by Tom Clancy
Clark grunted and nodded, making a further note. Training was so hard here that the occasional injury was inevitable—and John well remembered the aphorism that drills were supposed to be bloodless combat, and combat supposed to be bloody drills. It was fundamentally a good thing that his troops worked as hard in practice as they did in the real thing—it said a lot for their morale, and just as much for their professionalism, that they took every aspect of life in Rainbow that seriously. Since Sam Houston was a long-rifleman, he really was about seventy percent mission-capable, and George Tomlinson, strained tendon and all, was still doing his morning runs, gutting it out as an elite trooper should.
“Intel?” John turned to Bill Tawney.
“Nothing special to report,” the Secret Intelligence Service officer replied. “We know that there are terrorists still alive, and the various police forces are still doing their investigations to dig them out, but it’s not an easy job, and nothing promising appears to be underway, but . . .” But one couldn’t predict a break in a case. Everyone around the table knew that. This very evening someone of the class of Carlos himself could be pulled over for running a stop sign and be recognized by some rookie cop and snapped up, but you couldn’t plan for random events. There were still over a hundred known terrorists living somewhere in Europe probably, just like Ernst Model and Hans Fürchtner, but they’d learned a not-very-hard lesson about keeping a low profile, adopting a simple disguise, and keeping out of trouble. They had to make some greater or lesser mistake to be noticed, and the ones who made dumb mistakes were long since dead or imprisoned.
“How about cooperation with the local police agencies?” Alistair Stanley asked.
“We keep speaking with them, and the Bern and Vienna missions have been very good press for us. Wherever something happens, we can expect to be summoned swiftly.”
“Mobility?” John asked next.
“That’s me, I guess,” Lieutenant Colonel Malloy responded. “It’s working out well with the 1st Special Operations Wing. They’re letting me keep the Night Hawk for the time being, and I’ve got enough time on the British Puma that I’m current in it. If we have to go, I’m ready to go. I can get MC-130 tanker support if I need it for a long deployment, but as a practical matter I can be just about anywhere in Europe in eight hours in my Sikorsky, with or without tanker support. Operational side, I’m comfortable with things. The troops here are as good as any I’ve seen, and we work well together. The only thing that worries me is the lack of a medical team.”
“We’ve thought about that. Dr. Bellow is our doc, and you’re up to speed on trauma, right, doc?” Clark asked.
“Fairly well, but I’m not as good as a real trauma surgeon. Also, when we deploy, we can get local paramedics to help out from police and fire services on the scene.”
“We did it better at Fort Bragg,” Malloy observed. “I know all our shooters are trained in emergency-response care, but a properly trained medical corpsman is a nice thing to have around. Doctor Bellow’s only got two hands,” the pilot noted. “And he can only be in one place at a time.”
“When we deploy,” Stanley said, “we do a routine call-up to the nearest local casualty hospital. So far we’ve had good cooperation.”
“Okay, guys, but I’m the one who has to transport the wounded. I’ve been doing it for a long time, and I think we could do it a little better. I recommend a drill for that. We should practice it regularly.”
That wasn’t a bad idea, Clark thought. “Duly noted, Malloy. Al, let’s do that in the next few days.”
“Agreed,” Stanley responded with a nod.
“The hard part is simulating injuries,” Dr. Bellow told them. “There’s just no substitute for the real thing, but we can’t put our people in the emergency room. It’s too time-wasteful, and they won’t see the right kind of injuries there.”
“We’ve had this problem for years,” Peter Covington said. “You can teach the procedures, but practical experience is too difficult to come by—”
“Yeah, unless we move the outfit to Detroit,” Chavez quipped. “Look, guys, we all know the right first-aid stuff, and Doctor Bellow is a doc. There’s only so much we have time to train for, and the primary mission is paramount, isn’t it? We get there and do the job, and that minimizes the number of wounds, doesn’t it?” Except to the bad guys, he didn’t add, and nobody really cared about them, and you couldn’t treat three 10-mm bullets in the head, even at Walter Reed. “I like the idea of training to evac wounded. Fine, we can do that, and practice first-aid stuff, but can we realistically go farther than that? I don’t see how.”
“Comments?” Clark asked. He didn’t see much past that, either.
