Black Storm (35 page)

Gault thought about that, and it seemed they were both avoiding the obvious. “So we do what, Major? Just leave them here? Then Saddam fires them as soon as the
ground attack starts. You get the same germs, only over Tel Aviv instead of Baghdad.
That's
your only choice.”

“But I don't think he will,” Maddox said. “It wouldn't make sense. Not if this is his ultimate deterrent. If he uses it, he loses it; there's nothing more to threaten us with. No, he won't launch. He can't.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Lenson said. “That'd make everything real simple. But I don't think this guy works that way. He made the threat. He has the capability. He knows if we invade, we won't stop till his regime is history. I'd say the odds are good he'll follow through. Anyway, that's not our decision, whether to bomb it or not.”

Gault looked from one to the other. He didn't care what they decided, but it would be nice to have some leadership. He looked at his watch. Five more minutes. If they didn't make up their fucking minds by then, he was pulling out.

“It isn't our decision?” Maddox was saying.

“No. That's not our bailiwick, Doc.”

Gault folded his arms. He said softly, “I agree with the commander, Major. Our mission's not to guess what Saddam's going to do. It's to locate and report what he's got. The commander's eyes and ears. That's what a recon team is. And that's all it is.”

She lowered her head, looking angry and frightened and very, very tired. “You're saying—what? That there's nothing we can actually do?”

“Like what? We're not armed for a raid, and there aren't enough of us. We're a recon team, Doc. Not a strike force.”

“We've got weapons. Guns. Grenades.”

“And there are only six of us. I saw a couple dozen armed troops strolling around out there. Probably more back wherever they bunk and hang out. And a reaction team on call too, I guarantee that. Light armor. Maybe even tanks.” He gave it a pause, waited. But neither of them said anything.

SHE WATCHED
the gunny's expression, watched the iron come back into it. His arms were folded and his lips were grim. “I'm not saying to kill them,” she said, but she heard the uncertainty in her voice and was ashamed.

“Then what
are
you saying?” Lenson asked her.

She hesitated, not sure how to answer. She didn't want to die. She didn't want any of the team to die. But given what Gault described—refrigerators and warheads and filling equipment—and the dead and dying men in the tunnel behind them, Al-Syori had done her duty for her master. She'd given Saddam a more terrifying weapon than anyone had imagined. He'd already fired Scuds. He'd used chemical weapons on his own people. Once the ground war started, he'd be doomed. There was no way out for him. Maybe the commander was right. Why shouldn't he pull the world down with him as he fell?

He'd use it. Of course he would.

But now Lenson was saying they couldn't do anything. The gunny was saying that they should just leave.

Wedged in the dilemma, she groped for a solution. “We can't just go back. Just let him do this. If we can't bomb it, then what? Isn't there
any
way to stop this?”

 

DAN LOOKED
at her face close to his. He had the uncomfortable feeling they were all converging. Closing in from different angles on the same ugly necessity.

He said to Gault, “I'm starting to think she's right, Gunny. Granted, going overt isn't in our mission statement. But sometimes the mission changes.”

“I know that,” Gault said. “Sir.”

“This may be one of those times,” said Dan, holding his gaze.

Gault looked at him squarely. The marine's eyes were blue and cold, staring out from a network of fatigue lines
and congealed camo paint. “You ever sent men to die before, sir?”

“Yes,” Dan said. He blinked away the images of a sinking, burning ship, the cries of drowning men he couldn't stop to rescue. “Too many.”

“I've seen dead marines too.” Gault looked away. “If it takes the team to accomplish the mission, it takes the team. I'm just pointing out that if we go overt, probabilities are we won't make it out of here.”

“What about your men?” Maddox asked him.

“They're marines,” Gault told her. “They'll do what has to be done.”

Dan said, “And you'll back me up on that decision?”

Gault hesitated, just for a moment, then his expression turned hard again, unyielding and emotionless. “You're in charge on the objective, sir. That's how it was briefed.”

“Wait a minute,” Maddox said. “Let's not go that way yet. Commander, you're our missile expert here. Any way we can fuck them up without taking them all on in a frontal assault?”

Dan had thought about cutting the cable, but then realized that Scuds didn't need the data more sophisticated missiles required. They were ballistic birds, rock-simple, not much harder to aim than an artillery piece. Shoot them up at the right angle and they'd come down in the right place. Point and shoot, like a cheap camera. Fly and die. Their launch points were probably presurveyed; a few spots of paint on the road topside would do that.

“Power?” Maddox suggested. “Do they need power to launch?”

“Yeah, but they'd get that from the transporters.”

“Anything else? Fuel?”

Dan lifted his head as he realized a shadow stood near them. It was Sarsten. “What is it, Sergeant?”

