Targets of Opportunity (47 page)

“We’re hard at it,” the man from the Houston Police Commissioner’s office assured him, then hung up.

The helicopter ride was a brutal roller coaster, with strong headwinds and shears that rocked the small chopper to and fro. The pilot had that white-knuckle look Sandor had seen so many times when inexperienced men came under fire.

“Never flown in combat, eh?”

The pilot shook his head, continuing to stare into the darkness ahead. “Never.”

“Well take a deep breath then,” Sandor said, “and pretend you’re on a ride in Disney World.”

They reached the Space Center without further conversation, where the pilot gratefully set down on one of the designated platforms, obviously hoping to remain on the ground until the hurricane blew past. Sandor, meanwhile, ran straight for the Seahawk that Captain Krause had ordered up. It was waiting across the tarmac, the rotors already whirring overhead.

The SH 60F is a multipurpose helicopter with numerous upgrades over the earlier model that enhance its offensive and defensive systems, as well its range and survivability. The current weather conditions would certainly test those last two features.

It was armed with the Hellfire Missile System, Hydra 70 Rocket System, and an M230 30 mm chain gun. This chopper had also been loaded with variable-depth sonar and sonobuoys to detect and track enemy submarines, an air-to-water torpedo system, various aquatic devices, and a remote Geiger system. Sandor clambered aboard, already drenched from his short run through the driving rain.

“Jordan Sandor,” he said as he wiped away some of the water that was dripping from his dark hair. Then he held up his credentials.

The pilot, a Marine by the name of Tom Martindale, introduced himself. “Call me Marty,” he said. “This is Jake,” he said, pointing to the copilot.

In the rear, four SEALs were suited up and ready to go for a swim. Sandor shook hands with each of them.

“I know you men have all been briefed, and you all know what’s at stake.” He turned back to the pilot. “Let’s get this baby in the air.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

GULF OF MEXICO, SOUTH OF GALVESTON BAY

T
HE
S
EAHAWK IS
a highly sophisticated asset that can search and destroy under the most difficult circumstances, day or night. However, as the sleek helicopter cut through the sky on a heading toward the destroyer U.S.S.
Burgwyn
, the winds had increased to gusts of over sixty miles an hour and the ride was as dangerous as enemy fire. Sandor was seated in the rear with the stoic complement of Navy SEALs who were already adjusting their scuba gear, the helmets fitted with wireless radios and mikes, and their oxygen tanks.

Sandor, needing to holler above the roar of the rotors and the hurricane, asked, “You guys sure you can stop these subs?”

“Yes sir,” snapped the lieutenant in charge.

“The
Burgwyn
has the tracking vehicles ready to go?”

“That’s affirmative, sir.”

Sandor nodded, the lieutenant’s formal demeanor reminding him that he was with four of America’s most well-trained and disciplined fighting men. It also reminded him that he did not miss his days in the military, not one bit.

The lieutenant held out a helmet. “You’ll be able to communicate better with this on, sir.”

Sandor pulled it on and adjusted the microphone.

The Seahawk F Model is nearly sixty feet long, flown by a twoman crew, and can reach a speed of 180 miles an hour. Along with its advanced weaponry and attack capabilities, it carries a digital target-acquisition system that can locate, classify, and prioritize any one of more than 120 different types of potential threats, then launch a strike against the target, all within less than thirty seconds. For now Sandor was more interested in disabling the two submersibles than blowing them out of the water, but it was good to know they had options.

Even running into gale force winds they were soon nearing the
Burgwyn.
Sandor reached out for one of the extra neoprene suits that were stacked against the armored wall of the chopper.

“Sir,” the lieutenant interrupted, “what are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready to take the jump with you boys.”

“I’m sorry sir, that’s not possible.”

Sandor paused, staring into the lieutenant’s determined eyes. “Washington has put me in charge of this operation. If the four of you are going to risk your lives jumping into this oversized bathtub, I’m going with you.”

