First Team (30 page)

“We’re going to have to go ashore,” said Rankin.

“Hey!” said a voice in the distance. It seemed to come from the wake of the gunboat.

“Hey,” said the other SEAL. “James?”

“Where the hell have you guys been?”

“Looking for you.”

He handed out swimming gear, including a small inflatable life jacket that they put on Reid. He offered one to Rankin, who refused it at first.

“Don’t be macho, Skip,” said Ferg, who took one for himself. “We may be in the water a long time.”

Rankin finally took the bib, sliding it awkwardly over his neck and trying to square away his gear.

The patrol boat had stopped firing and seemed to have stopped moving. Thin needles of light scanned the water in front of it.

“Our best bet’s to get south,” said Ferg. “We can head back and make shore where Conners and I landed yesterday, round up Keveh, then look for the others.”

“What about the ASDS?” asked the SEAL who’d brought the gear out. “MC wanted us to meet him there.”

“Even if we can get past that patrol boat, I don’t want to leave the other guys here,” said Ferg.

“You think they went ashore?”

“They may be dead,” said Ferg.

“Nah,” said James.

“It’s okay,” said Reid. “Head for the ASDS. MC’ll be there. Guaranteed.”

There were trucks and lights passing on the shore. The patrol boat was a low shadow in the channel, temporarily quiet.

“All right, we’re going back south,” said Ferguson. “No more debate.”

They’d gone only a hundred yards when one of the machine guns on the patrol boat began firing again. Two or three seconds later, an explosion that sounded something like a grenade going off inside a fifty-gallon drum shook the vessel. A whistling shriek like the exhaust of a steam kettle followed.

“Wu knows how to place ‘em,” said James, increasing his pace.

The other SEAL had taken a limpet mine and attached it to the hull of the patrol boat. The Iranian crew started firing every weapon they had, but it was far too late—the high-explosive mine had blasted a huge hole in the thin hull, and the boat quickly settled at the stern. One of the Iranian’s guns either overheated or jammed somehow, and there was another explosion, this one unmuffied by the water; a fire flared, and rounds began cooking off like firecrackers.

“Nice of them to provide a light show,” said Ferg, changing direction as the fire died out. “Which way is our sub?”

~ * ~

~ * ~

1

QATAR, PERSIAN GULF—TWO DAYS LATER

Ferguson leaned back in the leather chair, waiting for the secure video screen at the front of the basement room in the embassy building to bleep to life. As secure communications facilities went, this was among the clubbiest—the couch and club chairs were thick leather, and there was a well-stocked bar at the side of the room. He’d watered down his bourbon considerably, but still felt the sting of it in his mouth as he waited for the connection to go through.

“Hey, Ferg,” said Corrigan, his face exploding onto the flat plasma screen.

“What’s the puss about, Jack?” said Ferg. “It’s not payday.”

“You’re not going to like this.”

Without any other explanation, Corrigan’s face dissolved into Slott’s.

“There’s a change in our organizational chart,” said Slott.

“Auditors finally caught up with you, huh?”

“One of these days, Ferguson, your wisecracks are going to catch you short. Today may just be the day.”

“Gentlemen, if we’re through with the fun and games, let’s begin.” Corrine Alston’s face flashed on the screen.

“Well, if it isn’t the White House lawyer,” said Ferg. “Don’t tell me you’re DDO now.”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Ferguson, I’m not. But I am in charge of the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office. And by some quirk in the legislation, it appears that while I have to inform the DDO of what I do, I don’t actually answer to him.”

“Peachy,” said Ferg.

“What are you drinking?”

Ferg held the glass up. “Jack Daniel’s. Want some?”

“This is government time,” she said frostily.

“Yeah. I’m drinking in the line of duty.”

“Yuk, yuk,” said Corrine. “I understand the oil tanker was a bust.”

Ferg raised his hand. “Uh, Madam Lawyer? Actually, it was ethylene. And it was being outfitted as a covert minelayer. That information has been passed along and is of great value to the agencies responsible.”

“The information could have been gathered through DRO.” The initials stood for the Defense Reconnaissance Office, which was responsible for satellite tasking.

“Sure,” said Ferg. “And the Sisters of Charity might have stumbled across it during a fund-raising drive. But they didn’t. Now, if we could get timely data from DRO, that would be nice.”

“You don’t get timely data?” asked Corrine.

“We have trouble getting timely train schedules.”

“I thought the entire idea was to do away with the bureaucracy fettering you.”

Ferg snorted, and not just because of her somewhat naive notion about bureaucratic prerogatives. He’d never heard the word “fetter” used over a secure com net before.

“The bureaucracy you’re referring to,” said Slott, rallying to the defense, “is a set of different departments and agencies working together to provide timely support.”

“Or not,” said Ferg.

“Improvements will be made,” said Corrine.

“Hear, hear,” said Ferguson.

“In the meantime,” said Corrine, “we have a new program.”

“I like that. What the fuck is it supposed to mean?”

She frowned slightly at the curse word, which was his intention. She could pretend to be one of the guys, but underneath it she was just another one of those Beltway girls, let into the game because of abstract principles that had nothing to do with reality.

He sipped his drink as she continued, outlining a plan to follow a shipment of waste from Buzuluk in Russia.

“Excuse me, didn’t you just suggest we use DRO? The satellites and monitors already keep tabs, and, besides, the Russians guard the trains.”

“Maybe they don’t guard them very well.”

“OK,” said Ferguson. “But you’re about a week and a half behind the times. Why fool around with the train anymore when we know the waste is going to Chechnya?”

“You don’t know that at all.”

“Excuse me. Strongly suspect. What’s Kiro say?”

Somebody behind Corrine whispered something to her, bowing his head as if he were speaking to the queen. Ferg couldn’t believe they were all deferring to her already, waiting for her to speak. Slap the White House label on anything, and all of a sudden it rose to the top of the heap.

“Corrigan,” he said, growing impatient. “What’s new with Kiro? We’re interrogating him,
right?”

“Nothing new, Ferg.”

“Did you guys apply the screws?”

“We’re not going to use drags,” said Corrine. “We want to bring him to trial.”

“So?” said Ferguson.

“Mr. Ferguson, there are certain legal constraints—”

“Uh-huh.” Ferg got up and went over to the bar. His refill wasn’t going to be watered down.

“We’ll launch our project from Moscow tomorrow evening,” said Corrine. “I’ll need three members of your team, Mr. Ferguson. I’d like at least one who’s already familiar with the operation.”

Since he only had two people with him, Ferguson would have been stupid indeed not to realize she was trying to clip his wings. Dealing with her was going to be a serious pain in the ass.

“Not a problem,” he said, turning and giving his best smile to the camera. “Give Corrigan the details. I’ll work it out.”

“Will you be there?”

“No, I’m due some R&R time.”

“That’s fine,” she said sharply. Then her feed went blank.

~ * ~

2

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Slott’s reaction to being supplanted was so professionally cold that Corrine couldn’t decide whether it hid anger or relief. She saw no sign that he was in on the president’s game, though she was starting to realize that was no guarantee he wasn’t.

Slott claimed to have no free CIA personnel to assign to the Team; in fact, he told her, the Agency was desperately undermanned in all areas—a hint that perhaps she might use her influence to free up personnel lines. She did so, but all her phone calls succeeded in doing was shaking loose a previously approved but budgetarily frozen slot for a high-level analyst to help the Team. Corrine finally decided that the SF people could undertake the surveillance mission themselves without Ferguson or another Agency minder. The mission was relatively straightforward, with the Team members expected to stay out of harm’s way and simply gather intelligence.