In truth, Papa was not sure about that last part. The intel was spotty at best, but it was a better answer than the standard ‘need-to-know’ line.
“On site security works four shifts of three on duty at any given time. Probably a dozen, but no more than fifteen in all.” None of the shooters offered comment on the size of the security force they would be going up against, so Papa went on. “There’s a sentry post here.” He tapped a spot on the map. “And the other two guard the gate, which is hardly ever used. They’ll be buttoned up tight tonight.
“Civilian personnel numbers no more than twenty. Scientists and support staff. Most of the work is done in the east wing of the old hotel building.” His finger continued to move about the map. “Living quarters are in west wing. That’s where we’ll be doing most of our work tonight. You all have your cards?”
Each of the shooters had been issued a short deck of laminated cards, the size and shape of regular playing cards, with photos of key targets believed to be at the facility. Although destroying the facility and everyone in it was the primary objective, if any of the researchers survived, there was always a chance that the project could be reconstituted, probably somewhere a lot harder to reach. Driver nodded, answering for the rest of the team.
“Our job is simple and dirty. If you see them, kill them. No exceptions.”
Papa watched for a reaction—a flinch, a look of distaste, or perhaps worse, a gleam of hungry psychotic anticipation—but he saw nothing. These men were professionals. They knew that they were just a policy tool—a sword—and like any weapon or tool, they bore none of the responsibility for how they were wielded from afar by politicians and bureaucrats. The job was the job. They did it and then they went home. If they were lucky, the memories of the violence done would quickly fade.
Even the most dedicated and capable soldiers were sometimes haunted by the ghosts of the men they had killed in open combat. Unlike regular soldiers, spec ops shooters sometimes had to carry out assassinations, killing unsuspecting, and often unarmed, targets from a distance. Usually—not always, but usually—there was a very good reason why those targets needed to be taken out, but part of the job description was that you didn’t second guess the chain of command. The toughest part of the shooter’s job was the balancing act: keeping humanity in check long enough to get the job done, without being driven crazy by the ghosts or turning into a sociopath.
Not everyone succeeded.
“If you see them and they’re already dead,” he continued, “check to see if the face matches one of your cards. Bring me a royal flush, and I’ll buy a keg for your team room.” When that did not immediately elicit the laughter he had hoped for, Papa decided to wrap it up. “Any questions?”
There were none. Papa inclined his head. “Driver, it’s your show.”
As the team leader began assigning individual tasks to the other men, the one called Billy Boy approached Papa and handed him a small, black, waterproof bag. Inside, Papa found a set of A/N PVS-7B night vision goggles, a short-range radio with headset, and a Skorpion vz 61 7.65 millimeter submachine pistol, outfitted with a suppressor. He gave the Czech manufactured weapon a cursory inspection. Its collapsible wire stock was folded over in the stored position, so it was only a little bigger than an ordinary semi-automatic pistol.
With a cyclic rate of 900 rounds per minute, the Skorpion was not the subtlest of weapons, but it had the advantage of being extremely generic. Like a lot of weapons from former Soviet-bloc nations, there were so many of them on the black market that they were virtually untraceable. When the storm passed and the damage was discovered, there would be nothing to directly point the finger back to the Agency. There would be suspicions, of course, but no meaningful physical evidence.
Papa fitted the night vision goggles over his head and turned them on. After a moment, the world was rendered in a hazy green. Raindrops scattered the ambient light, giving the impression of static, but it was a big improvement over what he had been able to see before. He snugged the radio headset into place, and then waited for the team to finish their preparations. When Driver called for a radio check, he dutifully keyed the mic and said, “This is Papa, roger, out.”
“Move out,” Driver did not transmit this message, but spoke in his normal voice. “Papa, stick with me.”
Papa nodded and fell into step alongside the team leader. His job was to observe, and if something unexpected happened, advise. He was content to do the former in silence. Billy Boy trailed behind them, while the rest of the team split off in pairs, carrying out their respective pieces of the mission.
It took about an hour and a half for them to hike through the forest and up to the storm battered bluff where the converted resort sat perched above the sea. Driver signaled for a halt at the edge of the woods, and then he keyed his radio. “This is Driver. Report.”
“Vincent, here.” Vincent was Van Gogh. It was a sort of nickname within a nickname. Papa assumed that the moniker derived from his ‘artistic’ talents—only instead of paint, his medium was lead. Van Gogh and Loco had gone ahead and were now somewhere in a tree looking over the concrete fence that surrounded the compound. “We’re in position. Waiting for go.”
Another voice sounded in Papa’s ears. “This is Rodent. Charges set. Waiting for go, over.”
Rodent and Mutant were concealed near the main gate. At the ‘go’ signal, they would detonate small, shaped charges to breach the gate, then sweep in and take out the guards stationed just beyond.
“Stand by.” Driver turned to Papa. “Any last words of wisdom?”
Papa hefted his Skorpion and signaled his readiness with a nod. He followed Driver and Billy Boy to within sight of the gate. Mutant and Rodent were starkly visible in the green monochrome display, but Papa knew that to the unaided eye, they would be indistinguishable.
