CHAPTER 18
Within another twenty minutes, he and Wade had gotten dressed, equipped, and armed. They were in British DPM smocks, canvas pants, and boots. They wore their tactical load-bearing vests with Camelbaks, knives, holsters, and ammunition, plus compasses and radios. They carried their ghillies rolled up, and each had their weapons. Wade had the AK104 and his Beretta, Kyle had the ROMAK3, the Ruger, and his Ed Brown. He still liked something for quiet shots, and there was nothing quieter than the Ruger, but the ROMAK allowed him heavier shots if called for.
They were issued headset radios. They weren’t too dissimilar from the kind they’d used before, but Kyle decided they’d take their cell phones, too. “We can avoid interception with those,” he said.
“True, and it can’t be a bad thing.”
Then they were in vehicles and driving for the local airport. Kyle and Wade were in a Mercedes SUV with Pavenic, who had ditched his suit for a camouflage coverall and an AK. It seemed he wanted to keep an eye on them after the car stopped. He hoped it would clear some before it was time to shoot. Kyle couldn’t really blame him. It wasn’t a long trip, but visibility was poor from the back seats, and the driver was as aggressive as any local, plus had government authority to flout the laws even more. It was a nauseating drive, made worse as the amphetamines kicked in. Kyle didn’t approve of drugs, but he’d heard pilots took these to stay alert on long flights, and they’d had little sleep the last week. After being stuffed with sandwiches and water, he’d felt better, but sleepy. Now he was awake and things were spinning. Things kept spinning even after the car stopped.
They flew out by helicopter. This was something Kyle had heard about but never done. He had flown in helicopters often. What he’d never done was fly in a French Puma built under contract by Romanians using their own engines. The design was older than Kyle, and this craft wasn’t the newest of the fleet. Still, his hosts were offering it, and the pilot had to be good enough to fly it, and so, hopefully, was good enough to land it. There was no need to create a fuss and it wouldn’t matter. Kyle climbed aboard and took the outside seat. Wade was directly across, Pavenic next to Kyle with Dobrogeanu next to him. The others filled in and stuffed their gear.
“How many on this mission?” Kyle asked just before the engines started. He’d seen a number of personnel running through the headquarters, but wasn’t sure who was support, operations, pilots, or just home station staff.
Pavenic indicated a helmet and headset. Kyle squeezed it over his head. It was a tight fit. As soon as he had it secure, Pavenic said, “Sixteen of us. I want to limit the number in the area to avoid bumping into each other. Between mobile phones and radios, we should easily be able to call the Army for assistance if needed.”
“Okay,” Kyle said. He preferred more lead time, and he didn’t think it was possible to have too many troops. But it wasn’t his operation anymore, if it ever had been. He was just the guy who made the shots.
Across from him, Wade gave him a nod and a thumbs-up. They’d be fine.
The chopper was in decent repair. They rose quickly through fairly smooth air and headed toward the mountains. Helicopters always shift a bit through air currents, the density affecting lift. Every time it buffeted or dropped, Kyle had an image of them being taken out by a missile. It wasn’t as if Stingers or their equivalent were unknown among terrorists.
He realized a lot of it was nerves, and much of it caused by ghosts from the past. He’d not thought about Jeremy or Nasima for some time. He’d been too busy out here to dwell on them. That was likely good, but they were still present in his unconscious. He thought for a moment about Jeremy, young and eager and funny in a refreshing way, different from Wade’s cynicism. Then Nasima, who’d been a civilian guide, but very bright and with a dry wit.
Just thinking about them calmed him down. That was a first. Perhaps he was coming to terms with things at last. God knew it had been long enough, and one couldn’t live in the past forever. But pain was part of life, and he needed to deal with it. He just wondered why it was always coming to him on his way into action. Was it fear for himself? Concern for Wade? Or just caution for mission safety digging a bit too deep? Analyzing the emotions kept him busy and did lower his stress level, even if it made him morose. He took the harness offered him and strapped it on without much conscious thought.
The pilot took his time. If they’d known where their target was, faster would have been better. As they didn’t, there was no reason to hurry. He felt out the buffeting winds and settled over the trees, then gradually lowered. They were no more than twenty-five meters up when the signal came.
