Megan dropped to her knees and grabbed at the fallen man. "Byron! Byron! Are you okay?"
Susie's music boomed from the other room where she played, thankfully oblivious to all this.
Byron blinked, tried to sit up. "What happened? Did I slip on something? Why am I on the floor—?"
He'd live, he was just stunned.
Megan looked up from the fallen man at Michaels. She said, "We're getting married! And Byron wants to adopt Susie!" Her voice practically dripped venom.
Michaels felt his soul freeze, then begin to shrivel. There it was, in black and white, no mistaking it. He had loved this woman beyond measure, and she was doing everything she could to hurt him. How could he have been so blind?
When he could find a breath, he spoke, and his voice was cold. "Congratulations. I'll send you a toaster. But he will adopt Susie over my dead body. I'll spend every penny I have and every penny I can borrow on private detectives and lawyers. And if Byron here spends a night under this roof before you get married, you'll find yourself in a custody battle like you wouldn't believe! You want to play rough? Fine."
With that, he turned and stalked out.
In the cold air, snow clouds gathered and threatened. Perfect. Just perfect!
Well. You wanted an excuse to leave, didn't you? Better be more careful what you wish for next time, Alex. You might get that one too.
Damn! He couldn't believe what he had just done. How he had lost control.
Damn!
Compared to what he'd just felt, terrorists stealing nuclear material didn't seem so bad.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
Saturday, December 25th, 4:45 p.m.. Tonopah, Arizona
Michaels rode in the second helicopter of his trip, heading for the hijacking site on Interstate 10, about forty miles west of Phoenix. A small military jet had been waiting for him when the first copter dropped him at the airport in Boise. It had been a straight flight, and fast.
The Arizona sky was clear and sunny, and he could see what the pilot had told him was the Bighorn Mountains ahead of the copter.
John Howard had flown out in one of Net Force's chartered 747's with his strike team, and was setting up a command post at a truck stop just outside Tonopah, Arizona.
The chopper pilot brought his craft in for a landing not far from a pair of helicopters already on the ground. Big Hueys, they looked like. In addition to the copters, the ground was a beehive of activity—cars, trucks, troops, flashing lights.
Practically speaking, it would have made more sense for Michaels to have gone back to HQ; once you got to be the commander of a group like Net Force, you were supposed to be a desk jockey—they paid you for your managing abilities, not to go play in the field. But the idea of sitting in his office parked in front of the computer station and com gear waiting to hear what was going on did not appeal to Alex. He needed to be out doing something after that whole scene in Boise.
Dust and sand kicked up as the copter settled. He saw John Howard in his field uniform, holding on to his cap as the wind blasted him.
Michaels exited the craft and walked to where Howard stood.
"Commander."
"Colonel. How is it going?"
"This way, sir."
Howard led him toward what looked like a Texaco truck stop. Along with a dozen big commercial rigs, clearly local, there were a few smaller Net Force trucks and cars, brought by the cargo version of the 747 that the strike force used. There were a couple of large igloo tents erected behind the main truck stop building, and big power lines snaking into the tents from six rumbling gasoline-powered electrical generators parked near the larger of the tents.
A chilly wind blew across the dry land, but inside the mobile tactical unit—a fiberglass-framed tent the size of a small house—the air was warm. A dozen techs worked on various electronics, mostly computers and com-gear. Several other soldiers in the strike team checked weapons or assembled field equipment. Julio Fernandez looked up, saw Michaels, and saluted.
Howard stopped in front of a big flatscreen on a stand. He picked up a remote and clicked it. A turning-globe map appeared on the screen.
"Here's what happened, as best we can tell," Howard said. "Somebody sent the routing information for four shipments of plutonium scheduled to move today to a paramilitary group that calls itself the Sons of Patrick Henry. Here are the sites."
Red dots pulsed on the map. France, Germany, Florida, and Arizona.
"We got word of the leak from Gridley at HQ at about the time the attacks began. All four went off simultaneously. We got word to the convoys ASAP. The Florida and German convoys took alternate routes and encountered no problems.
"The French attack had already begun, as had the one here. We alerted French authorities, and they got there in time to stop the assault. Eight of the attackers were killed, four wounded seriously, several seemed to have escaped. The driver of the French truck and four of the guards were killed, three more were wounded. Some civilians got caught in the cross fire, all locals.
"We called the Army transport group here too late. By the time the National Guard and state boys and girls showed up, it was all over. The Army lost two drivers, eight more men, and two women. Looks as if the wounded soldiers were executed after they were downed, assault rifle or pistol rounds to their heads. The terrorists took their dead or wounded with them, but there was enough blood without bodies on the road and surrounding territory to know the Army's shooters connected with at least a few of them.
"They left behind a couple of antitank mines to slow pursuit. The state patrol lost two cruisers and three officers. And five civilian cars also got blasted. Six civilians are dead and three more in the hospital probably won't make it. Everything the state and local police can put on the ground or in the air is out looking for the terrorists."
"Jesus."
"Yes, sir. The shipment was en-route from Fort Davy Crockett, Texas, to Long Beach, California, where it was to be taken via ocean vessel to a location that the Army does not wish to reveal to us. Seven pounds of WG plutonium."
