by Alex Lukeman
They descended to the main hall, avoided the trip wire and went out into the courtyard.
"Leave the door open," Nick said. "Let some heat out."
Snow was falling, the kind of snow that came fast and deep. It was getting light.
"Nick."
"Yeah, Lamont."
"We got a problem."
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
"What problem?"
"Actually, two problems. There's a company of Paki regulars starting up the canyon. They're still eight klicks away. They have to be coming for you."
"How the hell do they know we're here?"
"Does it matter? Probably a leak out of Langley."
"What's the second problem?"
"Taliban. They're between you and the LZ, on the Paki side. I don't think they know you're there. Just bad luck. Looks like they're setting up camp. The snow is making it hard to see what's happening."
"Wait one."
Nick turned to the others. "I thought this was too easy. The snow is going to screw everything up." Nick looked up at the thick flakes coming down. "Might help us get past the Taliban."
"What happens when those army people get here?" Selena gestured at the building. "They won't be happy with what they find."
"They won't find anything."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm calling in a strike. There won't be any building, or any dead bodies. We can't leave it behind."
"Then maybe we should get moving," she said.
Nick spoke into his microphone. "Lamont. Give us ten to get out of here and call in a Reaper on this dump. Blow it before those Pakis get here. A five hundred pounder ought to do it."
"Roger that." Lamont knew the score. "Wish I was with you."
"Yeah. Just keep the comm open and get our ride to the LZ."
"Roger that."
The team slung their weapons, climbed up the rope hanging down through the notch and headed west. Toward the LZ and safety. Toward the Taliban.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Merlin sat in front of his monitors in the Operations Center at Creech Air Force Base in Nevada. Outside his cubicle, Merlin was First Lieutenant Zachary Tillson. Here in the Ops Center he was simply Merlin.
Tillson loved his job. Merlin, the magician. The man, the wizard who could make anything vanish in a cloud of smoke. It was like playing God. Tillson had a joystick in his hand, a fancy version of a war gamer's stick. The stick controlled an MQ-9 Reaper, the most sophisticated unmanned weapons system in the world. The wizard's wand, and he was the wizard.
In the elite group flying the unmanned drones, Tillson was acknowledged by all as best with the Reaper. It took a lot of practice to control the bird. Thermal currents and unpredictable winds at high altitude in that part of the world required a delicate touch to stay on task. The Reaper wasn't a Radio Shack model airplane. It had a 950 horsepower turbo charged engine that could make 260 knots. It had a range of a thousand miles and carried three times as many weapons as it's older brother, the Predator. One of those weapons was a monster five hundred pound Paveway bomb, reserved for special targets. The Reaper carried Hellfire missiles and other goodies to help it live up to its name.
Reapers featured a combination of thermal and satellite sensors and cameras that could pinpoint with total accuracy a target as small as a Volkswagen from 20,000 feet up. Or a man. A complex system of checks and balances made sure there were no accidental launches or cowboy attempts to take out a target.
Tillson had gotten his mission. He'd taken off from Bagram and now his bird was over Pakistan. He watched the rugged mountains of the Hindu Kush pass under the drone.
The cameras sent a clear picture of the landscape below. The target was at the end of a canyon. Snow made it hard to get a good visual, but the thermal sensors were reading a solid heat signature from the target. No problemo.
Tillson noted three heat signatures, bodies, moving away toward the west. They were already two klicks away from the strike zone. Not his target. Tillson also noted that the three signatures were moving toward a cluster of other heat signatures, west of them.
He eased the stick and throttled back, brought the drone around in a sweeping bank and followed the canyon north. The heat radiating from the target made it easy. A piece of cake. His readouts showed lock on. He spoke into his headset microphone.
"Victor One, target is acquired." Victor One was his control.
"Roger, Merlin. You are clear to engage."
"Roger, clear to engage. Release in three, two, one." Tillson pushed a button. The reaper lifted as the weight of the five hundred pounder dropped away. Tillson compensated, activated the autopilot.
