Shadow Watch pp-3 Read online

  He was halfway through the entry when Ricci lunged from behind and caught hold of his backpack.

  * * *

  The man beside the TRAP T-2 firing commander stared into his handheld monitor. “Jeeps are still coming on.”

  The commander breathed. Didn’t those dumb bastards realize what kind of hell storm they were heading into?

  “Fire at will,” he said into his headset.

  * * *

  The attackers riding in the jeeps had not expected to come up against the remote gun platforms. Kuhl’s scouts had told them that the east perimeter, now under American control, was guarded by an inadequate number of men possessing only nonlethal small arms intended to disrupt and incapacitate. The scouts had told them that the VKS was apparently convinced an offensive against the space center, if it came at all, would be launched against its industrial area — never expecting that Kuhl and his small group would infiltrate that sector rather than stage a mass assault there, and that the attack on this perimeter was a mere distraction that would allow Kuhl to accomplish his mission, drawing any troop concentrations away from the cargo-processing facility. Kuhl’s scouts had also told the attackers that the Sword security team did not have adequate manpower to form a strong second line of defense or mount an effective counterattack.

  Although the TRAP T-2s had come as a surprise to him, the leader of the attack force had assumed they had been moved into position after the last forward reconnaissance. Having never seen anything like them, he completely underestimated their precision-firing capabilities. Furthermore, the smoke, gas, and fireworks belching from the fixed platforms seemed to confirm his intelligence — relayed by Kuhl himself — that the Americans were under stricter no-kill orders than in Brazil.

  Completely misled, he stuck to his plan of attack and ordered the jeeps to roll on toward the perimeter.

  The Sword gunners opened up on them with everything they had, the TRAP T-2 VVRS platforms unleashing streams of deadly ammunition, angled to cover the entire field of approach with plunging, grazing, and crossing fire.

  Men leaped from their vehicles as they were sprayed with bullets, many falling dead before they could make their exits, others managing to take cover behind the jeeps and return fire with their FAMAS guns. But they knew they were stalled, unable to advance, and by the time the QR squads came speeding up on their flanks, the attackers left alive were ready to surrender.

  Their assault lasted just under half an hour before the Sword guards were satisfied it had been suppressed.

  Exactly as Kuhl had planned.

  * * *

  His rifle slung over his shoulder, the fingers of one hand clutching the strap of Kuhl’s backpack, Ricci pulled Kuhl toward him, keeping him in the doorway, hooking his free arm around Kuhl’s chest. But Kuhl continued to press forward, fighting to escape, twisting slightly to drive an elbow into the center of Ricci’s rib cage.

  The wind knocked out of him, Ricci struggled to keep his arm around Kuhl, took another hard, crisp elbow jab to the diaphragm, a third.

  His hold relaxed but didn’t break.

  Gunfire racketing behind them, the two men grappled in the narrow space of the entryway, both their rifles clattering to the floor, their arms and shoulders banging against the partially open door, slamming it repeatedly back into the wall. Then Ricci saw Kuhl reach down with his right hand, saw the truncheon in his belt scabbard, and tried to grab his wrist to keep him from getting a grip on it. But Kuhl was too fast. He pulled it from the scabbard, brought it up, half-turned again, and thrust its blunt hardwood tip into Ricci’s solar plexus.

  Ricci tightened his abdomen against the blow, but the pain was nevertheless tremendous. He grunted and crashed dazedly back against the door. His hold around Kuhl slackening, he somehow managed to cling to the strap that was his only remaining purchase, pulling it backward again even as Kuhl pulled forward.

  There was a sound of fabric giving way, the strap tearing free of the stitches that held it to the pack, swinging loosely from Kuhl’s right shoulder.

  Slipping down his opposite arm, the pack dangled there momentarily, and then fell toward the floor between the two men.

  Kuhl spun, reached a hand down to catch it, but his brief distraction had allowed Ricci a chance to recover. He brought his knee up into Kuhl’s stomach, staggering him, then bent his legs to give himself some momentum and snapped a hard uppercut to Kuhl’s jaw.

  Kuhl’s head jerked backward, but Ricci could feel him roll with the punch, and knew he’d avoided the worst of it. Ricci hit him again, aiming high, unable to maneuver in the cramped doorway and just hoping to connect with a solid hit. This time his fist smashed into the side of Kuhl’s nose, and blood came spurting from it onto Ricci’s knuckles.

