War of Eagles o-12

by Tom Clancy

  “More of Tam Li’s men are coming!” she cried. “My father just warned us about it—”

  As she spoke, the helicopters that had been circling the perimeter converged overhead.

  “Get away!” Hood yelled, motioning her back. “We’ll deal with this!”

  Anita hesitated.

  “Go!” he shouted. This was something else he did not need to worry about. Not now.

  Anita got back in the car, but she did not leave. The driver pulled up beside the large equipment bay.

  Hood looked back at the marines. He pointed up and shouted, “Bad guys!”

  The marine leader nodded and directed his people to stay back, under cover. They took up positions behind large wheels that controlled the flow of coolant to the rocket. A system of hoses was designed to keep the booster and its mechanisms from being affected by the intense heat of ignition. The external hoses were released at launch. The remaining liquid raced through the rocket, turning to steam and being vented as the rocket rose.

  Hood crouched beside the clamp as the marine leader continued running toward him. A slight overhang of metal from the clamp afforded Hood some protection overhead. Huge fuel lines stacked along the pad protected him in front. Fortunately, the helicopter could not come much lower. Between the pipes and the transformer there was not enough room to accommodate the rotor radius.

  As he waited for the marine to move confidently along the coolant pipes, Hood felt a flash of anger — at himself. This was not the trade Hood was supposed to be practicing. This was not like a natural disaster or terrorist attack where bystanders pitched in. Hood had put himself in this position. Twice before he had been in situations like this, once in the Middle East where an Op-Center team was missing, and once when he rescued his daughter from UN hostagetakers. In both cases he had strong personal reasons for being there. Not now. He was a bureaucrat, not a soldier. He should be back at the White House drinking coffee in an air-conditioned office with CNN reporting on what other crazy damn souls were doing.

  This was stupid. Worse than that, it was irresponsible. His presence could be a burden to the process, a distraction to the marines. It had already drawn Anita here, risking her life.

  The marine arrived, ready to work.

  Kick yourself later, Hood told himself. Right or wrong, he was here in the thick of this.

  “Do you have weapons?” Hood asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the marine said as he threw off his lab coat. He pulled an M-9 semiautomatic from a holster under his left armpit. “It doesn’t have the kind of reach they’ve got up there. We need them a lot closer before it’ll do any damage. But, sir, we have worse problems.”

  “How can it be worse?”

  “I just heard from General Rodgers. The bomb is in here, sir.” The marine rapped his knuckles on the clamp.

  Hood swore.

  “Exactly, sir,” the marine said.

  Bullets pinged above them. The marine pushed Hood down slightly. Hood felt his age under the kid’s firm hands.

  “Does Rodgers know anything else?” Hood asked.

  “Nothing helpful,” the marine went on. “According to what the general gleaned from his prisoner — and this makes sense — the explosive has a double-jeopardy trigger. It blows either when the clamp lifts or when the timer hits zero. If the bomb detonates, the clamp will most likely be destroyed, the rocket will fall over, and the fuel will be ignited by the fire from the bomb.”

  “Same result.”

  “Yes, sir.’

  “In nine minutes?” Hood said, glancing at his watch.

  “My timer gives us seven, sir,” the young man replied with unflappable Marine-bred directness. “The problem is, sir, even if we had the tools, I do not know that we can get to the device in time. Cutting through the clamp will take longer than we have. General Rodgers said he is standing by to help, as are Chinese security forces. Unfortunately, the men with the guns are all on Tam Li’s side.”

  “Of course they are,” Hood said bitterly.

  They built the goddamn bomb into the clamp, Hood thought. It was smart and devious and well-planned.

  Gunfire chattered from the helicopters. The gunmen were not at a good angle to hit Hood or the marine. In addition to the overhang, the gantry and various pipes impeded their view. He found himself wondering which would be the better way to die: shot or incinerated. There was something surreal about the calm with which he asked himself that question.

