Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  The speargun was made of stainless steel. It was painted matte black to minimize reflected sunlight. The spears were also black. The weapon was comprised of a forty-inch-long black tube and a yellow grip and trigger at the end. Only a foot of spear protruded from the end. Normally, a rope was attached to the spears so that prey could be hauled back to the spearman. The Harpooner had removed these back on the boat.

  There were six-inch-thick acoustic dampeners beneath the platform. They were located fifty feet above the sea. The hard rubber pads had been placed there to muffle the sounds of activity. This was done so that people who lived on the rig would suffer as little noise pollution as possible. The Harpooner had chosen his targets from the blueprints. He would fire two harpoons. The first would go into the padded area below and to the northeast of the derrick. The derrick was in the southwest corner of the platform. When the detonation occurred, the derrick would fall toward the center of the platform. A second harpoon would be fired into the platform at the point where the heavy center of the derrick would land. The second explosion, plus the impact of the derrick, would shatter the platform and cause it to collapse inward. Everything would slide to the center and tumble into the sea.

  The Harpooner would not need the third harpoon to destroy the rig, though he did not tell his people that.

  The terrorist donned night-vision glasses and lay on his back. The speargun had terrific recoil, equivalent to a twelve-gauge shotgun. That would give him quite a bump. But his shoulder could take it. He aimed the weapon and fired. There was a sound like a metallic cough and the spear flew through the dark.

  It hit the target with a faint thunk. The Harpooner quickly repositioned himself to fire the second shaft. It, too, struck its target. He motioned the men to start back. As soon as the others ducked underwater, the Harpooner pulled the tape from the spear, grabbed one of the equipment bags, and slipped the watergel sticks inside. Then he slid into the water and followed his men back to the boat.

  Upon boarding the vessel, the men dropped the remains of Sergei Cherkassov into the sea. On the way over, they had burned the body. It would look as though he had been killed in the blast. The photographs that had been taken from the airplane were already in his pocket. As far as the Iranians on board knew, the Russians and the Azerbaijanis would be blamed for the attack.

  The Harpooner knew differently.

  When Cherkassov was in the water, the boat departed. They were nearly out of visual range when the oil rig exploded.

  The Harpooner was watching through high-powered binoculars. He saw the puff of yellow red smoke under the platform. He saw the tower shudder and then do a slow pirouette drop toward the center. A moment later, the muted pop of the first explosion reached the boat.

  The Iranians on the deck all cheered. Which was odd, the Harpooner thought. Even though they thought they were doing this for the national good, they were happy about the deaths of at least one hundred of their countrymen.

  A moment before the derrick hit, the second watergel packet exploded. The Harpooner had positioned the two to go off nearly at the same time. It would not have done for the derrick to crash, knock the spear from the rubber padding, and drop it into the sea. A second cloud of red and yellow smoke began to form, but it was flattened and disbursed when the derrick struck the platform. It hit with a small-sounding crunch. Debris flew into the morning sky, chasing away the distant gulls.

  The entire rig shuddered. The whole thing reminded the Harpooner of a vignette he had seen as a child. A poplar tree had been split during a storm and fell across power lines. It hit them, bounced, then hit them again. The lines hung there for a moment before sagging and then ripping from the poles on the left and right. That was what happened here. The platform stood for a moment after the derrick struck. Then, slowly, the steel and concrete sagged where the second blast had weakened them. The platform bent inward. Sheds, cranes, tanks, and even the helicopter began sliding toward the crease. Their weight caused additional strain. The Harpooner could hear the ugly collisions in the distance, see the smoke and shattered pieces of wood and metal fly into the air.

  And then it happened. The added weight was too much for the platform to bear. It cracked and dumped everything into the sea. The boat was now too far away for the Harpooner to make everything out. The collapse looked like a waterfall from this distance, especially when the cascade of white and silver debris hit the sea, sending up waves and spray.

