October's Ghost (52 page)

“Thanks,” Testra said, reaching to drop the van into gear.

“Hold it, Chris.” Sanz pointed through the windshield to the fence—more specifically to a sign on the fence. “You know, it might be kinda fun.”

Testra turned to the guard. “Hey. Mind if we borrow that for a while?”

No questions, the guard remembered. That also implied no arguments. “Be my guest.”

*  *  *

The Agency Learjet landed at the Cape just after a vaguely similar aircraft bearing the markings of the United States Navy. Both taxied to a seldom-used tarmac south of the single runway and stopped a hundred feet apart. A white van with two men standing in front of it was waiting in the same area. In less than a minute the passengers of both jets and the men at the van were standing together.

“I’m Greg Drummond, Deputy Director, Intelligence, of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Sanz nudged his partner.

“Yes, the CIA,” Drummond confirmed, noticing the gesture. “You must be agents Testra and Sanz.”

The two Miami agents shook the DDI’s hand and those of the other two people.

“Art Jefferson, L.A. office. This is Frankie Aguirre.”

“Hi,” Frankie said, nodding to the Miami representatives of the Bureau.

“Well, we have some bad guys to nail,” Drummond said. “We need the same thing from both of them. You two”—the DDI pointed at Testra and Sanz—“will take the real bad boys into custody once we have the evidence we need. Jefferson and Aguirre here will get what I need from the second target But
I
will handle him. None of you are to be involved with that. Clear?”

They all nodded.

“Jefferson, you have the tape?”

“Right here,” Art said. “And something to play it on.”

“Good.” He looked to the Miami agents. “And I trust you have the equipment we need?”

“Right here,” Sanz said, touching the hard case on the ground with his foot.

Greg Drummond smiled, feeling an anticipation he hadn’t felt for a very long time. “Good. This is what we’re going to do.”

*  *  *

The Pave Hawk backed out of its final tanking twenty-five miles off the coast and turned north, heading for the beach southeast of Cienfuegos.

“Major, Raptor on the radio.”

“Switch me over,” Sean said. He left his black titanium helmet on his lap, next to the MP5SD4, and pushed the boom mic against his lips. “Raptor, this is Gambler. Go ahead.”

“Gambler, we have a thumbs-up from Toolbox.” It was Colonel Cadler, twenty miles west in the AC-130U. The drawl was unmistakable, even after traveling more than forty thousand miles through space. He would be acting as the central coordinator of air and land actions for the operation about to begin.

“Roger, Raptor. We’ll be feet dry in fifteen.”

“Sandman shows a clear air plot. You and me are the only things flying.”

“Roger that, Raptor. Glad to hear it.”

“Fingers crossed, Gambler.”

“Fingers crossed, sir.” Sean heard the radio switch back to intercom. “Cho, she’s all yours. I’m going on my body mic.”

“Yes, sir, Major. Fingers crossed.”

“You, too.” Sean removed the headset and inserted his radio earpiece before pulling his helmet on. The attached NVGs, flipped upward to allow for unobstructed vision, made his head want to tilt forward. “Mikey. Chuck. Check the SPIE rigs again.”

Antonelli and Makowski had the no-snag duffels containing the SPIE rigs setting between their legs. A steel oval ring, which would attach to the twin connection points under the Pave Hawk, stuck through the cinched opening of each bag. The two troopers tested the spring-loaded safety bar on each oval, letting it snap back after depression several times. A thumbs-up told the major everything was a go.

Joe Anderson, sitting in the middle of the forward-facing bench seat, watched the preparations with mild interest. The nine troopers were readying themselves, checking weapons, cinching straps, testing equipment. They had those things to do. He had just his thoughts to occupy him. Thoughts of another job. Thoughts of his home, his wife. Thoughts of his life. What he had done, what he would miss. He could have let sadness and bitterness envelop him, had it not been for the reality that his sacrifice had saved a lot of lives. He wasn’t a hero for doing it, just as these men didn’t think themselves deserving of accolades, but he, and they, could all take satisfaction in doing a job and doing it well. It might seem simplistic, even insincere, to those who could not understand the motivation to do something, even if dangerous, because it needed to be done, but it was what counted. Success meant the good guys won. To Joe, and to those he proudly joined on this mission, winning was a very private victory.