It was a respectable rappel, and the trees were an obstacle. The snipers had done rappelling, and did refreshers often. Wade was far more current than Kyle. Adding the height and dark to the fatigue and nausea, Kyle almost lost dinner. He gulped back and clamped down on his stomach. It was a standard descent, and he snapped the carabiners around the rope, checked it, and leaned out the side.
The rotor wash was rough, but he slid below it and things steadied out. With cool, fresh air to help, he was soon much more comfortable. The dizziness was gone, the nausea retreated a bit, and he was himself. He looked around and realized he’d been hanging for several seconds. It was time to catch up.
They slowed as they reached the tall pines, feet spread to kick away from limbs and trunks. This was when it was dangerous, with limbs to stab and blind, tangle and catch. Kyle wove and twisted his way through the timber until he could see the ground a few feet below him. He dropped the last few feet gratefully, then unsnapped from the rope and unfastened the harness. He jogged over with his stuffed ruck to form up with the others. Pavenic was waiting, smiling.
The helicopter powered away to drop another squad of six elsewhere, and a four-man element at a third point. They’d advance in three different directions, hoping to catch al Asfan at one of several likely spots. This group was heading straight for the “facility,” which looked on photos to be a small barn or large shed.
Pavenic spoke quietly, everyone in a huddle with one man on watch.
“We will split into pairs, one leading, one behind and to the side for support. Minimize radio talk. The target of this sweep is three thousand, one hundred meters that way,”—he pointed up the mountain they were on, then checked his compass—“at ninety-one degrees.” He doublechecked by GPS. “We shall start at a slow walk, then crawl upon suspicion of threat. Understood?” He repeated it in Romanian, even though most of the team did grasp English. The snipers nodded, his own people whispered, “Da, domnule!” quietly but firmly, and they were on patrol at once.
These had to be the darkest, dankest, creepiest woods Kyle had ever been in. The hanging limbs and shadows were spiderlike and black against the sooty gray sky behind them. Midnight was near, and that’s when al Asfan was likely to make a break for it. Anytime from midnight to five was the best guess.
Of course, that assumed the man was competent and trained in this environment. One had to always assume the enemy was both genius and fool, and allow for both possibilities at the same time. And no enemy ever reacted to plan, no matter how many plans one made. One followed the plan until things went to hell, then discarded it to fight by one’s wits. Abandoning the plan too soon or too late was what caused one to lose.
“Going to take a lot of luck,” Kyle said as he looked around. “Well, we know we’ve gotten two and the explosives.”
“Hey, looks good so far,” Wade said. “We’ll find him.”
“Not sure about that,” Kyle said. “But if anyone does, it’ll be us. Pride is at stake.”
“Good enough,” Wade said.
They advanced up the large hill, amplified eyes alert for anything unnatural. Night vision does take considerable practice to use, but an experienced professional can find many things that would escape a newer soldier. Various materials will reflect differently and show outlines even behind camouflage that would be effective in daylight.
It was a hill by American standards. Not like the Rockies, but perhaps like the Appalachians. Still, it was cool, becoming chill, and damp with the spring weather. Nice weather for hiking for fun, not nice for crawling in weeds. But then, there were no nice conditions for crawling in weeds, except Arabia, where there were no weeds. And there was the sand.
They spread apart to allow different angles for shooting or observing. This time, there was no risk of the government finding them; it already had. This time, they had backup. It made Kyle much more confident, and he reminded himself not to get cocky. Amateurs could still be good observers, and just because much of the enemy’s operation was amateurish didn’t mean there wasn’t a vet or two among them. They hadn’t created as much havoc as they had by being unintelligent, just by being prejudiced and stupid.
So Kyle made a conscious effort to avoid rushing.
Nothing happened for the first kilometer. They came to a dirt trail that they’d seen in the photos, which was one of their landmarks. It came from the left, north, and curved to the east. The plan was to secure the area and then advance up both sides. So they examined the area for any fresh traces, smells, any sign of human activity. The DGIPI pilot would call down his observations. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait and be alert.
Pavenic called through and asked, “Report?”
“Nothing,” Kyle said. “Clean, undisturbed.”
“Good. We continue.” The phrasing was simple and obvious to them, not so to anyone listening. It was well to assume the target had radio gear.