“Chavez is correct . . . but you’re never fully prepared or fully trained,” Malloy pointed out. “No matter how much you work, the bad guys always find a way to dump something new on you. Anyway, in Delta we deploy with a full medical-response team, trained corpsmen—experts, used to trauma care. Maybe we can’t afford to do that here, but that’s how we did it at Fort Bragg.”
“We’ll just have to depend on local support for that,” Clark said, closing the issue. “This place can’t afford to grow that much. I don’t have the funding.”
And that’s the magic word in this business, Malloy didn’t have to add. The meeting broke up a few minutes later, and with it the working day ended. Dan Malloy had grown accustomed to the local tradition of closing out a day at the club, where the beer was good and the company cordial. Ten minutes later, he was hoisting a jar with Chavez. This little greaser, he thought, really had his shit together.
“That call you made in Vienna was pretty good, Ding.”
“Thanks, Dan.” Chavez took a sip. “Didn’t have much of a choice, though. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Yep, that’s a fact,” the Marine agreed.
“You think we’re thin on the medical side . . . so do I, but so far that hasn’t been a problem.”
“So far you’ve been lucky, my boy.”
“Yeah, I know. We haven’t been up against any crazy ones yet.”
“They’re out there, the real sociopathic personalities, the ones who don’t care a rat’s ass about anything at all. Well, truth is, I haven’t seen any of them either except on TV. I keep coming back to the Ma’alot thing, in Israel twenty-plus years ago. Those fuckers wasted little kids just to show how tough they were—and remember what happened a while back with the President’s little girl. She was damned lucky that FBI guy was there. I wouldn’t mind buying that guy a beer.”
“Good shooting,” Chavez agreed. “Better yet, good timing. I read up on how he handled it—talking to them and all, being patient, waiting to make his move, then taking it when he got it.”
“He lectured at Bragg, but I was traveling that day. Saw the tape. The boys said he can shoot a pistol as well as anybody on the team—but better yet, he was smart.”
“Smart counts,” Chavez agreed, finishing his beer. “I gotta go fix dinner.”
“Say again?”
“My wife’s a doc, gets home in an hour or so, and it’s my turn to do dinner.”
A raised eyebrow: “Nice to see you’re properly trained, Chavez.”
“I am secure in my masculinity,” Domingo assured the aviator and headed for the door.
Andre worked late that night. Worldpark stayed open until 2300 hours, and the shops remained open longer than that, because even so huge a place as Worldpark couldn’t waste the chance to earn a few extra copper coins from the masses for the cheap, worthless souvenirs they sold, to be clutched in the greedy hands of little children, often nearly asleep in the arms of their weary parents. He watched the process impassively, the way so many people waited until the very last ride on the mechanical contrivances, and only then, with the chains in place and after the good-bye waves of the ride operators, did they finally turn and shuffle their way to the gates, taking every opportunity to stop and enter the shops, where the clerks
smiled tiredly and were as helpful as they’d been taught to be at the Worldpark University. And then when, finally, all had left, the shops were closed, and the registers emptied, and under the eyes of Andre and his fellow security staff, the cash was taken off to the counting room. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, part of his current job, but he tagged along anyway, following the three clerks from the Matador shop, out onto the main street, then into an alleyway, through some blank wooden doors, and down the steps to the underground, the concrete corridors that bustled with electric carts and employees during the day, now empty except for employees heading to dressing rooms to change into their street clothes. The counting room was in the very center, almost under the castle itself. There the cash was handed over, each bag labeled for its point of origin. The coins were dumped into a bin, where they were separated by nationality and denomination and counted, wrapped, and labeled for transport to the bank. The paper currency, already bundled by currency and denomination was . . . weighed. The first time he’d seen it, it had amazed him, but delicate scales actually weighed it—there, one point zero-six-one-five kilos of hundred-mark German notes. Two point six-three-seven-zero kilos of five-pound British ones. The corresponding amount was flashed on the electronic screen, and the notes were whisked off for wrapping. Here the security officers carried weapons, Astra pistols, because the total amount of the currency for the day was—the master tally display said £11,567,309.35 . . . all used cash, the very best sort, in all denominations. It all fit into six large canvas bags that were placed on a four-wheeled cart for transport out the back of the underground into an armored car with a police escort for transport to the central branch of the local bank, still open this time of day for a deposit of this magnitude. Eleven million British pounds in cash—this place took in billions per year in cash, Andre thought tiredly.
