Avoiding a political debate, Jason pointed his chin up at the cave. ‘Think we should gas them out?’
‘Not sure how effective that’ll be if we don’t first get in there and see how deep those tunnels go. Wouldn’t be smart sending men in there.’
Jason agreed. ‘You fellas bring a SUG-V?’
The Small Unmanned Ground Vehicle, or SUG-V, was a thirty-pound compact radio-controlled reconnaissance robot equipped with a single articulating arm, cameras and dual rotary tracks for climbing stairs and rolling over rubble — invaluable for infiltrating terrorist hideouts and diffusing roadside bombs.
‘I was getting to that, Yaeger. Don’t be a smart ass. We’ve got a shiny new PackBot in the truck. Not sure how she’ll respond in a cave — transmissions might get sketchy.’
‘We’ll use a fibre-optic line,’ Jason tactfully replied.
‘Worth a try, I suppose.’ Then Crawford added, ‘Let’s just try and skip the heroic stuff this time, capeesh? You remember where that got you guys last time.’
‘Duly noted, sir,’ Jason appeasingly replied.
Though friendly fire and civilian casualties were commonplace in any war, there seemed to be zero tolerance when the error could be attributed to an outside contractor. Despite the fact that Jason’s unit had maintained a flawless record here in Iraq, another of Global Security Corporation’s deep-cover teams working Fallujah had bombed a purported weapons-manufacturing facility that instead wound up being a car parts machine shop. Fifteen Iraqi civilians died in the explosion. The mistake had been a black eye for both the firm and the US Defense Department. And lifers like Crawford, who no doubt felt undermined by the presence of freelancers, were more than happy to keep a scorecard.
‘Tell me, Yaeger: where’s your Kurd sidekick? Why’s he not back here yet?’
‘Had to go north of Mosul. Shouldn’t be much longer.’
‘You said he needed to look into something. That was two hours ago. What exactly is he doing?’
‘He’s following up on a very important lead.’
Here’s where relations with Crawford might get sketchy, thought Jason. When Hazo had called earlier, he’d indicated that his restaurateur cousin had positively identified the American scientist, who’d apparently been chaperoned by a number of military types. Only minutes ago he’d also received an e-mail from Thomas Flaherty, which summarized an initial briefing of the archaeologist in Boston — facts that perfectly corroborated Hazo’s story. Until it was clear what the military’s role had been in all this, Jason would need to sacrifice diplomacy. The bigger question was: did Crawford already know something about the excavation that had taken place here in 2003?
‘Hazo’s got lots of contacts in the area,’ Jason half explained. ‘Influential people who know things.’
‘Don’t diddle my pie hole, Yaeger. Exactly what kind of “things” are we talking about?’
Jason squared off with the colonel and said, ‘The kind of things that lead us to trapping Fahim Al-Zahrani in a cave when every branch of the military thinks he’s in Afghanistan. So I tend not to bust his balls too hard for staying out too late on a fact-finding mission. Capeesh?’
Crawford’s sharp jaw jutted out. ‘Stand down, Yaeger. I’m warning you — don’t fuck with me. If I find out there’s something you’re not telling me …’ For maximum effect, he let the threat linger.
But Jason wasn’t backing down. Guys like this had tried to intimidate him during his short career with the Corps, and were precisely why he’d left it all behind for the private sector. Bullying was a poor supplement for stunted intellect. ‘Info sharing is a two-way street, Colonel. We’re both fighting the same enemy, both on the same side.’
Crawford’s jaw eased back. ‘If my scouts find something and that chopper’s not here to back them up, I’m gonna be mighty pissed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, then,’ Crawford said. ‘I’ll have the men prep the bot.’
21
During her life, many unexpected things had happened to Brooke Thompson with most surprises having fortunately been good ones. The instant realization that someone was trying to kill her, however, certainly ranked first on the undesirable surprises list. The adrenaline shooting through her was like nothing she’d ever sensed — a fight-or-flight response that pushed all her senses to the max and had her heart and lungs pumping triple-time.
Without hesitation, she responded the way her mom had drilled into her head since childhood: ‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘HELP!’
With the snow storm having driven everyone home early, there was no one close by to hear her plea. The nearest pedestrian was almost a block away, strolling blissfully unawares along Huntington Avenue. A big guy in a hooded fleece. She tried again, even louder this time: ‘Heeeelp!’
The guy kept moving.
Both shots seemed to have come from the same trajectory — 10.30 on a clock face. That meant the shooter was somewhere along the path she’d walked from the museum. On all fours and keeping low, she scrambled along the kerb to keep the Corolla between her and the shooter.
A hasty visual survey to the rear and sides was discouraging. Nothing in the vicinity qualified as adequate cover. Even the scant, leafless trees lining the street seemed too skinny. Staying behind the car, however, was a losing proposition.
If she could just see the gunman, orient better …
Brooke pulled off her bright pink cap, then popped her head up over the four inches of snow that covered the Corolla’s hood. Closer than anticipated, the shooter was easy to spot: a thin man wearing a grey overcoat and a black snowcap. She fully expected the face to belong to Agent Thomas Flaherty, but the big ears and aquiline features weren’t his. Across the street, the gunman bounded over the snow berm where her attache case and boots had left a clear trail. He swung a handgun directly at her head and the muzzle flashed white with barely any sound.
As she ducked, the shot glanced the snow on the Corolla’s hood and zipped out perilously close to her scalp.
‘Heeeeeeeeelp!’
In less than five seconds, she guessed, he’d be circling the car to close in for the kill. And there was nothing she could do about it.
When Flaherty saw Dumbo-ears step up his pace and pull out a Glock, he pushed down hard on the Chrysler Concorde’s accelerator. The car fishtailed in the snow before finding traction on a patch of rock salt and shooting forward. The slight delay allowed the agile gunman to corner the museum and fire off two shots that kept the archaeologist pinned down behind her car.
Christ, did he hit her? was all Flaherty could think. Then the guy dashed out in the roadway on Forsyth Avenue and managed a third shot.
‘No, no, no!’
Sliding a wide right on to Forsyth Avenue, Flaherty fought the steering wheel to straighten the car on the slick road. He leaned on the horn and depressed the accelerator again. Now he had Dumbo’s attention. The guy planted himself in the centre of the street at twenty metres, levelled the Glock at the Concorde’s windshield.
Dipping below the dashboard, Flaherty jammed down on the brakes while cutting the wheel hard to the left. The round thwunked into the passenger-side doorframe. The Concorde swung into a sideways skid, but the forward momentum kept it along a direct line for the shooter.