CHAPTER 3
It would be several days before the rest of the accessories and gear were ready. In the meantime, there were more briefings. Kyle didn’t mind. He was a natural tourist, loved seeing other cultures, and was learning to appreciate Wade’s fascination with the details and differences. The briefers seemed to know what they were talking about, and they didn’t waste time.
Facts and key items only.
Neither of them knew a lot about modern camera gear. They were brought up to speed in a hurry. Their instructor was a slim, dark-haired man with a faint Russian accent who was very engaging and informative.
“You’ve got the three still cameras,” he said. “Point and shoot. They’ve had the circuits disabled so they won’t beep when you shoot. Fifty photos on each memory stick, and you can carry extra ones.”
“Roger.” Wade was handling this, but Ky took notes, too, so he could double up.
“Your best bet is the camcorder. With memory sticks it can take passable stills. It can use digital tapes for up to two hours, and it has a IR illuminator good for about ten meters or so. Telephoto lens, and you’ve got a two-hundred millimeter lens adapted to fit it. Eastern European power supply and spare batteries. Make sure you carry the spares.”
“Yeah, definitely,” they both agreed. Batteries were the ammo of the modern army. Bulletd could sometimes be done without. But batteries were essential.
“Now, the betacam is not going to be used much, but it has to look like it is. I’ll show you how to operate it, and how to look professional."
The man knew almost nothing of their mission, but he really knew cameras and photography. Wad was delighted to take a minor hobby and improve upon it with good lessons.
They spent a morning looking at the economics and social fabric of Romania, which hadn’t fared well under the madman Ceauşescu and the Soviet Communists before that, and was still only slowly entering twenty-first century Europe.
Their briefer was a college professor. All he’d been told was that they were going over to act as liaison with the Romanian military for a training exercise and needed to know about the culture and people. As a result, there were important questions they couldn’t ask him and would have to catch up with later.
“The economy is still in a recovery phase and social systems are in a state of flux,” he told them. He was full of information, but much of that was hidden in heavy babble. He gave figures about GNP, GDP and relative worth, told them of the excesses of the former regime, and even described several amusing and informative misunderstandings he’d encountered on his own trip to the Universitatea din Bucuresti. They made notes.
When they broke, Kyle expressed an opinion. “You know, it’s always some kind of goat rope. We’ve got all this support, so it seems, but they don’t want to make it obvious to foreign intelligence that we’re doing anything. So we can’t ask State Department to brief us here, we can’t take enough backup, and we can’t even ask some questions, and have to hope they have someone on site who can help us. It’s really, really . . . aggravating.”
Wade agreed, “Ours not to reason why,” he said. “Which is a damned good thing, because we’d go crazy trying to figure this out.”
*****
After a lunch of Taco Bell, cold but better than chow-hall takeout, they were ready for their language briefing.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” Bill Gober said as he walked in. As always before, his arms were full of CDs, books, and notes. A bag slung over his shoulder was stuffed like Santa’s pouch with more documents. He was portly and balding, roundfaced and smiling, dressed in a casual sport shirt and jeans. He wasn’t a stuffy type, and had done an excellent job of prepping them on the basics of languages they’d never even heard of for the last mission.
“Mister Gober,” they both replied.
“Let’s talk about Romanian, which is, of course, a Romance language.”
“I wondered about that,” Kyle said. “They’re in the middle of all those Slavic countries.”
“Yes, and it’s corrupted their language,” he agreed as he sat down. “There’s Slavic endings and vowels stuffed into the degenerate Latin. But there’s good news.”
“Yes?” Kyle prompted.
“You speak Spanish, I’m told. Spanish has better than seventy percent commonality, so you should be able to be understood. Of course, dialects can vary, and if they speak quickly, you’ll be hard-pressed to extract more than a few words.”
“Understood. I haven’t used it much in some time.”
“I’ve got CDs of Romanian and Spanish you can listen to that should make comprehension much easier. Anyone who wants to understand you should grasp the gist of what you say.” Gober tapped the stack he’d arranged on the table.
