Tom Clancy's Op-center Balance of Power - Tom Clancy [119]
The MD was the metal detector. Slightly larger than a fountain pen, the MD was primarily used to find and define landmines. However, it could also "see" through wood.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to go through the door. Colonel," Pupshaw said.
August nodded. "Set it up."
Pupshaw saluted and ran back upstairs. Prementine joined them. Together, the men rigged a thumbnailsized amount of C-4 around the handle and around each hinge. They stuck a remote-control detonator, about the size of a needle, into each wad.
As they were working, August received word from Luis. María was being interrogated by an outside wall and a firing squad had been assembled. It was time to move out.
Luis thanked them again and wished them luck. August promised to contact Luis when it was all over. Then he disconnected the microphone and stowed it in his grip. The action must not be broadcast, even to Interpol. The United States could not be connected with what was about to transpire and even an inadvertent recording or misrouting of the signal would be disastrous.
Like the other Strikers, August slipped the grip on his back. It was flat and lined with kevlar; the bulletproof material provided extra cover for the soldiers. Joining the others, August gave Pupshaw the order to proceed. Once the door was opened they'd proceed in serpentine fashion, Sondra still at point, Prementine at the rear. The object was to get to the throne room as quickly as possible. They were authorized to shoot-arms and legs if possible, torso if necessary.
The Strikers stood at the foot of the steps and covered their ears as Pupshaw twisted the top of what looked like an elongated thimble. The three small charges erupted with a bang like a popped paper bag. Door planks flew apart in jagged fragments, carried in all directions by three thick, gray, lumpy clouds.
"Go!" August shouted even before the echo of the blast had died.
Without hesitation Private Sondra DeVonne bolted up the stairs, followed in a tight line by the rest.
* * *
THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 11:08 a.m.
Madrid, Spain
There is no way in hell that I'll allow this to happen, thought Darrell McCaskey.
McCaskey had one thing in common with Paul Hood. The two men were among the very few Op-Center executive officers who had never served in the military.
No one held that against McCaskey. He'd joined the New York City Police Academy straight out of high school and spent five years in Midtown South. During that time he did whatever was necessary to protect the citizens of the city he served. Sometimes that meant repeat felons would "trip" down the concrete steps of the precinct house when they were being booked. Other times it meant working with "old school" mobsters to help keep the rough new gangs from Vietnam and Armenia out of Times Square.
McCaskey received several commendations for bravery during his tenure and was noticed by an FBI recruiter based in Manhattan. He joined the agency and after spending four years in New York was moved to FBI headquarters in Washington. His specialty was foreign gangs and terrorists. He spent a great deal of time overseas, making friends in foreign law enforcement agencies and contacts in the underbellies of other nations.
He met María Corneja on a trip to Spain and fell in love with her before the week was out. She was smart and independent, attractive and poised, desirable and hungry. After so many years undercover-pretending to be hookers and school teachers and countless flower delivery women-and even more years competing with men on the police force, she welcomed McCaskey's genuine interest in her thoughts and feelings. Through Luis, she arranged to come to the U.S. to study FBI investigative techniques. She had a hotel room in Washington for three days before she moved in with McCaskey.
McCaskey hadn't wanted the relationship to end. God, how he had not. But McCaskey made the rules in the relationship, just as he did in the street. And he tried to enforce them. Like his