by Dale Brown
He finally made it downstairs and went down a long hallway, breaking open locked doors and using his scanners to locate any sign of danger, until he came to the computer room. Maneuvering inside there would be even more difficult than going down the stairs—the place was chock-full of workstations, server racks, printers, monitors, and bookshelves. The suspended floor, which was ventilated underneath to provide cooling air to the servers and workstations, felt spongy and fragile. Every time he moved he knocked something over, until in complete frustration he simply pushed objects out of his way—he figured he wasn’t making any more noise than before doing it that way.
“Whoever is in this room, come out immediately,” Bolton said through his electronically synthesized voice. “Sdacha teper!” he tried in Russian, using his on-board voice translator. No movement. He turned up the gain on his audio sensors…
…and immediately turned in the direction of a very slight “Snip!” sound he heard coming from behind a rack of modems and servers. “Vy pozadi stojki!” Bolton shouted. “Vyhodivshij tam!” He heard a man’s muffled cry of panic. “Vyhodivshij tam! Come out of there!”
“Izbegite menja!” the man cried in Russian. “Stay away from me, or I’ll blow this whole place to hell!”
Bolton reacted without thinking and deployed his Bushmaster grenade launcher from his backpack…before realizing that the barrel and part of the feed mechanism had to extend upward out of his backpack. Since he had to stoop to enter the room anyway, the top of the backpack was almost always scraping the ceiling. When he deployed the cannon, the barrel immediately shot through the drop-ceiling in the computer room. It immediately got tangled in electrical wires and ducting so it wouldn’t retract when ordered.
The lieutenant jumped up from behind the server rack, aiming an AK-74 assault rifle. Bolton tried to pull himself free, but the more he tried to twist free the tighter he got stuck. “Umrite vy ubljudok! Die, you bastard!” the Russian shouted, and he opened fire. The heavy-caliber bullets had no effect on the CID unit, but now Bolton was starting to panic as he was showered with sparks from the electrical wires at the same time he was being pelted with bullets. The Russian was crossing back around toward the door, firing as he moved. In a few more steps, he’d be out the door.
Enraged, Bolton thrashed around harder, kicking workstations and racks around as easily as a Lincoln Logs set in his attempts to get free and to stop that Russian from escaping. Finally, he remembered to simply detach the backpack, and the second he did so he was free. Just as the Russian made it to the door of the computer room, Bolton lunged for him. The Russian stumbled out the doors, with the CID unit right behind him, blasting through the glass doors, giving chase. Blinded with confusion and frustration, Bolton didn’t even attempt to avoid crashing into things—he crushed, scraped, smashed, or shoved anything and everything in his path.
The Russian headed straight for the stairs leading up to the main level, and Bolton knew he had to catch him before he reached those stairs because he wasn’t sure if he could go up them without tripping or otherwise looking like an ass. “Ostanovka! Halt!” Bolton shouted. With a last effort he managed to grab the guy just as he started up the stairs. The Russian battered him with the butt of his rifle until the stock shattered, then tried pounding him with his fists. “What were you doing down here?” he asked. “Shto vy delali zdes’?”
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Not until you tell me what you were doing down here!” Bolton shouted.
“CID Three, what’s your status?” Kelsey radioed.
“I captured the Russian who came down here,” Bolton replied. “Whatever he was doing, I interrupted him.”
“Bring him upstairs and clear the building.”
“I’m going to find out what he was doing first,” Bolton said. “I’ll be up in two minutes.”
“This is Richter. Bolton, get your ass up here,” Jason interjected. “Our objective is to get Zakharov and the terrorists. If he was setting explosives down there, you could be walking into a trap. We’ll let TransGlobal security and the Egyptians worry about bomb disposal.”
“Or maybe he was going to warn Zakharov,” Bolton said. “I’m going to investigate. I’ll be up in two.” Ignoring Jason’s repeated calls, Bolton headed back to the computer room. The Russian’s terrified cries and futile attempts to escape only indicated to Bolton that he was on the right track.
He had almost destroyed the computer room in his mad dash to get out and chase down the Russian—it looked like every desk and rack was on the floor and half the roof was caved in. Still carrying the Russian, Bolton walked over to the rack the Russian had been working behind, kicking desks out of his way. “Okay, Ivan,” he said, “what in hell were you doing back…?”