“Yeah, that’s the key,” Kyle nodded. Of course, if someone who clearly understood most of what he was saying tried to pretend they didn’t, he’d find ways to make them understand. “What about other languages?”
Gober took a sip of his water before replying. “The Gypsies speak Romani in various dialects. But they almost all speak Romanian. There’s a smattering of Hungarian, Turkish, Bulgarian, and of course Arabic might crop up.”
“Right. And the local alphabet is based on the Latin one,” Wade put in, looking over one of the guide books.
“Yes. They switched from Cyrillic when the Soviet Union collapsed. Or rather, the Soviets imposed Cyrillic on them, but it’s a Romance language, so it used a Latin base originally.”
“So I read up, use Spanish as needed, and you, Wade?” he looked a question at his partner.
“Oh, I can pick the written parts up at least,” Wade said. “Looking at this page, I see ‘natura,’ ‘interiorara,’ ‘primul,’ and ‘arhitectura gotica.’ Much of it looks easy to extract.”
“Yes, much easier than last time,” Gober said. “We’ve got more than three weeks before you depart, I’m told, so there’s time to practice.”
“Any chance of practicing with you, Mister Gober?” Kyle asked.
“I wouldn’t be of much help. I’m not a linguist, I’m an ethnologist. I study the development and relationships of languages. I can handle basic grammar and vocabulary, and advise on pronunciation, but I’m not fluent in a great many.”
“Okay,” Kyle said. That cleared up a great many things. It would have been amazing had Gober actually spoken all the languages they discussed. This made more sense. Though he did wish the Army could dig up a linguist to work with them.
On the other hand, that would mean either flying to Monterrey, where the linguists were, or bringing one here, or trying to get a clearance for a civilian instructor of unknown loyalty. Any of which would make it obvious something was going on, and wouldn’t be of substantially more help in a few days. Gober was likely more useful to them in that regard.
And Gober was cleared. He knew approximately what they were doing, and could give them military terminology and specialized language that most non-military experts wouldn’t know, and would immediately get suspicious of. They worked with him three afternoons a week, the three days they weren’t practicing shooting and spotting, just to keep the basics fresh.
Then there was all the research they did themselves. As with most military installations, Fort Benning had a decent amount of material in the post library, and both men knew how to use computers. They swapped links, dug through sites, made and compiled notes, and then sat down to compare. The problem with online in-formation was deciding which was accurate, which was amusing fabrication, and which was ignorant hearsay.
Wade came over every couple of nights and they discussed their findings. One of the first things he’d looked at was the religious background.
“It’s not far from what used to be Constantinople, and is heavily Christian. But not like America,” he said. “Here’s a chart.” He laid out a printed page for clarity, and brought up a file on an Army laptop he’d acquired.
“Okay,” Kyle said, digesting the figures. “So ninety percent Orthodox, five percent Catholic, and the rest a mix, with only point oh oh three percent Muslim? Why is that such a problem? They can’t all be troublemakers.”
“Indigenous Muslims aren’t a problem. These are Muslims from Bosnia and the Middle East. You’ll recall that the Romanians arrested an al Qaeda member a while back who was using his cover name in the Iraqi embassy.”
“I don’t, actually,” Kyle said. He hadn’t known that, and he really needed to get up to speed. The government claimed WMDs and conspiracies and terrorists. Its detractors denied everything. The truth was likely somewhere in the middle, as usual. “They’re coming from elsewhere?”
“Yes, it looks as if much of their explosive is former Eastern Bloc and sometimes former Yugoslav military munitions. They load up in the quiet parts of Romania then go elsewhere. And it’s easily within range of the MidEast.”
“Ain’t it amazing how these scum are so devious? If they spent half this much effort on real work, there wouldn’t be any trouble in the world. ”
“‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one,’”
Wade said. “Someone has to be babysitter and playground attendant.”