They had the easy part, continuing as they had. The Romanians had to cross the rutted path. That would take a few minutes, but there was no reason not to advance. They couldn’t get far ahead at a crawl.
Another five hundred meters of tangled weeds and uneven ground passed, trees reaching down to caress them. Kyle was used to it. He’d spent much of his life in the wild. But it might be making their quarry nervous, as he was not from terrain like this. It was dark and foreboding, and a shot might come at any time. Combat didn’t start when the enemy shot. Combat started when one hit the ground.
“As discussed, down,” Pavenic ordered. Kyle dropped slowly to his knees and into a crawl, the nerves in his hands reaching out for warnings. He wore thin Nomex flying gloves, which kept off bugs and allowed good movement. He could feel feathery touches of leaves through them, and the ground. It was safer and less visible down here, but also slower, and it hindered their own views of their surroundings.
Forward and up they crawled around trees and shrubs, every movement careful. Neck back so as to see, with the NVGs dragging the head down and straining muscles. Hands and knees soaking up moisture and cold. Sweat beading under the arms. It reassured Kyle, because it was familiar.
“Possible sentry,” Wade hissed through the phone.
Moving very carefully, he reached to his own phone and pressed to transmit. “Where?” he asked.
“Appears to be a hasty position, under a bush. Do you see me?”
Kyle squinted to the last position he’d seen Wade in, then scanned forward. “Barely, but yes.” There was a shape there, and a part of a boot. It wouldn’t be visible to anyone ahead, but from here it was just discernible.
“Twenty-five meters ahead, left of the large gnarly tree, I think it’s an oak. Spreading bush.”
Kyle examined the area. One side of the bush did have a bit more hollow underneath it, where the natural debris and fallen leaves had been removed. He changed his angle slightly to the right and took a good look. There was something there that was probably human. Under the branches and leaves it stood out at the correct angle.
It looked as if the person revealed had used starch and/or an iron on their shirt. That flattened the nap of the fabric and created a reflective surface. To their night vision, it may as well have been aluminum foil. The guess was confirmed when the man shifted restlessly into a new position.
“Question is, who is that?” Kyle asked.
“Dunno. We have to check on whether or not it’s one of ours,” Wade said. It shouldn’t be, on this side, but one didn’t fire unless one was sure. Unless the target shot first.
“Calling.” It took some time to move his hand to the radio controls, and Wade waited patiently while he did so. “Monroe here,” he whispered inside his coat, eyes still watching. “We have a potential, IFF.” He hoped that was clear. Identify Friend or Foe.
“I understand you. Where is the target?”
Kyle gave approximate grid coordinates. “Up slope from us. If anyone is on a slope, have them wave down and report.”
“Wait . . . Do you see response?”
“Nothing here,” Kyle said.
“Then you are clear to go.”
“Understood. Out.” It took another full minute to shift his hands and contact Wade again. “We’re clear to fire,” he said.
“Roger.”
That wasn’t all there was to it, however. There could be other enemy, presuming this was an enemy, within range. So it was necessary to secure the area first, then try to arrange a silent kill.
“I will traverse left and set up for shot,” Kyle said. “Secure and observe.”
“You will traverse and shoot, I will secure and observe,” Wade repeated.
“Moving,” Kyle said.
“Moving, roger.”
It took nearly twenty minutes to shift to a spot with good visibility of the enemy’s face. Kyle didn’t recognize it, but he was armed and he wasn’t in uniform, so he was a target. And the AK he held was ready. The first shot had to disable at the very least, to prevent him shooting. That wasn’t a problem. It would be better, however, to get a kill, so there would be no incoming fire to create a problem. The only reasonable way to do that was with a silenced, subsonic weapon. The 10-22 wasn’t powerful enough for a reliable, instant kill. But fifty meters was a long range for any pistol, even an Ed Brown.
Just then, Pavenic spoke in his ear, “We are prepared to attack a perimeter position.” He was speaking in clear, so he anticipated starting at once.
Kyle shifted as quickly as he dared. If they could get inside silently and set up, then they could have easy targets at the backs of their enemies as the DGIPI attacked frontally. That would roll all these guys up.
