by Isaac Hooke
"What kind?"
Another pause, as if she was unsure whether to tell him. Finally: "Spot gold closed higher for the seventh day in a row yesterday, while the dollar, Dow and NASDAQ took another beating. The Russian ruble suffered a similar dive, as did the MICEX 10 Index."
"Weekly peaks and troughs aren't unusual in the financial markets," Ethan said. "Maybe gold will drop drastically tomorrow, and the stock markets will recover all their losses."
"I wish you were right. I'm sure you know the NSA has a software suite that scans market data streams such as SWIFT for signs of suspicious activity. Well the suite issued its first warning when an account belonging to a bank in Saudi Arabia sold three hundred million dollars worth of U.S. securities and replaced them with Austrian bullion last Friday. Over the week, more accounts were flagged as eight other financial institutions dumped another half billion worth of U.S. and Russian assets and bought gold. The software identified numerous smaller accounts making similar moves. The reason why these accounts have been flagged? There are absolutely no economic indicators to precipitate the sell-offs. The U.S. economy is recovering nicely, and while Russia has experienced some economic turbulence, most of its bigger companies have weathered the storm well. We've also seen suspicious option buying, with several unwarranted puts on airline stocks and calls on defense stocks."
"Someone is front-running the market ahead of a terrorist attack?"
"That's what the FININT points to," Sam said. "And here's the kicker: several of the flagged institutions are suspected of having terrorist ties."
"Ah."
"I'm worried that if you don't find another lead over there," Sam said. "We won't stop Al Sifr in time."
"Assuming he's the one responsible for the market front-running."
"Copperhead, if it's not him then we are royally screwed, in more orifices than you know." Sam cleared her throat. "So, getting back to the current mission. A contact will meet you when you debark. He'll have gear, and a means of transport to the site."
"A chopper?" Ethan said hopefully.
"Yes. For the first segment of the journey, a chopper will fly you to the barren Southern Region Suðurland, to within ten kilometers of the site. A 4X4 will be waiting to take you the rest of the way, so that your final approach is more clandestine."
"Perfect."
"Keep me posted on your findings."
"Will do." Ethan hung up and explained the situation to Bretta.
The two of them picked out sweaters and windbreakers from the walk-in closet at the rear of the G650, then debarked the plane via the airstairs. It certainly felt brisk out there: the chilly breeze didn't help matters.
The pair had no luggage to collect, so they walked to the other side of the full service terminal, where a beat-up Ford pickup was waiting for them.
A rather portly, though jolly-seeming individual stood in front of the vehicle. He was dressed in a blue windbreaker and white-washed jeans, with a small, dark beard covering his face and a knit cap on his head. He carried two winter jackets and two sweaters folded over one arm.
"Welcome to Iceland." The contact extended his free hand. "I'm Ólafur. Your chauffeur for the day. Call me Ólli."
Ethan shook his hand.
"I bought you winter jackets and sweaters." Ólli beckoned toward the items. "But I see you've already got outerwear."
Ethan eyed the winter jackets uneasily. "How cold is it where we're going?"
"Not terribly frigid. About the same as here. But I thought you were coming in from the Middle East or some such. Going from plus forty to plus ten in a single day is a bit of a doozy. So I dished these out for you."
"I think we're good." Ethan leaned close to the man and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "But tell me, you don't have any magic firecrackers for us, do you?"
Even though the DIA owned the G650, there were never any weapons aboard. Sam never explained why, but he suspected she was afraid of potential searches and seizures by customs. All it would take was a random inspection to blow the DIA's charter jet front company.
Ólli furrowed his brow and mouthed the words "magic firecrackers," obviously not understanding. Then he abruptly grinned. "Ah! I see what you're asking. No, the magic firecrackers are with Randver."
"Randver?"
"He left this morning at seven to drive all the way to the outskirts of the site for you, so that you two wouldn't have to. When you arrive, he'll wait with the chopper while you take the 4X4 joyriding." Ólli pointed at the beaten-up truck. "Why don't you hop in so I can taxi you to your next ride?"
"You're part of a support team?" Ethan asked when Ólli had gotten under way.