And then he saw it—a timer set to what appeared to be forty or fifty blocks of C-4 explosives, with wires leading to a half-dozen similar stacks on other racks and workstations. The Russian was screaming his brains out, but Bolton needed no translation now. He turned and ran, crashing through what was left of the doors and racing down the hallway toward the stairs until he—
He hardly felt the shock of the first explosion, although its force blew the Russian clean out of his arms and into a fiery oblivion. But the fury of the first explosive discharge quickly set off a chain reaction that eventually ignited over three hundred kilos of C-4 high explosives in the headquarters building. Carl Bolton was crushed between two nearly simultaneous explosions both below and above him and died almost instantly.
The feeling of dread Jason Richter felt when Carl Bolton said, “I’ll be up in two” was so strong that he didn’t jump or feel surprised in the least when the headquarters building exploded. He felt sorry for Carl. He didn’t deserve to die like this. He was here only because Kelsey DeLaine was here, not because he felt he had anything to contribute or because he cared at all for TALON.
“Jason…?” The fear and pain in Kelsey’s voice was obvious, and he felt very sorry for her. She had ordered Carl into the building, not knowing that the CID units were not meant for indoor operations.
“Kelsey, it was the headquarters building,” Jason said. “We’ll search for him, don’t worry.” But the tone in his voice made it plain: the destruction was total. What he was praying for now was that the explosions would stop and not ripple throughout the entire facility…and thankfully, they did. Men were screaming and running wildly out of the plant. “Let them go as long as they’re not armed!” he ordered. “Let the police pick them up. Keep an eye on the facility for any armed men.”
And at that exact moment, Falcone radioed, “Armored car coming out.” Jason flipped his electronic visor over to Falcone’s camera and saw what appeared to be a Humvee or similar wheeled infantry vehicle, racing away to the west. “Want me to blast it?”
“You like riding in that thing, don’t you, Falcone?” Jason asked.
“You got me hooked, boss,” Falcone said happily. Frank Falcone had always been a cheerful guy, but ever since volunteering to ride in the new CID unit, he was like a kid in a candy store. “I got legs again. Let me tag this SOB, okay?”
“Take it, Falcon—just don’t destroy it,” Jason said. “We want them alive.”
“You got it, boss. Fire in the hole.” One ride in the CID unit and a few hours of training on the C-17 Globemaster flight from New Mexico to Egypt, and Falcone was an expert. He deployed his7.62-millimeter machine gun from his backpack, turned, locked on to the front right wheels of the armored vehicle, and opened fire with a one-second burst. The rounds shredded the tire and wheel, and the vehicle collapsed and spun around. When the left front wheel exposed itself, a second one-second burst destroyed that wheel as well, completely immobilizing the vehicle.
“Two…no, three persons getting out,” Falcone reported. Jason had switched back to his own cameras so he could continue observing the main entrance to the refinery. “Two of them are armed. I’ll get ’em.”
“Rat Nine, can you assist?” Jason radioed.
“A-firm,” the driver on the westernmost dune buggy responded.
Jason switched back to the view from Falcone’s cameras. He saw the first two persons getting out…and was stunned to see a man virtually dragging another person with him with his left arm, while holding what appeared to be an AK-74 assault rifle in his right. Just as he was thinking about asking Falcone to zoom in on the two, that’s exactly what he did. “Looks like this butthead’s trying to take a hostage with him,” Falcone radioed. “Looks like a woman. That’s not nice. I’m moving in.”
Jason switched the images from Falcone’s camera back and forth to his own cameras so he could maintain watch on both. The woman clearly didn’t want to go with the guy, but she appeared to be stunned or woozy or something…no, he saw, she was handcuffed and manacled. “Falcon…”
“I got him, Jason,” Falcone responded. “Looks to me like she’s a hostage. Fucker. I’ll teach him to take a woman hostage.”
“Don’t forget about the third guy,” Jason reminded him. “Let’s have a look at him.”
“Rog.” Falcone zoomed his camera out and turned toward the stricken vehicle…
…just as the third terrorist fired what appeared to be a rocket-propelled grenade or TOW missile at Falcone! The missile flared; Jason saw a streak of fire, and then the camera went blank. “Falcon!” Jason cried. “Rat Nine, Rat Nine, what happened?”