“Excuse me,” he said to his security supervisor. “Have I broken any rules by coming here?”
A chuckle: “No, everyone comes down sooner or later to see. That’s why the windows are here.”
“Is it not dangerous?”
“I think not. The windows are thick, as you see, and security inside the counting room is very strict.”
“Mon dieu, all that money—what if someone should try to steal it?”
“The truck is armored, and it has a police escort, two cars, four men each, all heavily armed.” And those would be only the obvious watchers, Andre thought. There would be others, not so close, and not so obvious, but equally well armed. “We were initially concerned that the Basque terrorists might try to steal the money—this much cash could finance their operations for years—but the threat has not developed, and besides, you know what becomes of all this cash?”
“Why not fly the money to the bank on a helicopter?” Andre asked.
The security supervisor yawned. “Too expensive.” “So, what becomes of the cash?”
“Much of it comes right back to us, of course.”
“Oh.” Andre thought for a moment. “Yes, it must, mustn’t it?”
Worldpark was largely a cash business, because so many people still preferred to pay for things that way, despite the advent of credit cards, which the park was just as pleased to use, and despite the ability of guests to charge everything to their hotel-room accounts—instructions for which were printed on every plastic card-key in the language of the individual guest.
“I wager we use the same five-pound British note fifteen times before it’s too worn and has to be sent to London for destruction and replacement.”
“I see,” Andre said with a nod. “So, we deposit, and then we withdraw from our own account just to make change for our guests. How much cash do we keep on hand, then?”
“For change purposes?” A shrug. “Oh, two or three million at minimum—British pounds, that is. To keep track of it all, we have those computers.” He pointed.
“Amazing place,” Andre observed, actually meaning it. He nodded at his supervisor and headed off to punch his time card and change. It had been a good day. His wanderings had confirmed his previous observations of the park. He now knew how to plan the mission, and how to accomplish it. Next he had to bring in his colleagues and show them the plan, after which came the execution. Forty minutes later, he was in his flat, drinking some Burgundy and thinking everything through. He’d been the plans and operations officer for Action Directe for over a decade—he’d planned and executed a total of eleven murders. This mission, however, would be by far the grandest of all, perhaps the culmination of his career, and he had to think it all through. Affixed to the wall of his flat was a map of Worldpark, and his eyes wandered over it, back and forth. Way-in, way-out. Possible routes of access by the police. Ways to counter them. Where to place his own security personnel. Where to take the hostages. Where to keep them. How to get everyone out. Andre kept going over it, again and again, looking for weaknesses, looking for mistakes. The Spanish national police, the Guardia Civil, would respond to this mission. They were to be taken with respect, despite their comical hats. They’d been fighting the Basques for a generation, and they’d learned. They doubtless had an arrangement with Worldpark already, because this was too obvious a target for terr—for progressive elements, Andre corrected himself. Police were not to be taken lightly. They’d almost killed or arrested him twice in France, but both of those occasions were because he’d made obvious mistakes, and he’d learned from both of them. No, not this time. He’d keep them at bay this time by his choice of hostages, and by showing his willingness to use them to his political ends, and as tough as the Guardia Civil might be, they would quail before that demonstration of resolve, because tough as they were, they were vulnerable to bourgeois sentimentality, just as all like them were. It was the purity of his purpose that gave him the edge, and he’d hold on to that, and he would achieve his objective, or many would die, and neither the government of Spain nor France could stand up to that. The plan was nearly ready. He lifted his phone and made an international call.
Pete came back early in the evening. His face was pale now, and he was even more listless, but also uncomfortable, judging from the pained way in which he moved.
“How you feeling?” Dr. Killgore asked cheerily.
“Stomach is real bad, doc, right here,” Pete said, pointing with his finger.
“Still bothering you, eh? Well, okay, why don’t you lie down here and we’ll check you out,” the physician said, donning mask and gloves. The physical examination was cursory, but unnecessary for all that. Pete, like Chester before him, was dying, though he didn’t know it yet. The heroin had done a good job of suppressing his discomfort, removing the pain and replacing it with chemical nirvana. Killgore carefully took another blood sample for later microscopy.
“Well, partner, I think we just have to wait this one out. But let me give you a shot to ease the pain, okay?”
“Sure thing, doc. The last one worked pretty good.”