“I’m afraid that’s a negative, sir,” the young man said firmly. “Do I have your permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Free as a bird.”

“We’re professionals, specially trained for this work. Whatever it is that you do, sir, I am sure you are equally capable at your job. But this situation calls for a very specific set of skills and your involvement will only prove a hindrance.”

Sandor smiled. “So you’re telling me I might screw this up for you, is that it, lieutenant?”

The young man allowed himself the faintest grin. “That would be affirmative, sir. You will almost certainly screw this up for us.”

Sandor sat back on the hard bench. “Well I guess you told me,” he said.

“The last thing we need is to have to worry about you down there, sir.”

Sandor nodded.

“Sir, as I understand it, our first task is to determine if there is radioactivity on these AUVs.”

“That’s correct.”

“If we find that they are hot, we will need to disable the vehicles and disarm the weapons. If they are not, we’ll need to clear out so we can destroy both submersibles. Either way, time will be precious. I meant no offense.”

“None taken. I’ll stay aboard and monitor your actions.”

“That would be excellent,” the young man said, breathing a visible sigh of relief.

“There’s another four-man team meeting you below.”

“Roger that, we’ve been fully briefed.”

The copilot turned to the five men in the rear compartment. “There it is,” Jake told them, pointing off the starboard side at the destroyer.

The Seahawk banked slightly, coming astern of the
Burgwyn.
They listened on the radio hookup as the skipper barked out instructions. The destroyer was now running alongside the two AUVs, which were just below the water level. Sandor stared out through the torrential rain and dark sky, peering down into the even darker sea. He could not see a thing.

The captain on the
Burgwyn
reported that the four SEALs onboard were in the process of dropping two high-speed launches into the Gulf. Unfortunately, the sea was already rolling with twenty-foot swells and chops at least half that size. The four men aboard the Sea-hawk with Sandor would be lowered into the Gulf on ropes operated by automatic winches, two men to be picked up on one launch and two by the other. Each team would then be assigned to one of the AUVs.

The captain of the
Burgwyn
said, “The launches are fully equipped, including remote radioactive sensors.”

“Excellent,” Sandor replied into his microphone, then turned to the lieutenant, who was working with his men to strap on their oxygen tanks and hook onto the winch lines. “You guys ready?”

Just as the lieutenant gave him the thumbs-up, a powerful wind shear caused the helicopter to lurch hard to the side, causing all five men to stumble across the small compartment.

When they righted themselves, Sandor got up and placed his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. “You all return here in one piece,” he said, “I’ll dry you off myself.”

The lieutenant nodded, then told Sandor to operate the winch mechanism on high speed. “Our best chance is to get in the water as quickly as we can.”

“Done.”

The copilot looked back at them again. “Ready?”

“Take her down,” the lieutenant said.

The most dangerous part of their trip was about to come. With the Seahawk rocking unsteadily the pilot needed to bring them as close to sea level as possible, not wanting the four men swinging violently back and forth in the air and suffering injuries before they even hit the water. Martindale maneuvered as best he could, barely able to see the two small launches below them as the copilot suddenly yelled, “Go, go, go.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the four young men stepped up to the open hatch and jumped into what appeared to be a bottomless sky. Sandor sent them down as quickly as the system would allow, watching as one after another unsnapped his harness and fell into the angry sea.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

T
HE
D
EPUTY
D
IRECTOR’S
team had a man in custody, which was at least something to take from the Mayflower hotel debacle. His agent had shot the assassin in the legs and arm, then prevented him from taking his own life. With time at a premium two agents had already begun interrogating the shooter as they rode together in the back of the ambulance that was carrying them to the Agency’s clinic.

In great pain and having suffered a considerable loss of blood, he was now being pumped with morphine. There was little chance the man was going to be able to withhold much.

The problem was that he did not seem to know anything.