It took twenty seconds to shift the radio, while he cursed and sweated, expecting them to open fire any second. What was needed here, he decided, was some kind of radio that could handle internal squad communications, communications up a level, and a frequency for command. All of those should be selectable by voice.
But he did reach the control and brought his attention back to the task as he said, “Hold, hold. Do not fire.”
“Holding fire, understood,” was the response.
“Curtis and I can get inside, then we can roll up the entire perimeter,” he said.
“How long do you need?”
“Another twenty minutes,” he said. He could bag this guy now, and then they’d get past him.
“Hurry if you can,” Pavenic urged him.
“Roger.”
He continued his lateral movement and picked a log as his shooting position. Logs often crumbled when stepped on, but all he intended was to rest his arms on it. He elbowed along, dragging the rest of his body as silently as possible, the ROMAK dragging behind him from a sling over his shoulder in case he needed it.
He felt movement and froze. It was just a small nocturnal animal of some kind skittering past, but he paused to ensure it hadn’t attracted attention. A measured minute later, he resumed his creep and eased up against the dead limb. It was starting to rot and was slimy with fungus, mold and moss, but that wasn’t something he worried about. It was cold to his forearms as he gingerly checked its stability. It didn’t shift, and he was satisfied. A quick mental check of his condition and surroundings assured him he was well-masked and still unseen. Now to set up and shoot.
Slowly, he drew the pistol up under his body and secured the suppressor. In five minutes, it had grown in front of him like a metal log, lying atop the limb and pointing forward. He hunched and shifted, twisted his head and hands until it was where he wanted it. The only practical way to sight it while wearing NVGs was to extend it at arm’s length, dead center. It was odd to see a single sight picture with both eyes, but that was the nature of the goggles, which focused one incoming image for both eyes.
There were the guard’s eyes. He wanted to put this round right between them. For ease of function and consistency, he had stock 230 grain ball ammo. With his sight settings, it should be only two inches of drop at fifty meters. And the sight pattern barely cleared the suppressor’s body. So he would lean way down, hold there, and place the front sight blade halfway between the bushy eyebrows and the combed hairline. The wind was negligible, and the heavy projectile wouldn’t need any windage adjustment.
Right there, and as long as the man was holding still, squeeeeze.
With a thump that might be mistaken for an animal against a log, the .45 bullet erupted from the suppressor. Kyle could just see the flash with night vision. Anyone else could, too, and he tensed in case of fire. But the only response was for the enemy guard to jerk his head back, then slump forward. The shot had been dead center on the bridge of the nose.
“Go, Wade,” Kyle muttered into the phone. He eased back from his brace, letting his eyes scan over the pistol for any potential targets. He relaxed his grip and prepared to shift for any new threats.
“Roger,” Wade replied. Kyle saw movement from the corner of his eye as a “bush” rose to its knees and crawled forward. Wade was moving unnaturally but slowly. Several minutes later, he stopped just to one side of the corpse, his Beretta out and ready. He shifted in until the suppressor nearly touched the skull of the body and fired an insurance shot that popped softly. It never hurt to make sure a corpse was really dead.
“AK, radio,” he muttered back. “Cell phone. We need to hurry in case he’s expected to check in.”
“Got it. Is the other side of the road manned?” While Wade dealt with that question, he radioed Pavenic and said, “We have removed one sentry. Stand by and we’ll clear the road. I think you can advance on our side safely.”
Wade reported back right then. “I see what’s likely a position, well dug in. I identify a rifle barrel. I cannot take a shot from here. I can spot for their sniper.”
“Roger,” Kyle said, then switched channels again. “Wade says he can perform terminal guidance.”
“Please do,” Pavenic replied. He sounded quite pleased. A few moments later, Dobrogeanu came on air.
“I am ready,” he said.
What they were about to try would be dangerous against professionals. Against these amateurs, it was a different story. The big threat was that the enemy might not react predictably. An expert, upon being alerted, would call that fact in, then commence suppressive fire until reinforcements arrived. A frightened neophyte might shoot wildly, alerting everyone, call on the radio, or panic and do something really stupid. Either way, the other sentry had to be removed. It was just a case of how responsive he’d be.
Wade came on air and relayed his observations. “Fifteen meters left of the road. On a line horizontally, just above the water-filled ruts near the large pine with roots extending into the roadway.”