  As the rig disappeared beyond the horizon, all the Harpooner could see was a large ball of mist hanging in the new day.

  He turned away, accepting the congratulations of the team. They were treating him like a football hero, but he felt more like an artist. Using the medium of explosives and a canvas of steel and concrete, the Harpooner had created a perfect destruction.

  He went below to wash up. He always needed to wash after creation. It was a symbolic act of completion and of getting ready for the next work. Which would be soon. Very soon.

  When the boat reached the docks, the Harpooner told the crew he wanted to go ashore. He told the Iranians he wanted to make certain that the Azerbaijani police had not already learned of the blast. If they had, the police might be checking incoming vessels. They might be looking for possible terrorists and also for eyewitnesses to the explosion.

  The men thought that was a good idea.

  The Harpooner told them that if he did not come back in five minutes, they should leave the dock and head to the open sea. The Harpooner said that if the police were talking to people, stopping them from leaving the area, he would figure out a way to elude them.

  The men agreed. The Harpooner went ashore.

  Six minutes later, there was a massive explosion in the harbor. The Harpooner had stuck a timed detonator into one of the sticks of watergel. He had set it and then left it below, under one of the bunks. Evidence from the attack was still on board. It would take a while, but eventually the authorities would find traces of the watergel on the boat and on the rig and realize that the Iranians, aided by a Russian terrorist, had attacked their own operation. The Iranians would dispute that, of course, and tensions would rise even higher. The United States would suspect that the Russians and Iranians were working together to seize the Caspian oil wells. There would be no way to avoid what was coming.

  The Harpooner got in the repainted van and drove it from the harbor. There were no police there. Not yet. At this hour, the Baku police force was involved primarily in traffic management and accident investigation. Besides, there was no indication that a boat had attacked the rig or that it had come to Baku. That would come later, when they found the Russian and the Americans had sent over satellite photographs of the region.

  The Harpooner headed toward the Old City. There, he drove up Inshaatchilar Prospekti toward the hotels on Bakihanov Kuchasi. Two days before, he had taken a hotel room under an assumed name. Here he was Ivan Ganiev, a telecommunications consultant. It was a name and profession he had chosen with care. If he were ever stopped by customs agents or police, he could explain why he was traveling with high-tech equipment. And being Russian had another advantage, especially here. One that would help him get out of the country when the time came.

  He had left clothing, gear, and cash in the room and a do not disturb sign on the door. He would clean himself up, dye his hair, and then take a long nap. When he woke, he would apply a fake mustache, slip colored contact lenses into his eyes, and call a cab to take him to the train station. A cabdriver was always a good hostage in case he was discovered and surrounded. He would use his fake passport to leave the city.

  He parked the van in an alley near the hospital. Then he pulled a packet of dental floss from his pocket. He rubbed it deeply between two teeth until his mouth filled with blood. Then he spat on the floor, dashboard, and seat cushion. It was the fastest way to draw blood. It also left no scars, in case anyone decided to stop him and check for wounds. He did not need a lot of blood. Just traces for the forensics people to find. W
hen he was finished with that, he slipped a plastic mircochip in the gas tank. Then he replaced the cap.

  When he was finished dressing the van, the Harpooner took the backpack containing the Zed-4 phone and left. When the authorities found the vehicle, they would also find evidence inside tying it to the Iranians in the boat. That would include their fingerprints on the wheel, glove compartment, and handles. They would assume that one or more of the men got away. The blood would suggest that he was injured. The police would waste time looking through hospital records for a possible perpetrator.

  The Harpooner would return to Moscow. Then he would leave Russia and permit himself a rest. Possibly a vacation in some country where he had never committed terrorism. Some place where they would not be looking out for him.

  Some place where he could sit back and read the newspapers.

  Enjoy once again the impact his art had had on the world.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:11 P.M.

  Paul Hood was concerned, confused, and tired.

