Northern Sun: Book Four in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Conor unfastened his harness and gestured at Barb to do the same. She saw the rest of the team squaring away their weapons, chambering rounds in case they landed in unfriendly territory. She grabbed her rifle from beneath the seat and readied it.

  Conor spoke through the headset to his team. “Shani and I hit the ground first. We’ll provide cover. Barb and Doc Marty will offload the gear. When you guys are done, signal the crew chief, then stand ready until the chopper lifts off. We’ll gear up one at a time, with the rest of the team providing cover. When everyone is squared away, we’ll move into the woods and put some distance between us and the LZ in case the noise draws gawkers. Does anyone have any questions?”

  One by one, they indicated that they didn’t.

  “One minute out,” the crew chief announced, getting up from his seat and clipping into the tether system. He slid the side door open and the roar of engines, rushing wind, filled the cabin.

  Barb’s heart pounded. She’d been involved in some tense encounters, some heated battles, in her life but this felt different. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Shani offering a supportive smile. She must have sensed it.

  “Butterflies?” she asked.

  Barb, normally not one to reveal any of her inner workings to anyone, immediately felt comfortable with this intense woman. She nodded. “A little.”

  “We all get them,” Shani said. “No matter how many ops you’ve been on. Dropping into the unknown is always a little unsettling. A little anxiety is okay. It gets the blood flowing and keeps you on your toes.”

  The chopper skewed sideways and began a controlled drop to the pavement below. Glancing out the door, Barb could see they were surrounded by a development project in various stages of construction. There were no finished homes but several lots had shells underway. Housing sites were cleared to a rough grade and utility trenches were open. Piles of gravel and sand were scattered about. Stacks of cinderblocks and pallets of blue pipe stood on what would one day be expensive lawns.

  They touched down and Barb was surrounded by a flurry of movement as everyone snapped into action. Conor and Shani leapt to the ground and scurried away, their rifles at high ready. They were back to back, scanning the full three hundred and sixty degrees of their surroundings, alert for any signs of movement.

  Behind them, Doc Marty dropped from the chopper deck to the ground, his rifle dangling around his neck. Barb scrambled to the doorway, heaving packs to Doc Marty as the crew chief passed them to her. When there were no more packs, she gave the crew chief a questioning look and he gave her a thumbs up. They had everything.

  Barb started to hop down but the crew chief caught her by the arm, gesturing at her headset she hadn’t removed yet. She smiled apologetically, feeling like an idiot.

  He smiled back and mouthed, “It’s okay!”

  She leapt to the ground, whipped her rifle up, and took a knee by the packs. Doc Marty was already there, lending his eye to Conor and Shani. The chopper whined behind them, stirring dust, leaves, and trash. Barb was grateful for the sunglasses she wore.

  In seconds, the chopper was up and banking away from them. Doc Marty got to his feet and slung his pack across his back. When he was done, he threw his rifle up and took a position covering the direction previously blocked by the chopper.

  “Barb!” Conor said.

  She got to her feet and slung her pack on. “Where do you want me?”

  “Shani’s position.”

  Barb took Shani’s place, watching for threats while the other woman pulled on her gear. When Shani was done, she took Conor’s place while he pulled on his pack. Had their loads been smaller they could probably have exited the helo with them on their backs but these were heavy loads. With ammo, food, grenades, and other assorted goodies, their packs weighed in at nearly seventy pounds each.

  Shani insisted on navigating. She had some real control issues with certain aspects of every operation and most times Conor just let her roll with it. It was easier to let her navigate than listen to her complaints if he took a wrong turn. Once they knew where they were landing, Shani had plotted a route toward the Bass Springs resort that maximized concealment.

  They’d landed seven miles away. There were various estimates of how far the sound of rotors traveled but it was not a fixed distance. The sound was affected by trees, humidity, the presence of the lake, and the temperature. Based on everything they knew, the seven miles seemed like a reasonable compromise between stealth and distance. If they got too far away they’d have an exhausting trek with the heavy packs. As it was, they figured three to four hours, depending on the availability of game or hiking trails. If there were no trails, they might not even be able to travel more than one mile per hour.

  They moved uphill. The map showed the greater concentration of houses below them, alongside the prime lakeside real estate. Higher along the ridge there were broad swathes of undeveloped land. Shani hoped they could traverse those sections and piece together a concealed route, although some people were already not happy about it.

  “There’s a perfectly good downhill behind us,” Conor griped. “Why the hell are we wasting it by traveling uphill?”

  “If you spent more mornings with burpees instead of biscuits your ass wouldn’t be dragging,” Barb said.

  “I have to do a squat to get the jelly out of the fridge,” Conor replied. “Then another to put it back.”

  “As entertaining as your whining is, Conor, we need more eyes and less mouth,” Shani said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They moved for three hours, taking occasional breaks to rest their backs and legs, or to grab a drink from their water bottles. The packs were so heavy that when they slipped them off, they staggered about, trying to rediscover their balance. The sensation almost felt like they were about to float away. The slightest two of the group, Barb and Shani, appeared to be managing the best. They were likely the fittest of the group, spending way more time conditioning themselves than Conor and Doc Marty did.