“I…I’m okay, Jason,” Falcone murmured. “I’m…oh, crap, that hurt…”
“We got ’em, TALON One,” the driver of the westernmost dune buggy radioed. They had opened fire on the assailant with their Bushmaster automatic grenade launcher, peppering the terrorist with half a dozen high-explosive projectiles from short range. The terrorist was bracketed with explosions and was last seen flying through the air and landing several meters away in a blackened, smoking lump. “Splash one tango.”
“Don’t kill the other ones!” Jason shouted. “I’m after them! Check on CID Three.” Jason took off running to the west at full speed.
On the western flank of the refinery complex there was an access road, a stretch of sand and dirt used by the construction crews, a highway, and then the beginnings of temporary trailer housing for the refinery workers. By the time Jason ran over there, the two escapees had made it to the trailer area. “Ari, I need a Goose overhead my location,” Jason said. “They’re in the housing area.”
“Roger, on the way,” Ariadna responded. “It’ll be about two to three minutes.”
That was going to be way too long. Jason started running through the closely packed trailers, dodging around knots of onlookers who had come out of their homes to watch the spectacular explosion at the refinery. “Ana badawwer ‘ala muktal aqliyyan. I am looking for a terrorist and his captive,” Jason said in Arabic in a loud electronic voice. “Did anyone run through here with a captive in handcuffs?” People started either running away or pointing in all directions. Jason gave up and ran down another street, asking the next group of people he saw.
“Jason, I’m picking up a vehicle, traveling west at high speed about fifty meters west of you,” Ariadna radioed.
“It’s the only lead I’ve got. I’m on it.” Jason ran, following Ariadna’s directions. After crossing another highway, he found himself in a mostly business district, with dozens of small shops and restaurants, then another wide boulevard, and finally at the edge of the Giza necropolis itself. The floodlights were still on the Sphinx and Great Pyramids, creating an otherworldly image against the pitch-black Egyptian night sky. Hundreds of tourists and residents pointed at Jason in wonderment; a few screamed, a few started clapping, thinking he was part of some street show; others threw fruit or rocks at him. Traffic started backing up as drivers stopped to stare.
“Got him!” Ari radioed. “He’s on foot, thirty meters northwest of you!”
Jason leaped across the boulevard over the stopped cars, narrowly missing tourists on the other side where he landed, and started running across the excavation sites and monuments in the necropolis. He heard gunshots and saw the terrorist right in front of the Temple of the Great Sphinx, still dragging his hostage, and two police officers writhing in pain on the ground. Jason leaped over an excavation, took three large steps, and leaped again—right in front of the fleeing terrorist. Gennadyi Boroshev’s face was illuminated by the reflection of the spotlights shining on the face of the Sphinx.
“Ja ub’ju ee, esli Vy budete dvigati’sja!” the terrorist screamed in Russian. “I’ll kill her if you move!” He pointed the muzzle of his AK-74 at his hostage…
…who was, Jason saw with complete surprise, Kristen Skyy! “Jason!” she shouted. “Thank God you’re here!”
“I’m here, Kristen,” Jason said. “Stay calm. I’ll get you out of this.”
“I’ll kill her!” Gennadyi Boroshev shouted, his eyes wide in fear, his chest heaving from the long run. “Stay away from me or I’ll blow her brains out!”
“Jason…”
“Put away your weapon,” Boroshev ordered. “Now!”
“Don’t do it, Jason,” Kristen said. “Kill this bastard!” But Jason let his Bushmaster grenade launcher backpack detach itself and clatter to the ground.
“Vy ne mozhete ubezhat’,” Jason said in Russian. “You can’t escape.”
“Oh yes, I will,” Boroshev said. “This is the famous Kristen Skyy. The world loves her. She will die if you do not let me go, and the world will hate you. Now back away, and tell all those other police officers to back away too. I want a police car and driver to take me wherever I want to go. When I’m safe, I’ll release her.”
“He can’t release me, Jason,” Kristen said. “I know too much.”
“You! Get out of that thing!” Boroshev ordered. “Out!”