  Bob Herbert had just spoken with Stephen Viens of the National Reconnaissance Office. Viens was working late to catch up on paperwork that had collected during his absence. While Viens was there, an NRO satellite had recorded an explosion in the Caspian Sea. He had called Herbert, who wanted to know if anything unusual had happened in the region. Then Herbert called Paul Hood.

  “According to our files, the coordinates of the explosion match those of Iran’s Majidi-2 oil rig,” Herbert said.

  “Could it have been an accident?” Hood asked.

  “We’re checking that now,” Herbert said. “We’ve got some faint radio signals coming from the rig, which means there may be survivors.”

  “May be?”

  “A lot of those rigs have automatic beacons to signal rescue craft in the area,” Herbert said. “That may be what we’re hearing. The audio keeps breaking up, so we can’t tell if it’s a recording.”

  “Understood,” Hood said. “Bob, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Fenwick goes to the Iranian mission, and then an Iranian rig is attacked.”

  “I know,” Herbert said. “I tried to call him, but there was no answer. I’m wondering if the NSA knew about this attack, and Fenwick took intelligence to the mission in New York.”

  “If Fenwick had intel, wouldn’t Iran have tried to prevent the attack?” Hood asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Herbert told Hood. “Teheran has been itching for a reason to establish a stronger military presence in the Caspian Sea. An attack by Azerbaijan could give them that reason. It’s no different than historians who say that Franklin Roosevelt allowed Pearl Harbor to be attacked so we’d have a reason to get into World War Two.”

  “But then why all the deception with the president?” Hood asked.

  “Plausible deniability?” Herbert replied. “The president has been getting misinformation.”

  “Yes, but Jack Fenwick would not undertake something of this magnitude on his own,” Hood said.

  “Why not?” Herbert asked. “Ollie North ran an uberoperation during Iran-Centra—”

  “A military officer might have the balls for that but not Jack Fenwick,” Hood said. “I had a look at his dossier. The guy is Mr. Support Systems. He’s instituted backup systems for backup systems at the NSA. Got congress to jack up the budget fifteen percent for next year. The CIA only got an eight percent bump and we got six.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yeah,” Hood said. “And he just doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to take this kind of chance. Not without backup.”

  “So?” Herbert said. “Maybe he’s got it.”

  Shit, Hood thought. Maybe he does.

  “Think about it,” Herbert went on. “He got double the increases everyone else got. Who has that kind of sway with congress? Not President Lawrence, that’s for sure. He’s not conservative enough for the budget group.”

  “No, he’s not,” Hood agreed. “Bob, find out if Matt can get into Fenwick’s phone records and calendar. See who he might have talked to and met with over the past few days and weeks.”

  “Sure,” he said. “But it’s going to be tough to draw any conclusions from that. The NSA head meets with practically everyone.”

  “Exactly,” Hood said.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “If Fenwick were part of a black-ops situation, he would probably meet with his team away from the office. Maybe by seeing who he stopped meeting with, officially, we can figure out who he’s been seeing on the sly.”

  “Nice one, Paul,” Herbert said. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

  “But that isn’t what has me worried,” Hood went on. The phone beeped. “Excuse me, Bob. Would you bring Mike up to date on this?”

  “Will do,” Herbert said.

  Hood switched lines. Sergei Orlov was on the other end.

  “Paul,” Orlov said, “good news. We have your man.”

  “What do you mean you have him?” Hood asked. The Russian operative was only supposed to keep an eye on him.

  “Our operative arrived in time to save him from joining his comrades,” Orlov said. “The assassin was dispatched and left in the hospital room. Your man was taken from the hospital to another location. He is there now.”

  “General, I don’t know what to say,” Hood told him. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you is good enough,” Orlov said. “But what do we do now? Can he help us get the Harpooner?”

  “I hope so,” Hood told him. “The Harpooner must still be there. Otherwise, he would not have had to draw these people out and assassinate them. General, did you hear what happened in the Caspian?”