"Where do we stand?"
"We know who did it. We know where they are."
"Have you told the local authorities?"
"No, sir. We've sent them off in other directions. It gives them something to do. And if they should get too close, they'll be warned off." He fiddled with the remote. The screen image shifted to an overhead view of a group of small buildings surrounded by a fence. The image zeroed in, growing larger in distinct frames, until details as fine as cars and even a couple of people could be seen.
"This is the nearest bolt-hole the Sons maintain. It's just north of the Gila Bend Indian Reservation, not that far from here. These people apparently own property all over the country, and they've got branches all over the world. We've got the place footprinted with one Kl Albatross spysat, and we've requested that the military shift another one into the same orbit. Which they are doing."
"How good is the sat coverage?"
"Not perfect. Any bird high enough to be in geosynch orbit has to be at least 22,300 miles—36,000 kilometers—and IR or optical resolution to six feet at that height is iffy, especially in a hot desert, so spysats that can see guys running around on the ground have to be a lot lower, which means they are whipping past any given point at speed, so they can't sit and watch one spot. We'll see ‘em, but it'll be a fast look. Computers'll fill that in."
"This is where you think they took the plutonium?"
A yellow box blinked on and outlined one of the structures. "There's a tracker built into the outer shell of the radioactive transport box. NRC and NSA don't allow anybody to ship this stuff via FedEx. This is where they took it, sir. GPS puts it in the southwest corner of this building, right there. Since it's Army gear, there's no fudge-factor on the satellite bounce, so we can pinpoint the GPS unit to within plus or minus five feet. It's in there. I doubt they took it out of the box to play with."
"Where is the Army?"
"They'
re massing their teams thirty miles south of the bolt-hole, on the old Luke Air Force target range. So far, they are holding off, but Military Intelligence is having a fire hose of a pissing match with the FBI over who gets to shoot whom, so everybody is waiting for the spray to settle back in D.C. before anybody moves."
Michaels waved that off. Nothing they could do out here about weenie-waving uplevels. Somebody would figure out what to do soon enough. Then they'd see who got to step up to the plate.
"What are our options, the tactical considerations, if we get the nod?"
Howard flashed a tiny grin, teeth bright against his chocolate skin.
"Fast and dirty. We can give the Air Force a call, and they can drop a big smart rock that'll squash the Sons flat before they ever know it's coming. Army's got a few of those they'd be happy to use too. End of immediate problem. Of course, that could spread plutonium dust all over the surrounding countryside, which might upset the locals. The evening news would have a field day when they found out, and they likely would notice if the local goals started giving glow-in-the-dark milk.
"Unless they have another chunk of this stuff already, they aren't going to build a fission bomb. Even if they do have enough for a critical mass, it isn't like they can just pop open the container and drop it into their bomb like a flashlight battery. It'll take some fine-tuning, and whatever happens, they aren't going to have that much time."
"You don't see any possibility of negotiation here?"
"No, sir. We're talking everything from treason, to multiple murder, to a dozen other local, state, and federal felonies. They give up. they are all history, and they know it. Their manifesto is ‘Give me liberty or give me death.' They aren't going to give up, and we can't dick around long enough to let them think about things they might do with that heavy metal they borrowed."
"I see."
"It is possible they could have rigged the container with conventional explosives so if anybody comes after them, it would give us the same scenario as the Air Force attack. Our staff psychologist doesn't think this is likely. They are paranoid enough, but this is a big prize, and they won't be in a hurry to lose it. So he says.
"Our first pass with the locals indicate that the attack wasn't set up very well. They didn't notice anybody poking around until yesterday. This engagement does not appear to have been the result of a long-term, well-laid plan. This is consistent with Gridley's finding that the transmission of the intelligence was less than day and a half ago. They mounted this operation in a hurry, on the fly, and they were lucky to get away with one out of four tries."
"And you don't think they've booby-trapped the container."
"No, sir, I don't. This feels like a come-as-you-are party and they had to hit the ground running. They haven't had time to think about it much.
"I see an infantry-style assault in the dark as our best bet. Since these guys are gun nuts, they've probably got spookeyes and motion detectors, but we can get close enough to knock those out and be on top of them before they have time to figure out what's happening. PEE for the spookeyes, jammers for the motion sensors."
"PEE?"
"They're new, sir. Photosensitive Epilepsy Emitters. Brainwave flashers. They cause seizures or nausea in a lot of people who see them. And at night, they are bright enough to blind a guy using starlight spookeyes anyhow. So the guards watching the dark are either having fits, puking, or bumping into the furniture.
"Jammers shut down the transmitters on wireless sensors. Unless they've got hardwired sensors, they won't know where we're coming from until it's too late. And even hardwired, knowing we're coming and being able to do anything about it is not the same thing. My troops'll be in SIPEsuits. The Sons' surplus AK-47's, M16's, and handgun fire won't get through the armor."
"What if they have heavier weapons? Rockets, AP, like that?"
