Section 8 (23 page)

CHAPTER 17
Oahu

Royce was driving toward Fort Shafter when his pager went off. He glanced at the number, then pushed down on the accelerator. He made it to the tunnel entrance, flashed his identification card to the guard, and entered. Foster was waiting for him in the control room. From the bustle of activity in the operations room, Royce had a good idea about what had happened.
Foster confirmed it immediately. "The recon element has pinpointed Abayon's location and found a way into the complex."
"Has the rest of the team been alerted?" Royce asked as he scanned the short message.
Foster nodded. "The message was forwarded to the AST." He glanced at the clock. "Wheels up for the infiltration aircraft in four hours."
"How are they going in?" Royce asked.
"Low level Combat Talon. They're parachuting at three hundred feet right on top of the mountain. Rough terrain suits. The recon element found a tube that goes right in."
Royce pondered that. There was a very good chance the Talon flying low over the mountain would alert the guerrillas. On the other hand, it was fast. "How are they getting out?"
Foster frowned. "They've requested Fulton Recovery right off the top of the mountain by the same plane that puts them in. The general isn't too happy about it. He wants them to walk away from the mountain to an open field five kilometers away."
Generals always wanted people to walk, Royce thought. "Approve the Fulton Recovery. Send me the contact information with the Talon and the code words for recovery."
"I'm going to have to lay on an in-flight refuel to allow the Talon to stay on station that long and—"
Royce stared at Foster and he fell silent.

Okinawa

Orson looked at the prisoner, then issued an order to the two military police who had brought him. "Uncuff him. Then leave."
The two MPs glanced at each other, but they had their orders. They removed the cuffs, then departed the isolation area. The prisoner looked around the room, noting the maps and satellite imagery, then returned his gaze to Orson. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit that had seen better days. His head was shaved and his skin pale and sallow from little time spent outdoors. But he appeared to be in shape and he had the right background, which was all that mattered.
Orson briefly read the paperwork the MPs had brought with the man, then looked at him. "Clarret, Gregory, former staff sergeant in the First Special Forces Group. Convicted of arms trafficking and sentenced to twenty years awaiting transportation back to the States and a long stay in the big house at Fort Leavenworth."
Kasen and Sinclair were silently watching the exchange.
Clarret didn't say a word.
Orson tossed the file in the burn barrel. "You're coming with us on this mission. When you get back, it will be as if none of this happened. You can't go back in the Army, but you'll have your freedom. Roger that?"
Clarret nodded. "Roger that."
Orson pointed toward what had been Hayes's locker. "Uniform and equipment are in there. Get out of that. We're wheels up in a little over three hours."
"How are we going in?" Sinclair asked.
"LALO." Low altitude, low opening. He looked at Clarret. "According to your records you are certified LALO, right?"
The former sergeant nodded. "But it's been a—"
"Don't worry about not being current. Gravity will take care of things. Be happy. That certification got you out of prison."
Sinclair was still looking at Orson. "How are we getting out?"
"Fulton Recovery system."
Sinclair blinked. "But we don't have the rigs or the balloon."
"Don't worry," Orson said. "They'll be on the plane."

Johnston Atoll

The C-141 cargo plane did three passes over the runway before touching down on the fourth. It rolled to a stop and the back ramp slowly descended until it touched the ground. A half dozen men dressed in bright yellow contaminant protection suits awkwardly waddled down the ramp.
They went directly to the tower. They entered and saw the body immediately. While two of the men began deploying sensors, another went to the body and checked it out. Within two minutes the sensors confirmed their worst fears: there were traces of ZX in the air.
Checking the blueprints they'd brought with them, part of the reconnaissance element pinpointed the bunker where the ZX had been stored and made a beeline for it. Another element headed toward the main compound to confirm what was already becoming apparent: that there was no one left alive on the island.
When they arrived at the bunker, the holes in the fence, the doors open, and the lack of the containers that the manifest said were supposed to be inside confirmed this was not an accident. The team leader grabbed the satcom radio and called in his report.

