Shadow Watch pp-3

by Tom Clancy

  “What is this?” he said, speaking English with a fabricated Russian accent. “Do you realize I am an officer of the military police?”

  The Sword guard looked calm but determined.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience, sir, but my detail’s been assigned security of this entry point, and if you’d just show your papers we can let you right on through.”

  Kuhl feigned affront and gestured toward the Russian watchmen.

  “What is this?” he barked in Russian. “Am I to be insulted by these outlanders?”

  The Sword guard might not have understood his words, but his tone made their meaning clear.

  “Sir,” he said. “I assure you this is strictly a routine check—”

  Suddenly one of the Russian guards stepped up past the American, slapped his hand against the truck’s rear panel, and waved it forward, signaling one of his men to open the gate.

  “Nye byespakoytyes!” he told the driver in Russian. “Go on through!”

  Oleg nodded and put his foot on the accelerator.

  The Sword guard watched with dismay as the huge semi began rumbling past the checkpoint.

  “Just a minute—”

  “Nyet!” the Russian said, puffing himself out. “He is commanding officer of our military guard, not common criminal!”

  The Sword guard looked at him, weighing his options. He could order his men to stand the truck down, but the damn thing was going full steam ahead, and they’d have to raise their weapons against it to do so. On the other hand, this was the third such dispute he’d had with the Russians since coming on shift tonight to suddenly find they’d crashed his party, and both times before they had bristled but ultimately yielded to his authority. Assholes that they were, he had to bear in mind they were acting on orders from higher-ranking assholes — and allowing a minor confrontation to trigger an out-and-out donny-brook would only complicate his job if something serious requiring their cooperation cropped up. Maybe it would be best to radio ahead, have the brass tussle it out, let these guys save a little face.

  He turned away from the Russian and flicked on his communications headset.

  Inside the truck, Kuhl had already turned on his own trunked radio and ordered his strike team to mobilize.

  * * *

  On receipt of Kuhl’s command, the small army he had gathered in the foothills southeast of the Cosmodrome burst into hurried activity, emerging from behind artificial boulders, foliage, stone panels, and other blinds, peeling the camouflage netting off their vehicles, moving from the pockets of concealment where they had patiently hidden while going about their preparations. Often over the past week, and again earlier that night, advance scouts handpicked by Kuhl had reported back with descriptions of the launch center’s eastern perimeter defenses, indicating they would be unable to withstand a direct, concentrated, lightning-fast strike. Resistance would become more intense once VKS and American reinforcements were called up from other areas of the center, but the attackers did not have to worry about penetrating it too deeply. Their objectives were limited: move in, put on a good show, move out.

  They did not suspect that, in the interests of putting on the best, most convincing show possible, the scouts, under orders from Kuhl himself, had lied to them.

  * * *

  “Sir, we’ve got something from SkyManta.” The young op who had come pounding at Ricci’s trailer door was flushed and breathless. “Looks like this is it.”

  Ricci stared at him from inside the entrance, coffee cup in hand.

  “What’s it picked up?”

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty jeeps, the controllers say the IR video’s clear as day. They’re heading in convoy toward the east side of the compound.”

  The launchpad area, Ricci thought. He hadn’t wished himself luck a moment too soon.

  “How close are they?”

  “Two, maybe three miles, sir. There’s a whole network of gullies along that way. Caves in the hills, scrub… it’s possible they could have been hiding there for a while….”

  “Let’s worry about the present.” Ricci took a breath. “Those remote gun platforms that were brought in, what are they called?”

  “The TRAP T-2s.”

  Ricci nodded.

  “They’re all in position? Exactly the way they were when we conducted firing exercises?”

  “Yes, sir. Every inch of ground in that sector’s covered by overlapping fire. We have at least fifteen of them just out beyond the gate — same number at each of the other perimeters—”

  “Grab a few off each line, but just a few. Three, four. Leave the rest where they are. That’d bring us to about thirty guns at the point of attack. Have the additions emplaced right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ricci wanted to tell the kid not to call him “sir.” He wasn’t his uncle, and Sword wasn’t the military. But his preferred form of address was something for later.

  “Notify the firing and Quick Response teams, make sure they’re all in their tac vests—”

  “That’s SOP, sir.”

  “Make sure anyway. ”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jesus, Ricci thought.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m heading out to the snoop-mobile to see the pictures for myself.”

  Minutes after Kuhl had gotten past the gate sentries with what amounted to a nod and a wave, the truck stopped briefly in a quiet section of the compound, where his men had placed the dish atop its trailer’s roof and switched on the pulse generator. They had then driven on to within two hundred feet of the long cargo-processing facility in which the ISS service module was being stored prior to installation in the launch vehicle — a movement that was scheduled to occur the very next morning.

  The concrete building was guarded exclusively by VKS troops, and only a sprinkling of them at that. None seemed interested when the cargo hauler pulled up at a moderate distance. It was one of their own trucks, and there were vehicles coming and going constantly in the days preceding a launch. Although Kuhl had been prepared for the eventuality of having to deal with Sword personnel, he was not surprised by their absence. One could always depend on Russian pride. That, he thought, and the impoverished economy that had ensured their facility would not be hardened against the incapacitation of their electronic alarm systems by microwave pulse, an expensive upgrade in shielding they could scarcely have afforded.

