The sound of bullets smacking into the armor plate was strangely comforting—like rain on a tin roof, but in a few seconds, they were well out of range of the insurgents’ rifles.
The quiet was even better.
ELEVEN
The mood in the Special Forces compound at Contingency Operating Base Speicher was somber. The Delta shooters busied themselves with maintenance tasks—cleaning their weapons, inspecting their equipment to ensure that all was ready for the next mission and even grabbing some food and shut-eye—but hardly anyone spoke. The brief sense of elation that accompanied their salvation was tempered by the knowledge that, for several of their friends, the help had arrived too late.
Every career Spec Ops shooter had experienced the emotional conflict that occurs when not everyone makes it back from a mission, but this instance was on a different order of magnitude. Only three members of Cipher element remained. Four of the snipers had survived, though two were wounded—including Lewis Aleman, whose crushed hand would almost certainly spell the end of his career as a Delta operator. Of the eight men comprising the flight crews of two Night Stalker Black Hawk helicopters, only one had made it back. Everyone on Beehive Six-Six was MIA. Perhaps even worse, the survivors knew that their lives had been bought with the blood of those who had come to save them, including Sonny “Houston” Vaughn, the Alpha team leader, who had caught a bullet on his way to the Humvee and died in Stan Tremblay’s arms on the ride back.
Sigler’s black mood wasn’t just due to survivor’s guilt, though. He was angry. The deaths of his teammates weren’t just the fortunes of war; someone had set them up and sent them into a trap.
He was going to find out who that someone was. Then, he was going to kill them.
They’d returned to the regional base just as dawn was breaking in the east. The 7th Special Forces team—the guys that had come riding to the rescue—had given the survivors a hut to recover in, but Sigler had been kept busy with administrative tasks, seeing to the needs of the wounded and of course, reporting the details of the disaster to headquarters. Thus far, JSOC had not responded to his requests for information that might help identify the persons responsible for the attack.
As he sat with the tattered remnants of Cipher element, Eagle-Eye and Alpha team, meticulously disassembling and cleaning his weapon—an activity that was, for a soldier, something akin to meditation—he searched his memory to see if the answer lay somewhere in the events of the previous night. He was physically exhausted, but his mind would not let go of the mystery.
Someone had set a trap for them…why? He rejected the obvious answer—to kill them. There were plenty of ways to accomplish that.
But if killing Cipher element wasn’t the primary objective, then what was?
He was working through the possibilities when two men he didn’t recognize strode into the room. One of them was wearing civilian clothes—khakis and a long-sleeve, pale-blue dress shirt—the other was wearing ACU fatigues. The name-tape over his breast pocket said ‘Keasling,’ but it was the rank badge in the middle of the man’s chest that got Sigler’s attention: a single black star.
He jumped to his feet and was about to call the room to attention, but the general waved him off.
“Stand easy, men.” Keasling regarded each man in turn, and finally brought his attention back to Sigler. “I won’t bullshit you. We are at condition FUBAR. Sixteen hours ago, the President did two things: He asked General Collins for his resignation, and he hired me to run the Joint Special Operations Command. I’m your new boss.”
Glances were exchanged but no one spoke. Keasling gestured to the civilian. “This is Domenick Boucher, the Director of the CIA. Gentlemen, we are here to fix this train wreck.”
Stan Tremblay folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “You’re the new JSOC? That’s a three-star billet. That must have taken some grade-A ass kissing.”
Keasling’s right eye twitched, and for a moment, Sigler thought the general was going to blow a gasket, but then the twitch went away. “I guess the President liked my smile. Now, if you’re done busting my chops, sergeant, there’s work to do. We’re in the dark, men.”
Sigler pointed a finger at Boucher. “Why don’t you start by talking to him? It was his people that sent us out there in the first place. Last I heard, they were both aboard the Black Hawk that went missing.”