“Don’t do it, Jason,” Kristen said. “He’ll kill all of us if you do!”
“Zakrytyj!” he shouted. “Shut up! Get out now or she dies!”
“Kill him, Jason!” Kristen screamed.
The next few seconds were a blur. Several Egyptian General Security Forces and Cairo police officers shouted warnings, shining flashlights at Boroshev and Jason, covering both with pistols and automatic rifles. Boroshev shouted something in Arabic and tried to turn Kristen around so he could use her body to shield his…
…but he half-stumbled on a piece of limestone. At that moment, Kristen twisted her body to the left, pushing Boroshev in the same direction he was already stumbling…
…and at the same time the GSF and Cairo police officers opened fire. Boroshev screamed as the bullets plowed into his body…
He pulled the trigger of his AK-74 as he fell. Kristen Skyy’s hair flew as if blown by a sudden gust of wind, and the muzzle flash froze her face in a terrifying mask of surprise as if caught by a strobe light.
“Kristen!” Jason shouted. He was out of the CID unit within seconds and by her side. He pulled off his T-shirt and pressed it against the side of her head, but he knew there was nothing he could do.
Her lips were moving, and he stooped closer, putting his ear to her lips. He heard the words, heard something…and then felt her last breath on his face.
Jason held her close to him, oblivious to the growing throng of police and civilian onlookers, oblivious to the majesty of the Sphinx right over his left shoulder. He didn’t move—couldn’t move—even after several Task Force TALON dune buggies arrived to help clear the crowds away. He didn’t move until Ray Jefferson himself arrived and held Kristen so Jason could climb inside CID One. After he did, he lifted her up himself as carefully as he could and strode through the crowds, heading east again toward their rendezvous point.
Kristen’s war was over, Jason thought grimly—his was not.
CHAPTER NINE
York, Pennsylvania
That same time
The place looked deserted; the doors were locked. The rather small red-brick colonial building half-hidden in a clump of oak trees out near York Airport, a small general aviation airport about ten ki
lometers from the city, looked as if it had been built a hundred years ago. There was a forty-acre fenced storage lot behind the building topped with razor wire, with a collection of green camouflage trucks, trailers, service vehicles, Humvees, helicopters, and even some larger armored vehicles such as Bradley Fighting Vehicles. There was even what appeared to be a multiple rocket launcher or two out there—a pretty impressive collection of weaponry for a little Pennsylvania National Guard unit.
At the rear of the storage lot was a six-bay service building and three aircraft hangars, and one of the hangar doors was open about a meter or so, so that’s where Special Agent Ramiro “Rudy” Cortez decided to look first. He and the agent accompanying him on this trip, Agent Jerome Taylor from the Federal Bureau of Investigation office in Philadelphia, went around the side, looking for a gate. The large taxiway gate leading to the runway was doublechained with fresh-looking chains and locks. “Hello!” Cortez called out. “Anyone in there?” No response.
“What do you want to do?” Taylor asked.
“I’d sure hate to come out all this way and not speak with someone at this unit,” Cortez said. “It looks to me like someone’s in there.”
“How about I call the state military bureau in Harrisburg?”
“That’ll take all day—I’ve got to be back in D.C. by three o’clock,” Cortez said. He thought for a moment, then asked, “We don’t need permission to go onto a National Guard installation…do we?”
“You got me.”
Cortez shrugged. “At the very least, this compound is not secure—it’s our responsibility to secure it,” he said.
“If you say so,” Taylor said. He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “I’ll watch from here.”
“You’re not going in right behind me?” Cortez asked.
“I haven’t climbed a fence since the academy, Cortez. I’ll watch.”
Cortez pulled his car up to the gate, removed his jacket and tie, and retrieved a thick quilted packing blanket from the trunk. He climbed up on the hood of his car, threw the blanket over the razor wire, and started to climb. He was halfway over the fence and ready to throw a leg over the top, surprised at how well he was doing, when he heard, “Hey, yo, what do you think you’re doin’ there?” A guy in camouflage trousers, spit-shined combat boots, web belt, and olive drab T-shirt, carrying a very large Crescent wrench, came trotting out of the garage. His hair was a little on the long side, and his T-shirt had large drips of oil on the front—in short, he looked like a typical mechanic.
