by Ken Goddard
But the desire for creature comforts held little appeal for any of these rigorously trained, professionally alert, and highly motivated soldiers.
In the last seventy-two hours, the team had made several forays into enemy territory; spotted, monitored, and photographed members of the opposing team; suffered a casualty; taken a prisoner; and established a very useful aura of superiority over a group of supposed "allies" who ridiculously described themselves as a "paramilitary organization."
In effect, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team had engaged with the enemy.
And until the team accomplished all of the essential steps to disengage safely from that enemy and return to home ground, an after-dinner pot of hot coffee would serve as the highest luxury these soldiers would allow themselves.
"Give me a status report," Wintersole ordered the team seated around him in the growing darkness. "Start with the prisoner."
"The prisoner has been fed, allowed to relieve himself, re-secured, sedated, and put to bed, First Sergeant," one-seven reported.
"Is there a chance that he could hear us talking?"
"No. We plugged his ears and taped them closed."
"What are you using to keep him quiet?"
"Sodium phenobarbital, injected," one-three, the team's communications specialist and medic responded.
"What's his condition?"
"His external injuries are relatively minor, with no obvious signs of infection. Or at least none that I can see. However, to play it safe, I'm giving him some broad-spectrum antibiotics, as well as some decongestants to deal with a mild cold." The young female soldier hesitated. "It's his internal injuries that concern me. Based on the extent of his facial injuries and the amount of time we know he spent in the water, we can assume that he suffered a fairly severe concussion as well as from exposure. He's stable, and I'm keeping him warm and quiet, but I don't think he'll be up to any serious movement for at least a couple more days."
Wintersole nodded his head. "No problem. We can transport him if necessary."
The team members all nodded agreeably.
The Army Ranger hunter-killer recon team leader then scanned the group.
"Anybody have anything else to add regarding the prisoner, our targets, resources, intel, tactics, or anything else, before we discuss the merits of our new associates?"
Nobody responded.
"Okay." Wintersole nodded, then turned his attention to the team's heavy-weapons specialist. "One-two. How do you see the situation?"
"Not good, First Sergeant," the muscular young soldier with the corporal's chevrons on his collar replied evenly.
"Explain."
"Of the sixteen men we trained today, less than half qualified on the paper targets at twenty-five yards. Two qualified at fifty yards, one just barely, and none of them topped out higher than marksman on the overall scores. That was the good part. The assault exercises were a complete disaster. Teamwork and fire discipline were nonexistent. Not one Brigade member qualified on the pop-ups, and only two of them — the two youngest ones — made it all the way up the hill to the final set of targets. I saw four of them leaning on their weapons, and damned near every one of them with their fingers in the trigger guards while running. By my count, there were at least seventeen incidents of accidental discharge — three of which went cyclic in spite of direct orders to stay on select fire — and I'd guess at least that many more I didn't see. From my perspective, it was an absolute miracle they didn't sustain any friendly-fire casualties."
"How do you assess their capability for accomplishing their portion of our mission?"
"Poor… and that's really giving them the benefit of the doubt," the sturdy weapons specialist concluded. "If these people actually went up against a professionally trained and properly equipped adversary — these federal wildlife agents, for example — I estimate they'd take one hundred percent casualties within a matter of minutes. One-four said it exactly right at the Colonel's briefing, First Sergeant. They're not credible. They're just not."
Wintersole sighed.
"So how do we make them look credible?" he asked after a long moment.
"Additional training's not the answer," one-five volunteered. "Even if we had the time, which we don't, we wouldn't accomplish much. Maybe with the two young kids if we ran them through a serious basic, instilled some discipline, got their minds straight. But the adults are too far gone. They're wanna-bes, and that's all they'll ever be."
"I concur with one-five, First Sergeant," one-seven added. "Those people aren't combat troops — much less high-ranking officers. They're just lazy, overweight, and under-exercised barflies with delusions of grandeur. Give any one of them a pair of lieutenant's bars, a real platoon, and a serious combat mission, and you'd end up with fifty dead troops… and a blown mission."
Three of the other four Rangers solemnly nodded their heads in agreement.
Wintersole turned his attention to the one man on his team who didn't agree with one-five's assessment.
"You see it differently, one-four?" the hunter-killer team leader inquired.
"No, First Sergeant."
"What's the matter then?"
"I was just thinking… maybe what those clowns need has nothing to do with weapons, training, or motivation. Maybe what they really need is some new blood. Somebody on their team who would be a credible threat to these federal wildlife agents."
"You have somebody in mind?"
"Oh yes, First Sergeant." A slight smile formed on the young Ranger's face as he held up his broken wrist. "I certainly do."
At ten-thirty that Saturday evening, East Coast time, Special Operations Chief David Halahan's beeper began to vibrate against his hip.
Sighing inwardly, he excused himself from his understanding wife and late-evening dinner companions, went out to the lobby of the Japanese restaurant, and was directed to a phone.
"Hello?"
"This is Halahan. What's up?"