The SAS stood just far enough away that they couldn't see his face. “Just wondered how long it was going to take you wankers to figure this out. You there yet?”

“Where?” Maddox said, and her voice was suspicious.

“I can't believe it,” Sarsten said. He stroked his
weapon like a cradled cat. “I knew it was something special, but I never thought this. At first I thought you were up to topping Saddam. A wet mission, like the Sovs say. Then I thought you were just tossers, crawling through the sewers on the say-so of that Teddy boy. I never figured you to come up with the prize.”

“We're making a decision,” Dan told him.

“Making a decision? That shouldn't take long. I get to put in my tuppence worth? You can't bomb it. Collapse this tunnel, the hospital'll come down into it. The poncing paper-tearers back in London and Washington will never check off on bombing a hospital anyway. No, we've got to do this lot ourselves.”

“With what?” Gault said.

“Why, with whatever we got, mate. Whatever we have or can scrape up.”

Maddox said then, “There's something else we have to do.”

“What's that?” Dan said.

“Get a sample. Whatever this is, we've got to bring some back.”

“That could be tough,” Gault said. “This isn't going to be like in a lab, Doc.”

“Do you absolutely have to?” Dan asked her.

“Yes. I absolutely do,” she told him. “To document what they have. Without a sample, we're just guessing. With one, we might be able to stop this, or at least confine it to a geographic area if it goes epidemic.” She hesitated, looking up at them. “Look, that's my job. You get me in there, I'll get what I need. But I can't emphasize enough how important it is that we come back with specimens. With proof.”

They stood together in silence, in the dim light and the close limestone smell of the tunnel. Each confronting what he didn't want to confront. Then the gunny said slowly, “Well, there's one thing we can do they can't.”

“What's that?” Dan said.

Gault said, “We're the Morlocks. We can see in the dark.”

Gault waited on a knee, watching them dress out. He didn't usually pay much attention to the way he felt. But after thirteen years in this business, you knew when you were taking too many risks. Going against superior force in an unfamiliar environment without drill was asking to have your butt whipped. The only thing on their side would be surprise. In the dark and the confusion…No man could predict how an action would turn out. You just did the best you could, and relied on your team, relied on firepower. Relied on Luck or God or whoever you believed took care of you in battle.

He slotted the bolt and checked the chamber one more time. For himself, he didn't feel much interest. He'd been dead inside for a long time now. If the end of life meant the end of remembering, he was ready. More than.

Nichols got up and stood against the wall. Gault dropped his mask, pulled his hood up, and went forward. They checked each other, the Velcro and drawstrings that were supposed to seal out gas or germs. F.C. looked good, so Gault sent him forward along the line.

When he came to the doc, he stopped. She wasn't in the issue MOPP gear. Instead, gleaming white coveralls covered her from toe to neck. Her hood was of the same material; white booties covered her feet. She was carefully winding silver duct tape around where her booties
tucked into trouser legs. She'd already taped where white rubber gloves met her sleeves. She wore a hood and what looked like a soft-sided cooler bag with a shoulder strap over her shoulder. Her pistol belt was buckled over the suit.

He said, “You absolutely sure you need to do this?”

“It's why I came, Gunny.”

“We can't get the stuff for you?”

“It's got to be done right. To avoid contamination, false results. And I don't have time to train you.”

He looked at her for a second more, weighing the assured tone of her voice, noting the smooth, tight over-lappings of the tape, not a wrinkle, not a crease. Then moved on.

Blaisell's stubbled face disappeared under the mask as he pulled it down. Gault waited as he pulled the straps tight, watched the sides of the rubber facepiece pull in as the corporal checked the seal. He blinked through the goggles at Gault.

“Okay in there, Crusty?”

The buzzing voice through the diaphragm. “Does a fat lady fart, Gunny?” And he realized Blaze was giving him that silly grin.

“We'll go in tactical all the way. Take the fight to them. Stay with me.”

Sarsten next. The SAS ran his gaze down him, inspecting him as he knew he was being inspected. They nodded curtly to each other and Gault slid past.

And the Navy. He reached out to pull on Lenson's mask; it was seated firmly. The commander checked the bolt on his weapon, pointing it down-tunnel. Gault caught his eye and held it, looking for fear, and found none. They nodded and he turned, giving the follow-me signal.

Single file, they moved out after him.

 

MAUREEN FELT
around her wrists, checking the tape where it sealed the gloves to her sleeves. She'd used a
double glove procedure. You put one pair on under the cuff of the disposable coverall, then cut a thumbhole into the cuff of the coverall and shoved the thumb through. Then you put the second glove on over the cuff. This kept the inner glove on, but let you change the outer one. She'd figured this one out after she sweated through the tape while she was working with a culture of
Burkholderia mallei
. No one in Level Four depended on just one set of gloves. They tore too easily, on a corner of an equipment cabinet, the edge of a slide. You changed the outer ones whenever you thought they might have been contaminated. And took everything slowly…and…carefully.