The Paveway was laser guided and under his control. Merlin watched the bomb down to the building through a camera eye in the nose. Some kind of monastery. He made a minor adjustment, aiming for the open door of the building. It beckoned and drew closer. The screen blacked. From the drone, Merlin watched a bright white light spread across the area.
"Victor One, Target terminated," Tillson said into his headset.
"Roger, Merlin. Well done."
Tillson leaned back in his chair and reached for a handful of M&Ms he kept in a dish near his computer. Just another day on the job.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Nick and the others were well off the slope and heading east when they heard the explosion. The falling snow turned brief orange with reflected light. Then it was gone. The gray, muffled morning returned.
The snow lay thick, two inches or more since they'd started down the slope. Clouds of snow swirled around them in freezing wind. Bits of ice pelted them. Sometimes they could see for yards, sometimes Nick could just make out Ronnie and Selena walking next to him. He looked at his GPS. Without it, they'd be lost in a moment.
The GPS wouldn't help if they stumbled onto the Taliban camp. He called Lamont.
"You're almost on them, Nick. Thermals are faint, but we've got them. You are off their left flank. I make it fourteen bodies. Looks like they've got animals with them, probably goats. They're clustered together, keeping warm."
"What's our extraction status?"
"All flights are grounded. Once you're past these guys, get to the LZ and hole up. Weather says clear later today."
"Roger. We're..." Nick didn't finish. A figure emerged from the snow twenty feet in front of them. He fumbled with the front of his robes. Yellow stains on the snow showed what he had been doing. He wore a dirty turban tied sloppily around his head. He had a full beard, an AK-47 and a loud voice. He saw them and shouted an alarm.
Ronnie shot him as the AK came up. The man went backwards into the snow, firing into the air.
All hell broke loose.
"Down," Carter yelled. They dove for the ground.
Shouts and the chatter of AKs sounded in front of them. Nick froze.
He's in the market. He can smell himself, his fear. He keeps away from the walls. A baby cries. The street is deserted.
Men rise up and begin firing, dozens of AKs trying to kill him, bullets flying everywhere. The market stalls explode in splinters and plaster and rock fragmenting from the buildings.
He ducks into a doorway. Then the child runs toward him screaming and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The boy's head disappears in a red geyser. The grenade drifts toward him in slow motion...everything goes white...
"Nick." Ronnie shook him. "Nick."
The white faded into the white of snow.
"Yeah. I'm all right." His headache was back. "Grenades." He turned to Selena.
"Remember when I showed you how to use a grenade, just in case?"
"Yes."
"Well, this is the case." He pulled a grenade from his pouch, pulled the safety clip. Held the lever down. Pulled the grenade from the pin. He got to his knees. Rounds hummed past. The Taliban were shooting blind into the snowfall. He arched back and lofted the grenade toward the sound of the AKs in front of him. Ronnie and Selena followed. They hit the deck.
The explosions sent a ripple of death through the morning air. Screams pierced the clouds of blowing snow.
"Go." Carter got to his feet and ran toward the screaming, firing blind as he went, his MP-5 held at waist level. He tripped over a dead goat and went sprawling onto the ground.
He got up, ran forward. Shapes appeared. He shot a man bleeding from his ears before he could level his AK. He shot another. He heard Ronnie and Selena firing, the distinctive sound of their weapons contrasting with the staccato blasts of the AKs still firing.
Carter saw Selena go down hard. Something twisted deep in his gut. A red mist clouded his vision. He charged the man who had shot her and swung his MP-5 like a club and brought the man down before he could fire another burst.
Nick hit him again. And again. He beat him about the head. He raised his gun high and was about to bring it down again when he felt Ronnie grab his arm.
"He's dead, Nick."
Carter paused, the MP-5 high in the air. He looked around. The red film cleared. He looked down at the man at his feet. His face was gone, a bloody pulp left behind. The firing had stopped.
