by Alex Ryan
“Good morning,” Nick said, hesitating because he was unsure what name to call Lankford. He couldn’t remember if the longtime spy was using a new alias. Damn, he was tired.
“Let us have the room,” Lankford said to the younger man standing beside him.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lankford,” the man said, answering Nick’s silent question.
“You got a lot of fucking balls, Foley,” Lankford said, offering his hand and a tight grin. “I’ll give you that.”
Nick shook the CIA man’s hand and then noticed the profound limp as Lankford hobbled to the table. Nick dropped into a chair, but Lankford stayed on his feet.
“Feels better to stand,” Lankford grimaced, pointing at his ass. “Thanks again for giving me a matched set.”
“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have a functioning cerebral cortex. Thanks for taking a bullet for me.”
“You’d do the same,” Lankford said. “How’s the knee?”
Nick shrugged. “Strained ligaments and internal bruising.”
“Will the injury affect your work?”
“I might not look like it,” Nick said, gesturing to his badly bruised neck and face, “but I’m operational,” Nick said. “What about you?”
Lankford waved his hand. “Nah,” he said. “It’s all spin, right? The after action makes me look so good for staying black, tracking you guys down, coordinating the assault, and helping take down the psycho who killed Peter Yu. Hell, it almost appears like I know what I’m doing. Shit, they may even give me a medal.” Lankford leaned his hands on the table beside Nick and sighed. “Unless you get me sent to prison for helping the Chinese—again. You know they were the objective of my last assignment, right?”
Nick nodded. “I know I put you in a tough position,” he said. “But this is big. You got the file I sent on the high side?”
“I did,” Lankford said, then shrugged and pulled a large rolling chair out from the table, maneuvering to balance himself on the less injured ass cheek.
“And you saw the list of names—including one particular US senator who is a total pain in the ass. No pun intended,” Nick said, trying not to laugh.
“I did, and I sent it up the chain with my recommendations that we participate, if only to control the fallout.”
“And what did the brass say?”
Lankford shrugged. “I’m here, ain’t I? Helping you and your Chinese girlfriend yet again. Oh, and let’s not forget the always lovely and accommodating Commander Zhang.”
“Dash stayed home this time,” Nick said, smiling. “I think she earned it.”
“And then some.”
“So this is officially approved?” Nick asked.
Lankford laughed. “This is unofficially approved, Foley. Which means if it goes well, my bosses will all put themselves in for a commendation, and if it goes to shit, they’ll deny they knew anything about it.”
“And what happens to you?”
Lankford shrugged. “If we succeed, I keep my job. If we fail, maybe you and I can open a dive shop somewhere. I’ve always wanted to open a dive shop.”
“It won’t come to that,” Nick said with a smile. “So what do you have for me?”
“The location is a mountain retreat in Austria. High altitude and possibly fortified. The cybersleuths have confirmed that this is where Yao went, and they are ninety-five percent sure that he has not left since his arrival.”
Nick started to open his mouth.
“Don’t ask me how. They just know.”
“Does he have a security detail?”
“Satellite imagery indicates a sizable force.”
“How big?”
The CIA man pursed his lips and shook his head. “Maybe two dozen guys at the most. I’ll be supplying you six shit-hot shooters from Ground Branch—all ex-SOF guys like you. Shit, you may even know some of them. And you said that Zhang was bringing some guys?”
“Yeah, eight Snow Leopards.”
Lankford nodded. “Anything for me?”
“Ling is here,” Nick said.
Lankford pushed away from the table. “Why would you bring that bitch?”
Nick screwed up his face. “Like I had a vote in the matter.”
“Where is she?”
“With the plane at Ramstein right now.”
Lankford sighed and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The wince on his face told Nick the man was far from recovered and would not be participating in the assault. “Well, it is what it is. I’ll try to play nice.”
“Thank you,” Nick said. “What about air?”
“We have air assets for your HALO INFIL and EXFIL. The Germans offered airborne fire support as well, but that will depend on the weather at altitude. I’ll run the op from an airborne TOC with my Ground Branch counterpart. The team is standing by at Ramstein, probably within pissing distance of the Chinese. I suppose the next order of business is to meet up and have a nice, cozy multinational preop brief, which you’re going to give, by the way.”
“Yeah right,” Nick said, rolling his eyes.
Lankford exhaled and put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Before we bug out, I need to talk with you privately.”
Nick shifted uncomfortably. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”
Lankford arched his back and rolled his neck. “Look, Nick. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I need to know if you’re all in on this.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, exactly?” Nick asked and folded his arms across his chest. “You know me. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I know that, Nick,” Lankford said. “But there’s nothing simple about this operation. We have reason to believe that a number of the people on that list are up there on that mountain, meeting with Yao as we speak, including a US senator and a number of other high-profile Western allies. However this goes down, you have to be thinking about more than meting out justice. I need you to think containment as well.”
“I get it, dude,” Nick sighed. “All you need to remember is that I’m loyal to America above all else, and I will do what serves her interest first, foremost, and forever.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Nonetheless, there is one caveat—Feng was a sick, evil motherfucker. Feng worked for Yao, and it’s starting to look like Yao might work for the folks on this list. If we go in there and find people strapped to operating tables, getting their organs harvested, oh brother, God help everyone in that compound.”