"Not a support team. Simply an asset. A spy, you could say. Once a simple fisherman, now an international man of mystery." He traveled rather fast down the tarmac. He passed a parked business jet and abruptly swerved around it, roughly jerking Ethan and Bretta to the side.
Ólli's cellphone rang. He picked it up and listened for a moment. "Yes. Yes, that's me. Oh." He turned to Ethan and whispered: "It's the control tower. They want me to slow down."
"Probably a good idea," Ethan commented.
"Thanks for the warning," Ólli said into the phone. "Yes, we're slowing down." He hung up and proceeded faster than ever. He glanced at Ethan. "Okay, I admit it, I work at the local pharmacy. And this is the most action I've seen in two years. Not a lot going on in Iceland."
He braked suddenly, stopping beside an old Bell 206 Jetranger helicopter. "Here you go."
Ethan opened the door.
"Wait," Ólli said. "Launch the GPS on your phone so I can give you the destination coordinates."
Ethan complied, surrendering his smartphone.
Ólli entered a series of digits and returned the device. "I've marked two locations. The first is where you'll rendezvous with Randver. The second is the target site."
Bretta offered her cellphone to Ólli so he could punch in the coordinates for her, too, but the plump man ignored her, instead opening his door. "Come on, let's go meet your pilot."
Bretta shot Ethan a nonplussed look.
"I'll give you the coordinates later," Ethan assured her.
A towering individual stood beside the Bell helicopter. Ethan was used to being the tallest man in any given situation, but that guy was at least six five. A leaner, stronger, beardless version of Ólli, he dressed in that same windbreaker, knit cap, and jeans getup—must have been a staple of Icelandic fashion. With his sharp nose and strong brow line, he was a more stereotypical example of the Nordic genes most Icelanders inherited.
"I was hoping we could pilot the bird ourselves," Ethan said as Ólli led them toward the pilot.
"Sorry," Ólli said. "All charter bookings through this company require a pilot."
The tall individual stepped forward to shake their hands.
Ethan felt dwarfed: for one of the few times in his life, he found himself looking up at another man. He didn't like it.
The pilot shook Bretta's hand first. She rubbed her palm after he released her. "Jeez. Could you squeeze my hand any harder?"
He shook Ethan's hand next.
"Hello," the pilot said. Bretta was right, the man's grip was crushing. "I am Sigursteinn, your pilot."
"Nice to meet you, Frankenstein," Ethan said, tearing his hand away.
"Sigursteinn."
"We'll just call you Frankie for short," Bretta said.
Sigursteinn threw up his arms and boarded without a word more.
"Friendly sort," Bretta commented, still rubbing her hand.
"I think he likes you," Ethan lied. "He didn't shake my hand as hard as yours."
"Really?" she said. "Then why did your eyes bulge when he gripped you?"
"I was surprised at how girly the grip was."
"Sure."
Ethan bid farewell to Ólli and boarded the chopper with Bretta. The two of them buckled into the passenger seats and donned the noise-canceling headphones that had been conveniently provided.
"Take us into the air, Frankie," Ethan told the pilot.
Sigursteinn grunted in reply.
38
The chopper took to the air, flying over Reykjavík. In five minutes the quaint red-roofed buildings were behind them, replaced by the green landscape around the capital region, which alternated between lush farmland and moss-covered lava fields, with the latter soon dominating.
The Bell chopper passed into the barren Southern Region Suðurland. More dried lava fields. Tundra. Rocky escarpments. The rare village. Though there was no paved road, he could see the bare outline of a route of sorts below, carved into the lava fields. Several vehicles had traveled that way at one point or another. Off-road driving was illegal in Iceland during the melt season, when the tundra was partially thawed and water-soaked, leaving the vegetation particularly vulnerable, but companies could purchase waivers if they registered their routes.
Ethan watched their position slowly update on the smartphone's GPS. Surprisingly, he still had cellphone coverage, though the network had long ago downgraded to 2G. Not that he needed a carrier to access GPS—his rooted smartphone was capable of contacting the satellites regardless. The pilot had his own GPS of course, a Garmin G500H unit built into the helicopter instrument panel.