Jolo Island

Rogelio Abayon stared at the IV in his arm for several seconds, then looked up as the door to his office opened. Fatima came in, her lips tightly pressed together, and Abayon knew she brought bad news. But that was part of the plan.
"Ruiz is dead," she said without preamble.
Abayon nodded. "I expected that."
"You expected him to be killed?"
"I expected him to betray us and in the process get killed."
Fatima tried to digest that. "You had him—"
"No," Abayon stopped her. "He got himself killed. He contacted our enemies and tried to broker a deal for half of what he took with him to Hong Kong. They took the deal, then they killed him, because they do not make deals."
Fatima sat down. "What is going on?"
"A plan many years in the making is being implemented," Abayon said. "Ruiz was one part. He accomplished what was needed, by bringing the Golden Lily back into the public spotlight. It is in the news, which is good for us and bad for our enemy."
"And my father?"
"He goes to strike a blow for us. A powerful blow."
"And us?"
Once more she was thinking some steps ahead. "You are to take our organization and move it as we discussed to our alternate location."
"The emergency plan? But—"
"The emergency is here," Abayon said. "Issue the orders and get everyone moving."
"I'll get the nurse—"
Abayon shook his head. "I am staying here." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick folder. "This is all the information I have on our enemy. It is yours now." He slid it across the desk, but Fatima did not pick it up right away.
"And you?"
Abayon reached down and slid the intravenous needle out of his arm, dotting the small drop of blood with a piece of gauze. "I am staying here." He held up a hand as Fatima started to say something. "I am old. I am tired. I do not want to do this again," he said, indicating the dialysis machine. "It is your time now."
Fatima reluctantly turned toward the door.
"There is one more thing," Abayon said, causing her to turn back, tears in her eyes.
She waited.
"We might not be alone."
Fatima frowned in confusion.
"This battle against our unknown enemy—I think there might be others out there also opposed to them."
"Al Qaeda and—" Fatima began, but Abayon raised a hand, silencing her.
"Not other groups like us. I think there might be a group, or groups, as secret as our enemy in the world who fight against it."
"Why do you think this?"
Abayon shrugged, tired beyond belief. "I should not have mentioned it. But there have been times over the years when I received information or heard things that made me think there was a force in place opposing the enemy and trying to manipulate me in this battle. I mentioned it because if there is, you must be careful."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Fatima quoted.
"Not necessarily," Abayon said.