“And trash collector.”
“Yeah, it all sucks,” Wade said with a nod. “So let’s pull on the gloves.”
Changing the subject, Kyle asked, “How are you doing on supplies?”
“Adequately,” Wade replied. “Still waiting on the suppressor and ammo.”
“Damn. We’ve only got a week left.”
“Yeah, I keep a calendar.” Wade winced. “Better than last time, but your pessimism is rubbing off on me.”
“Pessimism?” Kyle asked. “I think positive. I’m positive the Army is going to screw up again.”
“And on that note, I need a beer.” He’d brought his own in a cooler again.
There was no friction between them over drinking. Kyle didn’t think of himself as an alcoholic, just as someone who increasingly thought drinking was a bad idea for himself. Wade didn’t drink to excess; this was the same twelve-pack he’d been working on for three weeks. He drank, Kyle didn’t, and that was all there was to it. But Wade didn’t seem to feel it was sociable to drink alone, so he always grabbed a soda for Kyle.
They dove back in to a history of Romania from the time of the Turkish occupation through Ceau§escu’s butchery. “That was one seriously insane dude,” Wade said.
“Yeah. Forced breeding program to outpopulate the West? And what were they going to eat in that little country?” Romania had less than 23 million inhabitants, and was no larger than a couple of Midwestern states. How he’d planned to increase to where the nation would even be noticed by most Westerners was a mystery.
“I think it was an attempt at individuality for him, seeing as how Moscow was threatening to march on him, and an ego trip against the modern world. If it’s not that, I have no idea why he was such a twitch.”
They kicked it and assorted maps and photos around until 11 P.M., when Wade said, “Time for me to get back to billeting. When and where tomorrow?”
“Call me at 0800,” Kyle said. “I’ll know then.”
“Maintain a rigid state of flexibility?” Wade asked.
“You got it. Later.” He showed Wade to the door.
*****
The next morning at the school, a package was waiting on Kyle’s desk. It was from post logistics, and contained multiple layers of cardboard and padding. He sliced the top with his Spyderco, and took enough of a glance to determine it contained round, black phosphated shapes: suppressors, magazines, and some assorted other parts. He left everything packed for privacy and to protect it.
Now what they needed was a place to practice. The choice was obvious but problematic. He grabbed the phone and speed-dialed Captain Schorlin, who was out on the range, prepping for the next class.
“Captain, I need to see about reserving some range time.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. When?”
“Sir, we need to do some shooting inside to .. . well, we need to shoot inside.” He needed to know it was going to be quiet enough before he tried it in the field.
“I assume these are weapons you really don’t want seen in a civilian range?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. They were somewhat distinctive. It was unlikely the word would leak out from here, but taking military automatic weapons with suppressors onto a civilian range was guaranteed to draw attention from someone, even if it could be legally arranged. “Rumors. This has to be on base somewhere.”
“Kyle, there’s some things I can’t beat, and political correctness is one of them. You’re going to need to call General Robash for that.”
“Understood, sir,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure I checked with you first.”
“I appreciate it. If he’ll help, I’ll cover for you. But I’m only a captain. I can’t buck the system that much by myself.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you, sir. But thanks, and I’ll make that call.”
*****
General Robash hesitated, too. “Son, I know what you need, and I know why you’re doing that, but damn,” he said. “There is absolutely no legal way.”
“I was afraid you’d say that, sir,” Kyle replied. “I’m just trying to figure out a discreet alternative.”
“No, hold on a moment,” the general said. “Just hold the line.”
Kyle said, “Yes, sir,” but the phone was already clicking. He waited, receiver to ear for fifteen minutes, fumbling with papers and his computer, until he wondered if he dare hang up on a general officer and await a return call.
Just as he was thinking that, Robash came back. “All right, Wade, call Sergeant Major Jack Parsons at this extension,” he said and rattled off the digits. “He’s expecting you to call now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know why I’m talking into this phone, since there’s no one there.” He hung up, but not before Kyle heard a snicker.