  He turned to Oleg.

  “Go around back,” he said. “Tell the others they are to activate the cannon when ready.”

  * * *

  The snoop-mobile was all boxed-in commotion. As Ricci entered, he saw men and women hunched over every one of the instrument consoles lining its sides, the radiance from the displays and lighted controls casting pale flickers of color across their faces.

  He glanced up at a flat-panel monitor on the wall above one of the consoles, and instantly saw SkyManta’s aerial IR video view of the approaching jeeps.

  “Those pictures,” he said, moving up beside the woman in the operator’s seat. Her name tag read Sharon Drake. “They’re called near real-time, that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir, again.

  “How near is near?”

  “What you’re seeing happened less than two seconds ago.”

  “Putting the attack force how close?”

  Sharon hit a button to superimpose grid coordinates over the image.

  “A little less than a quarter mile,” she said.

  “Any movement near the other gates?”

  She shook her head. “Not according to aerial IR scans, ground surveillance cameras, or reports from the guard posts.”

  Ricci thought a moment. Things just weren’t making sense. Nimec’s briefing had indicated the attack on the Brazilian ISS facility was a multi-pronged and precisely coordinated affair, planned around a detailed knowledge of the compound’s layout. There had been airborne infiltration, scattered ambushes, the works. Though its objectives remained a question mark,
there was no doubt that whoever had directed it was proficient in commando-style dispersal and distraction tactics. What he was seeing here, this column of jeeps coming at their guns, was a suicide run.

  He expelled a breath. “The TRAP T-2s… what’s the max distance their operators can stay back from the firing line?”

  Sharon leaned over toward a lean, bespectacled black man at the console to her immediate right.

  “Ted, I need you to tell me—”

  “Sixty meters,” he said without looking up from his screen.

  Ricci did an approximate mental conversion. Two hundred feet, give or take.

  “Notify the men at the perimeter that they’re to fire soon as the jeeps are in range,” he said. “I want two thirds of the weapons on lethal settings… we hit them with gas and fireworks first, give them a chance to back off. They keep coming, it’s shoot to kill. The QR teams should be ready as our second line of defense.”

  Ted nodded.

  “Sir,” Sharon said, looking quickly over her shoulder at Ricci. “Something’s happening here I don’t understand.”

  He made a winding gesture with his hand.

  “I’m getting an IR hot spot like nothing I’ve ever seen before from inside the center… at the north end.”

  “We have pictures?”

  “ ’Manta’s nanosensor range is far beyond its electro-optical—”

  “In plain English, Sharon, please.”

  “It can detect heat and energy emissions from a distance, but video’s limited to point of sight… objects directly below it.”

  Ricci ran a hand back through his hair.

  “North end’s the industrial section,” he said. “Bring up a map of the area. I want to see exactly what buildings are over there.”

  Computer keys clicked to his right. Ted gestured to a monitor in front of him.

  “Done,” he said.

  “Sir.” This from another man who had come rushing over from across the trailer a second earlier. “Don’t know if it’s relevant to what we’re seeing here, but we just got word from north sector of some friction between our people and a couple of VKS guards at their checkpoint.”

  “Friction over what?”

  “Russian with lieutenant’s boards arrives in a truck, gets into a snit about showing us his documents, the VKS guards override our security procedures and wave him through. Same kind of thing we’ve been dealing with all week. We’ve already lodged a complaint with VKS command, but I thought you should know.”

  Ricci looked at him.

  “When did it happen?”

  “About ten minutes back.

  Ricci studied the map on the screen. Yes, yes, of course. That fit the M.O. Fit it just perfectly.

  “The cargo-processing facility,” he said, leaning over Ted’s shoulder. “You realize what’s kept in there?”

  Ted craned his head around and stared back at him for a long time before replying, his eyes wide behind his lenses.

  “The ISS module,” he finally said.

  * * *

  TRAP T-2 was another of those ubiquitous acronyms used by weapons and technology designers — the initials here standing for Telepresent Rapid Aiming Platform (Version) T-2.

  As specifically configured for UpLink International, the sixty TRAP T-2s situated around the Cosmodrome consisted of a mix of tripod-mounted VVRS M16 assault rifles and Heckler & Koch MSG semiautomatic shotguns linked via microwave video, fiber-optic umbilical cable, and precision target-acquisition-and-firing software to man-portable control stations with handheld viewfinders and triggering units. The weapons platforms utilized two types of surveillance cameras: a wide-field camera on the tripod, and another on the receiver of the gun that provided a shooter’s-eye perspective through its 9-27X reticular scope. Their video images were transmitted both to the firer and command-and-control centers from which the engagement was being directed.

  In plainest English that would almost certainly have satisfied Ricci, the TRAP T-2s allowed their users to hit their opposition with heavy, accurate fusillades of gunfire from locations that were secure and relatively out of harm’s way, making them ideal for installation defense.