“You ready, Mr. Anderson?” Sean yelled across the two feet that separated them.

Joe lifted his equipment case and nodded. “Always, Major.”

The noise picked up as the door gunners, one on each side of the Pave Hawk just behind the cockpit, slid their respective windows open and swiveled the pintle-mounted miniguns into the open. The weapons locked into position, and the gunners tested the built-in stops that prevented the guns from rotating too high, lest they inadvertently put a stream of 7.62mm shells into the 230-gallon fuel tanks that hung from the high mounted wings on each side. A low whine emanated from each mount. They were now powered up, ready to fire if need be, just the pressure of their gunner’s finger required.

“Test your LAMs,” Sean ordered. He lowered his NVGs and activated the LAM mounted underneath his MP5SD4’s integral suppressor with a touch to the grip-mounted pressure switch. A beam of infrared light sprayed from the unit, a focused red laser dot in its center. Sean moved it around in the darkened cabin, placing death spots on three of his comrades before he was satisfied that all was working properly. He flipped the NVGs up again and checked his watch. “Five minutes to first stop! Lock and load!”

The nine troopers pulled the loading levers back on their weapons and slid them easily forward, chambering the first round.

“Safety on until we’re swinging, then set on controlled burst!” Sean checked the left side of his weapon, making sure the selector switch was to its top position: safe. He looked left to Buxton. “Move fast, Bux.”

“Like lightning.”

“And keep your head down,” he added, not knowing quite why.

“Then I won’t be able to see all the fun.”

Sean nodded and motioned for the team to switch on their radios. “Test check.” He got eight nods in response. In sequence the other troopers transmitted over the short-range system. “Cho, you got us?”

“Five by five, Major. Two minutes to tippee-toes.”

Sean held up two fingers for Anderson, who did not wear a radio.

Joe saw the victory sign and gave a thumbs-up to the confident gesture. It was nice being among the best of the good guys.

*  *  *

The Communications Vessel
Vertikal
, a former whaler that had taken its share of leviathans from the deep during its previous life, plowed through the mild Atlantic swells at seventeen knots, churning a bright white wake that luminesced in the low moonlight. There was barely any spray over the high bow, even running at her top speed, and the captain of the ship stood confidently just outside the wheelhouse, the thought of wearing a slicker blasphemous on such a warm night.

“Debris in the water, dead ahead,” the lookout reported.

“Where?” the captain asked skeptically. They weren’t supposed to be near the reported site for another hour. Flotsam could not have drifted this direction, nor this distance since the American Coast Guard contacted them.

“There, Captain.”

He scanned the swells, and there it was. The unmistakable blob of orange floating and bobbing on the water. And more. The captain counted ten separate pieces of debris. But of what? And how did it get here? An aircraft going down would not have spread its remnants over twenty nautical miles. Nor would a ship going down. There would be a greater concentration of debris in either case. It was as if it had been spread across the ocean from high above.
Or far below.

But it could not be that.
Or could it?

“Launch the boats. Bring back everything you find. Fast!”

*  *  *

First Lieutenant Duc made his altitude fifty feet as the Pave Hawk skimmed the choppy waters toward the deserted beach near Playa Rancho Luna on the eastern shore of the Bay of Cienfuegos.

“Nothing ahead,” Second Lieutenant Sanders reported. His eyes were focused on the LLTV and the FLIR sensors, both of which stole the darkness from the expanse of white sand that was to be their first stop. The copilot flipped his NVGs, which were specially designed for use by flyers, down and scanned their flight path. Duc had them on a straight run in. Reconnaissance had showed no troops in this immediate area, and any civilian stupid or lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them would have little time to sound a warning. The objective was just minutes from here.

“Here we go, Maj.”

Sean did a quick look around the cabin, his eyes falling upon Anderson last. “See you in a few!”

Joe barely heard the shout. “Don’t mess up my missile!”

The major smiled and gave the signal to open the doors. The chill of an eighty-knot breeze instantly filled the cabin of the Pave Hawk.

“Feet dry,” Duc announced.

Antonelli and Makowski gripped their duffels tighter as the sound of the rotors changed. It became a deep, throaty pulse before the Pave Hawk’s nose flared, slowing the helicopter and reducing altitude.