"We've got half-a-dozen jump troops who can use parasails well enough to hit a spot the size of a dinner plate from six thousand feet at night, using their spookeyes. I can put them inside to sap the fence before we hit it from outside. I've got green hats, black hats, SEALs, the best of the best on this team. These camo clowns won't know what hit ‘em no matter what they're shooting."
Michaels nodded. "So if uplevels gives us the job, you'll be ready to go when?"
"We're ready right now. Optimal time would be 0230 hours. Most of the terrorists will be asleep. I've run a dozen computer scenarios, and our numbers average about eighty-seven-percent success. Realistic range is from seventy-five to ninety-four percent."
"You want this one, Colonel?"
Again the smile, larger this time. "Yes, sir. You bet."
"I'll call the director and see what the situation is."
Howard watched as Michaels moved off to a quieter part of the tent to use his virgil to call the FBI's director. The colonel looked around at his men and women, confident they could do the job. They were all volunteers, nobody had to be here, and he would lead them into Hell to pull the Devil's tail, secure in the knowledge they would follow without batting an eyelash.
Did he want this operation? Sheeit, he couldn't imagine anything he could want more just at the moment. He could be home, sitting on the couch, digesting Christmas ham and listening to his mother-in-law give him a hard time. Storming a nest of terrorists who'd swiped a chunk of radioactive bomb material was easy duty compared to that…
"Sir, we got the second bird coming on-line, about to step on the location," Fernandez said.
"Copy, Sergeant. Let's see it. Put it on the holoproj so we get a three-dee view."
"As the colonel orders," Fernandez said. "Hey, Jeter! Three-dee!"
Howard moved toward a folding aluminum display table where the holographic projector had been focused. After a few seconds, the image appeared. It started out as a black-and-white. Then the computer furnished false colors so that it looked almost like a model.
"Give it to me from a hundred feet up and three hundred feet out," Howard said to the tech.
"Sir," Jeter said.
The image shifted viewpoints. The computer filled in the details based on images in its memory, but it was probably a pretty accurate representation of the place. A two-story ranch house sat in the middle of the compound, which was surrounded by a chain-link fence, probably ten feet high. There was also what looked like a wooden barn, plus a pole shed that was just a roof and half-a-dozen upright supports, and a smaller storage building behind the house. Four trucks, two cars, and a single-engine high-wing airplane were parked in front of the main house. There were two guards on the gate, and either the spysat's optics or the computer had decided they were both short-haired men in baseball caps, with rifles or carbines slung over their shoulders and holstered side arms. A third guard with a large dog patrolled the fence in the back. A fourth figure, a woman in a dress, stood in front of what appeared to be chickens, tossing feed to the birds. Optics weren't so good that they could see chicken feed from however many thousands of miles up in space, but they were good enough to guess that the woman had long black hair and fair skin. Amazing.
"We have any idea how many are in there, Julio?"
Fernandez drifted over and shook his head. "No, sir. Most we've seen at a time's half a dozen—four men and two women. No children, thank God. They could have fifteen or twenty in there, given the number of vehicles. IR doesn't work real well through a roof. My guess is, they don't know we know where they are." He glanced at his watch.
"Got an appointment, Sergeant?"
"I was supposed to call my mother after I got out of mass. I didn't get around to it."
"Use one of the landlines and call her, Julio. I don't want your mama mad at me because I made you work on Christmas."
Fernandez grinned. "Sir. Thank you."
Howard watched his best soldier—and probably his best friend in the world—amble toward the phone bank.
Michaels came back, clipping the virgil onto his belt, next to his taser.
Howard raised his eyebr
ows.
"It's ours, Colonel."
Howard grinned, real big.
Michaels shook his head and sighed. "I already had occasion today to remember the old saying ‘Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.' Colonel. You just got what you wanted. Merry Christmas. I hope it doesn't blow up in our faces."
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday, December 25th, 9 p.m. Bladensburg, Maryland
Hughes had just walked into the safe house apartment and noticed that Platt wasn't there yet when his virgil buzzed. He looked at the ID. Senator White. He felt a stab of worry, even though he knew there was no way White could know where he was and what he was doing there.
"Hello, Bob. Merry Christmas."
"Tom. What's all this I've been hearing about some kind of nuclear material getting stolen?"
"Nothing that concerns us directly. Well, except that the word I hear is that this was another one of those deliberate leaks into the aethernet."
"Jesus Lord."
"Oh, worse than that. My sources tell me the leak came from Net Force Headquarters, right smack dab in the middle of the FBI compound itself."
"I'll have Michaels's head on a platter if that's true! And Walt Carver's ass for desert!"
Now there was an image.
"It'll keep until after the holidays, Bob. The terrorists fell down, only one of the attacks was even partially successful, and I am given to understand that that one is about to be rectified by our military and other federal agencies. No great harm was done. Enjoy the season. We can nail all this down when you get back to town, before the session gets rolling. I'm keeping tabs on things from this end. Don't worry."
"All right, if you say so."
Platt swaggered in, circled his hand to his forehead, lips, and heart, and added a couple of circles, then held it out to Hughes in a bastardized salaam. Hughes waved him off.
"Give my love to June and the girls and the grandkids," Hughes said to White.
Hidden Agendas (1999) Page 12