She looked ahead, to where the others shuffled along. In Building 1425 they had shower rooms and ultraviolet baths next to the hot areas, so you could transition from dirty work clothes back to field clothes without contamination. Here, they'd use the tunnel as the transition zone from dirty to gray to clean, and just leave what was contaminated behind.

If they got out.

Gault, in the lead, gave them the hold-up sign. She shuffled to a stop. Waiting there, she reviewed what she was going to do. The Smart Tickets, the sampling swabs, the sample vials. Her mouth was parched and her breath came in short gasps. But it was too late to reach for a canteen. She was sealed in, impermeable plastic and rubber protecting the fragile skin bag of enzymes and plasma that was a human being. Before she unsealed she'd either be dead, or this whole thing would be over.

She swallowed again, took a deep breath through the
clack-hiss
of her respirator, and stood waiting.

 

BLAZE WAS
geared up, ready to strap it on and go. The gunny had given them the frag order. He and Gault were the first fire team, with the diesel generator set as their first objective and the Iraqi security force as their second. Nichols, Lenson, Sarsten, and the doc were the second
fire team. They'd divide into two subteams when they reached the transporters; Nichols and Lenson in the disabling team and Sarsten covering the doc while she did whatever she had to do up at the front end.

A hasty plan, but a plan. And judging by what the gunny said, there'd be no shortage of ragheads to light up. He checked his HK, then patted where he'd stuck the loaded Glock and then his fighting knife. Fear and excitement streamed through his brain, too fast and fluid to jell into words.

Ahead of him Gault bent low, peering through the door. Then rose and flipped the latch off and pushed it open, bending and squirming through. Blaze went through after him, but his web gear caught on the door's edge and hung him up for a second before he jerked free. Jesus Crumb, he thought.

By then Gault was ten strides ahead, moving in the gliding tactical shuffle across an open space under bright lights. Blaze squinted, pulling the MP5 up to his shoulder. He snapped the selector to single shots and loped after him, twisting as he cleared the door to sweep their right flank with the muzzle. His breath was fogging his mask. But the flexible urethane was clear enough that he could see there wasn't anyone there. A lot of gear, though. Equipment enclosures, big boxes, forklifts. Like the shipping dock of some manufacturing company. Nobody in sight. The lights glaring out high above. He looked ahead again to see Gault breaking left, looking left, and he moved to follow, sweeping gaze and arc of fire out to the right. The shuffle and scuff of their boots on concrete muffled by the hood, his breath closed in and harsh in his ears.

Gault reached the generator switchboard and cornered around it weak-side. Checked the space beyond; then lowered his weapon and unbuttoned a panel door. He surveyed it quickly, mask lenses bent close. Then reached in with a gloved hand.

The clatter of the diesel suddenly rose in pitch, going
faster and faster. Gault swiveled around and pointed to Blaisell, then to it, as the lights began to die.

Blaze pulled his NVGs down and turned them on as the lamps above them went from yellow to dim red to dark. When he climbed up on the little fold-out operator's platform, the screens showed him the diesel board. He didn't know the language on the labels, it looked like Dutch or German, but he'd run a dozer one summer in Montana and he pulled what looked like a choke and that must have been the stop cable because that did it; the engine tapered off and died. He backed off and put a burst through the control panel to make sure it stayed that way. The suppressor went
poppoppoppoppop,
punching neat holes through the steel. He was lining up to give it another burst when Gault grabbed his shoulder from behind, spun him around, and pointed into the darkness.

 

F.C. LED
the second party. Once in the open he headed them off to the right, toward where Gault said he'd seen refrigerators and, beyond them, trucks. They were about fifty meters in when the lights flickered and went out. He pulled the NVGs down with one hand and cut them on, and the world went green and black. Mostly black, though, except for the blurs of heat sources ahead, the ghostly circles above of the dark but still-hot lamps; so he turned the IR illuminator on. There, now he could see.

He wasn't sure he totally rogered up to this plan. They were supposed to disable the missiles, but not catastrophically. Turn them into Iraqi government surplus, but not blow them all over hell. So he'd made up the last of his Detasheet into one-pound charges. He and the commander would set them, then fall back to cover the doc while she took her samples. He had doubts about it even while Gault had explained it—like, what were all the Rackies going to be doing meanwhile?—but he'd kept them to himself. Had to keep a positive attitude, that was all.