“Go!” Sean yelled into the radio as they settled at five feet above the sand.

The troopers piled out through both doors, Antonelli and Makowski turning as they hit and going beneath the floating helicopter. They attached the hooks to the fore and aft SPIE connectors respectively and pulled the duffels out from below, Antonelli going to the left with the short rig, and Makowski to the right with the aft rig, which was longer by ten feet.

“Good hooks, troops. Double check.” Sean lined up in a prearranged row with the rest of the entry team: Antonelli, Goldfarb, Lewis, and Quimpo. They attached the paired connectors, one to each shoulder, and made themselves a semi-rigid unit with carefully placed handholds on each others’ web gear. One hand was dedicated to that. The other held their weapons. “Bux?”

“Ready.”

“Safeties off.” Nine selector switches moved down one notch to the controlled burst setting. “Let’s make ‘em pay. Ready, Cho. GO!”

Lieutenant Duc needed no time to ease into the maneuver, which he had practiced countless times and used for real in several tight spots before. He brought his collective up with the helicopter in a hover, lifting Sean’s group first, then, a second later, Buxton’s group clear of the ground. When the latter was thirty feet above the sand, he added more power and nosed the Pave Hawk down, gaining speed and maintaining his altitude. The two groups of Delta troopers, nearly invisible in their coal-black working suits, swayed backward, away from the direction of travel, their HKs held forward in preparation and anticipation.

“Raptor, this is Gambler,” Duc said over the net. “Two minutes out.”

*  *  *

Twenty miles southwest and three thousand feet above his men, Colonel Bill Cadler sat in the soundproof battle management center just behind and below the flight deck of the AC-130U. The middle finger of his right hand slid over the index finger as he counted off the seconds. The required wait dissipated quickly. “Take us in,” he instructed the pilot over the intercom, switching back to the radio net immediately. “Toolbox, this is Raptor. Move on my mark.”

*  *  *

“The fueling is complete,” the beaming officer announced.

General Juan Asunción let out the breath he had been holding for days and leaned on the command center’s console, staring down at the few switches and buttons he would manipulate in but a few hours. Then the vengeance would be wrought. A fitting target the
presidente
had selected, Asunción believed.

“Remove the trucks from...” His head swiveled toward the overhead vent shaft, through which the sound was entering the small structure. “What is Guevarra doing up?” he asked the air. Then the
kind
of sound caught his attention. Guevarra’s craft did not sound like...

“General?” the young officer said, seeing the elder man’s face go pale.

“Damn them!”

*  *  *

The Pave Hawk crossed the perimeter of the plant at ninety knots, Duc maintaining his altitude with only minor adjustments in course to avoid buildings. Ahead, through the NVGs, he saw the cooling towers to the right, and straight to the front the target. “Gambler to Raptor, on target.”

*  *  *

Cadler keyed the mic. “Raptor to Toolbox. Execute.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DONNYBROOK

The eight guards patrolling the perimeter fence on the west turned toward the sound coming from the east. They never heard what came next.

The Kalashnikovs in the tree line burped briefly, felling the eight loyalists with no resistance. Ojeda’s group, divided into three 60-man sections, needed no further signal. They raced toward the fence in staggered columns, their numbers spread out along a quarter-mile front. At the head of each section were soldiers carrying what appeared to be small backpacks. Fifty feet from the fence all but these men went to ground. A second later they, too, dived for cover as the breaching charges arched through the air in unison.

*  *  *

The roar of the Pave Hawk’s turbines reverberated off the endless concrete slab as Duc flared the helicopter perfectly, setting Captain Buxton and sergeants Makowski, Jones, and Vincent precisely two hundred yards south of cooling tower number one. They released themselves from the SPIE rig just before their feet met pavement and made a quick turn to the right, running as fast as possible toward their objective.

Duc freed the empty rig and nosed forward, dropping a few feet in the process, the main objective coming at him quickly.

Fifteen feet below, Major Sean Graber slid his thumb upward on the MP5SD4’s grip, activating the LAM. Next his finger moved onto the trigger, and his left hand eased its grip on Lewis’s web gear, ready to reach for the release handle on his harness.