  After a long couple of hours, Shani finally reined them to a stop on a hillside. “We’re above the target. The records show this land is owned by the resort but has never been developed. If we go one hundred meters downhill and cross the road, we’re at the entrance to the resort.”

  “Are we going to camp here?” Conor asked.

  “Yes,” Shani replied.

  “Good call,” he muttered, dumping his pack to the ground. “Close enough to monitor them but still offering a little buffer.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Shani cautioned. “You and I need to get eyes on them. We need to see what we’re dealing with.”

  44

  It was already early evening by the time Shani and Conor picked their way down the slope toward the terrorist camp. Doc Marty and Barb had been advised to grab a bite to eat, then take turns getting some sleep if they could. No one knew what the night might bring.

  The Bass Springs Resort looked like thousands of other dated lakeside campgrounds across America. There was a faded entrance sign with rustic cutout letters and everything from signs to buildings painted in teal green or brown. The streets were lined with rotting posts, knocked askew by decades of inexperienced camper and boat towers. White-painted rocks traced paths to the shower houses and various amenities. There was a playground with a rusty swing set and a fiberglass ride-on caterpillar

  These cabins were tiny, simple structures. There were no fancy log cabins with expansive views at Bass Springs. Their buildings were of board-and-batten construction, like an old state park, with tiny double-hung windows that may or may not lock. The emphasis was on the outdoor experience, not the indoor, so no effort was made to make the cabins too cozy. They were only intended to be the place you crashed between adventures.

  There were several larger buildings; a restaurant, a camp store, and a lodge that offered motel-style accommodations. There was a dock, a boathouse, an ice cream stand, and several restroom facilities. Smoke rol
led from corroded stove pipes, forming a cloud that hung low in the cool air. It made it easy to tell which buildings were occupied. Certainly, these uninsulated cabins would be nearly uninhabitable without the warmth of a wood stove.

  Conor and Shani set up an observation post across the road from the resort. They were high enough up the slope that they shouldn’t be seen if someone wandered by on foot. They were sheltered behind a fallen oak, a piece of camo netting draped over them. They had optics propped against the downed tree, scanning the fishing resort just as they’d done when observing Mumin’s compound.

  “Nice assortment of license tags in the parking lots,” Conor observed.

  “Rentals,” Shani said. “Minivans and compacts. Tags from all over the country. These guys did their assignments and drove straight here while they still could.”

  “I’ve got activity on the dock.”

  Shani adjusted her scope to see what Conor was referring to. Several paddlers were approaching the floating dock in an assortment of brightly-colored kayaks and drab green canoes. They weren’t exactly dressed like fishermen in their running shoes, jeans, and down jackets, nor did they appear to be comfortable on the water. They carried fishing gear and a few fish on stringers, which they awkwardly unloaded before dragging their watercraft onto the dock.

  “I’m not trying to stereotype folks. I tend to dislike most folks equally,” Conor said, “but I suspect every one of those gentlemen is from the Middle East.”

  “I think you’re right,” Shani replied. “Probably not a coincidence. Especially since they’re having a casual fishing day at a resort while the rest of your country is suffering in an apocalypse. There aren’t many people out vacationing these days.”

  As the group of fishermen left the dock and moved up the trail, an older man emerged from the restaurant building and called to them, shouting something Conor couldn’t understand. One of the fishermen held up their catch and the man cooed appreciatively.

  “You hear what he said?” Conor asked.

  “I did.”

  “Sounded like Arabic, but I don’t speak it.”

  “It is Arabic. Growing up in Israel, I heard it my entire life.”

  The older man hurried down toward the returning fishermen, took their catch, and addressed the group.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He told them that dinner was almost ready. He’d clean their fish and they should come to the kitchen as soon as they were ready.”

  The older man and the fishermen split up at the junction of a groomed path. The fishermen headed toward cabins, ducking inside to presumably change out of their damp clothing before dinner. The older man headed toward the kitchen, holding the stringer of fish up in front of him to admire them. At the same time, the orientation of his body gave Shani and Conor a much better look at him.

  Shani ducked down below their barricade and removed her sPad from her vest. She punched a couple of buttons and flicked her finger around the screen for a moment. “That man walking with the fish is Kamil Farouq, the guy who bought this place. He’s the host, for lack of a better word. Here’s the picture Trent gave us. It’s from a food vendor’s license.”

  Conor reviewed the screen that Shani extended toward him and nodded in agreement. “That’s him.” He returned his eye to his spotting scope and increased the power. “What now?”

  “We need to get closer,” Shani said.

  “The sun is nearly down. Be patient. It’ll be safer after dark.”

  The loud clatter of a wooden screen door slamming shut caught their attention. A pair of men they hadn’t seen before came walking out of a cabin. One of the men stretched and yawned.

  “Looks like somebody is just waking up,” Shani said.

  “Maybe they’re running a night shift.”

  “For security or for mayhem, that’s the question.”

  The sound of the screen door slamming stirred more men into action. Others rolled out of adjoining cabins, all of them dressed similarly and looking as if they’d just gotten up.

