Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [287]
“Through and through,” Pasternak proclaimed. “No arteries, no bones, I don’t think. Blood’s clotting. What kind of round?”
“Jacketed seven-six-two.”
“Good. No fragments. Barring infection, he’ll make it.”
Clark nodded. “Dom, you’re with me.”
The two of them returned inside to give the house a walk-through. Though they’d all worn gloves the entire time they’d been there, sooner or later the FBI would descend on the house, and the FBI was damned good at finding trace evidence where none should exist.
Satisfied, Clark nodded for Dom to return to the vehicle, then dialed The Campus. Within seconds he had Hendley, Rounds, and Granger on conference call. Clark brought them up to speed, then said, “We’ve got two choices, anonymously dump them on the steps of the Hoover Building or finish this ourselves. Either way, the less time we stay here, the better.”
There was silence on the line. This was Hendley’s call.
“Stand by,” the director of The Campus said. He was back two minutes later. “Get back to the Gulfstream. The pilot knows where you’re going.”
Forty minutes later, they arrived at the North Las Vegas Airport and pulled onto the tarmac beside the plane, where they were met by the copilot, who ushered them aboard. Once airborne, Clark again called Hendley, who’d already begun the complicated and delicate process of informing the U.S. government that the Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository had been penetrated by now-deceased URC terrorists, and that while the suitcase nuke they’d left behind had been rendered safe, it might be wise to secure the device as soon as possible.
“How can you be sure this ain’t going to blow back on us?” Clark now asked.
“I can’t, but we don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“True.”
“How’s our patient?”
“Doc cleaned out the holes, stitched ’em shut, and put him on antibiotics. He’s stable but in one hell of a lot of pain. Jack’s given him a permanent limp, probably.”
“Least of his worries now,” Hendley observed. “Is he talking?”
“Not a word. Where’re we going?”
“Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport. You’ll be met.”
“And then where?” Clark pressed. They had in their possession the world’s most wanted terrorist; the sooner they found a bolt-hole where they could regroup and plan their next move, the better.
“Someplace quiet. Someplace Dr. Pasternak can work.”
At this, Clark smiled.
Four short hours after they departed Las Vegas, they touched down on CHO’s single runway and taxied up to the executive terminal. True to his word, Hendley had a pair of Chevy Suburbans waiting; in formation, they approached the Gulfstream’s retractable stairs, did simultaneous three-point turns, and backed up to the bottom step. From the passenger door of the first Suburban, Hendley leaned out and signaled to Clark and Jack, who climbed into the backseat, while Caruso and Chavez, trailed by Pasternak, escorted their charges to the trailing Suburban. Within minutes they were off the airport grounds and heading north on Highway 29.
Hendley brought them up to speed. From what little Gavin Biery was able to glean from the flood of coded electronic traffic, Creech Air Force Base’s 3rd Special Operations Squadron had arrived at Yucca within forty minutes of Hendley’s call. Two hours after that, in a sure sign the Department of Energy, Homeland Security, and the FBI had descended en masse upon Yucca Mountain, the electronic traffic dried up.
“Are they onto the Emir’s house?” Jack asked.
“Not yet.”
“Won’t take them long to find Paragon Air.” This from Clark. “So spill it, Gerry. Where’re we going?”
“I’ve got a few acres of horse land and a country house outside Middleburg.”
“What’s a few?”
“Thirty. Should give us some breathing room.” Hendley checked his watch. “Dr. Pasternak’s equipment should be there by now.”
90
AFTER THE nearly constant adrenaline rush Clark and his team had experienced since touching down in Las Vegas twenty-four hours earlier, what followed immediately upon arriving at Hendley’s country house was anticlimactic. To his obvious disappointment, Pasternak announced