He told them his name was Ashraf and that he took his orders from a handler in Washington who in turn reported to Ali Vahidi. Vahidi was known to work with the IRGC and Al Qaeda. Unfortunately, his affiliation with the Saudi Arabian diplomatic corps gave him immunity, a political invention that drove Jordan Sandor to distraction.

It would be helpful if this Iranian killer would implicate Vahidi in a terrorist plot—that would remove Vahidi from his diplomatic protection—but Byrnes knew the coerced confession of a murderer was not going to be much help on that score. If all else failed they could bring Vahidi in for questioning, but the only thing that would net them was another battle with the weak sisters on Capitol Hill who were afraid of antagonizing their Saudi ally.

With an ally like that …, Byrnes said to himself, then dismissed the thought.

Ashraf gave the location where he and his comrades met, but Byrnes realized news of this shooting would already have been passed along. The address would be as worthless as the mention of Vahidi, who would have already ordered his crew to clean up their cell and move on.

Nevertheless, Byrnes dispatched a team to check it out, amusing himself with the notion that if they found Vahidi there he might hold him until Sandor returned.

Otherwise, it appeared that the man they had in custody was a low-level zealot who had been ordered to eliminate Jaber, his wife along with him, and then to join his fellow martyrs on the road to Paradise.

As Byrnes contemplated all of this on the ride back to his office, it occurred to him that Jaber had apparently died for nothing, and it surprised Byrnes that he felt a pang of sympathy for the man. After all, Jaber had engineered the deaths of countless people, pursued an evil war in the name of a distorted vision of his god, then sought sanctuary for fear of his life. But in the end, he was willing to face inevitable death to make amends with his wife.

Given the opportunity, even the worst of people can surprise you and as Byrnes had experienced before, when one comes to know an enemy it invariably alters your view of that person forever. It introduces a human element that cannot be ignored.

Back in his office he reached Sandor through a satellite link and received an update on what was going on in the Gulf.

“Unfortunately we still have no lead on the truck,” Sandor told him.

“Then get out of there and head back to Houston.”

“I’ve got eight Navy SEALs in the drink right now,” Sandor protested.

“Fine. And when they complete their mission they’ll be picked up by the Navy, not some helicopter being bounced around in the middle of a hurricane.”

“True,” Sandor reluctantly agreed. He then switched back to the radio, tying into communication with the captain of the
Burgwyn
. “How are they doing?” he asked.

CHAPTER EIGHTY

GULF OF MEXICO, SOUTH OF GALVESTON BAY

A
LL EIGHT
SEALs had successfully found their way to the two Navy launches. Four men boarded each boat and they were now running just above the two AUVs as they pursued their deadly course toward Galveston Bay.

The sea was a combination of swells, chops, and waves that constantly pushed the two small pursuit crafts off course. The winds were intensifying and, for the first time, the helicopter pilot advised Sandor that they would have to seek landfall before conditions worsened.

Sandor did not divulge the order from Byrnes that he was to return to Baytown. “Hang on just a minute,” he told Martindale. Then, speaking into his microphone to the captain, he asked, “Have they set up the remote detectors yet?”

“Almost done,” the captain reported.

The SEALs were using two systems to determine whether there was radioactive material aboard the AUVs. The first was a remote laser-guided Geiger counter, not the most reliable approach in these climatic conditions. The second was a new device that used gallium arsenide to detect neutron emissions. That device, referred to as a GA, is small, uses very little power, and is fairly stable. The problem is that it requires actual contact to work, meaning that they would have to be attached to the hulls of the submarines.

The two teams, designated Red and Blue, were each outfitted with sets of both types of detection equipment. The voice of the Red Team leader came crackling through the headphones, saying, “So far we are negative on both vessels based on these laser readings. Repeat, negative on both.”

“How close have you come?” the captain inquired.

“Hard to say, sir, the sonar reading is jumping all over the place. We’re getting hell knocked out of us down here.”

Just then a huge swell crashed across his bow, almost capsizing the small craft.