with long-handled mine sweepers, while others milled around the wreckage in a desperate attempt to extinguish the flames and locate survivors.

  Then he saw what had sent the invaders scrambling. Their roof lights flashing, two quick-response squads were speeding toward them on secondary access roads, one on the left, the other on the right, each three-car group escorted by a Skyhawk. They would be on top of the jeep convoy within seconds.

  "We sending down pictures yet?" he asked, glancing at Mitch.

  Mitch nodded again and gestured at the television screen. It showed a detailed IR image of the gunmen in one of the jeeps.

  "Nice shot, real nice," Graham said. "Now let's pray the guys on the ground are seeing them clear as we are."

  The pictures were just fine, coming through on the monitors of the chase cars and helicopters exactly as they appeared to Graham and Winter in the air
. Moreover, the information relayed by those pictures proved invaluable to the QR squads, giving them an instantaneous heads-up on the number of invaders they would be facing, the positions they held, and the type of weapons they were carrying.

  The guns in particular looked formidable, but the men in the cars took some comfort from their own specially modified firearms. The Variable Velocity Rifle System, or VVRS, was an M16 chambered for 5.56mm dual-purpose sabot rounds and fitted with a vented barrel and rotating hand guard. A twist of the hand guard would widen or narrow the vents, increasing or decreasing the amount of blowback gas within the barrel, and thus the velocity at which the rounds were discharged. At a low velocity, the padded plastic sabots would remain around the bullets and cushion their deadly impact. At a high velocity, they would peel apart like shed cocoons, and the bruiser ammunition would turn lethal.

  There was little question about whether to use deadly force in the mind of QR squad leader Dan Carlysle as he came up on the convoy's left flank. The men scrambling from the jeeps had killed without hesitation. Their weapons presented an obvious mortal threat. It had to be met with a willingness to respond in kind.

  Still, Carlysle wanted explicit authorization if at all possible. Some political elements in Brazil were already upset by UpLink's powerful security presence, and would be further incited by a small war occurring on their soil. While Carlysle was ready to make an on-the-spot decision, he was aware of the diplomatic mess that might follow and preferred getting a nod from his immediate higher-up.

  Tearing along in the forward chase car, he reached for his dash microphone and hailed Thibodeau on the radio.

  "You do what you gotta, Dan, hear me? We catch heat from the locals, soit, we'll deal with that later."