CHAPTER 33
THE GAMES BEGIN
Chavez did his best not to stumble off the aircraft, somewhat amazed that the cabin crew looked so chipper. Well, they had practice, and maybe they’d adapted to jet lag better than he ever had. Like every other civilian he saw, he snacked his lips to deal with the sour taste and squinted his eyes and headed for the door with the eagerness of a man being released from a maximum security prison. Maybe traveling great distances by ship wasn’t so bad after all.
“Major Chavez?” a voice asked in an Australian accent.
“Yeah?” Chavez managed to say, looking at the guy in civilian clothes.
“G’day, I’m Leftenant Colonel Frank Wilkerson, Australian Special Air Service.” He held out his hand.
“Howdy.” Chavez managed to grab the hand and shake it. “These are my men, Sergeants Johnston, Pierce, Tomlinson, and Special Agent Tim Noonan of the FBI, he’s our technical support.” More handshakes were exchanged all around. “Welcome to Australia, gentlemen. Follow me, if you please.” The colonel waved for them to follow.
It took fifteen minutes to collect all the gear. That included a half dozen large mil-spec plastic containers that were loaded into a minibus. Ten minutes later, they were at the airport grounds and heading for Motorway 64 for the trip into Sydney.
“So, how was the flight?” Colonel Wilkerson asked, turning in his front seat to look at them.
“Long,” Chavez said, looking around. The sun was rising – it was just short of 6:00 A.M. – while the arriving rainbow troopers were all wondering if it was actually supposed to be setting according to their body clocks. They all hoped a shower and some coffee would help.
“Pig of a flight, all the way out from London,” the colonel sympathized.
“That it is.” Chavez agreed for his men.
“When do the games start?” Mike Pierce asked.
“Tomorrow,” Wilkerson replied. “We’ve got most of the athletes settled into their quarters, and our security teams are fully manned and trained up. We expect no difficulties at all. The intelligence threat board is quite blank. The people we have watching the airport report nothing, and we have photos and descriptions of all known international terrorists. Not as many as there used to be, largely thanks to your group,” the SAS colonel added, with a friendly, professional smile.
“Yeah, well, we try to do our part, Colonel,” George Tomlinson observed, while rubbing his face.
“The chaps who attacked you directly, they’ were IRA, as the media said?”
“Yeah,” Chavez answered. “Splinter group. But they were well briefed. Somebody gave them primo intelligence information. They had their civilian targets identified by name and occupation-that included my wife and mother-in-law, and-”
“I hadn’t heard that, “the Aussie said, with wide-open eyes.
“Well, it wasn’t fun. And we lost two people killed, and four wounded, including Peter Covington. He’s my counterpart, commanding Team-1,” Ding explained. “Like I said, wasn’t fun. Tim here turned out to have saved the day,” he went on, pointing at Noonan.
“How so?” Wilkerson asked the FBI agent, who looked slightly embarrassed.
“I have a system for shutting down cellular phone communications. Turns out the bad guys were using them to coordinate their movements,” the FBI agent explained. “We denied them that ability, and it interfered with their plans. Then Ding and the rest of the guys came in and messed them up some more. We were very, very lucky. Colonel.”
“So, you’re FBI. You know Gus Werner, I expect?”
“Oh, yeah. Gus and I go back a ways. He’s the new AD for terrorism-new division the Bureau’s set up. You’ve been to Quantico, I suppose.”
“Just a few months ago, in fact, exercising with your Hostage Rescue Team and Colonel Byron’s Delta group. Good lads. all. of them.” The driver turned off the interstate-type highway, taking an exit that seemed to head into downtown Sydney. Traffic was light. It was still too early for people to be very active, aside from milkmen and paperboys. The minibus pulled up to an upscale hotel, whose bell staff was awake, even at this ungodly hour.
“We have an arrangement with this one,” Wilkerson explained. “The Global Security people are here, too.”
“Who?” Ding asked.
“Global Security, they have the consulting contract. Mr. Noonan, you probably know their chief, Bill Henriksen.”
“Bill the tree-hugger?” Noonan managed a strangled laugh. “Oh, yeah, I know him.”
