It had always been an incredibly dangerous situation, but one that the Pakistani army kept more or less under control. The transfers were carefully coordinated and, even more important, the weapons were always partially disassembled and transported as individual parts that couldn’t be used to create a nuclear explosion.
So, on any given day, you could count on the fact that one or two nukes were making their way around the country monitored by an army division set up for just that purpose. Now that stupid-but reasonably well run-program was in chaos. Fully functional weapons were being haphazardly passed around by low-level officers and, in two confirmed cases, civilians. One warhead they were watching was currently parked in a retired captain’s storage unit. A recon team had managed to get a fiber optic camera through the ventilation grate and the Agency was now in possession of an honest-to-God picture of a hot nuke sitting next to a set of golf clubs. At this point, the chances of the situation spiraling out of control was almost a hundred percent.
“This is us,” Coleman said, cutting into an alley. He dialed a code into his phone and a rusted cargo door slid open in front of them. There were three motocross bikes in the bay and Rapp stepped out of the vehicle as they nosed up to them. The door began to close again and a moment later they were standing in the gloom provided by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“The roads are a little narrower than Islamabad’s and the traffic’s about the same as Lahore. So, not knowing how fast we’re going to have to move or exactly where this is going to go down, I figured bikes would be our best bet.”
Joe Maslick, one of Coleman’s top men, leaned his considerable bulk through a door to Rapp’s right. His hand came off the weapon beneath his sweat-soaked shirt when he confirmed their identities.
“What’s the situation?” Rapp said, following the man into the next room.
The building looked like it had at one time housed some kind of convenience store, and it was still lined with empty shelves and counters. The large front windows had been blacked out, with the only illumination coming from places where the paint had gotten scraped off.
“We’ve got cameras on buildings at all the major entrances to town. Our manpower is limited but we have people physically covering some of the others. Keep in mind that most aren’t fighters. We scraped them up from wherever we could.”
“Choppers?”
“One on standby.”
“Anything new from Redstone?” Coleman asked.
“Yeah. He says we’re looking for a produce truck.”
“Do we have a description?” Rapp said.
“Better. We’ve got a plate number. I’ve texted it to all our people.”
“Any intel on where al Badr is going to make its move?”
“No. But we have a few educated guesses.” He motioned Rapp over to a large satellite photo spread out on the floor. The light was just good enough to make out detail.
“The fact that it’s a truck helps us. A lot of the streets are too narrow for it to fit through, so we can rule them out.” He used a car antenna he’d found on the floor as a pointer. “We’ve got guys on roofs here, here, and here. Obviously, they’re spread out but because the buildings are packed in so tight, they’re actually pretty mobile. The concentric circles around their positions represent one minute of travel time each.”
“What about Pakistani soldiers?” Rapp said.
“Police and military are stationed on most of the larger plazas and major intersections,” Coleman responded. “All this political turmoil is causing a fair amount of civil unrest. The presence isn’t heavy, though. Just a show of force to keep people in line.”
“Do they know we’re here?”
“The army and the cops? No, and that’s the way we want it in this town. Both the general in charge and the chief of police are playing for their own accounts. We considered paying them off, but neither is reliable or competent enough to bother with. They’re just covering their asses and waiting to see whether the army or the government comes out of this on top.”
“So we can’t count on them to help us?”
“Definitely not. More likely they’re going to get in our way.”
A walkie-talkie lying on the floor suddenly crackled to life. “Spotter eight to base. Come in, base.”
Maslick snatched it up and pointed to the number 8 scrawled on the map in red. “This is base. What have you got?”
“I have eyes on the target. Heading northeast on Okara near where it changes names. Traffic is heavy. I think I can keep up on foot.”
Maslick glanced at Rapp, who gave a short nod. “Do it. And let us know if he turns off that road.”
Coleman was already going for the bikes, dragging a box of a gear out from behind them. Rapp followed while Maslick notified their chopper pilot that he needed to be warming up his bird.
The flak jackets were a nonstarter, as were the leather pants and jackets. It was just too hot and there was a good chance this could devolve into a running fight. Rapp slipped a tan-colored climbing harness over his khaki cargo pants and untucked his shirt to obscure it. A shoulder holster would be too visible so he ended up going with the setup he jogged with at home-a compact Glock 30 in a fanny pack.
Coleman was going with a larger weapon in a CamelBak and was forced to wear a full helmet to cover his blond hair and fair skin. Rapp had been threatening for years to pay one of Coleman’s contracts with a tanning bed and a shipping crate full of hair dye, but the former SEAL refused to take the hint.
“Comm check,” Rapp said, putting on a throat mike and inserting the earpiece.
“I’ve got you,” Coleman responded through the radio built into his helmet.
“Five by five,” Maslick said a moment later.
“I’m going to try to get behind them. Scott, you come down on them from the north.”
“Roger that. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Rapp threw a leg over the closest bike and kicked it to life. The door began to open and when it got about four feet off the ground, he ducked and twisted the throttle, shooting out into the alley.
CHAPTER 11
“THE American scout has seen the truck and is following on foot.”
Grisha Azarov didn’t acknowledge the voice coming over his earpiece, instead continuing to pace steadily across the abandoned manufacturing plant. Twenty-three meters. He calculated how long it would take him to run that section from a standing start and then moved on to a massive industrial machine that dominated one side of the shop floor.
“I repeat. The American scout has seen the truck and is following on foot.”
Azarov activated his mike as he paced off another portion of the building. “Understood. Authorize the driver to divert.”
He stopped and took in the space around him-the disused machines rusting at its edges, the remains of the glass-walled office at its center, the piles of refuse left over from the plant’s operations.
He didn’t know what had been made there or when production stopped. He didn’t know if the driver of the truck now headed inevitably his way was a Muslim fanatic, a trained operative, or an innocent transporter of fruits and vegetables. He was largely unfamiliar with the surrounding neighborhood, the flow of traffic at that time of day, and the strength of local law enforcement. He was forced to assume that these details had been sufficiently studied and to trust Krupin’s spotters to keep him apprised of the status of the man he would soon engage in a fight to the death.
Azarov walked to the base of a crane that rose to the ceiling, scanning along it before lowering his gaze to a group of Middle Eastern men huddled at the back of the building. Their precise purpose had not been shared with him beyond the fact that they were not there to back him up. Based on their number and equipment, it seemed obvious that they had been charged with unloading something from the truck that would soon arrive. And, while it had never been specifically discussed, there was little question that the item in question was one of the nuclear warheads being moved haphazardly around Pakistan.