  “Cutting through them,” Hood muttered, repeating what the marine had said.

  “Sir?”

  Hood glanced behind him. The rocket loomed, the boosters almost overhead. Each opening was the diameter of a good-sized swimming pool. “What if we could actually do that?”

  “How, sir?”

  “I watched all the Gemini and Apollo missions as a kid. Sometimes those rockets would flame and not take off. What if we did that?”

  “Turn on the boosters and melt our way through?”

  “Right. We can ignite the thrusters without lifting the clamps, give them a good frying, then shut the rocket down.”

  “If we weaken them, the rocket would fall over anyway,” the marine pointed out.

  “That in itself probably would not cause the plutonium cell to be destroyed,” Hood suggested.

  “True. And the heat might be enough to slag the bomb,” the Marine said.

  “That’s what I am hoping,” Hood said.

  “Sir, it is a chance.”

  “Alert General Rodgers and have him pass that along to the launch crew,” Hood said. “Then help me figure a way to get us out of here.”

  The marine input the text message to Rodgers. He was poised and focused as bullets chewed at the concrete several feet away, spitting splinters at the two men. He was an inspiration to Hood, who was squatting to the man’s left, slightly behind him. Hood had not noticed until now that the marine had positioned himself almost directly between the helicopter and Hood.

  “General Rodgers is phoning the information to one of the English-speaking scientists here,” the marine said.

  Hood nodded. His legs were beginning to cramp, but he dared not move. Not until he had to. He looked to his right at Anita’s car, which was still near the heavily reinforced equipment shed about three hundred yards behind them. He could not understand why she was just sitting there. He waved for her to go. The windows were darkly tinted, and he could not tell whether she had seen him.

  The marine’s wristwatch flashed. He read the incoming message.

  “The Chinese agree with the plan and are undertaking an expedited countdown,” the young man said.

  “Which means we have to get the hell out of here,” Hood said.

  “Affirmative, sir. They’re lighting them up in three minutes.”

  Hood was looking ahead, trying to figure out how to get from their position to anywhere else. There was nothing that did not cross exposed spaces. The choppers were moving lower and converging. Their shots were coming at a different angle but still falling short of the spot below the clamp.

  “Do you think they know what mission control is planning?” the marine asked.

  “Doubtful. They would have been cut from the comm loop as soon as they showed their hand.”

  Either way, it was not good for Hood, his partner, or Anita. In two minutes they would be under cryogenic propellant that was fired to a temperature of five thousand degrees.

  Hood was scared now. He was aware of each breath, every heartbeat, all the perspiration that was running from his temples and armpits. He wanted it all to continue. He did not want this complex symphony of the taken-forgranted to end.

  “Thoughts?” Hood asked.

  “Only one, sir. The car.”

  “Forget it. I am not going to ask the prime minister’s daughter to drive through the gunfire—”

  “I’ve just watched the vehicle take multiple hits, sir,” the marine told him. “I think it’s armored.”

  Son of a bitch. Hood gla
nced at the black sedan. The marine was right. Of course the vehicle was heavily protected. That was the car that traveled with the Chinese prime minister.

  Suddenly, the sedan revved its engine and sped toward them. Anita must have heard from her father what was being planned. Hood was certain that the prime minister had told her to leave. Hood also did not doubt that she was going to try to give them a way out.

  Hood watched anxiously as bullets flashed off the roof and hood. They dented the metal but did not go through it. White scrapes appeared on the windows as gunfire skidded across the dark surfaces. One of the choppers moved in lower. It evidently intended to try to pick off the men when they tried to get into the car.

  Behind them, steam began hissing from vents in the rocket as coolant was pumped through thick capillaries in the metal skin.

  The car stopped about twenty feet beyond the clamp, at a point where the coolant pipes turned away from the launchpad. The passenger’s side was facing the two men. The door opened.

  “Come on!” Anita yelled.