Kyle reset and dialed the number. It was answered on the first ring by a deep, gravelly voice. “Sergeant Major Parsons.”
“Sergeant Major, I’m Sergeant Monroe.”
“Right. General Robash told me you need some indoor time?”
“Yes I do, Sergeant Major. Quietly and without spectators.”
“Right. Tomorrow at zero nine hundred suit you?” Parsons clearly wasn’t one to waste time.
“That works for me,” Kyle said. Parsons gave him a building number and a road. “We’ll be there,” Kyle agreed.
The next morning, he and Wade took their weapons from the Sniper School armory and loaded them into his truck. Military weapons were never supposed to be in private vehicles, but these weren’t crated like military weapons, they didn’t want anyone to think weapons were going into the building in question, and he figured the captain and the general could run interference if need be. Not that anyone should notice. The Ruger was in its metal case, and the AK was in a sleeve in a duffel bag.
“I didn’t even know there was an indoor range here,” Wade said.
“Neither did I. That was a certain amount of luck.”
“Right,” Wade said. “I’m still amazed you could pull this off.”
“Actually, Robash called a sergeant major.”
“Ah, sergeant majors,” Wade said. “Is there anything they can’t do? When God needs backup, he calls his sergeant major.”
“About the truth,” Kyle agreed.
The building was like many at Benning: brick, aged, and well maintained. But this one had a long forgotten secret: an indoor twenty-five-yard pistol range in the basement. Kyle was hoping the confines and closeness would give him a good idea of how the weapons would handle inside a city, with witnesses nearby, possibly even in adjoining rooms.
Simple enough on the face of it. But the reason the range was forgotten was because it had been closed before Kyle was born.
A very large, very black man in painted-on BDUs met them at the door. “Sergeants Monroe and Curtis? Good to meet you.”
“Yes, we are, Sergeant Major Parsons. Thanks for meeting us.” He winced slightly at a handshake that could crush pipe, and quickly passed the hand to Wade.
“I’m told it’s for a worthy cause. If General Robash says so, I’m willing to bend the system. Once,” Parsons cautioned. He motioned them in and turned to lead the way. He filled the doorway as he did, shoulders almost brushing the frame.
“So this was a common-use area once?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah, most posts and every National Guard armory used to have a twenty-five yard range in the basement. Lead complaints shut them all down,” Parsons said as he led them through the building, now used for storage of desks, chairs, and crates, then down dim, dusty, echoing stairs. It was cool and musty, the air smelling of mildew.
“I can see that. Lead oxide,” Wade said. As bullets were shot and impacted the backstop, they’d throw lead vapor into the air. It was toxic to breathe. Modern indoor ranges had filters and fans to handle it. Retrofitting old ranges was cost prohibitive.
“Yes. And that’s why we aren’t supposed to be here,” Parsons said. “So do what you’ve got to, be done by lunch, and no one knows a thing.”
“We’ll be brief,” Kyle promised. “And we won’t shoot that much, anyway.”
“Good. The lead risk is real. There’s just times that’s an acceptable risk militarily. But the EPA doesn't know that, so I’ve told the MPs to keep the area clear, and that some construction with nail guns is going on. Or rather, I told their first sergeant that, and he told them.”
“That should do fine,” Kyle said. If anyone could hear these weapons outside a concrete basement and on the street, they needed a new strategy anyway.
Parsons unlocked a thick, heavy door that had padding on the inside and a dirty, fogged window about four inches square set into it. The hinges protested slightly, but it swung easily enough. “Here you go,” he said. “Call my cell phone when you’re done and I’ll come secure the building.” He handed over his card.
“Thank you very much, Sergeant Major,” Kyle said, and Wade chorused in.
“No problem, gentlemen. Whatever you’re hunting, good luck.” He smiled and left, boots thumping and echoing back up the stairs.