  “They run a big second shift,” Conor pointed out. “Farouq appears to be hosting more men than Mumin did.”

  “I’m sure this was a more desirable location. Mumin’s place was brutally cold and only going to get worse.”

  “Probably bug-infested in the summer too,” Conor said.

  The fishermen who’d popped into their cabins began reemerging in different clothing. They’d stoked their fires and the amount of smoke hanging in the air increased.

  Shani began taking down her spotting scope. “They’re all heading to dinner. That’s got to be where they strategize. I want to hear what they’re discussing.”

  “It would be easier if this were summer and the windows were open,” Conor said.

  Shani shrugged. “If it were easy, I’d be worried.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  “Hang back here and keep an eye on things. I’ll put in my earpiece. Alert me if someone is moving around that I don’t know about.”

  “Got it,” Conor said. “I might have me a snack while I wait.”

  “If you do, take your radio off voice-activated. The last thing I want is you chewing in my ear. I won’t be able to hear a damn thing.”

  45

  Shani left her small pack of surveillance gear and her rifle with Conor. If things broke loose when she was on the grounds of the fishing camp, she could manage those ranges with a handgun. She also had Conor on overwatch with a rifle. He had her back, or at least he would between snacks.

  She moved away from their observation post, choosing her steps carefully. In less than a minute, she dropped onto the paved road beneath their position and shot across it, flattening her body against a wide tree.

  She heard Conor’s voice in her earpiece. “All clear.”

  On his word, she moved again, going tree to tree, closing in on the restaurant. All of the men they’d seen entering the building had used the side door into the kitchen. Shani instead moved toward the front of the building, the public entrance, assuming it to be the least-trafficked side of the structure. It also had the fewest windows. Paying customers wanted a view of the lake, not the road.

  When she broke from behind the last tree, she ducked behind a tacky wishing well and flattened herself against the building. The sound of animated voices inside confirmed her suspicion. This old resort, built for seasonal occupation in the days before air conditioning was common, was uninsulated. She couldn’t hear everything, though. Anything said in a normal, conversational tone was lost.

  She needed a better position.

  She crawled from behind the wishing well, past the main entrance, and toward the right side of the structure.

  “Uh, where you going, Shani?” Conor muttered in her earpiece.

  She understood his concern. She was moving toward the side of the building where all the activity had been taking place. It was the side where the cabins were located and where people were entering the dining room.

  Finally understanding that she needed a better position, Conor broke cover and moved to his right, finding a point where he could better see that side of the restaurant. He dropped to his stomach and repositioned the spotting scope. In the failing light, he couldn’t see well but the dining room was lit by lanterns and that might help him find what he was after. He scanned each window, then raised his radio.

  “The kitchen window is cracked open. Must have got toasty in there. It’s the first window around the corner. I can’t see anyone moving around inside the kitchen so it might be safe at the moment, but stay on your toes.”

  She didn’t answer him but he could see her responding to his information. She moved to the corner, glanced around to confirm that the coast was clear, then hurried to the first window. She stood from her crouched stance, flattening herself against the wall.

  As the daylight left them, the illuminated interior of the restaurant became more visible. Conor moved again, finding a spot that allowed him to see i
nside the dining room. “Shani, I’ve got eyes on the interior. Don’t worry about getting a look inside. Just focus on listening.”

  Conor watched her through his spotting scope, seeing her nod in reaction to his words. With their roles understood, he realigned his scope, increased the power, and had a view of the dining room through a row of large picture windows.

  The men gathered inside were comfortable. They weren’t hiding. The blinds were up and they’d been enjoying an evening view of the lake like summer tourists as they filled their plates. Several types of lanterns were scattered around the room, creating a warm glow. Seeing the food the men were piling on their plates just made Conor even hungrier. He could practically smell it through his spotting scope. Hummus, falafel, tabbouleh, some kind of flatbread, and chunks of grilled fish. Drooling, he reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the food. He was only torturing himself.

  He scanned more of the room and spotted Kamil Farouq sitting by himself against the wall. Above him, tacked to the pine paneling, were several maps. The twisting serpentine lake was a distinctive feature in both the maps and satellite photos, making it clear to Conor that those were maps of this general area. He could see tiny colored dots contrasting against the colors of the map. They may have been pushpins, but he couldn’t tell for certain.

  Conor keyed the mic on his radio. “All I see is men eating. Eating very well. In fact, you wouldn’t believe the spread. It looks fucking delicious.” Realizing he was babbling on, he got back to business. “The dining room is set up for briefings. There are maps on the wall.”

  Very little happened over the next ten minutes. The men ate and made small talk. Conor and Shani neither saw nor heard anything of consequence. Then Kamil Farouq stood and waited for the men to quiet down.

  “Something is happening,” Conor relayed to Shani. “It looks like our buddy Kamil is getting ready to address the group.”

  Kamil smiled and opened his arms wide, addressing the men in Arabic. “Good evening, my brothers. I’d like to thank our fishermen who continue to bring us fresh fish each evening. We are blessed.”