First Team (40 page)

He walked directly toward the ruins where Ferguson was hiding. Ferg slid back into the shadows, aiming his gun, then realized what the driver was up to. He did his best to hold his breath as the Russian’s urine splattered on the blackened rocks nearby. The other man came up, making a joke about watering Chechen ashes.

They finished and zipped up, joking loudly as they walked back toward the truck. The driver had a hip flask; as they stopped to share a gulp Ferg pushed his way up through the ruins, trying to avoid the area they’d just wet down.

“Halt,” he said loudly in Russian, not more than ten feet behind them as they drank. “Drop your weapons or you’re dead.”

He gave a quick burst of gunfire as he spoke. The driver, whose gun was hanging at his side, dropped it, but the other man swung the rifle off his shoulder and squared to fire.

“No,” said Ferg, but it was already too late. As his finger squeezed the trigger, he caught a blur out of the corner of his eye. He just managed to duck as the rocket shot past, missing the KAMAZ and igniting in the hillside. Dirt and rocks sprayed everywhere.

Ferg’s burst had killed the Russian before he could fire. The driver meanwhile flattened himself against the dirt.

Ferguson kicked both guns away and waited for Conners, who ran up with his AK-47.

“I can’t believe I missed,” said Conners.

“You have to compensate,” said Ferguson, mocking Conners’s earlier advice. But he was glad his companion hadn’t hit the truck, and even more so when he pulled open the plastic tarp covering the back. Two small chests at the side held a cache of AK-74s, automatic rifles chambered for 5.45 mm ammunition. There were also two PKs, 7.62 mm light machine guns, oldish but very dependable squad-level weapons, and an AGS-17, an odd-looking grenade launcher that the Russians liked because it could loft its wares into overhead hills. Besides the ammunition for the guns, there were a dozen jerry cans of diesel.

“What do you say we give them our truck and take theirs?” Ferg asked Conners.

“Sounds like a fair trade.”

“Yeah, just about.” Ferguson hopped up and examined the AGS-17. Remembering the two small grenades Ruby had presented him with, he dug into the ruck and retrieved one.

“What is that?” Conners asked.

Ferg handed it over.

“This grenade doesn’t go in this gun,” said Conners, eying the fat slug.

“Figures.”

“It’s a Russian
mebbe.”

“Mebbe.?”

“Maybe it goes off, maybe it doesn’t,” laughed the SF trooper. “They don’t have the highest quality control, and this sucker looks corroded to boot.”

“Har-har.”

“It’s a VOG-25L or something,” said Conners, his voice more serious. “It’s kind of like the 40 mm grenade you shoot from a 203. Russian launcher is shorter. More propellant here, see?” Conners held it up. “Plus this sucker, the nose detonates, and it kicks up again after it lands. It throws shrapnel all over the place. Nasty.”

“I’ll attend the seminar later,” said Ferg, stuffing the small grenade into his pocket. He took the AGS-17 grenade launcher and carried it to a point on the slope where he could see the entire compound. He slapped on the round drum that contained the grenade cartridges, then swiveled it up and down, not entirely sure how the mechanism worked. Russian weapons in general were known for their simplicity of operation, but the boxy gun looked more like something a mad scientist had invented than a weapon. Finally, he settled behind the trigger and fired. The grenade whizzed out across the compound, landing just beyond their truck. It took two more shots before he got the hang of it and scored a direct hit.

Conners meanwhile finished trussing the Russian, leaving him near the road. He took a single swig of the vodka, then thoughtfully offered a swallow to the man before tossing it away.

Daruyev spit in the dirt at them as Conners led him past.

“That’s not nice,” said Conners, chuckling.

“I have been thinking about what you said before,” Daruyev said to Ferguson, as he helped him into the truck.

“Yeah?”

“There are three possible places where they might storehouse material to prepare a bomb,” said Daruyev. “I can take you to each one of them.”

“Tell us where they are first.”

The Chechen shook his head. “Then you won’t need me.”

“I don’t need you now.”

“If I lead you to them, and you find a bomb, you will need me to help you neutralize it,” said the Chechen.

In truth, he could count on getting all sorts of help to dismantle a bomb. “What do you get?” asked Ferguson, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“If I help you, will you let me go free?” added Daruyev.

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Take me to America then. Put me in prison there.”

“America?” said Conners.

“Can you?” asked the Chechen.