  The marine rose and peered over the topmost coolant pipe. He looked out and began typing a text message.

  “We have to run for it,” Hood said.

  “You’ll never clear that open space,” the marine told him. “Give me another few seconds.”

  “These idiots may hit the rocket,” Hood said. “They’re shooting wild—”

  “They won’t. The fireball would catch them, too.”

  The kid was right. The chopper descended and fired more carefully on their position. Hood felt foolish as the men dropped back behind the pipes. The marine had a grasp of the obvious that Hood had somehow lost or misplaced. That was the problem with having a head too full of experience. Information was something you kicked around behind a desk. In the field, it obscured instinct and wisdom.

  Fortunately, Hood did not dwell on his failings. The clang of the bullets on the metal was unnerving. The marine finished typing his message, then sent it to the other members of his team.

  Suddenly they heard the drumbeat of coordinated fire from the other side of the sedan.

  “Are the choppers within range?” Hood asked.

  “No. They won’t be able to get any lower.”

  “Then what are your guys firing at?” Hood asked.

  “Just be ready to follow me,” the marine said as he moved into a crouching position facing the car.

  Hood turned and looked over the marine’s shoulder. He looked past the sedan at the blast shield where it had been parked a minute before. Flashes were sparking off the transformer — one bullet after another in the same spot. Finally one of them punched through the gas tank and another followed it through. The hot shells ignited the fuel and caused a small blast that sent smoky plumes of dark smoke rolling upward.

  “Follow me,” the marine said.

  The young man rose, his shoulders hunched low, and moved to the edge of the pipes. Hood followed him. They stopped just a few feet from the car. As the smoke continued to blanket the area, the marine put his left arm around Hood’s shoulders. He pulled him close, shielding Hood with his own body.

  “On my word we run for the car,” the marine told him.

  The gunfire thinned as the smoke obscured the launchpad. Hood felt himself being ushered forward, even as the marine shouted, “Now!”

  The two ran toward the car. Bullets pierced the thick cloud as they crossed the open space between their makeshift sanctuary and the car. It was only six or seven yards, but each step seemed like a long flight of stairs. Smoke and fear took Hood’s breath away as they ran ahead. As the smoke thickened, the driver beeped his horn to give them a beacon. Hood could hear the delicate whiz of gunfire and the jazzlike beat it produced as it struck metal and pavement. When they reached the car, Hood was shoved forward onto the leather seat. He scrambled across to make room for the marine. The young man literally dove in after him.

  “Go!” the marine shouted as he turned and pulled the door shut.

  “Is there anyone else we need to pick up?” Anita asked.

  “No,” the marine replied. “I told my coworkers to head for the command bunker once we were rescued.”

  Hood looked at the young man as the car sped off. “Are you all right?”

  “Intact, sir,” the marine said.

  Anita turned and regarded the young man. “You are not a scientist,” she declared.

  The marine put the gun in its holster. He did not answer. He looked out the window at the retreating launchpad.

  “Who are you?” Anita demanded.

  Hood responded. “He’s just a man who may have helped save your space complex and your father’s government.” Hood smiled. “Speaking of saving, thanks for pulling us out of there.”

  Anita looked at Hood. Gunfire continued to hit the car. Depending on the angle, the shots rang like a bell or sounded like a cat scratching. The sedan left the asphalt and began racing across the field that separated the launchpad from the Technical Center. The rutted ground caused the car to bump and rattle. The high, rigid grasses sounded like steel wool along the chassis. But all of the sounds, all thought and lingering questions, vanished when the booster lit up. It was about three quarters of a mile behind them. Hood heard a deep blast, then felt the car tremble. Everything from the license plates to the seat belts rattled, like teeth. The vehicle was literally bumped forward, skidding slightly as a shock wave hit the car. The invisible fist rolled over the roof and rattled the grasses in front of them. The air itself was distorted as the hot wind blew through.