“Tree-hugger?”
“Colonel, Bill was a senior guy in Hostage Rescue a few years ago. Competent guy, but he’s one of those nutty environmentalist types. Hugs trees and bunny rabbits. Worries about the ozone layer, all that crap,” Noonan explained.
“I didn’t know that about him. We do worry about the o/one down here, you know. One must use sunblock on the beaches and such. Might be serious in a few years, so they say.”
“Maybe so,” Tim allowed with a yawn. “I’m not a surfer.”
The door was pulled open by a hotel employee and the men stumbled out. Colonel Wilkerson must have called ahead, Ding thought a minute later, as they were fast-tracked to their rooms nice ones-for wake-up showers, followed by big breakfasts with lots of coffee. As dreadful as the jet lag was, the best way for them to handle it was to gut their way through the first day, try to get a decent night’s sleep, and so synchronize themselves in a single day. At least that was the theory, Ding thought, toweling off in front of the bathroom mirror and seeing that he looked almost as messed up as he felt. Soon after that, wearing casual clothes, he showed up in the hotel coffee shop.
“You know, Colonel, if somebody made a narcotic that worked on jet lag, he’d die richer ‘n hell.”
“Quite. I’ve been through it as well, Major.”
“Call me Ding. My given name’s Domingo, but I go by Ding.”
“What’s your background?” Wilkerson asked.
“Started off as an infantryman, but then into CIA, and now this. I don’t know about this simulated-major stuff. I’m Team-2 commander for Rainbow, and I guess that’ll have to do.”
“You Rainbow chaps have been busy.”
“That’s a fact, Colonel,” Ding agreed, shaking his head as the waiter came with a pot of coffee. Ding wondered if anyone had the Army type of coffee, the sort with triple the usual amount of caffeine. It would have come in handy right now. That and a nice morning workout might have helped a lot. In addition to the fatigue, his body was rebelling against the full day of confinement on the 747. The damned airplane was big enough for a few laps, but somehow the designers had left out the running track. Then came the slightly guilty feeling for the poor bastards who’d made the hop in tourist. They must really be suffering, Ding was sure. Well, at least it had been quick. A ship would have taken a whole month of palatial comfort, lots of exercise opportunities, and good food. Life was full of trade-offs, wasn’t it?
“You were in on the Worldpark job?”
“Yeah.” Ding nodded. “My team did the assault on the castle. I was a hot hundred feet away when that bastard killed the little girl. That really wasn’t fun, Colonel.”
“Frank.”
“Thanks. Yeah, Frank, that was pretty damned bad. But we got that bastard-which is to say, Homer Johnston did. He’s one of my long rifles.”
“From the TV coverage we saw, that wasn’t a particularly good shot.”
“Homer wanted to make a little statement,” Chavez explained, with a raised eyebrow. “He won’t be doing it again.”
Wilkerson figured that one out instantly. “Oh, yes, quite. Any children, Ding?”
“Just became a father a few days ago. A son.”
“Congratulations. We’ll have to have a beer for that, later today perhaps.”
“Frank, one beer and you might just have to carry my ass back here.” Dine yawned, and felt embarrassment at the state of his body right then and there. “Anyway, why did you want us down here? Everybody says you guys are pretty good.”
“Never hurts to get a second opinion, Ding. My lads are well trained, but we haven’t had all that much practical experience. And we need some new hardware. Those new radios that E-Systems make, and that Global Security got for us, they’re bloody marvelous. What other magic tools might you have?”
“Noonan’s got something that’ll knock your eyes out. Frank. I hardly believe it myself, but I don’t think it’ll be worth a damn down here. Too many people around. But you’ll find it interesting. I promise you that.”
“What’s that?”
“Tim calls it the `Tricorder’ – you know the gadget Mr. Spock used all the time in Star Trek. It finds people like radar finds airplanes.”
“How’s it do that?”
“He’ll tell you. Something about the electrical field around a human heart.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s new,” Chavez explained. “Little company in the States called DKL, I think. That little fucker is magic, the way it works. Little Willie at Fort Bragg’s in love with it.”