Before Corrine Alston had “joined” the Team, Ferguson would have agreed easily—and sincerely. Now, though, with a lawyer looking over his shoulder, he wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know if I can,” said Ferg truthfully. “Help me anyway.”

The Chechen stared at him. They had come from entirely different places to the same valley of gray, both living with the ambiguity of the death they inevitably faced. Ferguson’s prognosis might be slightly better, and his cause more clear-cut, but the two men walked in the same land of shades and shifting sands.

But Ferg was the one with the gun.

“If you say you will try, that will be enough,” said Daruyev.

“I will try,” said Ferg. “Take us to the closest spot.”

~ * ~

~ * ~

1

BUILDING 24-442, SUBURBAN VIRGINIA

Thomas Ciello sat on the floor of his new office, a viceroy of paper. He had estimates, reports, briefings, hints, and scraps of sheer speculation spread in various piles before him; they covered every square inch of the twelve-by-twelve room, including the desk, the three computer monitors, the bookcases—some pages were on the shelves, which were empty except for a dictionary—and two chairs.

He had started with a system, but the organizing principle now involved several layers of calculus, and Thomas had never been very good at math.

“Oh, my God.”

Thomas looked up at the door, where Debra Wu was standing.

“I think I almost understand it,” he told her.

Debra glanced down the hall, then bent to her knees and scooped up pages and files so she could get inside. Thomas noticed that her short black skirt rode up high on her thighs.

“You can’t do this. These papers—this is such a massive security violation— they’ll hang you by your toes.”

“I signed everything out, and nothing’s left the room,” he told her. “A lot of this isn’t even classified, I mean, beyond secret. It’s just—”

Exasperated, Debra put down the papers she had gathered. “Security is—it’s, it’s psychotic—”

Indignation welled up in Thomas’s chest. The staff assistant was hinting that he was less than professional. He tried to temper his response—it was a
very
short skirt, after all—but it was difficult to remain calm.

“If we’re talking about security,” he said, “are you allowed to see these reports? Are you even allowed in my office?”

Debra rolled her eyes. “Corrigan wants to see you in ten minutes.” She pulled open the door and left, papers fluttering as she went.

Thomas went back to sorting and sifting. Leaving the office was certainly problematic security-wise, but as far as lie understood protocol—and if there was anything he prided himself on it was his understanding of protocol—he simply had to cover all of the compartmented material and lock up when he went out. In his desk was a gray blanket, ordinarily used to cover the desktop. There were actually two of them in his desk, which helped him cover a good portion of the floor. A wall map of the world, several empty manila folders, and his jacket took care of all but two small piles near the door; he considered taking off his Oxford shirt and leaving it on them, but it was one of his favorite shirts. Instead, he simply carried the folders with him as he went to see Corrigan.

Downstairs in the Cube’s situation room, Corrigan used a video feed to watch Thomas clear a security gate before being allowed down the stairs. Debra Wu had buzzed to say the new staffer was “on another planet,” but Thomas seemed perfectly reasonable as he went through the security. He had some documents with him, which he quite properly refused to show the guard at the post. The request was actually a nasty trick; if Thomas had agreed, the man would have written him up for a security violation since he didn’t have the proper clearance for the compartmented data.

Cleared, Thomas walked down the corridor and into the stairway, practically hopping as he walked to the sit room. That was just the sort of enthusiasm Corrigan liked, and he awaited Thomas’s approach with growing optimism.

“All right,” said Thomas as he was buzzed through the glass door. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did,” said Corrigan. “What do you know?”

The question caught Thomas off guard. “About the mission or about anything in general?”

“The mission,” said Corrigan. He reached for his coffee cup.

“The mission. Okay. The ship was clearly not related to the plot. See, Kiro—he and the Iranians don’t get along. The Iranian defense minister—”

“We’re a little past that,” said Corrigan. “Tell me about the waste.”

“Which waste?”

“The stuff we’re tracking.”

“Oh that. Nasty. They’ve scraped uranium—most of it’s uranium, but there’s strontium, cesium, other by-products—nickel, that’s ugly. Now if that were stolen, it’d be important. See, it’s being placed in these long containers. They call them casks, but they’re actually flat, and you can handle about fifty at a time with a forklift. The French process allows them to get high-level waste in manageable quantities. As long as it doesn’t get into the air, you’re OK.”