Wade closed the door. “Man, if I didn’t know he was coming back, I’d hate being down here. It’s like a forgotten dungeon.” The building was so old it was lit by incandescent bulbs in metal cages. Floodlights illuminated the target area and backstop. Everything was old, covered in peeling white paint, and there were four lanes, each about three feet wide with motorized cables to run targets downrange. The area they stood in was perhaps five feet deep. The ceiling was seven feet high.
“Tell me about it,” Kyle said. He felt creeped out, too. The echoes of his voice were tinny. “Anyway,” he continued, “let’s see what we have now.”
He’d practiced with the .22, and had it assembled in short order as Wade watched. As claimed, G-Tech’s suppressor slipped over the muzzle and pinned in place behind the sight. It was a can type, slender and about six inches long. He added the Harris bipod to the rail that had been fitted under the fore end.
That done, Wade screwed a larger suppressor onto the AK’s muzzle brake. “We’ll still get a crack, obviously,” he said. “But the muzzle blast and flash should be minimal.”
“Right,” Kyle agreed. Nothing could be made silent. But if it didn’t sound like a weapon to a witness, and if the flash and bang were reduced, the odds of being identified were greatly reduced. “And here’s where the .45 rules,” he grinned. He’d never liked the 9mm.
“Yeah, the round is already subsonic, no crack,” Wade said.
Kyle said nothing, he simply screwed another suppressor onto the specially prepared barrel Ed Brown had cut for him. It protruded a half inch beyond the slide and was threaded. He was glad to see it fit well. He’d assumed so; Brown was a very reputable maker. But they also had a hell of a waiting list at times, and had squeezed the job in among their other clients. All they’d been told was “urgent military contract,” and they’d done it. It was nice to know patriotic support still existed among civilians.
There was nothing wrong with the workmanship. The barrel worked flawlessly; Kyle had already shot it in. The threads had been done perfectly, which was no big task, but accidents happened on some contracts. He was glad again to have insisted on first-rate work up front. The lowest bidder was often more expensive in the long run. And G-Tech’s suppressors were functionally pretty, no-nonsense and sturdy.
“Oh, to reassure you on the lead,” Wade said, “I bought us a box each of Winchester’s fully jacketed stuff for the pistols. No exposed lead at the base.” He indicated two boxes among the dozen he’d brought. They planned to try several rounds to find the best combination of weapon and cartridge.
“Good man,” Kyle said. “I always wondered why they aren’t more available.”
“Production cost. They can’t just pour the lead in.”
“Oh.” He felt stupid. That was a rather obvious problem.
“That still leaves lead twenty-two, and exposed lead on the AK.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know,” Wade said conversationally, “the Romanians have the solution to that problem. Seven six two with wooden bullets.”
“Wooden bullets?” Kyle asked.
“Yup. Specifically for indoor range practice. No lead, no ricochets, just holes in the paper.”
“Wooden bullets. Romania . . .” Kyle muttered.
“Vampires and wooden stakes?”
“That’s a hell of a coincidence,” Kyle said. Weird irony.
“Yeah. Should we get some, just in case?”
“I really don’t want to explain that to Wiesinger,” he said with a frown.
“Yeah, better not. Still, it’s funny.”
With the suppressors on, no hearing protection was required. A faint pop! accompanied each shot of the Ruger, followed by the metallic tink of the empty brass hitting the side of the lane or the floor. The sound echoed on the block walls.
“Okay, we need a brass catcher. Twenty-five bucks and two screws to install,” Kyle said as he finished a string.
“Sure. Meantime, this is one accurate little son of a bitch!” Wade marveled. He raised the weapon smoothly and quickly as he shuffled into stance, and commenced firing.
In ten seconds, he’d shot all ten rounds. He laid the weapon down, automatically extracted the magazine and observed the empty chamber through the locked bolt, and pressed the button to return the target.
As it swayed back toward them, rocking in the breeze created by its motion, one thing was clear: All ten rounds had hit in a circle no larger than a quarter inch, dead center on the forehead of the silhouette target.