Boucher glanced at Keasling, as if silently asking for permission to answer, and then cleared his throat. “Then let me update you. After leaving you, the helicopter designated Beehive Six-Six crossed the border with Syria and continued on to Damascus. The pilot flew nap-of-the-earth to avoid ground radar, but we were able to track him from an AWACS plane.
“Our assets in Syria searched the abandoned helicopter and found the remains…” He swallowed, as if this was the first time he’d put it in words. “They positively identified the remains of Officer Scott Klein, along with two members of the flight crew, and one of your men.”
One? The implications of that punched Sigler in the gut. “Who?”
“Sergeant Major Pettit,” said Keasling. “He was executed; they all were. Point blank range; no sign of a struggle. We have to assume that everyone who was not found dead on that helo is on the side of the enemy.”
Sigler felt his blood go cold. The enemy now had a face and a name: Kevin Rainer, his commanding officer. Rainer had led them into the trap and left them there to die.
Boucher continued. “Three Caucasian men and a Eurasian woman were spotted at Damascus International Airport, boarding a flight to Doha, Qatar. From Qatar, they caught a connecting flight to Yangon—”
Tremblay scratched his goatee. “Yangon? That’s somewhere in East Butt-Fuck, right?”
“Close,” Sigler said. He wasn’t sure about Tremblay’s impulsive need to turn everything into a joke. Sometimes, it was good to have someone around to help lighten the mood, but there was such a thing as too much. “Most people still call it Rangoon. It’s in Myanmar…which most people still call Burma.”
“Goddamn,” Tremblay muttered sourly. “Can’t these people just pick a name and stick with it?”
“They’re in the air right now,” Keasling said, steering the discussion back on point. “We don’t know if that’s their final destination, but our assets in Yangon will pick up their trail.” He looked around the room again, once more making eye contact with each man in turn. “I’m acting under the assumption that some of you here might be interested in payback.”
Sigler could tell that Keasling had been hoping for a cheer or a rousing “Fuck, yeah!” but the subdued mood persisted. After a few seconds, Parker broke the awkward silence.
“Mister…Boucher, is it? Why don’t you tell us what’s really going on?”
Keasling frowned and looked as if he was about to tell Parker to shut up, but Sigler quickly backed his friend up. “I think we all deserve some answers, sir.”
Boucher sighed. “Honestly, I wish I knew. I had the same intel as you going into this. I’ve got a team conducting forensic analysis of the documents you recovered in Ramadi. Our working theory is that the message that sent you out there—the message about a bio-weapons factory—was probably planted.”
By Kevin Rainer, Sigler thought. The promise of a WMD was irresistible bait for the trap. But why?
Why had the Delta commander sold out his men?
“You’re all missing the most important thing,” Parker interjected. His expression was taut, like he was about to explode. “The message wasn’t just about bio-weapons.”
Keasling looked to Boucher for confirmation. The Director of the CIA nodded. “The message contained a specific reference that led to one of our cryptanalysts being sent along.”
“Sasha Therion,” Parker supplied.
“That’s right. We’re considering the possibility that she might have been involved.”
“Bullshit.”
Sigler coughed to get his friend’s attention and flashed a war
ning glance. Take it down a notch, Danno.
In a more subdued voice, Parker continued: “That reference to the Voynich manuscript… There was a reason for that. They…whoever they are…needed your expert on the manuscript.”
The Delta operators in the room stared at Parker in disbelief; it was as if he’d suddenly grown horns or begun speaking in tongues. But Boucher just nodded. “That’s a scenario we’re considering.”
“Considering? Well consider this. Someone turned at least three operators to make this happen. Whoever is behind it has money and influence, and for some reason they think that a medieval manuscript that no one can read is worth all this trouble. So what you should be considering is: what do they know that we don’t?”
Parker’s comments had aroused Sigler’s curiosity; he wasn’t sure if his friend was really on to something or if his concern arose from a schoolboy crush on the enigmatic Sasha Therion, but he made a mental note to ask his friend for further clarification.
Keasling shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. All that matters is stopping them. That’s your new mission.”