  Hood and the marine turned. The helicopters went into retreat as opaque, lumpy waves of gray-and-white smoke spilled from the bottom of the rocket. The rocket towered above the flat countryside, stark against the distant mountains. It was quickly obscured as thick clouds crawled in all directions. The smoke all but smothered the red orange flames that flashed deep within. A second wave of air rushed toward them, superheated gas from the postignition burn. The air in the car quickly grew very hot. The smell of melting rubber filled the interior as the seams around the windows softened.

  “What is the time frame?” Anita asked anxiously.

  “You mean, when do we know if we’ve succeeded?” Hood asked.

  “We are twenty seconds from what should have been liftoff,” the marine answered. He was looking at the digital numbers on his watch.

  Hood was impressed that he was professional enough to do that. Though he realized, of course, that they would know soon enough how things were going. If the clamp blew up, they had failed.

  It occurred to Hood that these could be the last moments of his life. Even if the clamp were destroyed, and the bomb with it, the rocket could still fall over. If it did, the size of the explosion would depend upon how much fuel remained in the tanks. Dying was bad enough. Dying, knowing that Tam Li had succeeded, even without the explosion, would be worse. Even if the prime minister moved to have him arrested, there were powerful elements in the government that would back the general, men who wanted a final showdown with Taiwan.

  The clamps and most of the rocket were entirely obscured by the thickening exhaust. The rumbling roar was all around as the engines strained to carry their payload aloft.

  “The first-stage rockets only have another fifteen seconds of burn in them,” the marine said. “They’re going to shut off at approximately the moment the bomb would probably go off.”

  “Probably?” Anita said.

  “The bomber does not benefit if it explodes after the rocket has lifted off,” the marine informed her.

  Hood was only half-listening to the exchange. Once again, he was impressed with the marine’s clear-headed reasoning and the pertinent facts he had picked up during his tenure. Though it also made Hood sad. Unlike Op-Center’s late Striker force, this man had enjoyed some prep time before going on his mission, as well as time to reconnoiter on the ground. That made a great deal of difference.

  “Five seconds,” the marine announced, looking at his wrist
watch.

  The smoke was now black and gray. More than the fuel was burning. The pipes they had been hiding behind were probably gone. There was a small red-and-yellow flash from the area of the transformer. The intense heat must have destroyed everything behind the blast shield.

  The car continued to bounce across the field. It was sweltering and extremely stuffy inside, but they did not dare open the windows. Though the helicopters appeared to have left, the car would still afford them some protection from any shrapnel that might come flying off the rocket.

  The marine lowered his wrist. “Zero,” he said.

  A moment later the rumbling stopped. The only sounds were the thumping of the car as it raced across the final stretch of the field. The smoke dissipated slowly, and the rocket was visible wherever the sunlight found its white skin.

  “Oh, shit,” Hood said.

  It was an involuntary remark, uttered as he watched flames claw at the base of the rocket. The bomb had not exploded. They had apparently succeeded in melting the device. But smoke was curling from behind every plate and rivet as fire crawled up the depleted booster. Whatever was under the exterior skin was burning: tubing, electronics, everything flammable.

  It was making its way to the second stage.

  A stage that was fueled.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Xichang, China Thursday, 12:02 P.M.

  “Purge the second-stage fuel!”

  Prime Minister Le Kwan Po was sitting at a communications console in a private room of the Technical Center. He had declined an offer to be evacuated. He wanted to see this through. And his daughter was still out there.

  Five crews were quickly mobilized. Through a headset, he was listening to the conversation taking place at the command center. The discussion was between the mission director and the chief of launch operations. Because of the expedited countdown, technicians had not been able to fully drain the fuel from the upper stage before the hoses were burned. The director’s command was unequivocal, but the CLO had reservations. A color monitor in the console showed the burning rocket. A pair of technicians were sitting on either side of the prime minister. One of them was on the telephone with an observation tower near the front gate.