Dobrogeanu replied back, “I see a pile of brush with ten-centimeter limb running sideways from a pine tree. There is a light color boulder about two meters downhill.”
“I see it,” Wade said. “From that boulder, target is one boulder width higher, one meter left of the tree, just under the limb.”
“I sight something in that location. It appears to be dull fabric.” Dobrogeanu sounded confident and eager.
“Confirm target,” Wade said.
“Confirm. Target acquired.”
Pavenic came back on air. “At my order, Dobrogeanu will fire. All others will hold fire. Ready. Fire.”
The ROMAK pop-cracked like a limb snapping, and the animal noises stopped suddenly, leaving things silent. Hopefully, nothing else would happen and they could now advance.
From uphill there was a loud whisper. Someone was looking for the perimeter guards.
“Damn,” Kyle said.
“I have a target,” Wade said urgently.
“Shoot,” Pavenic said.
The suppressed AK104 was no louder than a rock thudding on a tree. A third enemy dropped dead. But again, the local noises stopped.
“Well, we’re known now, I think,” Kyle said.
“Yes, but we have position.”
Kyle didn’t answer. It was true. They were military against amateurs, and even a defended position wasn’t going to help the amateurs. But that didn’t mean the professionals wouldn’t take casualties.
The six of them progressed up the hill. Kyle really wished for more backup in the form of the Army. He knew there were disciplinary problems and potential leaks, but he still didn’t like the low numbers. It was simply a matter of the number of people needed to cover the area.
On the other hand, there was no way a common Army unit could move that quietly en masse. They’d need an elite unit, anyway, and that would take time. As it was, the perimeter could be secured by any conscripts available until better forces came along. But it still left them as sixteen men spread across a large chunk of countryside, and only six on the advance.
Sure enough, there was response. It was a trained response, too. They might not have the experience of the snipers or DGIPI, but they knew how to move and were doing so in a coordinated fashion. Several figures were moving, low to the ground and hard to discern; they sounded heavy, which indicated equipment.
“They have night vision,” Kyle heard from Pavenic. Someone had observed one of the enemy.
“Roger.” So hold very still and try for a shot.
For long minutes, bare shuffles could be heard. The high ground was the tactically better, and these men had it. Also, they had hard cover in their positions, and possibly body armor, too. They’d be difficult to dig out.
But waiting was something Kyle was used to. All they needed was to wait for daylight, then saturate the area. That it came down to a standoff at night was a good sign.
Nothing. For half an hour they lay and waited and watched. No obvious targets revealed themselves. Kyle asked Wade and Pavenic, who inquired back the other way. They shifted around to get different perspectives, aware of the fact that they were known this time, and that their targets were also adept at cover. If these troops had the mindset of many Muslims, one would expose himself to fire, and his buddies would return it in force against the attacking position. While that was always a risk, it wasn’t one to be taken without support.
And it was too late now to retreat or try a drop directly on the facility. They had to be sure their target was actually here, or risk pouring force here while he escaped elsewhere. With men this dangerous, “probably dead” in an explosion was not sufficient. A body or at least photos were needed. If the building was booby trapped, they’d have only estimates as to al Asfan’s presence or lack thereof. That wasn’t good enough.
Which meant that someone, very likely Kyle Monroe, was going to have to fight through or around these troops, and try to get a visual on al Asfan.
They knew there were sentries ahead. The sentries knew there were attackers. It was a standoff, and it favored the attackers, but it wasn’t the best scenario. With that many people on the hill, al Asfan could more easily slip out, even with IR or night vision scans. He was willing to waste his troops to escape, and they were willing to be wasted, most likely. But that also meant a substantial hole in his network when this was done.
If nothing else, that was a nice consolation prize. But Kyle wanted this bastard’s blood. So he sat and waited patiently for a signal.
The tableau was broken when Pavenic said, “Monroe, we have contact with Target Primul.”
“Where and how?” he asked at once, quivering and even more alert, nerves bristling. Had they been seen?
“Through the captured mobile phone.”
That made sense. If the man wanted to get hold of them, that was the logical way.
“What does he say?”
“He says he wants to talk to one of you directly. He thinks there’s six snipers, for some reason.”