Keasling’s final statement went through Sigler like an electric shock.
Your new mission.
My new mission.
As if reading the unasked questions in the faces of the men in the room, Keasling continued. “Sigler, you’re Cipher Six now. Organizational structure is at your discretion. Tremblay and Roberts, you’re TAD to Cipher element for the duration of this mission…” He glanced at Sigler. “Unless you have an objection to that?”
Sigler glanced at Tremblay and the man he knew only as “Silent Bob,” but their faces were unreadable. Even though Delta operators were consummate professionals, every team relied upon the unique chemistry of its individual members. It was impossible to predict whether the remnants of Cipher element and the survivors from Alpha team would mesh seamlessly, or burn up in a fireball of friction. “No objection from me.”
“If you need additional personnel, you can draw from 7th Group. I’ll travel with you to Myanmar and liaise with our assets on the ground.” The general checked his watch. “It is now 1630. I want to be in the air no later than 1800. Now, if there’s nothing else…”
Sigler recognized that was Keasling’s way of signaling that the discussion was at an end, but he knew this might be his only opportunity to show everyone in the room that he was ready to be their leader. “Actually, sir, there is one thing.”
Keasling frowned. “Go on.”
“I’d like to change the mission designation. We’re not really Cipher element anymore, so it doesn’t make sense to keep using Cipher callsigns.”
“Bad juju, is that it?”
Sigler shrugged. “If you like.”
Keasling waved his hand as if the matter were of no consequence. “Fine. Use your Delta handles. Make sure to submit an updated roster. Just out of curiosity, Sigler, what’s your callsign?”
“Elvis, sir.”
Keasling made a face. “How on God’s green Earth did you get tagged with that?”
Tremblay gave a theatrical gasp. “Sir, are you disrespecting the King of Rock and Roll?”
Sigler couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve always kind of been an Elvis Presley fan. TCB—‘Taking care of business’—is sort of my unofficial motto.”
“I loathe Elvis Presley. My ex-wife ran off with an Elvis impersonator,” Keasling groused. He squinted at Sigler. “But in the interest of getting this show on the road, let’s say we compromise. Your new operational callsign is—”
“Pelvis!” Tremblay chortled.
Keasling ignored him and spoke just one more word: “King.”
FACTOR
TWELVE
Mandalay, Myanmar
Everyone noticed the blonde woman.
She wore a tight beige T-shirt that clung to the firm contours of her breasts, exposing just enough of her décolletage to be enticing without being obvious, and a pair of dark green cargo shorts that had been rolled up a couple of times to reveal even more of her toned and tanned legs. Her long hair was pulled back—though hardly restrained—in a pony tail that conveyed that elusive girl-next-door allure; a seemingly effortless beauty, all the more desirable in its apparent innocence.
She seemed oblivious to the attention, yet there was something intentional about the way she leaned, almost seductively, over the perfume counter at the duty free shop. Every few minutes, she would ask the man behind the counter questions about price or request a tester bottle, spritzing a small amount of aerosolized eau de toilette into the air. Occasionally, her eyes would dart to the concourse outside the shop, often encountering a lascivious stare from a male passerby, or less frequently, a jealous sneer from less appreciative females. She would then, regardless of the expressions or gender of any onlookers, arch her back like a cat stretching after a nap—an action that drew even more attention to her breasts—and then return to perusing the perfume selection.
Wherever she went, everyone noticed the blonde woman, and a few of those who noticed took the added step of inquiring about her. Those who did would be informed that the woman was a Canadian humanitarian worker with the Red Cross…or maybe it was UNICEF… Her specific affiliation remained the subject of some debate. She had been in country for several months now, visiting clinics, dispensing vaccines and medical supplies...generally getting noticed, but somehow never staying in one place long enough to allow idle curiosity, or even a flush of arousal, to escalate into something more overt.
Everyone noticed her, and that was exactly what she wanted, not because she craved attention, but because while they were busy looking at her, they hardly noticed that she was looking back.