“Prepare to execute,” Driver said, “Counting down… three… two… one… go!”
23
November 17, 1999
12:26 a.m. (local time)
Rodent held up an M57 trigger device and started pumping it in his fist. On the second squeeze there was a muted thump at the gate—the sound was no louder than a door slamming—and then both men were moving. More noises followed, none as loud as the shaped charge that had blown out the gate’s lock. Then there were voices, Van Gogh first, then Mutant, reporting that the targets were down.
“Roger,” Driver answered. “We’re coming in. Vincent, maintain overwatch while we set the charges.”
Papa followed the others into the compound, but remained at the gate, scanning the grounds for any sign of activity, while the four-man element went about their deadly business. The compound was dark, the power out, but whether that was because of the storm, or because of rationing, Papa could not say. If anyone had heard the sound of the breaching charges, they had chosen not to investigate.
It took the team five minutes to set demolition charges around the outside of the old hotel building, but the job was only half done. To bring the structure down, they would need to go inside and place explosives on load-bearing walls. It would take only a few charges, but placing them would be the most dangerous part of the mission. Driver lined up his men at the front door and they all filed inside.
Papa held his breath. For a long time there was no sound but the howl of the wind and the steady beat of the rain. Then he heard a squawk of static and Mutant’s voice over the radio. “Contact. Tango down.”
Driver’s voice answered, “Sitrep, over.”
Papa inferred that the men had split up, moving to different points through the building to accomplish the objective faster.
“Ah, Driver, I think I need you to take a look at this.” There was a strange, high pitched noise in the background.
An alarm? That wasn’t likely. It cut out as soon as the transmission ended, so it clearly wasn’t loud enough to rouse the entire complex.
Papa’s brow furrowed behind the night vision goggles. He keyed his mic. “Mu
tant, this is Papa. What’s the situation? Did you locate one of the key targets?”
“Not exactly, Papa. Actually, maybe you should get in here and tell us what to do.”
“On my way.” As he hastened across the courtyard and entered the building, Papa could not help but speculate on the nature of the discovery that had so bewildered the shooters. He could only assume that it was something to do with the mysterious research being conducted at the facility. What that was, he had no idea. Special operators were trained to deal with a broad range of nuclear, biological and chemical agents. It would take something extraordinary to confound these hardened shooters.
Once inside, he could hear the wailing noise again. It seemed unbelievably loud, and he wondered how it was possible that the residents of the building had not been roused by the clamor. Hefting the Skorpion to meet any attack, he fixed the source of the sound—it came from the east wing, the research section—and he closed in on it.
“Papa here,” he whispered into his mic. “Coming your way. Don’t shoot me.”
He rounded a corner and found himself in a large room, what might once have been a conference hall or a small lobby. In the green display of his night vision device, he saw the four shooters in black neoprene, looking like shadows, arrayed around a motionless form on the floor. He recalled that Mutant had reported contact and a kill just prior to whatever it was that had brought the mission, quite literally, to a screeching halt. His gut twisted with dread as he realized what the sound was. One more step brought him to Driver’s side.
The body on the floor belonged to a woman. She was older, perhaps in her mid-fifties, heavy set, with salt-and-pepper hair done up in a matronly bun. It looked like she had caught two rounds. One was centered just above her ample bosom, the other had gone through her left eye. Papa knew without checking that she was not one of the special targets, just support staff, an unlucky hired hand.
Probably a nurse, he thought, shifting his gaze to the squalling bundle pressed against her chest.
“Is somebody going to shut that thing up?” Rodent growled.
Papa glanced at him. Despite his justifiable anxiety about the noise, the shooter made no move to do what he had just proposed. None of the men moved, and the infant in the dead woman’s arms continued to scream.
Mutant’s first shot—the bullet that had probably stopped the woman’s heart—had missed the baby by scant inches. It had probably been a reflex shot. The orders to kill everyone had been explicit, so positive target identification wasn’t a concern. Even so, the shooter probably wouldn’t have taken the shot had he known she carried a child.
Mutant looked to Driver. “What do we do, boss?”
“You know the answer,” the team leader replied, and he turned to Papa. “No exceptions, right?”
Papa let out his breath. No exceptions meant no exceptions, but if there were ever to be an exception, this would be it.
“One thing at a time,” he muttered, and knelt beside the dead woman. He slipped the child free of the lifeless arms, and raised it awkwardly to his shoulder. The screaming seemed to intensify.
“Shhhh,” he whispered, patting the baby’s back and gently shaking it up and down. He had never married, never spent any time with children, but this was what people did in movies, so it was worth a shot. He continued patting and crooning for a few seconds, and miraculously, the baby quieted. “Okay,” he said in a low whisper. “Charlie Mike, boys. Finish setting the charges so we can get out of here.”
The three subordinate team members moved off, but Driver lingered. When the others were out of earshot, he asked, “What are you going to do?”