“Disinformation from Cafferty,” Kyle said.
“Ah, yes. You have your own leaks, despite your mistrust of us.” Pavenic sounded a bit put upon.
“Not my department,” Kyle said. Nor was now the time for a debate over the merits of one nation over another, the reliability of personnel and the relative risk of known and unknown leaks. Now was the time for shooting. “Give him this number.”
A few moments later, Pavenic replied, “I have done so. Please do keep me aware of your discussion.”
“I’ll try to connect through the radio,” Kyle agreed. He could hold it up and let it transmit from the earpiece. It might be audible. Or . . . was there no way to connect them directly?
No, he decided, after a few seconds of study. With a few cables, it would be possible. But not with materials on hand. His pondering was interrupted by the phone buzzing.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Sergeant Kyle Monroe,” al Asfan said, barely above a whisper.
Sergeant. Not “Captain.” So this guy did have some decent intel. Kyle wasn’t that surprised. It wasn’t all that unlikely, with the leaks they’d had, that someone would get his correct rank. It was a bit odd that the terrorist would make an issue of it. One never gave away intel advantages unless it was part of a psy-war ploy. So this character didn’t know as much as he wanted to, and was trying to impress them with the little bit he did. Still . . .
“Yes, may I help you?” He neither acknowledged nor denied the name or rank. Hopefully, he didn’t sound surprised, either. In truth, this stage of an incident like this called for a professional negotiator. But they didn’t have that option, time was short and there was a real risk this asshole could blow something up. Best to keep him busy here, if he really was here. He wouldn’t make the mistake of using a traceable phone again, so was either using a satellite cell, or had some way to spoof his signal. Actually, they knew he’d done the latter.
“I intend to see you dead.”
“Of course you do,” Kyle said. “Actually, seeing it shouldn’t be hard. Just wait until I die from old age and come to the funeral home.”
“Don’t play stupid. You know I control this situation. I could make some other phone calls and have some bombs set off.”
Hell, you might have arranged that already, in case you die. But I sure as hell won’t say so. Kyle had little idea what to do at this point, except he was sure the things shown on TV were wrong. Meanwhile, he’d managed to get the headset mic next to the cell’s speaker, and hoped it was being heard.
“What is there to talk about?” Kyle asked. “Or are you just trying to postpone the time when I blow your head off?”
“I just wanted to tell you that there’s explosive in the building. Attacking it will cause it to blow up. Also, several other bombs will be triggered if I don’t send orders not to.”
“Okay, you have bombs. We knew that. You want to kill kids. We knew that. Is there anything important?” He wanted to goad this man into talking more, so they could glean intel.
“I am explaining to you why I control the situation. Don’t be a fool, or much blood will be on your hands.”
“The only blood on my hands,” Kyle said, “is going to be yours. Sorry, jackass, but ‘Waah! Waah! Look what you made me do!’ doesn’t impress me. If anyone else dies, it’s your fault, and it might get you to live a bit longer. That way I can watch the expression on your face while you bleed to death.” He intended no such thing. Revenge was dangerous, and Kyle could create such thoughts himself, if he really wanted to. The fact was, he hated killing, despised having to shoot people like this, but there was no way anyone had found to reach them otherwise. And given the choice between killing them or letting them hurt others, Kyle knew which he preferred.
“I have just sent an order,” al Asfan said tightly. “People are going to die because of your arrogance.”
“Hell, if my word can cause death, I’ve got every right to be arrogant.” He figured that would shake things up. He also did feel guilt over any pending deaths. If they’d gotten this guy earlier . . .
No, that wasn’t true. Kill one, and the next idiot stepped into his place. “The War on Terror” might be a good political name, but the reality was there were always people wanting to tear civilization down, and there had and would always be a need for men like Kyle to deal with it. Bin Laden was in hiding or dead, and the bombings still went on. But if they kept taking out the brains of the operation, and the demented whiz kids who built the bombs, eventually they’d trim it to a manageable level.
Until next time.
“I had hoped to reach you and talk like a man,” al Asfan said. “I see I was mistaken. Another bomb has been ordered.”
“I do hope it’s France,” Kyle said. “Everyone hates the French.” He was taking a guess there, but playing on current politics. He really had to convince this nutcase that he didn’t care about bodies, that he, too was a sociopath. That would mean al Asfan would have to find another way to antagonize him.