Killgore filled another plastic syringe and injected the heroin into the same vein as before. He watched Pete’s brown eyes go wide with the initial rush, then droop as the pain went away, to be replaced with a lethargy so deep that he could almost have done major surgery on the spot without getting a rise from the poor bastard.
“How are the rest of the guys, Pete?”
“Okay, but Charlie is bitching about his stomach, something he ate, I guess.”
“Oh, yeah? Maybe I’ll see him, too,” Killgore thought. So, number three will be in here tomorrow, probably. The timing was just about right. After Chester’s earlier-than-expected symptoms, the rest of the group was right on the predicted timeline. Good.
More telephone calls were made, and by early morning, people rented cars with false IDs, drove in pairs or singly south from France to Spain, and were waved through the cursory border checkpoints, usually with a friendly smile. Various travel agents made the necessary reservations at park hotels, all mid-level, and linked to the park by monorail or train, the stations right in the
shop-filled hotel lobbies, so that the guests wouldn’t get lost.
The highways to the park were wide and comfortable to drive on, and the signs easy to follow even for those who didn’t speak Spanish. About the only hazards were the huge tourist buses, which moved along at over 150 kilometers per hour, like land-bound ocean liners, their windows full of people, many of them children who waved down at the drivers of the passenger cars. The drivers waved back with smiles of their own, and allowed the buses to plow on, exceeding the speed limit as though it were their right to do so, which the car drivers didn’t want to risk. They had plenty of time. They’d planned their mission that way.
Tomlinson reached down to his left leg and grimaced. Chavez dropped back from the morning run to make sure he was okay.
“Still hurts?”
“Like a son of a bitch,” Sergeant Tomlinson confirmed.
“So go easier on it, you dumb bastard. The Achilles is a bad thing to hurt.”
“Just found that one out, Ding.” Tomlinson slowed down to a walk, still favoring the left leg after running over two miles on it. His breathing was far heavier than usual, but pain was always a bad thing for the endurance.
“See Doc Bellow?”
“Yeah, but ain’t nothing he can do ’cept let it heal, he says.”
“So, let it heal. That’s an order, George. No more running until it stops hurting so much. ’Kay?”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Tomlinson agreed. “I can still deploy if you need me.”
“I know that, George. See you in the shooting house.”
“Right.” Tomlinson watched his leader speed up to rejoin the rest of Team-2. It hurt his pride that he wasn’t keeping up. He’d never allowed any sort of injury to slow him down—in Delta Force he’d kept up with the training despite two broken ribs, hadn’t even told the medics about it for fear of being thought a pussy by the rest of his team. But while you could conceal and gut out bad ribs, a stretched tendon was something you couldn’t run on—the pain was just so bad that the leg stopped working right, and it was hard to stand up straight. Damn, the soldier thought, can’t let the rest of the team down. He’d never been second-best in anything in his life, back to Little League baseball, where he’d played shortstop. But today instead of running the rest of the way, he walked, trying to maintain a military one-hundred-twenty steps per minute, and even that hurt, but not enough to make him stop. Team-1 was out running also, and they went past him, even Sam Houston with his bad knee, limping as he ran past with a wave. The pride in this unit was really something. Tomlinson had been a special-ops trooper for six years, a former Green Beret drafted into Delta, now almost a college graduate with a major in psychology—that was the field special-ops people tended to adopt for some reason or other—and was trying to figure out how to complete his studies in England, where the universities worked differently, and where it was a little unusual for enlisted soldiers to have parchment degrees. But in Delta they often sat around and talked about the terrorists they were supposed to deal with, what made them tick, because in understanding that came the ability to predict their actions and weaknesses—the easier to kill them, which was the job, after all. Strangely, he’d never done a takedown in the field before coming here, and stranger still, the experience hadn’t been at all different from training. You played as you practiced, the sergeant thought, just like they’d told him every step of the way since basic training at Fort Knox eleven years before. Damn, his lower leg was still on fire, but less so than it had been in the run. Well, the doc had told him at least a week, more likely two, before he’d be fully mission-capable again, all because he’d hit a curb the wrong way, not looking, like a damned fool. At least Houston had an excuse for his knee. Zip-lining could be dangerous, and everybody slipped once in a while—in his case landing on a rock, which must have hurt like a bastard. . . . But Sam wasn’t a quitter either, Tomlinson told himself, hobbling forward toward the shooting house.