"I'm not sure," Freddy Moore replied. "I received an interesting e-mail message from Bravo Team a few hours ago. I didn't want to disturb your evening, but the more I thought about the whole deal, the less I liked it."
Halahan's deputy chief went on to describe the message, and his reply.
"So what do you think?" Moore finally asked.
Halahan was silent for a few moments as he considered some of the possible implications.
"I think you were right the way you answered them," he said finally, "but I'm a little uneasy about the number of individuals involved in the surveillance of Charlie Team, and I don't like that business about Lightstone finding a device under his truck at all. How did Takahara describe it again?"
"As a switched tracking device. Lightstone's description was consistent with a military MTEAR device," Moore read from the printout in his hand.
"What's a MTEAR device?"
"Simulated explosive, magnet- or adhesive-based, remote-triggered, generally rigged as a combined flash-bang and a smoke grenade. The army uses them for war games," Freddy Moore explained.
"Are they something these militant characters could pick up through military surplus?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Moore replied. "I remember we used to get some batches with a high frequency of duds. Pretty soon, we'd just survey the entire batch and open a new shipment."
"No wonder my taxes are so high," Halahan grumbled as he considered this new bit of information. "Was Takahara able to make a confirmation ID?"
"Negative. They decided to leave the truck where it was for a while."
"What's Lightstone using for transportation?"
"He bought a motorcycle out of his emergency funds."
"Bought a motorcycle?"
"Yeah. According to Takahara, Lightstone wanted to stay mobile, and maintain his contact with Sage and the woman innkeeper. A new car would have been a little more difficult to explain. I approved it after the fact, and wired them some more cash." Freddy Moore sighed audibly.
"What's the matter, something bothering you?"
"Yeah, a couple of things, I guess." The deputy Special Ops chief hesitated for a moment. "I still think it's a good idea to keep Bravo Team out of Charlie Team's way. Those kids have enough problems with self-confidence as it is. And I still don't see these Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal idiots as representing any kind of a serious threat to a team of highly trained and moderately experienced field agents. And Riley's still there to keep an eye on them. But this business with Boggs has definitely got me worried."
Halahan's eyebrow came up.
"What's happening with Boggs?"
"Nothing. That's just it. They still can't find him."
"That doesn't make much sense."
"No, it doesn't," Freddy Moore agreed. "Think we ought to notify the regional office?"
"And possibly get Boggs in trouble if it turns out he went off on a fishing trip with some of his state fish-and-game buddies without bothering to tell his boss?" Halahan finished.
"That's one of the problems," Freddy Moore admitted. "You know Boggs. He never was much for paperwork and following standard protocols, but he sure gets the job done when he puts his mind to it."
Halahan hesitated for another long moment.
"Let's give him another day or so," he finally said. "If he hasn't checked in by close of business Monday, we notify his boss that we can't find him."
"Okay, fair enough."
Halahan could sense the uncharacteristic hesitation in his deputy's voice.
"You think we're leaving Charlie Team a little open, cutting off their liaison with the regional agent like that?"
Freddy Moore chuckled.
"No, not really. I guess that's part of the second problem."
"You think Bravo Team's disobeying your directive to stay away from Charlie Team?" Halahan guessed.
"I don't think they'll make contact. And from what Takahara said — and didn't say — in his e-mail message, I get the impression that they've got their hands full with that warehouse situation. But I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they put somebody out on the perimeter to keep an eye on things."
"You mean someone like Lightstone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why so?"
"You know Henry," Freddy Moore replied. "How likely is it that he's so concerned about maintaining contact with some demented old fart who rides a motorbike while pretending to be blind, and an innkeeper slash post-office employee who thinks she's a fortune-telling witch, that he goes out and buys a motorcycle an hour after he abandons his truck — and before he checks in with the rest of his team?"
"As opposed to him wanting some immediate and fast transportation, such as a motorcycle, because he didn't take well to being tagged like that?"
"That's right."
"You want to pull them out?"
Freddy Moore snorted with amusement.
"Which team?"
"Either one, or both," Halahan replied. "You call it."
"Gut feel tells me to pull Charlie Team, and leave Bravo in place. Logic says leave them both in place and see what happens. I'd like to go with logic, but I'm not sure that my gut's going to leave me alone for the next couple of days."
"What, no bureaucratic intuition?" Halahan teased gently, wanting to get the measure of his deputy's sense of uneasiness. He had chosen Freddy Moore as his deputy because the ex-military officer and experienced wildlife agent was a skilled survivor as well as a top-notch field supervisor.
"If I had any bureaucratic sense at all, I'd pull everybody back to DC and put in for Boggs's job myself," Freddy Moore replied, laughing.
"Okay," Halahan said, "let's leave them out there for a while. And in the meantime, let's see what you and I can do about trying to find Boggs."
Chapter Forty
At almost nine-thirty that Saturday evening, Henry Lightstone walked into the dining room of the Dogsfire Inn with a brown paper grocery bag in one arm, and went directly to an empty table.
