psychological aspects of the tactical situation. Nothing to be done now but order coffee and solid food, which Clark did, taking a chair and sitting in front of the TVs.
CHAPTER 3
GNOMES AND GUNS
The helicopter ride was twenty-five minutes exactly, and deposited Team-2 and its attachments in the general-aviation portion of the international airport. Two vans waited, and Chavez watched his men load their gear into one of them for movement to the British Airways terminal. There, some cops, who were also waiting, supervised the van’s handling into a cargo container—which would be first off the flight when the plane arrived at Bern.
But first they had to wait for the go-mission order. Chavez pulled out his cellular phone, flipped it open, and thumbed speed-dial number one.
“Clark,” the voice said after the encryption software clicked through.
“Ding here, John. The call come from Whitehall yet?”
“Still waiting, Domingo. We expect it shortly. The canton bumped it upstairs. Their Justice Minister is considering it now.”
“Well, tell the worthy gentleman that this flight leaves the gate in two-zero minutes, and the next one after that is ninety minutes, ’less you want us to travel Swissair. One of those in forty minutes, and another in an hour fifteen.”
“I hear you, Ding. We have to hold.”
Chavez swore in Spanish. He knew it. He didn’t have to like it. “Roger, Six, Team-2 is holding on the ramp at Gatwick.”
“Roger that, Team-2, Rainbow Six, out.”
Chavez closed his phone and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, people,” he said to his men over the shriek of jet engines, “we hold here for the go-ahead.” The troops nodded, as eager to get it going as their boss, but just as powerless to make it happen. The British team members had been there before and took it better than the Americans and the others.
“Bill, tell Whitehall that we have twenty minutes to get them off the ground, after that over an hour delay.”
Tawney nodded and went to a phone in the corner to call his contact in the Foreign Ministry. From there it went to the British Ambassador in Geneva, who’d been told that the SAS was offering special mission assistance of a technical nature. It was an odd case where the Swiss Foreign Minister knew more than the man making the offer. But, remarkably, the word came back in fifteen minutes: “Ja.”
“We have mission approval, John,” Tawney reported, much to his own surprise.
“Right.” Clark flipped open his own phone and hit the speed-dial #2 button.
“Chavez,” a voice said over considerable background noise.
“We have a go-mission,” Clark said. “Acknowledge.”
“Team-2 copies go-mission. Team-2 is moving.”
“That’s affirmative. Good luck, Domingo.”
“Thank you, Mr. C.”
Chavez turned to his people and pumped his arm up and down in the speed-it-up gesture known to armies all over the world. They got into their designated van for the drive across the Gatwick ramp. It stopped at the cargo gate for their flight, where Chavez waved a cop close, and let Eddie Price pass the word to load the special cargo onto the Boeing 757. That done, the van advanced another fifty yards to the stairs outside the end of the jetway, and Team- 2 jumped out and headed up the stairs. At the top, the control-booth door was held open by another police constable, and from there they walked normally aboard the aircraft and handed over their tickets to the stewardess, who pointed them to their first-class seats.
The last man aboard was Tim Noonan, the team’s technical wizard. Not a wizened techno-nerd, Noonan had played defensive back at Stanford before joining the FBI, and took weapons training with the team just to fit in. Six feet, two hundred pounds, he was larger than most of Ding’s shooters but, he’d be the first to admit, was not as tough. Still, he was a better-than-fair shot with pistol and MP-10, and was learning to speak the language. Dr.
CHAPTER 3
GNOMES AND GUNS
The helicopter ride was twenty-five minutes exactly, and deposited Team-2 and its attachments in the general-aviation portion of the international airport. Two vans waited, and Chavez watched his men load their gear into one of them for movement to the British Airways terminal. There, some cops, who were also waiting, supervised the van’s handling into a cargo container—which would be first off the flight when the plane arrived at Bern.
But first they had to wait for the go-mission order. Chavez pulled out his cellular phone, flipped it open, and thumbed speed-dial number one.
“Clark,” the voice said after the encryption software clicked through.
“Ding here, John. The call come from Whitehall yet?”
“Still waiting, Domingo. We expect it shortly. The canton bumped it upstairs. Their Justice Minister is considering it now.”
“Well, tell the worthy gentleman that this flight leaves the gate in two-zero minutes, and the next one after that is ninety minutes, ’less you want us to travel Swissair. One of those in forty minutes, and another in an hour fifteen.”
“I hear you, Ding. We have to hold.”
Chavez swore in Spanish. He knew it. He didn’t have to like it. “Roger, Six, Team-2 is holding on the ramp at Gatwick.”
“Roger that, Team-2, Rainbow Six, out.”
Chavez closed his phone and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, people,” he said to his men over the shriek of jet engines, “we hold here for the go-ahead.” The troops nodded, as eager to get it going as their boss, but just as powerless to make it happen. The British team members had been there before and took it better than the Americans and the others.
“Bill, tell Whitehall that we have twenty minutes to get them off the ground, after that over an hour delay.”
Tawney nodded and went to a phone in the corner to call his contact in the Foreign Ministry. From there it went to the British Ambassador in Geneva, who’d been told that the SAS was offering special mission assistance of a technical nature. It was an odd case where the Swiss Foreign Minister knew more than the man making the offer. But, remarkably, the word came back in fifteen minutes: “Ja.”
“We have mission approval, John,” Tawney reported, much to his own surprise.
“Right.” Clark flipped open his own phone and hit the speed-dial #2 button.
“Chavez,” a voice said over considerable background noise.
“We have a go-mission,” Clark said. “Acknowledge.”
“Team-2 copies go-mission. Team-2 is moving.”
“That’s affirmative. Good luck, Domingo.”
“Thank you, Mr. C.”
Chavez turned to his people and pumped his arm up and down in the speed-it-up gesture known to armies all over the world. They got into their designated van for the drive across the Gatwick ramp. It stopped at the cargo gate for their flight, where Chavez waved a cop close, and let Eddie Price pass the word to load the special cargo onto the Boeing 757. That done, the van advanced another fifty yards to the stairs outside the end of the jetway, and Team- 2 jumped out and headed up the stairs. At the top, the control-booth door was held open by another police constable, and from there they walked normally aboard the aircraft and handed over their tickets to the stewardess, who pointed them to their first-class seats.
The last man aboard was Tim Noonan, the team’s technical wizard. Not a wizened techno-nerd, Noonan had played defensive back at Stanford before joining the FBI, and took weapons training with the team just to fit in. Six feet, two hundred pounds, he was larger than most of Ding’s shooters but, he’d be the first to admit, was not as tough. Still, he was a better-than-fair shot with pistol and MP-10, and was learning to speak the language. Dr.
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