  Though Ricci could see the pain register in his opponent’s eyes, Kuhl gave no other sign of weakness. Before Ricci could follow up with a third blow, he slammed his truncheon lengthwise across Ricci’s side directly over his kidney, then brought it up and back for another strike, this one aimed for Ricci’s temple

  Raising his arm to block the swing, Ricci forced the stick out and away from himself. But his side was on fire and he was still too stunned and breathless to move. Then, through the specks of light wheeling across his vision, he saw Kuhl’s left hand thrust downward again, his fingers groping for the backpack lying on the floor between them, then clenching around its broken strap.

  He snatched it up and turned toward the corridor.

  Gulping air, Ricci pushed himself off the door. Whatever was in that pack had to be important enough for the other man to have paused twice to retrieve it when he might instead have gotten a head start out of the building.

  As Kuhl fled into the hall, Ricci launched into the air after him, tackling him around the middle with a force that sent both men crashing to the noor — Ricci atop Kuhl’s back, Kuhl facedown beneath him, their legs stretched out into the entryway and blocking the door from swinging shut. The truncheon skittered from Kuhl’s grasp, but his other hand remained tightly clenched around the dangling strap of the backpack. Ricci could feel his enormous power as he fought to get out from underneath, feel the muscles of his back and arms working, flexing, bulging up against his chest. The man was like a wild stallion, and Ricci knew he wouldn’t be able to keep him pinned for too long.

  Pressing all his weight down on Kuhl, Ricci raised his fist over his head, then hammered it against the hand clutching the pack. Kuhl did not let go. Inhaling deeply, lifting his arm back up, Ricci struck another side-fisted punch to Kuhl’s knuckles.

  This time he both heard and felt the splintering of bone. Though Kuhl again gave no outward indication of pain, his fingers splayed open around the strap. His chest flattened against Kuhl’s back, Ricci reached out, grabbed the pack off the floor of the corridor, and slung it over his shoulder through the entryway behind him, the door of which remained propped open by both men’s outstretched legs.

  It was just then that a hand gripped Ricci’s ankle.

  * * *

  Blood trailing out behind him in a long, smeary ribbon, a feeling of looseness where he’d been shot, Antonio crawled across the floor on his belly until he was through the doorway and, mustering all the strength left in his fingers, caught hold of Ricci above his foot. It had not occurred to him that he had been intentionally sacrificed by the man he was trying to save.

  “Mi mano, su vida, ” he said, repeating the phrase to himself like a mantra. “Mi mano, su vida…”

  My hand, your life.

  Glancing over his shoulder at the dying man, Ricci tried to shake his ankle free of him, couldn’t at first, then kicked out hard, his shoe bottom crunching into Antonio’s face.

  Antonio held on to his ankle, held on through willpower alone, pulling him backward. His lips were peeled away from his gums in a kind of rictus. There was blood smeared on his teeth, lips, and chin.

  “Mi mano, su vida… ”

  Feeling a shift in Ricci’s balance as he strugg
led with Antonio, Kuhl flailed beneath him, planting both hands on the floor to gain some leverage. Like a man doing a push-up, heedless of his shattered knuckles, he straightened his arms and heaved himself off the floor. As Ricci went spilling from on top of him, Kuhl scrambled to his feet and looked hurriedly around for his pack.

  Then he glimpsed it behind him. Behind Antonio. In the room containing the ISS module.

  In there with the other Sword operatives.

  Kuhl saw the choices before him, and again took the one that was unfortunate but unavoidable.

  * * *

  “Mi mano, su vida, mi mano… ”

  Antonio’s voice fading until it was barely a shiver on his lips, Ricci finally kicked free of his still-clinging fingers, sprang to his feet, and looked down the corridor.

  All down its length, it was empty.

  He rushed straight ahead toward the loading bay, plunged from the darkness of the hall out into the lesser darkness of the night.

  The man with whom he’d been struggling was nowhere to be seen.

  Gone.

  And though Ricci would search for him for the next hour, and immediately order a cordon placed around the space center’s grounds, Kuhl would remain gone.

  He had, however, left his backpack behind.

  Epilogue

  VARIOUS LOCALES APRIL 30, 2001

  A secure conference room, Uplink International corporate headquarters, San Jose, California.

  “We’ve landed on our feet,” Gordian said, “but let’s not kid ourselves into thinking we’re on anything close to solid ground.”

  At the table with him, Megan Breen and Tom Ricci were sober.

  “Our mole’s still in his burrow,” Megan said. “We know now that he was familiar with the layouts of the Brazilian compound, the Cosmodrome, and presumably the KSC’s vehicle assembly building. That he not only revealed detailed information about the design of the ISS service module, but also where to plant the HMP device so it would be hidden from sight and able to feed off the solar sails.”

  “Takes real access, and a lot of technical expertise,” Ricci said. “Same for whoever did the dirty work on Orion.”

  “How about the one you got the device away from?” Gordian asked. “Any leads on him?”