Big steel boxes, square-edged, smooth metal surfaces
giving him a ghostly IR reflection of himself. A big-eyed bug-man carrying a black rifle. From the ghostly blur of heat behind them he figured these were the refrigerators. Leave them to the right and go on…a partition beyond, an open archway to another space. He looked back to make sure his team was still there.

They were. And there were Gault and Blaze, coming in from the left to rejoin. More faceless monsters in rumpled MOPP gear, masks jutting snoutlike, NVGs sticking out above that. Gliding along, weapons to their shoulders, covering each hidey-corner as they passed it.

Gault pointed at him and then ahead. He moved out in that direction, and suddenly there they were.

Three Iraqis, unarmed but masked. He took them out on burst fire, the unsuppressed clatter of high-velocity 5.56 rounds suddenly filling the arched tunnel beyond as the troops halted, started to run, jerked as the bullets hit, then fell. F.C. kept on going over them, pointing his weapon at each man's head as he passed. One moved and he shot him again.

Keep going, keep going, men shouting ahead now, moving on. Into a larger area beyond that echoed, flicker-shadowed with running shapes amid huge lightless wheeled bulks. He kept the rifle to his shoulder and flicked the selector to semiauto, moving the scope from one figure to the next. At each crack, hot bright gas flared out from the comp ports like a sudden star. Then the first ripping snaps of return fire, light blasting the darkness apart. He wheeled and pounded down the aisle between two of what he could see clearly now were missile transporters, wheels higher than his head, and on them the dimly visible cylinders they had come so far to find.

 

DAN DIDN'T
have his goggles on, but once the firing started he didn't need them. The gun flashes showed huge objects around them, looming nearly to the arched overhead. He saw the outline of a massive tire and knew
instantly what they were. He'd deployed with air force transporter-erector-launchers when he was with the cruise missile office. These were the Soviet version, bigger and beefier, great eight-wheeled beasts with hulking slab sides, up which he stared as from the bottom of a cliff. Ahead of him Nichols fired, the unsilenced 5.56 shockingly loud. Dan pulled his own weapon to his shoulder and went after him, down in the semicrouch like they'd drilled, aiming wherever he looked.

Suddenly headlights came on beside him. They pointed forward, illuminating the vehicle ahead. Above his head a door swung open, an interior light came on. A soldier looked down at him from an operator's cab, silhouetted.

Dan had already swung to look up. His bullets slammed the driver back into the cab and bounced off the inside of the windshield. When he stopped firing, a leg hung out of the still-open door, swinging, boot dangling toe-down in an awful attitude of casual relaxation.

He didn't feel anything yet, just the numbness that came with killing. He stepped up on an access ladder to look inside, to see if there was anyone else in the cab, but there wasn't.

The backwash of the headlights gave him sight now. When he looked for Nichols, the lance corporal was far ahead, halfway down the length of the next vehicle. Dan dropped back to the concrete and ran after him, down the aisle formed by the trucks, till the floor slanted up beneath his boots. Nichols had stopped there and was peering around the nose of the lead transporter. Dan stopped too, looking up a ramp to a blank, corrugated-looking wall that gleamed like dull steel.

The way out. The way up. The direction the transporters were facing. So all they had to do was start their engines and drive up, through what must be power doors up there, and swing around onto the riverfront promenade. Stop at presurveyed marks, erect, and fire. Shoot and scoot, just like they were doing in the western desert.

A rattle of fire bounced down from the curved over
head, focused as by a parabolic reflector to a painful loudness right at his ear. The sound was deafening, the headlights were shining directly at him, he heard shouting and the thud of running boots. One truck back he saw Sarsten and the doc climbing up onto the bed of one of the transporters. One truck in front, one behind it. Two side by side, the empty aisle between them. Two by two. Four trucks in all. “Ted” had told the truth. Not that it had done him any good.

A hand on his shoulder, a porcine snout at his ear. The buzzing of the voice emitter diaphragm. “Ready to blow 'em, Commander?”

Dan nodded, looking up at the curved cylinder of the missile far above. He slung his weapon, grabbed a handhold, and pulled himself aboard.

 

PINNED DOWN,
Gault thought. He bobbed up and fired, then dropped and duckwalked along under cover of the palleted freight as bullets zipped over him and whacked into the boxes. But he couldn't see, and he could yell inside the mask as loud as he wanted and his fire team couldn't hear him.

With a sudden convulsive movement he tore it off and stuffed it into a side pocket of the clumsy coat. He'd rather breathe germs than catch a bullet. He grabbed the suppressor and twisted it off too, feeling its heat through the thick rubber glove. He bobbed up, picked out a muzzle flash, and fired. A man reeled out of cover and fell, his AK clattering to the concrete and discharging, the bullet cracking above their heads. A fine rain of concrete fragments, dust drifting down like heavy smoke.