With that, he turned and stalked out.
In the cold air, snow clouds gathered and threatened. Perfect. Just perfect!
Damn! He couldn't believe what he had just done. How he had lost control.
Damn!
Compared to what he'd just felt, terrorists stealing nuclear material didn't seem so bad.
Chapter Fifteen
Michaels rode in the second helicopter of his trip, heading for the hijacking site on Interstate 10, about forty miles west of Phoenix. A small military jet had been waiting for him when the first copter dropped him at the airport in Boise. It had been a straight flight, and fast.
The Arizona sky was clear and sunny, and he could see what the pilot had told him was the Bighorn Mountains ahead of the copter.
John Howard had flown out in one of Net Force's chartered 747's with his strike team, and was setting up a command post at a truck stop just outside Tonopah, Arizona.
The chopper pilot brought his craft in for a landing not far from a pair of helicopters already on the ground. Big Hueys, they looked like. In addition to the copters, the ground was a beehive of activity — cars, trucks, troops, flashing lights.
Practically speaking, it would have made more sense for Michaels to have gone back to HQ; once you got to be the commander of a group like Net Force, you were supposed to be a desk jockey — they paid you for your managing abilities, not to go play in the field. But the idea of sitting in his office parked in front of the computer station and com gear waiting to hear what was going on did not appeal to Alex. He needed to be out doing something after that whole scene in Boise.
Dust and sand kicked up as the copter settled. He saw John Howard in his field uniform, holding on to his cap as the wind blasted him.
Michaels exited the craft and walked to where Howard stood.
'Commander.'
'Colonel. How is it going?'
'This way, sir.'
Howard led him toward what looked like a Texaco truck stop. Along with a dozen big commercial rigs, clearly local, there were a few smaller Net Force trucks and cars, brought by the cargo version of the 747 that the strike force used. There were a couple of large igloo tents erected behind the main truck stop building, and big power lines snaking into the tents from six rumbling gasoline-powered electrical generators parked near the larger of the tents.
A chilly wind blew across the dry land, but inside the mobile tactical unit — a fiberglass-framed tent the size of a small house — the air was warm. A dozen techs worked on various electronics, mostly computers and com- gear. Several other soldiers in the strike team checked weapons or assembled field equipment. Julio Fernandez looked up, saw Michaels, and saluted.
Howard stopped in front of a big flatscreen on a stand. He picked up a remote and clicked it. A turning-globe map appeared on the screen.
'Here's what happened, as best we can tell,' Howard said. 'Somebody sent the routing information for four shipments of plutonium scheduled to move today to a paramilitary group that calls itself the Sons of Patrick Henry. Here are the sites.'
Red dots pulsed on the map. France, Germany, Florida, and Arizona.
'We got word of the leak from Gridley at HQ at about the time the attacks began. All four went off simultaneously. We got word to the convoys ASAP. The Florida and German convoys took alternate routes and encountered no problems.
'The French attack had already begun, as had the one here. We alerted French authorities, and they got there in time to stop the assault. Eight of the attackers were killed, four wounded seriously, several seemed to have escaped. The driver of the French truck and four of the guards were killed, three more were wounded. Some civilians got caught in the cross fire, all locals.
'We called the Army transport group here too late. By the time the National Guard and state boys and girls showed up, it was all over. The Army lost two drivers, eight more men, and two women. Looks as if the wounded soldiers were executed after they were downed, assault rifle or pistol rounds to their heads. The terrorists took their dead or wounded with them, but there was enough blood without bodies on the road and surrounding territory to know the Army's shooters connected with at least a few of them.
'They left behind a couple of antitank mines to slow pursuit. The state patrol lost two cruisers and three officers. And five civilian cars also got blasted. Six civilians are dead and three more in the hospital probably won't make it. Everything the state and local police can put on the ground or in the air is out looking for the terrorists.'
'Jesus.'
'Yes, sir. The shipment was en-route from Fort Davy Crockett, Texas, to Long Beach, California, where it was to be taken via ocean vessel to a location that the Army does not wish to reveal to us. Seven pounds of WG plutonium.'
'Where do we stand?'
'We know who did it. We know where they are.'
'Have you told the local authorities?'
'No, sir. We've sent them off in other directions. It gives them something to do. And if they should get too close, they'll be warned off.' He fiddled with the remote. The screen image shifted to an overhead view of a group of small buildings surrounded by a fence. The image zeroed in, growing larger in distinct frames, until details as fine as cars and even a couple of people could be seen.
'This is the nearest bolt-hole the Sons maintain. It's just north of the Gila Bend Indian Reservation, not that far from here. These people apparently own property all over the country, and they've got branches all over the world. We've got the place footprinted with one Kl Albatross spysat, and we've requested that the military shift another one into the same orbit. Which they are doing.'
'How good is the sat coverage?'
'Not perfect. Any bird high enough to be in geosynch orbit has to be at least 22,300 miles—36,000 kilometers — and IR or optical resolution to six feet at that height is iffy, especially in a hot desert, so spysats that can see guys running around on the ground have to be a lot lower, which means they are whipping past any given point at speed, so they can't sit and watch one spot. We'll see ‘em, but it'll be a fast look. Computers'll fill that in.'
'This is where you think they took the plutonium?'
A yellow box blinked on and outlined one of the structures. 'There's a tracker built into the outer shell of the radioactive transport box. NRC and NSA don't allow anybody to ship this stuff via FedEx. This is where they took it, sir. GPS puts it in the southwest corner of this building, right there. Since it's Army gear, there's no fudge-factor on the satellite bounce, so we can pinpoint the GPS unit to within plus or minus five feet. It's in there. I doubt they took it out of the box to play with.'
'Where is the Army?'
'They're massing their teams thirty miles south of the bolt-hole, on the old Luke Air Force target range. So far, they are holding off, but Military Intelligence is having a fire hose of a pissing match with the FBI over who gets to shoot whom, so everybody is waiting for the spray to settle back in D.C. before anybody moves.'
Michaels waved that off. Nothing they could do out here about weenie-waving uplevels. Somebody would figure out what to do soon enough. Then they'd see who got to step up to the plate.
'What are our options, the tactical considerations, if we get the nod?'
Howard flashed a tiny grin, teeth bright against his chocolate skin.