* * *

Vaughn checked his weapons one more time, while Tai slumbered uneasily next to him. Waiting was always the hardest. And most of his time in the Army had been spent waiting, in one form or another. They even had a saying for it: "Hurry up and wait."
They were on the very top of the mountain, a rounded cone with a flat open space in the center, which dropped off precipitously on all sides, giving them about a sixty-meter circle to work in. Very little space to drop the remaining members of the team on. He glanced at the short message that had come back in response to his report on finding Abayon. The team was coming in low and fast. And the exfiltration was to be by Fulton Recovery via Combat Talon. Not the best of plans, not the worst.
A Fulton Recovery with six people was dicey at best. The basic concept was sending up a cable attached to a small balloon. The six people would all link together their harnesses to the cable. The Combat Talon would come flying in low, below the float, and "whiskers" on the nose of the plane would catch the cable and draw it to the center, where it would be snatched and held.
The six people would then be jerked up into the air, their momentum causing the cable to swing underneath the plane, where it would be caught by a small crane on the back ramp. The crane would then winch the people into the cargo bay. Vaughn had done one Fulton Recovery, as a single, two years ago, and it had been quite an experience. With six, he envisioned some bumps and bruises—that is, if all six of them survived to make it to exfiltration.
He turned as Tai stirred. She sat up, blinking sleep out of her eyes, and he saw that moment of confusion as her conscious brain tried to figure out where she was. He'd experienced that himself many times in the past.
Her eyes focused on him. "Everything all right?"
"As all right as things can be sitting on top of a mountain full of terrorists," he said. "I've been hearing a lot of trucks moving over there." He nodded to the southern side of the mountain. "Headlights going back and forth. Something's happening."
Tai checked her watch. "Not much longer."
"What are you going to do?" he asked her.
"What do you mean?"
"You're supposed to be dead."
Tai nodded. "Yeah. I figure I'd best find a hide spot up here. Cover the infiltration and then the exfiltration. The guys coming in will have a plan to take down Abayon without my participation. I'll cover your back when you come back up for the exfil."
"You think there's a double-cross?" Vaughn asked.
"I don't think we can trust Royce or Orson," Tai said. "And I think I had too many malfunctions coming in."
"Why did they try to take you out and not me?" Vaughn asked. The question had been on his mind the past hour.
Tai sighed and leaned back on her rucksack. "Because I'm Military Intelligence."
"Yeah, Orson said you came from—"
"I didn't just come from," Tai said. "I still am."
Vaughn lay the MP-5 across his knees and stared at her. "I'm a simple guy. Why don't you lay it out for me?"
"Some people very high in the military intelligence community have become concerned about…" She seemed to be searching for the right words. "…certain operations occurring around the world."
"Such as this one?"
"Yes."
"Because?"
"Because we're not sure who is sanctioning these operations."
"Ah, shit," Vaughn muttered.
"The orders are not coming down the military chain," Tai said. "Our requests to the alphabet soups—most particularly the CIA and NSA—have been met with blanket denials."
"It could just be highly classified and compartmentalized," Vaughn said.
"That's what Royce says," Tai acknowledged. "And the goal of this mission seems in line with national security interests. As were a couple of others we got wind of."
"But…?"
"But there are some people in the military who are very concerned that there might be something else going on."
"Such as?"
Tai shrugged. "We don't know. That's why I'm here."
"And that's why someone tried to take you out on the jump," Vaughn said.
She reluctantly nodded. "They doctored my records to make it look like instead of reporting prisoner abuse in Iraq, I instigated it and was going to be charged. Just the type of person Section Eight comes looking for."
"This is fucked," Vaughn said. "If that's the case, they're not going to let you on that cable for exfiltration."
"What makes you think they're going to let you on? What makes you even think the plane is going to come by to do the snatch?"
Vaughn stared at her. "That bad?"
"Could be. I had three malfunctions coming in."
"Fuck."
"Got that right."