  Following Ricci’s orders to the letter, the Sword remote gun teams in their trailers behind the east perimeter fence waited until they could see the whites of their attackers’ eyes — figuratively speaking — on the displays of their viewfinder/joystick control units before rotating the TRAP T-2’s outside the fence into position, firing off salvos of 70mm smoke, white phosphorous, and CS rounds, while broadcasting a cease-and-desist warning alternately in Russian, English, and Kazakh. They had almost no hope the CS could be used to any effect, as the men in the jeeps were wearing gas masks, but were keeping their fingers crossed that the pyrotechnics would give the attackers pause.

  The air around them bursting with lights and smoke, the line of jeeps slowed but did not stop.

  Hands on their firing controls, the Sword gunners waited tensely to see what would happen next.

  * * *

  Ricci rang Petrov on his hotline before leaving the snoopmobile.

  The space program director sounded in a near-panic. “What is happening? The shooting—”

  “This facility’s under assault, and starting now I intend to conduct its defense per the terms of your original agreement with UpLink. Which means—”

  “Wait a moment — assault from whom? You must tell me—”

  “Which means I want the VKS to stay out of my way inside and outside the Cosmodrome, and allow Sword personnel unrestricted access to all buildings we deem under threat,” Ricci interrupted. “With all due respect, Mr. Petrov, I advise you to make that happen, or the sky just might wind up falling down around your head.”

  * * *

  As had been the case with the warehouse penetration in Brazil, the invaders gained access to the cargo-processing facility through a rear loading-bay door. What was different as Kuhl and his men went in now was that every alarm, door lock, piece of audio/visual surveillance equipment, computer — everything, everything that contained wires and circuits and fed off electrical current, including the light fixtures and air conditioners — had been neutralized. And because the precise calibration of Ilkanovitch’s device had disrupted rather than destroyed the power and computer grids, most if not all of the systems would reactivate within several minutes to half an hour, leaving the intrusion undiscovered. Convinced someone was determined to halt the space station program by the Orion explosion and subsequent attack on the Brazilian ISS facility, the Russian and American defenders of the Cosmodrome would repel the decoy strike force at the east gate and congratulate themselves on having saved the launch vehicle.

  Never would they guess that its successful launch always had been Harlan DeVane’s intention. That the attacks and sabotage had been both cover for his actual plan to send Havoc into orbit aboard the ISS, and a means by which Roger Gordian’s resources could be needlessly squandered, his political ties in Russia and Brazil frayed, his spreading operations in Latin America weakened and destabilized.

  Their FAMAS guns shouldered, optical display helmets and visors covering their faces, Kuhl’s team made their way through the ruler-straight corridor leading to the room in which the space station module was housed, following an interior plan they had long ago committed to memory. The Havoc device and antenna in Kuhl’s backpack weighed only twenty pounds, and was the approximate size of a portable stereo. Planted discreetly aboard the boxcar-sized space-station module, it would not be detected by the engineers who transported the module to its launch vehicle, or the cosmonauts responsible for its linkup to the orbital space station. Once having accomplished the connection, the Russians were scheduled to return to Earth, and there would be several weeks before the first permanent crew was sent aboard, by which time DeVane would have accomplished his blackmail of Russia and the United States. Only the checkout engineers might have noticed it prelaunch — and their final inspection had been conducted the day
before.

  There was, Kuhl thought, an exquisite symmetry to it all.

  Antonio and the others close behind him, he raced forward, pushed through a door in the corridor that was supposed to be electronically locked, and glided effortlessly through another. Speed was of the essence. Though Havoc could be connected to the solar arrays in minutes, the task had to be executed, and his team’s exit from the building accomplished, before power returned to reveal the intrusion.

  Kuhl moved swiftly toward one final door, gripped its handle, and pushed it open.

  The ISS module was directly in front of him on a large palletized staging work stand.

  Despite his need for haste, Kuhl paused in the doorway for the barest instant, feeling a surge of momentous achievement.

  Then he moved forward, Antonio and the others entering at his heels, coming up to stand beside him.

  “Halt right where you are, all of you,” a voice abruptly said from his right. “Another step and we’ll blow your brains out.”

  * * *

  Ricci held his VVRS rifle out at waist level, aiming it at the man with the backpack, eyeing him steadily through his NVGs. Beside him along the right side of the room, their own rifles angled toward the door, were half a dozen Sword ops also equipped with goggles. On the left were an equal number of men.

  “Drop your weapons,” he said. “I hope you understand English, because you’ve got exactly three seconds before we open fire.”

  The men in the entryway did not move.

  “Two,” Ricci said.

  His front teeth clicking together, Kuhl turned toward Antonio. It would be a pity to lose the men who were with him, but there was no choice.

  “We fight,” he whispered. Lying to Antonio as he had lied to the perimeter assault team. “To the end. ”

  * * *

  With a quicksilver movement, Antonio brought his gun up and pivoted toward Ricci, but Ricci took him down with a staccato burst to his midsection before he could release a shot.

  The momentary distraction was all Kuhl had desired.

  As the remaining members of his team split the darkness with automatic fire, he spun on his heels, thrust his arm out at the door that would return him to the outer hall, and pushed it open.