He looked to his left. Selena lay face down. She wasn't moving. Her helmet had come off. Snow drifted onto her red-blond hair.
His MP-5 was bent and covered in blood. Nick dropped the useless weapon and ran to her. He turned her over, wiped snow away from her face. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. He bent his head down. She was still breathing. Labored, harsh breaths. There were three holes across her chest where the rounds had hit. Her armor had kept her alive, but she was in trouble.
"Selena. Selena, talk to me."
No response. He pushed back the eyelids. Her eyes were unfocused, one pupil larger than the other.
"How far to the LZ?"
Ronnie looked at his GPS. "About two klicks."
"Grab her gear. Call in and have a goddamn medic on that chopper. I'll carry her."
Carter scooped Selena's limp form into his arms and stood up. "You lead, Ronnie. Let's move."
They set out. Carter carried Selena in front of him. He went as fast as he could. Twice he stumbled in the treacherous footing and caught himself. Once he fell, but managed to land with Selena on top of him. His arms ached. His bad shoulder felt like it was on fire. His back sent bolts of electric burning pain down his leg. He kept looking down at Selena, praying she'd make it.
Why didn't she wake up?
A little over an hour later they reached the landing zone. Nick sat down and cradled her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. She was still unconscious. Her breathing was shallow, labored.
"She took a hell of a hit," Ronnie said. "Like getting hit by a truck. Cracked ribs for sure."
"You a doctor now, Ronnie?" Nick was angry. At himself, at the Taliban, at God, at being helpless. But it wasn't Ronnie's fault.
"I'm just saying."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry." He spoke into his microphone. "Lamont, where's that fucking chopper?"
"Weather's clearing at Bagram. They're just lifting off. Hang in there, amigo."
It was coming on dark when they heard the beat of rotors.
"Selena." Nick bent down and whispered. "Stay with me. The chopper's here."
Then he said, "Don't leave me."
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Lucas Monroe watched Hood pour two glasses of Talisker single malt. Neat, no ice. The glasses were heavy Waterford crystal. The DCNS came back and handed Monroe one of the glasses. He sat down.
"You did well in Italy," Hood said.
"Thank you, sir. A bit messy."
"The Italians are ballistic, but they can't prove anything. I've got a new assignment for you. You've earned it."
"What's my new job?"
"You'll work directly under me. I want you to liaise with another agency here in Washington."
Monroe waited. He knew better than to ask why. Hood would tell him.
"You know about the Project. You met two of their operatives in San Diego."
"The President's unit? They've made problems for us in the past."
"Yes, they have. They have the President's ear. It hasn't helped that they've been right more often than not. We've gotten too big, Lucas, too arrogant."
Monroe noted Hood's use of his first name and the criticism. A shot across the bow at the DCI. Hood was feeling him out. But was it a trick? A test of loyalty?
"I'm a career officer, sir. I do what I'm told. Sometimes I've wondered why, but I didn't think it was my place to question."
"You've kept your thoughts to yourself."
"Always. People talk to me because they know I never repeat what they say. Been like that since before I joined the Company."
"And a black man in America. That must have forced you to learn discretion. An unfortunate part of our less than enlightened society."
Monroe kept his thoughts to himself. Hood knew nothing about what it was like to be black in America.
"Your record is exemplary, Lucas. You would have moved up before now, but field agents of your caliber are hard to find."
Monroe said nothing. He sipped his drink. Lots of flattery. Where was this going?
"You know about the assassinations. The Shia killers."
"Everyone does, Director."
"The Project has just eliminated their home base. Everyone and his brother was looking for those bastards and the Project found them, or at least the intel that led to them. Then they went in and took them out. Three of them, for Christ's sake. It should have taken two Seal assault teams.
"They are mobile in a way we are not. They are dedicated, smart and tough. I want to know what makes them so damned efficient when we can't find our ass with our own two hands."