The three Caucasian men who got off the plane that had just arrived from Yangon certainly noticed her, even the one who had his arm draped possessively over the shoulders of his female traveling companion—a Eurasian woman who, for a change, paid the blonde woman no heed.
The blonde happened to look up at just that moment and met the man’s stare. She smiled, stretched, and then turned back to the counter. “This one,” she said, pointing to the fragrance she had most recently sampled. She laid a 100 kyat note—worth about fifteen US dollars—on the counter and took her purchase. “Keep the change,” she said, flashing the man the same smile she’d shown the three Westerners. She exited the store, joining the flow of disembarking passengers.
She moved casually, making no effort to hurry and no effort to avoid being noticed, but always keeping the three men in sight. It wasn’t difficult; like her, they stood out in the crowd of Asian faces. She moved with the crowd to the exit and got in the taxi line, while the Westerners climbed into a waiting sport utility vehicle. As their ride pulled away from the terminal building, she took out her cell phone.
“Red Toyota Fortuner,” she said, getting right to the point. “Brand new. Can’t miss it.”
“New?” came the response. New vehicles were a rare thing in Mandalay. The military rulers of the country imposed strict limits on the number of cars that could be imported. Only the very wealthy could afford to buy them, and in Myanmar, most of the wealth came from illegal activities—primarily from the drug trade. “Do you think our friends are involved?”
“As Lieutenant Ball would say: ‘Signs point to yes.’”
The man on the other end gave an easy laugh. “Any idea which flavor?”
“‘Reply hazy, try again.’”
“Well, at least this won’t be too much of a distraction. Might even be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
“‘Cannot predict now.’ Just keep your distance. The sooner we can hand this off to those Delta testosteroids, the sooner we can get back to our own mission.”
There was a momentary pause on the line, and then the man spoke again. “I’ve got them.”
“Then hang up and drive, pretty boy.”
“‘You may rely on it.’”
THIRTEEN
Shin Dae-jung kept a healthy interval betwee
n the red Toyota and his own Honda Rebel 250, though once his quarry left the urban environs of Mandalay, it was more a matter of trying to keep up with the Toyota rather than holding back. The other driver, evincing the kind of confidence that can only come with familiarity, maintained an average speed of about seventy miles per hour. Shin had to keep the speedometer on the motorcycle pegged to keep a visual fix on the red vehicle, which barely slowed through the series of hairpin turns that wound between the hills between Ongyaw and Thon-daung-ywa-wa.
It had come as no little surprise when the target vehicle had left Mandalay behind. Now, nearly sixty miles out and nearing the border of the rural and mostly uninhabited Shan state, he wondered if he had not been given a fool’s errand. He briefly lost sight of the red Toyota when the road straightened as it approached Pyin Oo Lwin, gateway to one of Myanmar’s very few—and thus far unsuccessful—tourist attractions, the Kandawgyl Botanical Gardens. His assignment in the country that many still called Burma had taken him to all of its major cities, but he rarely traveled those long distances by road, and so he was unfamiliar with the highways. He did know that the further out the target vehicle went, the less likely he would be able to successfully track them to their destination.
It was a white-knuckle ride, even for someone like himself, who routinely indulged in dangerous activities: combat in Iraq and Afghanistan; covert insertions into Pakistan to kill or capture terrorist leaders and North Korea, where he could pass as a native, to reconnoiter suspected nuclear weapons facilities; recreational SCUBA diving, particularly the exploration of sunken wrecks; and perhaps riskiest of all, maintaining his hard-earned reputation as a Korean Casanova.
He had actually been looking forward to just such an amorous encounter tonight at the Sunrise Hotel Mandalay, where he was supposed to meet with Giselle, a beautiful but slightly homesick Swiss Doctors-Without-Borders doctor. When he’d gotten word of this little errand for the Delta boys, he had expected that he would have to ask for a rain check, but then again, if the red Toyota slipped away, he might make it back in time for cocktail hour.
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