“Nice,” Kyle commented. “My turn.”
The factory ten-round helical magazines functioned flawlessly. The twenty-five-round aftermarket ones were quite reliable. But the thirties Kyle had picked up .. .
“These are just crap,” Wade said in disgust the fourth time one misfed and jammed a round against the breech face.
“Yeah, we’ll scrap those. I don’t expect to shoot more than five shots at a target, anyway,” Kyle said. “The larger ones are just backup.”
“Okay, well I’m happy with that. Let’s look at the support.”
The modified AK104 was an ugly little gun. The barrel was barely twelve and a half inches, and the stock folded sideways.
“The bottom folder was longer, but caught on the magazine when deploying,” Wade said. “This is from the AKSU-74 and works much better. The muzzle brake,” he pointed under the suppressor, “reduces felt recoil and flash, and maintains pressure for the gas piston, and the expansion chamber stops it from getting louder.” That was a positive thing. It was common for a good brake to actually increase perceived sound. “It’s threaded, and the suppressor fits right over it.”
“Nice,” Kyle commented. He’d shot AK-series weapons, but wasn’t an aficionado of them. He could strip and clean and employ. That was all he needed to know.
“Bad news is that with this short barrel, accuracy with standard ball will suck. Suck bad. Way bad. So bad that. . . well, it won’t be much good over one hundred meters with standard Eastern ammo. With the stuff I had loaded, it’s accurate for about three hundred, but it’s about like a pistol for power at that range. So any kill will have to be precision, not trauma.”
“That fits our plans,” Kyle said. He grasped what Wade was saying. Below certain critical velocities, wounding effect was greatly reduced. There would be a hole, but not a catastrophic energy dump into the target. Still, they intended to shoot accurately.
“I figured,” Wade continued. “The rail attaches here and here, with pins. So it looks mostly standard issue like this, but can take the rail, scope, and suppressor in a few seconds. I actually thought about using Russian night vision and scopes, but while the quality is good, we aren’t familiar with them, and it’s not going to make that much difference if we’re found.”
“Right. We’ll work with what we’re used to as far as possible. And who’d question it, anyway? Either they know who we are, or we’re mercs of some kind.”
“Glad you approve,” Wade said.
“Hell, Wade, either of us could run this, you know that. I’m nominally in charge due to rank and because someone has to be the place where the buck stops.”
“Thanks,” Wade said, seeming to mean it. He obviously felt complimented.
“No problem. Show me how to shoot it.”
“It’s going to be zeroed fifteen inches high, because it’s got a twenty-seven-inch drop at three hundred and a flight time of point five zero seconds exactly. Ballistics tables are in my PDA, soon to be in the laptop, and we can study them as we go. I’ve found a couple of support points that give it a very stable position,” Wade began. “First is in front of the magazine, fingers wrapped . . .”
Unfortunately, the rounds still had a supersonic crack. Both men reached for earmuffs in a hurry.
The .45 was fun, rocking lightly, its kick reduced to a slow shove, and the additional nose weight keeping it stable. The Ed Brown platform was one of the world’s best, and Kyle proceeded to blow the middle from a target with dull thumps akin to a phone book being dropped on a concrete floor. It was loud inside the enclosed space, but manageable.
“I think we’re in good shape,” he said. “The .22 is near silent, the .45 sounds nothing like a firearm, the AK is loud but much reduced and the nine millimeter has a crack when you’re using standard loads, hut is still not immediately recognizable. Let’s try two rounds each of our combat loads and I’ll stand upstairs to get a listen.”
“Will do,” Wade agreed, and started loading. Kyle shoved the heavy door open and jogged up into the clutter upstairs, leaving the door wide behind him. He’d been so busy shooting, he’d forgotten the aloneness the building exuded, and was used to it now.
Shortly, there came clicks, thumps, and clatters. Then Wade shouted, “Cease fire! That’s it!”