  “Yes,” Orlov said. “An Iranian oil rig was destroyed. The Azerbaijanis are probably going to be blamed, whether they did it or not. Do you know anything more about it?”

  “Not yet,” Hood said. “But the operative you saved might. If the Harpooner’s behind this attack, we need to know. Can you arrange for the American agent to call me here?”

  “Yes,” Orlov said.

  Hood thanked him and said he would wait by the phone.

  Orlov was correct. Suspicion would fall on Azerbaijan. They were the ones who disputed Iran’s presence in that region of the sea. They were the ones who had the most to gain. But the Harpooner had done most of his work for Middle Eastern nations. What if Azerbaijan wasn’t behind the attack? What if another nation was trying to make it seem that way?

  Hood got back on the phone with Herbert. He also patched in Mike Rodgers and briefed them both. When he was finished, there was a short silence.

  “Frankly, I’m stumped,” Herbert said. “We need more intel.”

  “I agree,” Hood said. “But we may have more intel than we think.”

  “What do you mean?” Herbert asked.

  “I mean we’ve got the NSA working with Iran,” Hood said. “We have a president who was kept out of the loop by the NSA. We have a terrorist who works with Iran taking out CIA agents in Azerbaijan. We have an attack on an Iranian oil installation off the coast of Azerbaijan. There’s a lot of information there. Maybe we’re not putting it together in the right way.”

  “Paul, do we know who in the CIA first found out the Harpooner was in Baku?” Rodgers asked.

  “No,” Hood said. “Good point.”

  “I’ll get someone to find that out ASAP,” Herbert said.

  Hood and Rodgers waited while Herbert made the call. Hood sat there trying to make sense of the facts, but it still was not coming together. Concerned, confused, and tired. It was a bad combination, especially for a man in his forties. He used to be able to pull all-nighters without a problem. Not anymore.

  Herbert got back on. “I’ve got someone calling the director’s office, Code Red-One,” he said. “We’ll have the information soon.”

  Code Red-One signified an imminent emergency to national interest. Despite the competitiveness between the agencies, CR1s were generally not denied.

>   “Thanks,” Hood said.

  “Paul, do you know the story about the Man Who Never Was?” Rodgers asked.

  “The World War Two story? I read the book in high school,” Hood said. “He was part of the disinformation campaign during World War Two.”

  “Correct,” Rodgers said. “A British intelligence group took the body of a homeless man, created a false identity for it, and planted papers on the body that said the Allies would invade Greece, not Sicily. The body was left where the Germans would find it. This helped divert Axis forces from Sicily. I mention this because a key player in the operation was a British general named Howard Tower. He was key in the sense that he was also fed misinformation.”

  “For what reason?” Hood asked.

  “General Tower’s communiques were intercepted by the Germans,” Rodgers said. “British Intelligence saw to that.”

  “I’m missing something here,” Herbert said. “Why are we talking about World War Two?”

  “When Tower learned what had happened, he put a gun barrel in his ear and pulled the trigger,” Rodgers said.

  “Because he was used?” Hood asked.

  “No,” Rodgers said, “because he thought he’d screwed up.”

  “I’m still not getting this,” Herbert admitted.

  “Paul, you said the president was pretty upset when you spoke with him,” Rodgers went on. “And when you met with the First Lady, she described a man who sounded like he was having a breakdown.”

  “Right,” Hood said.

  “That may not mean anything,” Herbert said. “He’s president of the United States. The job has a way of aging people.”

  “Hold on, Bob. Mike may be onto something,” Hood said. There was something gnawing at Hood’s stomach. Something that was getting worse the more he thought about it. “The president did not look tired when I saw him. He looked disturbed.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Herbert said. “He was being kept out of the loop and made an apparent faux pas about the UN. He was embarrassed.”

  “But there’s another component to this,” Hood told him. “There’s the cumulative psychological impact of disinformation. What if plausible deniability and bureaucratic confusion aren’t the reasons the president was misled? What if there’s another reason?”