Oahu

"What's going on?" Royce demanded when he saw that the simulation operations center was empty. "Where is everyone?"
Foster held out a folder with a red top secret band across the cover. "They all were called back to the real operations center for a real emergency."
"What happened?" Royce asked as he opened the folder.
"Someone took out Johnston Atoll and escaped with four canisters of ZX nerve agent."
Royce scanned the message traffic. Over a thousand estimated dead. The Pacific Fleet was on alert, beginning to scour the sea and sky for whoever had done it. He closed the folder.
"No one has any idea who did this?"
"So far nobody has claimed responsibility. But the amount of ZX they have is enough to wipe out a major city."
"And our operation?"
"The simulation was shut down thirty minutes ago."
"And our operation?" Royce pressed.
Foster nodded. "I've kept the message traffic up as if the operations center and the mission are still running."
"Good."
"The team is taking off from Okinawa as we speak."
"Very good." Royce waited until Foster went back to his bank of computers and message traffic before opening his laptop. He scanned his own traffic, and there was nothing from his contact about the Johnston Atoll issue. The second team was en route from Hong Kong to Manila and would be arriving shortly.
Hong Kong had gone smoothly, except word about the Golden Lily was already in the media. That was unfortunate. Royce had been tracking Abayon for many years and he respected the old man. They'd short-circuited him in Hong Kong, but Royce was wary—he knew Abayon would not move without having carefully considered the situation.
His satphone buzzed and he checked the screen. A message from the Organization. He hooked the phone to his computer and downloaded the message, allowing the computer to decipher the text.
ABU SAYEF SUSPECTED BEHIND JOHNSTON ATOLL RAID AND ZX THEFT. HIGH LIKELIHOOD THEY ARE ON BOARD AN OLD DIESEL SUBMARINE. DESTINATION UNKNOWN. CHECK FOR LOCATION. PREPARE A TEAM FOR ACTION. ABAYON'S INTENTIONS UNCERTAIN. HANDLE WITH DISCRETION AND EXTREME PREJUDICE.
Royce cursed when he finished reading the message. It was a bit late to be getting this now. There was no way he could prepare a new team quickly. Which meant he had to use a team he already had. He glanced at the board for the location of the second Talon. Less than an hour from drop. He'd have to use them after they took care of their current mission.
Royce sighed. Check for location? He had no doubt the entire Pacific Fleet was doing that. And if the Abu Sayef were using a submarine, they had to have a line on it. Royce had worked the Pacific theater long enough to know that.
He hooked his computer to the Sim-Center computer and then accessed the Pacific Fleet's mainframe using his passwords. He quickly found the program he was looking for: SOSUS—the Navy's Sound Surveillance System, which blanketed the entire Pacific Ocean.
Developed at the height of the cold war, SOSUS consisted of groups of hydrophones inside large tanks, each almost as big as a large oil storage tank. They were sunk to the bottom of the ocean and connected by cables, which were buried to prevent the Soviets from trailing cable cutters off their trawlers and severing the lines.
The series of underwater hydrophones were so sensitive that since the cold war, the Navy occasionally let marine biologists have access to the system to track whale migration. The entire system was coordinated using FLTSATCOM—the Fleet Satellite Communication System—which Royce currently was accessed into.
He brought up all submarine activity and their corresponding tags: their identifiers. The Navy had belatedly realized after hooking the SOSUS system together that while it could pinpoint a submarine's location, it wasn't able to tell friendly subs from unfriendly. And since the U.S. Navy didn't know exactly where half its own subs were—the boomers, nuclear missile launchers patrolling wide areas of ocean entirely at their commanders' discretion—they had to come up with a way when SOSUS pinpointed a sub to know whether it was friendly or enemy. Thus, every U.S. and NATO sub had an ID code painted in special laser reflective paint on the upper deck.
SOSUS pinpointed a sub's location, then one of the FLTSATCOM satellites fired off a high intensity blue-green laser. It penetrated the ocean to submarine depth, was reflected by the paint, and the satellite picked it up and read it. If there was no reflection, it was assumed to be an unfriendly sub.
Since the
Kursk
disaster, the Russian fleet had stopped sending its boomers out to sea, and most of them were rusting away in port. That meant that other than the Chinese, few countries would be sending submarines out to sea. Looking at the display, Royce immediately noted that the time-delayed tracking for the past twenty-four hours had only one unidentified submarine—located between mainland China and Taiwan—and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who owned that one.
Where the hell was the Abu Sayef submarine if it had taken part in the raid on Johnston Atoll? Royce pondered this while staring at the display of the Pacific Ocean. The only thing he could come up with was that the submarine was sitting on the bottom somewhere, waiting.
He shook his head. That didn't sound like Rogelio Abayon.
Royce looked forward to closing out this mission, but beyond that he was uncertain. He'd been moved up a notch in the Organization, but toward what end? The same end that David had just met?
On the other hand, he knew there was no way out. He couldn't just tender a resignation because that was the same as "retirement," and he'd seen how that went. He was bound to the Organization by invisible chains that he had to be careful not to even tug on or else bring unwanted attention.
It would be helpful to know who exactly the "Organization" was, but that was a chain he knew he would have to be very careful about tugging. Or get someone else to tug.