His alert and cautious eyes located her immediately, setting bowls of hot berry cobbler and ice cream in front of the only two diners in the restaurant. She turned, saw him, turned back to her youthful customers, said something apparently amusing to the young woman, and patted the young man on the shoulder.
Then she walked casually over to Lightstone's table with one of the hand-printed menus in her hand.
"Nice to see repeat customers," she greeted him in a neutral voice as she placed the folded menu in front of him. "Can I start you out with something to drink?"
"Actually, I was thinking of starting you out with something, my treat," Lightstone replied, staring up into her gold-flecked green eyes.
The woman hesitated, maintaining a careful distance — mentally and physically — and looked at him suspiciously.
I'll bet you'd be real good at verbal judo, lady. Probably a natural, Lightstone thought to himself, sighing inwardly as he continued to leave himself wide open in an attempt to penetrate the protective barrier she'd erected around herself.
"Somehow I didn't think flowers would work on you." He shifted his gaze to the grocery bag sitting on the adjoining chair.
Her eyes followed his… and considered the bag for a moment.
"So just what, exactly, did you think might work?" she finally asked.
"Actually, it was a pretty tough decision. I finally decided to try a couple bottles of homegrown Oregon wine, some homemade tofu from a little place in Ashland, five pounds of top sirloin for any serious carnivores in the house, and a sack of fresh shrimp supposedly flown straight in from the Gulf. I thought maybe I could talk Danny into making some of that fantastic jambalaya you told me about… especially if we're willing to share it with him."
"You really think that'll work?"
Lightstone allowed himself to glance into those gold-flecked green eyes long enough to ascertain that they no longer seemed quite so aloof.
"I seem to recall you saying something about double-Xs being easily distracted by picnic baskets."
This time, a slight smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
"I don't know." She played with her pen and order pad. "Danny can be a little overly protective at times."
"I've heard good cooks can be like that…" Lightstone paused long enough to give special meaning to his next words, "… about their special recipes."
"Certainly seems that way." She smiled almost wistfully.
"Well, that's okay." Lightstone shrugged. "Like I said, I'm willing to share."
"Can you see them from there?" Larry Paxton whispered softly into his headset microphone more than an hour later.
"Uh-huh," Mike Takahara replied.
"Well, what the hell are they doing?"
"Eating dinner."
"That's all?"
"No, they're drinking, too. Some kind of white wine — looks very expensive. Probably spent our entire per diem on that bottle."
"Not mine, he didn't," Dwight Stoner warned over the scrambled short-range communications system.
"I don't give a shit what they're drinking," the Bravo Team leader retorted. "Who's that with them?"
"Looks like the cook." The tech agent shifted his spotting scope and refocused. "Holy shit, look at that thing," he whispered.
"Where?" Stoner and Woeshack's voices echoed in the headsets.
"Down and to the left, next to Henry's chair."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Larry Paxton demanded. "I can't see anything with these damned binoculars."
"Jesus," Stoner whispered.
"That must be the panther Henry told us about. Wow, isn't she something." Thomas Woeshack's awe-filled voice sounded childlike over the scrambled communications system. "Hey, what's it doing now?"
"Looks to me like it's nuzzling Henry's crotch."
"What? Gimme one of them scopes!" Larry Paxton demanded.
"No, wait a minute, I guess that was just to distract him. Looks like she really wanted his shrimp. Hell of a move for a supposedly du
mb animal," Dwight Stoner chuckled.
"Who said cats were dumb?" Woeshack asked.
"Probably not anyone with a full-grown panther sitting in his lap," Mike Takahara guessed.
The four agents all focused their spotting scopes and binoculars on the slightly blurred image of the huge black cat bracing her front paws on Henry Lightstone's lap as she licked his plate clean.
"Uh, oh, looks like the lady's pissed," the tech agent observed.
"Yeah, and there goes the cook with the panther in tow," the young Eskimo agent/pilot spoke excitedly into his mike. "Man, this is really neat! I wonder what's going to happen next."
The four of them waited silently.
"Looks like the lady's about to make a move on Henry's shrimp, too," Dwight Stoner commented.
"Yeah, but she's too late," Thomas Woeshack reminded him. "The panther already licked his plate clean."
"Doesn't look like that's going to stop her any," Mike Takahara observed dryly.
"Henry either," Dwight Stoner added. "Think maybe he's going after her plate now?"
"No, probably not. It just hit the floor, along with her silverware… and the expensive wine," Bravo Team's tech agent noted.
"Hey," chirped Woeshack, "I don't think they're after each other's shrimp at all!"
Larry Paxton lowered his binoculars, closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head.
"You ask me, you're running a pretty loose ship around here, Paxton," Dwight Stoner commented into his headset mike. "I think us peon agents could make a pretty good case for discriminatory treatment on the part of our field supervisor. Like, for example, how come we get to deal with all the poisonous snakes, the giant spiders, and the baby crocodiles — and then have to hang around out in the cold all night as the standby rescue team — while Henry gets to play on the table with a very sexy lady."
"Who may or may not be a witch," Mike Takahara added.