"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."
"Colonel Byron?"
"He's the man. You said you've worked with him recently?"
"Oh, yes, splendid chap."
Chavez had a chuckle at that one. "He doesn't like Rainbow all that much. We stole some of his best people, you see."
"And gave them practical work to do."
"True," Chavez agreed, sipping his coffee. The rest of the team appeared then, dressed as their commander was, in semi-military casual clothes. Sauntering into the coffee shop, they spotted their boss and came over.
It was about four in the afternoon in Kansas. The morning ride had left Popov sore in unusual places. His hips especially protested the way they'd been used earlier in the day, his upper legs held out at an unusual angle. But it was a pleasant memory for all that.
There was nothing for Popov to do here. He had no assigned work, and by lunch he'd run out of things he could conveniently explore. That left television as a diversion, but TV was not one of his favorite things. A bright man. lie was easily bored, and he hated boredom. CNN kept repeating the same stories on the Olympics, and while he'd always enjoyed watching that international competition, it hadn't started yet. So, he wandered the corridors of the hotel, and looked out the huge window-wall at the surrounding countryside. Another ride tomorrow morning. lie thought, at least it got him outside into pleasant surroundings. After over an hour's wandering, he headed clown to the cafeteria.
"Oh, hello, Dmitriy," Kirk Maclean said, just ahead of him in the line. Maclean wasn't a vegan either, the Russian saw. His plate had a large slice of ham on it. Popov remarked on that.
"Like I said this morning, we're not designed to be vegetarians," Maclean pointed out with a grin.