An hour later Sigursteinn began a controlled descent near the target coordinates.
"There's our ride," Bretta said.
Ethan glanced at the rocky, moss-covered plateau below, where an SUV was parked. In the distance, black ash foothills and mountain ranges thrust from the horizon. According to the GPS, the research site resided ten kilometers away, near those foothills.
The Bell landed.
"I wait here until you return," Sigursteinn said, shutting down the engine.
"Thanks for the lift, Frankie," Ethan said.
"Sigursteinn," the pilot intoned angrily.
"Cigar stein," Ethan tried.
The pilot turned away in outrage.
Ethan and Bretta debarked before the blades completely stopped and hurried through the rotor wash at a crouch. When the Bell was behind them the pair switched to a normal stance.
The ground was composed of black, uneven volcanic rock. Very easy to trip. Patches of grass and scrub covered some areas.
Halfway to the SUV, Bretta said: "How's your coverage? I've got nothing." She had her cellphone in hand.
Ethan checked his own. "No connection." He was surprised it had lasted as long as it had.
They reached the vehicle: a Nissan Patrol with forty-four inch wheels, a mechanical winch, and a vehicle snorkel.
Once more Ethan and Bretta had to shake hands with a pale-skinned Icelander who wore the usual trifecta of knit cap, windbreaker, and jeans.
"Randver I take it?" Ethan said.
"Yes. Copperhead and Maelstrom?"
"In the flesh," Bretta said.
Randver opened the rear barn doors of the SUV to reveal the cargo area. "Let me know if everything is in order."
Within the cargo compartment were two Blackhawk Mobile Operations load-out bags, three backpacks, and two concealable ballistic vests. Ethan placed one foot on the rear step-up bar and hauled himself inside. Bretta joined him. He opened the bag labelled "Copperhead" while Bretta took "Maelstrom."
Inside he found some of his favorite weapons: an M16A4. A .45 caliber H&K USP compact pistol, an H&K MP7 personal defense weapon, a Glock 17, and a RONI conversion kit to transform the latter into a short-barreled rifle.
Besides weapons, there was a PRC-153 encrypted radio and optional earpiece, tactical chest rig with several front magazine pockets, sound suppressors, Zeiss binoculars, duct tape, a Gerber folding knife, a twenty-piece lockpick and bump key set, and a balaclava with holes for the eyes and mouth.
"Santa Claus," Bretta said. "Where have you been all my life." She picked up a Beretta Storm Px4 subcompact from her own gear. "Oh baby, I missed you." Ethan thought she was going to kiss it for a second.
Randver stared at her, smiling like a grade schooler with a crush on his teacher.
Ethan focused his attention on the backpacks. One of them contained trauma gear, including two tourniquets, pressure dressing material, a nasopharyngeal airway and a decompression needle. The second pack housed a PD-200 X Black Hornet nano drone.
"What's in this one?" Ethan asked, reaching for the third backpack.
Randver grinned. "A couple of bricks of C-4."
Ethan opened it. The bag was literally stuffed to the brim with M112 demolition blocks individually wrapped in Mylar film. "A little more than a couple."
"Always plan for contingencies," Randver said.
Ethan resealed the backpack. He removed his windbreaker and sweater, then donned the ballistic vest labeled "Copperhead" by a post-it note. In the front, back and side SAPI pockets, the body-conforming vest held curved trauma plates comprised of ballistic-grade steel with spall fragmentation protective coating. Rated Type III, it provided at least single hit protection for all pistol calibers, and rifle rounds up to 7.62x51 NATO M80 Ball. It offered no protection against armor piercing rifle rounds. The vest was heavier than Kevlar and other soft armor solutions, but lighter and leaner than ceramic plate armor.
Beside him, Bretta similarly removed her outerwear to slip into her own assigned vest. Randver stared at her as if she were completely naked.
Ethan replaced his outerwear and clipped a two-way radio to his belt.
"Do you have a sat-phone?" Ethan asked Randver.
The Icelander nodded. "I do."