“In that case, when facing a choice between capture and kill, err on the side of kill,” Lankford said.
“Anything else?” Nick asked.
“Yes, this mission is all about containment and data recovery,” Lankford said, holding his gaze. “If any Americans or Europeans are taken into custody, you own them. Captives are segregated—we get ours; the Chinese get theirs. And we need absolute control of the data—especially those pertaining to American nationals and connections. Don’t give the Chinese anything. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
“No,” Nick said. “But keep in mind that Zhang and Ling are probably having this exact same conversation right now in reverse. Don’t forget that Yao is a Chinese national and that this is his biotechnology. I wouldn’t be surprised if they want to take him alive and Zhang has orders to confiscate any and all laboratory materials and intellectual property. We’re going to have to be fluid and see how the op unfolds. This is a joint operation. We have to trust Zhang to do the right thing and not get into a pissing match while we’re prosecuting the target. If things get wonky at the scene, we can always try to work something out that benefits everyone post-op.”
Lankford clenched his jaw. “I like Commander Zhang; he got me out of China when Ling would have arrested me as a spy,” he said. “But I can’t afford to trust him. Not when it comes to this. Which is why my orders are to confiscate any data linking Americans to this plot and hand it over to the DNI at all costs. Understood?”
> “Understood,” Nick said.
“And you’re with me?” Lankford asked.
“Hooyah,” Nick said.
Lankford laughed. “Let’s go brief this shit,” he said. He handed him a small case the size and shape of a ring box.
“Aw man, you shouldn’t have,” Nick said. “I’ll need to sleep on it before I say yes,” he added with a laugh.
“Don’t be a smartass,” Lankford said. “That’s a micro Bluetooth transmitter receiver. Uses bone conduction or some such shit. Put it in the opposite ear from your primary earpiece. No one will see it, and it will allow me to communicate with you on a separate encrypted channel during the op. You cool with that?”
Nick nodded. “Sure,” he said, slipping the box into his cargo pocket. “But we won’t need it. Everybody wants the same thing here.”
Lankford wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “You are one bleeding heart, kum ba ya, sonuvabitch, Foley,” he said. “But for this op, I hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER 39
USAF C-130
24,000 feet above the Hohe Tauern National Park
Austria
0240 hours local
Nick bounced the heel of his boot up and down against the steel deck of the C-130. He wasn’t anxious. He wasn’t afraid. This was simply what he did before an op. His engine was up and running, and if he didn’t dissipate some of that energy, he just might burn up.
To his left sat the six American CIA special operators, kitted up over black snow pants and Mountain Hardwear coats without insignia. To the right, the Chinese Snow Leopards were dressed all in white—the only splash of color being a snarling snow leopard set against a background of royal blue on the patches that adorned their left shoulders. Even their weapons were white. How in the hell were these two teams—who were sometime enemies—supposed to take this compound together? It didn’t help that both Zhang and Lankford insisted that the Chinese and American operators be segregated into divided teams for the assault. He knew Lankford’s reasoning, and he suspected Zhang and Ling had similar nationalistic motives. No one wanted a foreign government to control information on any embarrassing connections between Yao’s clientele and their own high-ranking government officials or private-sector A-listers. Those connections were best kept secret and dealt with internally. What the respective governments did with the information he recovered, he preferred not to think about. He was a door-kicker—an instrument of foreign policy, not its creator.
Usually there was chatter between teammates at these moments, but tonight the black-and-white operators were either staring at their feet or sizing up the men across the aisle. This was not the type of crew that needed pep talks, but tonight Nick felt like he needed to say something before the drop to try to bring them together. In the SEALs, that job had fallen to the LCPO. He sure as hell wasn’t an LCPO, but who else on this airplane would take the initiative if he didn’t? He blew air through his teeth and decided that if the right moment presented itself, he’d give it a shot.
He looked down the line, studying faces in the low red light of the droning aircraft.
He didn’t recognize any of the Americans, but he knew several of the Snow Leopards from the assault on the hospital ship. One of the Snow Leopards, the operator he knew only by the call sign “Three,” met his gaze and nodded. Nick held up three fingers and then bumped his fist against his chest—acknowledging the horror they’d faced and triumphed over on that sadistic ship just days ago. The Snow Leopard smiled and mirrored the gesture. Nick let his gaze drift down the line. All the men were hunched forward on the benches due to the bulky parachutes on their backs. They had their weapons slung tightly to the side to avoid fouling their chutes, and their kits were loaded with miscellaneous gear, extra magazines, and blowout kits. They wore helmets with tipped-up NVGs and their oxygen masks slung like fighter pilots to the side. Only Nick had a hard black case fixed to his chest, containing the tablet device necessary for navigation during the descent to the target.
Besides the men on the plane, two other operators—one former Marine sniper and one Snow Leopard sniper—were already in position on the ridge line overlooking the target. Both snipers had checked in earlier to provide their scouting report of the target. The reports had matched: three guards on the compound roof and four roving patrols on the portico. Another two operators had been tasked with disabling the private gondola that ran between the mountain retreat and the valley below as well as a pair of helicopters, which satellite imagery had shown shuttling personnel to and from the compound.