Monroe nodded. Now he understood. "You want me to observe and assess." Spook speak for spy.
"Exactly. I knew you'd see it. In the spirit of cooperation, the President has informed them of his desire to have you work with them. They're expecting you."
Hood drained his whiskey. "I'm upgrading your clearance to Alpha."
Lucas was surprised. That was second only to the Directorate, which had Alpha Black clearance.
"There's something you need to know." Hood paused. "There's a six kiloton nuke out there in the hands of the terrorists. The Project told us it might be in Seattle. It was, until this assassin group took it away from al-Qaeda for their own purposes."
Lucas kept his face expressionless. Inside, he was stunned. "And we don't know where it is." It wasn't a question.
"Get settled in your new office. I'm giving you a desk on the sixth floor." Hood handed Monroe a coded entry card and an updated ID. "Tomorrow, go over to the Project. Report to me alone. Keep me informed of their thinking. I want you to evaluate their methods and personnel. They found the assassins. Maybe they can find whoever has that damned bomb."
CHAPTER SIXTY
She drifted in a world of movement without meaning. It was hard to breathe. There was noise, vibration. Hot and cold air. Voices in the distance. Once, she thought she heard Nick say he was leaving. She decided she was dreaming. But why was she being bumped and carried? Why couldn't they, whoever they were, just leave her alone? She was so tired. She just wanted to rest....
Selena opened her eyes. The room was bright with fluorescent light. The air smelled of disinfectant. The walls were light blue. She stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had happened. She remembered being in the snow, her MP-5 hot in her gloved hands, people shouting, the sound of small arms fire. Then something slammed into her. Then nothing.
She came awake. She was in a hospital bed. A drip of something was laced into her arm. A drip of something else was stuck into the back of her hand. Her chest hurt. She turned her head and pain shot though her spine. Nick sat in a chair by the bed, asleep, his face creased with fatigue and worry.
He needs a shave, she thought.
She remembered the angry, turbaned man who'd leveled his AK at her and realized what had happened. She'd been s
hot. Why wasn't she dead? The armor, she thought, the armor saved me. But how did she get here?
Nick opened his eyes. They were red. He looked at her.
"Selena. Thank God."
She tried to speak, coughed. Her voice came out as a raspy croak. "What happened?"
"You got shot. The vest saved you. We got you to the LZ and you're at Bagram in the hospital. You've got four cracked ribs. The impact collapsed one of your lungs, but it's okay now. You were out for hours." He smiled. "You also have some spectacular bruises."
"What bruises?"
"Let's just say your breasts look like eggplants."
"Always elegant, Nick. Nobody's got a way with words like you."
"That's my Irish heritage," he said. "I can't help it."
"I remember. The man who shot me. What happened to him?"
"He won't be shooting anyone else."
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Monroe had a hard time believing what these people had done. Taking out the assassin base was just the latest in a long string of difficult missions. Lucas knew Nick and Selena, but he'd never met the others.
Stephanie's office looked like a hospital ward for the walking wounded. The brother, Cameron, had his arm locked into a stiff cast sticking out at an odd angle. Selena was clearly in pain, though Lucas had to admit she hid it well. Carter looked like he could use about six months sleep. He moved like he had a rod up his ass. Lucas guessed it was his back. The only one who seemed whole was the Indian. There was probably something wrong with him, too.
"Now you've met everyone." Stephanie looked at Monroe. "Why don't you tell us why you're here?"
Monroe had no illusions. If he were in their shoes, he'd be as suspicious as if someone had just offered to sell him Arlington Cemetery.
"Director Hood is impressed with your results. My job is simple. At least I think so. Hood wants me to study how you work, how you get to these conclusions. For example, how did you know Bausari was headed for Seattle, or where those terrorists were in Mali, or where they went? We've got the same satellite data as you do and a hell of a lot more computing power, not to mention a building full of analysts. But we missed it."