Papa continued to rock back and forth, still crooning softly, as he pondered the answer. There was no wiggle room in the orders. They weren’t supposed to leave anyone alive. Anyone. This unexpected development changed nothing. It was just a fluke that the woman had brought the child down to the research level. If they had been upstairs sleeping, none of the team would have even known about the child.
It wasn’t as if he needed to kill the child himself. He could simply leave it behind. When the explosives brought the building down, it would die exactly as it would have had they not known about it.
The problem was, they did know about it.
War was hell. Every shooter knew that. Even the most precise surgical strike carried the possibility for collateral damage—a nice polite term that meant dead women and children who had nothing at all to do with the targeted hostile forces. But it was a lot harder to pull the trigger or call in the air strike when looking one of those innocents in the eye. Papa knew of several instances where operators—men just like the shooters of Action Team Storm—had been captured or killed after their observation posts were discovered by local children. Hardened steely-eyed killers had sacrificed themselves, rather than kill innocents in cold blood to keep their presence a secret.
He looked at Driver. “Uncle Sam doesn’t pay you boys to kill babies. Or to live with the baggage that comes afterward.”
Driver seemed to grow lighter as the burden was removed from his shoulders, but he was still a professional. “What about the orders?”
Papa looked down at the child in his arms. Its cheek was pressed against his shoulder and it had dozed off. It, he thought. He didn’t even know if the infant was a boy or a girl, but it certainly wasn’t just an ‘it.’
There was only one answer to Driver’s question. “You let me worry about that,” he said, and turned away.
Ten minutes later, he rendezvoused with the four shooters at the designated rally point a kilometer from the compound. There had been no further encounters, and the rest of the demolition charges had been set without incident.
Even though he could not see their eyes behind their goggles, Papa could feel them looking at him as he walked up.
“What did you…?” Driver let the question hang, as if he feared that saying it aloud might give him nightmares for the rest of his life.
“I took care of it,” Papa assured him. His tone was neutral, as it had to be. The orders were, after all, very clear. There could be no survivors. “Blow it.”
Driver hesitated, but only for a moment. He held up a radio transmitter and pressed the send button.
There was no flash of light, only a resounding thump that shook the ground under their feet. A thousand meters away, the former hotel building imploded and collapsed into a heap of shattered concrete. A moment later, there was another noise, a sustained roar this time, as waterlogged ground broke loose and slid down the bluff, crashing into the sea below.
It was possible—unlikely, but possible—that some of the residents might still be alive, trapped in the rubble, but the storm and the remoteness of the location ensured that their survival would only be a temporary condition. The local authorities might not even bother to investigate the wreckage, but would write it off as a natural occurrence—one more storm-born disaster.
“Mission accomplished,” Papa murmured. Normally, this declaration would have been greeted with cheers of triumph and satisfaction at a job well done, but the reaction of the team was somber and subdued, and Papa knew why. All of them were thinking about the child. Perhaps they would find at least some comfort in never really knowing for a certainty what fate had befallen the child.
He spoke, more to fill the awkward silence, than to see the night’s activities concluded. “Well, gentleman, this is where we part company.”
“You’re not leaving with us?” Driver asked.
Papa shook his head. “I’ll make my own way home.”
Driver seemed poised to inquire about this, but then he thought better of it. He keyed his mic. “Vincent, Loco, meet us on the beach. We’ve got a boat to catch.”
After the shooters melted into the forest, Papa hiked to a place where he could look down on the beach. He could see the newly reconfigured landscape. A tumble of mud, trees and the broken remains of the old resort, piled up at the base of the cliff, directly below a sca
llop-shaped divot in the bluff. He stayed there for a long time, until he saw six dark shapes cross the sandy margin and enter the tumultuous surf. Somewhere out in the darkness, an American submarine waited to receive the shooters. Their main objective complete, all that remained was the journey home.
When he could no longer see them at all, Papa turned away. He envied the shooters. Their ordeal was nearly over. His was just beginning.
24
The Everglades, Florida, USA
Sunday, 2:58 a.m.
Jenna stared at the journal, not moving, barely breathing. None of what she had endured—not the explosion, the repeated attempts on her life, the crash or the brutal fight that had ended with her killing a man—had hit her as hard as the revelation contained in Noah’s journal.
That baby was me. He took me from the arms of that dead woman.
“I was three months old,” she whispered. Yet, even that was something of which she could no longer be certain. Her birthday was just another fiction, invented by the man that had called himself her father.
He killed my parents, abducted me and raised me as his own daughter. It’s all a lie.
“Jenna?”
She felt Mercy’s hand on her arm, a concerned but tentative touch. Mercy had read every word.
“He’s not my father,” Jenna whispered, the revelation weakening her knees and pulling tears into her eyes. “He never was.” She remained standing only because of Mercy’s steadying grip. “Jenna’s probably not even my real name...” She looked Mercy in the eyes. “Did you know?”
“No. I had no idea. But, honey…” Mercy faltered. “This doesn’t change how he felt about you.”
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