Nick looked forward toward the front of the aircraft, where Lankford sat uncomfortably, cocked to one side on his less-injured ass cheek. The CIA man had a laptop propped on the seat beside him and was scanning a bank of monitors at his station. This aircraft, in addition to providing INFIL transportation, would also serve as an airborne Tactical Operations Center. It had pissed Ling off to no end when Lankford had made it clear that she could not be aboard the Command and Control Aircraft for the operation. Lankford reminded her that had their roles been reversed, she would never let him aboard a sophisticated Chinese aircraft crammed full of classified equipment. She’d responded by reminding Lankford that he had just last week been operating as a spy on Chinese soil and that this was simply quid pro quo. To which Lankford had told her she could either respect his opsec or go fuck herself. Then, before the CIA man could tell her which option he preferred, Zhang had intervened. After a heated discussion in Chinese, a compromise was reached, with Ling being placed in charge of the operation to secure the gondola and helicopters. She would run command and control at the base camp, with her primary objective being to secure the perimeter and prevent any personnel from entering or exiting the scene. Lankford had insisted that American operators be on each of those actions as well but relented when Nick had quietly pointed out that they were better suited having more Americans at the target.
What a piss fest.
Lankford turned his head and met Nick’s gaze. “Five minutes,” he said. Nick watched his lips move, but the voice spoke on the open channel in his left ear with a millisecond’s delay.
Nick nodded and then looked across the aisle at Zhang. The Snow Leopard Commander looked up but did not make eye contact. Things had been different with Zhang since the hospital ship. Sometimes he acted like the Zhang that Nick had come to know and trust, but other times, he sensed a coldness—not quite overt hostility, but close. Strange.
Nick gestured across his lower face with his left hand, the signal to secure oxygen masks, and all the men across the aisle complied.
“Buddy checks,” he said when his mask was in place, and the men began checking each other’s chutes and packs and then their own weapons.
“Thumbs up if you are up on the secure,” Lankford said in his right ear now.
Nick looked up and held the CIA agent’s eyes and then gave a thumbs-up.
“Good man,” Lankford said on the secure channel. “Remember what we talked about. America first. Tug on your glove if you understand.”
Nick gritted his teeth—he hated this spooky-ass shit—and then adjusted the strap on his right glove.
“Good.” Then Lankford’s voice shifted to his other ear and said, “Three minutes.”
It’s now or never, said the voice in Nick’s head.
He unsnapped his harness from the bench seat and stood. A dozen sets of eyes looked at him.
“Everyone here is a seasoned operator; we all understand what it means to be a team. If we don’t operate like a team, some of us are going to die. That’s not going to happen tonight, do you understand? Not on my watch. Tonight we are not Americans. We are not Chinese. Tonight, we’re a band of brothers—brothers on a mission to help keep the world a safe and decent place. I say we do our job and let the politicians and bureaucrats worry about the rest.”
“Hooyah,” came a call from one of the CIA Ground Branch operators.
“Hooyah,” the rest of the American team said i
n unison.
Zhang finally met his eyes, and the corner of the Snow Leopard’s mouth curled up into a crooked grin. He hollered something in Chinese, and his men barked the same battle cry in echo.
Nick nodded. “Let’s do this.”
“Two minutes,” Lankford said over the radio.
Nick raised two fingers and gestured for everyone to get up. Nick moved to the front of the line and led the black-and-white operator parade to the rear of the aircraft, stopping at the bright yellow-and-black line beside what looked like a traffic light. He steadied himself under the awkward weight of his gear as the C-130 made a gentle turn to the left and then leveled off again. The pilots—experienced Air Force Special Operations aviators—were experts at challenging insertions. At the moment, they were making last-minute corrections based on winds and temperature to ensure that the team would have a clear path to land on the target. There was a sudden pressure change, then a loud clunk, and the rear ramp began to lower. Frigid air flooded the cargo hold, and his ears popped immediately. The deck lowered to an angle a hair below level, and then the traffic light switched from red to yellow.
After a beat, it flashed green.
Nick walked to the rear of the platform, spread his arms out, elbows bent, and fell into the night.
At twenty-four thousand feet, the icy-cold air clawed at his skin, penetrating his wind-resistant clothing like it was cheesecloth and chilling him to the bone. The wind raged against the loose fabric of his jacket sleeves and pants, flapping and snapping it against his skin as he strained to keep his arms open and out and his legs spread and bent at the knees. The night was black as pitch, with no moon to light the tops of the clouds. Tonight’s free fall would be shorter than most jumps since the target was located at an elevation of twelve thousand feet. Nick had jumped from much higher altitudes, but the C-130 was limited by a modest ceiling. His plan was to open chutes at fifteen thousand feet—low enough to minimize vulnerability, but still high enough to navigate to the target. He felt dampness on his neck as he penetrated the cloud deck. City lights appeared, Zell am See below and Salzberg in the distance. Seconds later, the lights of Salzberg winked out as the northern mountains came between them.