“Roger!” he replied and headed back down. “Didn’t sound like anything threatening to me. We’re cool.”
“Good. Call the sar-major and let’s go get lunch.”
*****
With all preparations made, all gear—from rifles and GPS to pocketknives and a handful of paperbacks—packed and ready to either travel as luggage or meet them there, they started their final outprocessing. They checked their government credit cards to ensure they were active, compiled lists of phone numbers and email addresses, and gathered maps and flight schedules. Kyle called ahead to speak to the Regional Affairs officer at the embassy in Bucharest, Mr. Mick Cafferty.
“You realize it’s . . . eight hours ahead here?” he asked. His voice was gravelly and tired.
“Damn. I’m sorry,” Kyle said. It was damned near midnight there, and he’d woken the man they’d be working with.
“It’s okay. Let’s talk,” Cafferty said. Behind him, a female voice was protesting. She didn’t sound happy.
“Okay,” Kyle said, “I need to know what we do when we arrive.”
“There’ll be a taxi waiting for you at the airport. It’ll take you to the Marriott. You’ll call me and I’ll arrange for you to stop by the office.”
“Understood.” He was writing it down to add to his file.
Cafferty continued. “We have to be careful not to let people conclude you’re more than glorified tourists. It’s fine for you to stop by and ‘ask questions,’ but if you stay any length of time, the locals may become curious, and there are leaks.”
“Yes, sir,” he agreed. “Do we have visas?”
“Yes. They should arrive there in the next day or so. You’re photographers for hire. Some group wants to do a book and video about Dracula again, and they sent you to get footage. You’re spending their money and snickering at their foolishness—it adds to the cover story. I had to find some way to explain your presence.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Kyle said. He didn’t want to contradict or complain, as it wasn’t his arena. It did call for some acting, and he wished they’d had more notice. “Is there any question over us being such unknown videographers?”
Cafferty chuckled, a rasping, scary sound. “No. Thousands of nuts and researchers from hundreds of agencies with dozens of nations come through here all the time to see the Dracula sites. As long as their embassy or a producer vouches for them, no one bothers to check up. It’s just not worth the work.”
“Understood,” Kyle said. “You’ll have more intel for us when we get there?”
“Yes, we’re still building a report. You’re going to be here early in the operation.”
“Better than being late. Anything else I need right now?”
“You won’t come to the embassy. Some things the ambassador doesn’t need to know, so he doesn’t have to deny them, and so he can’t refuse to assist. But that’s my problem. It’s only your problem if things go to hell,”—Kyle thought, when things go to hell—“and then you’ve got DoD and State to bat for you as well as me. You’ll stay locally, I’ll deliver your gear and intel. I’ll email you if anything else crops up. How often do you check messages?”
“At least three times a day at the school,” Kyle said. “Let me give you my home addy, too.” He read it off phonetically.
“Got it.”
“Good. I’ll let you sleep. You have our cell numbers?”
“I do. Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Okay, not thrilling but better than last time,” Kyle said to Wade. “We have someone in country who speaks our language and can run interference.”
“Good. Hey, even the Army learns from its mistakes. Eventually.”
“Right. Let’s check off the list and call logistics. I’ll make sure they load it all.”
“Okay,” Wade said and pulled out his PDA. “First item, AK-104 with AN/PVS dash ten scope and suppressor, two ten-round magazines and four thirty-round magazines, hardshell case and four hundred and eighty rounds of match ammunition.”
“Check.”
Their gear made quite a pile, Kyle thought, as it was taken to be shipped. Weapons, rucks, local and military clothes, body armor for out in the field, commo gear and computers, cameras and recording gear for “reporting,” maps, charts, suitcases, a few personal items, and credit cards and cash. Some would fly as luggage, some would be flown to the embassy and meet them there, and some went with them as carry-ons. Wade was staying at billeting, he at his apartment, and they didn’t need to wake up at ohmygodthirty this time. Which was good.
Kyle had never learned to sleep the night before a mission started.