  Ricci shook his head. In the grounds search that had followed the man’s escape from the cargo-processing facility, his teams had found two murdered VKS guards, one garroted to death, the other with a broken neck. Ricci figured their quarry had killed them both and taken off in their missing patrol vehicle.

  “Rollie holds firm that he wasn’t the guiding force behind the strikes,” Megan said.

  Gordian looked at her. “Reasons?”

  She shrugged. “He calls it a gut feeling.”

  “That it?”

  She nodded.

  “Sometimes,” Ricci said, “following your gut’s the best thing you can do.”

  Gordian expelled a long breath.

  “The longer I think about all this, the more unanswered questions arise,” he said. “A primary one being what the HMP generator’s target was going to be once it was placed in orbit.”

  They all sat very still in the room’s electronic envelope of silence.

  “Small steps,” Ricci said after a while, his voice so quiet it seemed he’d been talking to himself.

  Then he noticed Gordian had turned to face him.

  “That’s how you count your gains,” Ricci explained. “It’s what I learned in the service and had reinforced when I was working the streets as a cop, and maybe almost forgot till recently. When it seems like there are ten lousy situations you can’t do anything about, for every one where you can make a difference, it’s all about putting your right foot forward, and just taking those small steps.”

  About having confidence that just being here, and alive, gives you the chance to see better times ahead, Gordian thought.

  “You did a hell of a job in Kazakhstan, Tom,” he said at length. “I’m glad to have you aboard.”

  Megan nodded, looked at him.

  “Ditto,” she said.

  Ricci met her gaze.

  “You see what I mean,” he said.

  * * *

  The KSC staff commissary, Cape Canaveral, Florida.

  Pete Nimec regarded the plate in front of him and frowned.

  “Tell me if I sound crazy,” he said, “but this Western omelette looks like it’s made out of powdered eggs.”

  Annie smiled thinly from across the cafeteria table.

  “What else would you expect here but astronaut food?”

  “That the reason you’re only having coffee?”

  She looked at him.

  “Do you want to know a secret?”

  He nodded.

  “I prefer facing the press on an empty stomach,” she said. “Hunger approximating their perpetual state of being, it helps remind me what I have to deal with every day.”

  It was Nimec’s turn to smile a little.

  “Makes sense,” he said.

  He raised his knife and fork, took a single bite of the omelette, decided he’d had enough, and pushed the plate aside. This would, at least, be his last meal at the commissary. In about an hour, Annie was to hold an early press conference and make the official announcement that sabotage of the SSME had been judged the cause of the Orion fire. From that point on, the investigation would fall into the hands of law-enforcement agencies… and, quietly, into Sword’s hands as well. Although Nimec had promised Annie he would do everything humanly possible to find out who had done the deed, and had also promised to keep her abreast of developments as they came up, his presence at the KSC was no longer needed, and he would be flying back to San Jose the next morning. She, too, would soon be leaving Florida, for that matter, returning home to Houston.

  Nimec found himself thinking — as he had more than once over the past few days — that the air travel time between the two cities was fairly short.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Annie,” he said, “how about dinner this evening? At a real restaurant. With real food. Where we can relax. Get to be friends as well as colleagues.” He paused. “It’d be fine with me if you want to bring the kids.”

  She sipped her coffee, lowered the cup onto its saucer, stared thoughtfully down into it.

  “Friends,” she said.

  He nodded.

  They looked at each other silently for a while.

  And then Annie smiled again.

  “I’d like that, Pete,” she said. “I’d like it very much.”

  * * *

  The passenger cabin of a private jet over western Bolivia.

  Harlan DeVane stared out the window as his ascending plane pierced the clouds and the landscape below dissolved into far-reaching blankness.

  What had happened in Kazakhstan was truly regrettable, he thought. The Colombian and Peruvian leftists had paid him a large sum of money to settle their various grudges. As had the Albanian guerrillas… as, unknown to them, had their sworn enemies in Belgrade. And there would have been a long line of future clients, many with sharply conflicting interests, all willing to abide by his insistence on neutrality and confidentiality. Just last week, when things had looked so promising, Iran and Iraq had both made generous offers meant to cause problems for each other. New York, Washington, Moscow, Baghdad, Teheran… DeVane was quite the egalitarian when it came to selecting his targets of destruction, and would have been leasing time on the Havoc device for many weeks to come before an astronaut team could be sent up to disable it.

  He sighed. It was over, he had to concede that. Over for now. But he had never told his customers that success was a certainty, and he’d given Roger Gordian quite an initial workout, hadn’t he?

  Really, it was best to look at the bright side.

  A world full of strife was a world full of profit, and DeVane saw no end in sight to either.

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