They exchanged digits. Both phone numbers started with two zeros followed by 882, the "country code" of the secure satellite phones the DIA used.
"So, do we go in kitted-out?" Bretta asked him. "Or more low key?"
"Low key to start with, I think," Ethan told her. "That way we have the option of pretending we're lost."
Bretta gazed at the tactical vest and extra magazines longingly, then shrugged. She took her Px4 with her and loaded into the driver's side of the Nissan.
Ethan grabbed the MP7 and closed the rear barn doors. Randver followed him to the passenger side.
Ethan climbed the step box and sat inside, placing the weapon on the floor beside him. Bretta, meanwhile, stowed her Px4 in the center console.
"I'd come with you," Randver told Ethan. He looked dwarfed, standing there beside the big-wheeled Nissan. "But, you know, I have to watch your back and all."
"Of course," Ethan said. From a chopper several kilometers away. Ethan didn't particularly want him along anyway.
"I'll be waiting with Sigursteinn for your return. Oh, don't drive too fast. I've let some air out of the tires to make the ride smoother, and to protect the tread from the sharper rocks. But if you go too fast, you'll surely damage the tires."
"Got it." Ethan turned toward Bretta: "Shall we?"
She put the vehicle into gear and drove off, taking the partial trail that previous vehicular traffic had crushed into the rock. Even so, the rocky road was still extremely bumpy, and the Nissan's big wheels didn't help all that much. Bretta couldn't travel more than forty kilometers an hour without the jolts becoming unbearable. That Randver had spent most of the morning driving out to that location in those conditions was admirable.
Ethan had the GPS app running on his smartphone and guided her toward the target site.
"We should have brought those two with us," Bretta announced.
"They'd just get in the way," Ethan said. "They're civilian assets, Bretta. Pencil-pushers."
"I guess so. But still."
"We can turn around and pick them up if you like," Ethan said.
Bretta bit her lower lip. "No. You're probably right. We don't need men who, in the heat of battle, can't even figure out how to turn off the safeties on their weapons."
"Glad you understand."
In fifteen minutes they closed to within two klicks of the research site. The trail abruptly ended, as if workers had shoveled the surrounding rocks over the path in an attempt to
conceal it. Bretta drove onward: they were jolted about more than ever.
Ethan ordered her to stop one klick out.
"So here we are," Bretta said.
"Here we are."
Ethan checked the time on his cell: ten a.m., Reykjavík time. He remembered Sam's warning about an imminent attack, and prayed they would find something.
39
Ethan surveyed the area through the Zeiss binoculars. On the site were three pre-engineered buildings made from self-framing metal. Each building had a steel door at the front and a window in the side. Ethan spotted no guards, nor anyone on patrol.
He launched the Black Hornet. The drone gave him a good view of the gable roofs, which looked like they were paneled in solar arrays.
He came closer, edging the Black Hornet toward the small sun-facing window of one building. Unfortunately the metal walls surrounding the glass reflected the bright sunlight, causing the Auto ISO of the camera to completely darken the room beyond the pane. Ethan moved as close to the glass as he dared, more afraid of crashing the nano drone than anything else, but because of the camera's wide field of view he couldn't correct the dynamic range. The windows of the other two structures also faced the sun, and posed similar problems.
Ethan recalled the Black Hornet. "Time to get kitted out."
"What happened to pretending we were lost?"
"We can still pretend," Ethan said. "Though if we meet someone, they probably won't buy it."
Bretta grabbed the Px4 from the center console compartment and hopped outside.
Ethan left the MP7 on the floor and joined her at the rear barn doors. He climbed inside, removed his windbreaker and buckled a tactical chest rig over the coarse fabric of his sweater. He filled the front pockets with A4 box magazines. He attached a holster to his hip and stowed the Glock 17 there. He practiced drawing the handgun several times. Finally he picked up the A4 rifle, threaded a sound suppressor onto the barrel, and then looped the strap over his shoulder.
Bretta similarly buckled a tactical rig over her sweater and loaded the pockets with Px4 magazines. She also grabbed a suppressor that was longer than the subcompact pistol itself and stuffed the accessory into a side pocket.