Net Force - Tom Clancy [45]
On my way, sir.
You? Youre going? A moth-eaten, tired old man like you?
The two men grinned at each other.
Howard watched from his vantage point in the building across the alley from the south entrance as Fernandez approached the closed roll-up door. Fernandez did not wear any obvious weaponry, just dark and greasy coveralls and a battered yellow hardhat, and he carried an old metal lunch pail he must have scrounged from somewhere.
The parabolics picked up the sound of Fernandez whistling something as he arrived at the door. Sounded like something from Swan Lake. Nice touch, that.
Fernandez banged on the door with his free hand.
After a moment, he hammered on the door again. The door accordioned up about six feet. The guard, unarmed, stepped into view and rattled off something Howard didnt understand, but in a questioning and somewhat irritated tone of voice.
Fernandez said something in return, and it had a familiar ring to it.
Howard grinned. If he wasnt mistaken, Fernandez had just asked the guard where the mens room was. Before the man could respond, Fernandez said something else, and pointed behind the guard. The man turned to look, puzzled.
A tactical error on the guards part.
Fernandez swung the lunch pail and slammed it into the guards right temple. The man dropped as if his legs had suddenly vanished. Fernandez put the lunch pail down, grabbed the obviously unconscious man, and dragged him into the warehouse. After a moment, the sarge reappeared, and waved: Come on in.
A and B teams, go! Howard said into the LOSIR tactical com unit he wore. He grabbed his H&K assault rifle and sprinted for the door.
14
Tuesday, September 21st, 11:53 a.m. Kiev
From the time Julio Fernandez knocked the guard cold until the two assault teams were in place inside the warehouse had taken slightly less than forty-five seconds. Not a glitch.
Now, they waited.
There was an elevator, but the circuit breaker working the lift had been tripped; it wasnt going to move. The only way down from the second floor consisted of two sets of stairs. The exit door on one set of those stairs was padlocked from the outside-wouldnt that be lovely during a fire? Howard left two men watching that door anyhow, along with men outside watching the windows. Nobody was sneaking out of here.
The other set of stairs was wide and straight, the door unlocked. This was how theyd gone up, and this was how they would come down.
Howard deployed his men so they werent visible from the base of the stairs. Everybody was to stay hidden until he gave the word.
Howard himself would have put on the unconscious guards coveralls to stand by the front entrance-until the sarge reminded him it wouldnt be enough of a disguise-not unless these guys were really color-blind.
Fine, fine, you do it. By the way, what was in that lunch box you hit that guy with?
Twelve pounds of lead shot, sir. Packed into a nice tight leather bag. Sometimes low-tech stuff is still the best way.
Thus it was that Fernandez wore the guards coveralls, his face in shadow, so when the party broke up and the terrorists made to leave, theyd see that things were still fine downstairs.
Howard found a spot behind a stack of wooden crates in which to hide. There was enough of a gap between the boxes so he could see the base of the stairs. He could smell the pine-like scent of the unfinished wood, and the lube from the machine parts in the boxes. He could also smell his own nervous sweat.
Once most of the plotters were down, theyd move on them. He reasoned that the plotters wouldnt be showing weapons, since they were about to go out into public view, and unless they were real fast on the draw, they wouldnt have time to get their weapons out without getting cooked for their efforts. Theyd see they were caught and that resistance was unwise. That was how he reasoned it. If he could take them all alive, that would be the best thing. Let the interrogators at them.
The sound of voices talking in Russian or Ukrainian drifted down the stairs, along with the clump of boots.