There was silence. That might mean it was working. Of course, the guy could also be ordering several dozen bombs around the world as a “fuck you” gesture.
Likely not. If he had all those bombs, he would have been setting them off. That he’d ordered all that explosive meant he intended to. But most of it had been captured.
So tweak him again, Kyle thought. “Why don’t you come here?” he prodded. “Afraid?”
“Afraid of being shot by cowards who hide in shadows? Why, yes, I am. Are you afraid to meet me like a man?”
“Not at all. I’ll give you my map coordinates and you can come meet me.”
Best case, he’d get in, bag this trash, and nothing else would happen. That seemed unlikely, but he had come here to deal with this, so he might as well. But he didn’t want to sound eager. Nor could he sound impressed by the threats toward civilians, or they’d never stop.
“You and DGIPI and your five other gutless snipers. No doubt you’d wet your pants upon my appearance, but then you’d attack me, like so many rats. I prefer a better way.”
“So do I,” Kyle said. “I advised them to just bomb the shit out of you from the air, but they want to be reasonable.”
“Of course you will not bomb me, because the retribution would be horrible,” al Asfan said smugly. “We know you are a nation of cowards.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Kyle said. “Is there anything important to discuss, or should I get back to hunting you? I even have a terrorist hunting call here. Allahu akbar!”
“One more mindless insult and you shall cause another bomb to go off. Many more people will die for your ego.” He was shaking now, audible through the phone. It was dangerous to tread on religious ground with lunatics, and not something Kyle would ever do with decent Muslims around . . . but there weren’t any here and it was helping to infuriate his enemy. Al Asfan’s threats were very repetitive. That was a good sign. It meant he had no other refuge.
Always the way with terrorists. They built the bomb, placed the bomb, chose the victims and the reason, but someone else “made” it happen. It was appropriate for five-year-olds. But from terrorists, wife beaters, or rapists, it drove Kyle into a frenzied rage. Which is why he was here.
“Right. You set off your bombs. I’ve got work to do.” He deliberately held the phone down underneath and cycled the bolt on the Ruger. Then he disconnected.
Because there was no more intel to be had from this source at present, the enemy obviously feared snipers, and cutting al Asfan off denied him control of the conversation. He should be well stewed by now.
“Did you catch all that?” he asked Pavenic and Wade.
“Da.”
Wade said, “Yup. Guy’s nuttier than a box of granola.”
Pavenic continued, “I recommend we press on. He made no threats against us, and we can secure this area. I suspect he is here, or he wouldn’t be trying to distract us.”
“I concur,” Kyle agreed. “Fast or slow?”
“As dictated,” Pavenic said. “After all, we would prefer not to take casualties to filth like this. We shall continue slowly and go to the fast attack if circumstance changes.”
“Roger. I recommend we pick a probable target and saturate it. That will split their attention among all of us, and we’ll have Wade and Dobrogeanu spot for additional targets.”
“That should work,” Pavenic said. “Do you have a target?”
“Wade does. Wade?”
“Target, individual with rifle. Reference, large pine to one o’clock, just above a ridge of rock . . .” Wade read them in until everyone had acknowledged some kind of target, either the man, or the spot where Wade said there was a man. The volume of fire should be sufficient to ensure success. Of course, there were quite a few others in these woods, and God knew how they’d react.
Still, battles were like that. It was time to bring it on.
“On your order,” Pavenic acknowledged.
“Roger. Stand by on my order. All elements take aim. Commence . . . fire!”
The sound wasn’t that of shots. It was one disciplined, controlled roar that shook the hill. Through his goggles, Kyle could see a rifle slump down into the dirt below the position. Scratch another asshole.
It also had an effect on the other enemy. They opened fire, just as wanted. Kyle hadn’t left any traceable signature with a suppressed .22, but the larger rifles did have muzzle flash. Flash suppressors attenuate the blast somewhat, and more important, divert it from a sight plane of the shooter. But large-caliber rounds usually have a nimbus of fire.
The return shots were chaotic and ragged, but there were a lot of them. Then there was the glare and bang of a grenade. Wade was shouting another target reference, but Kyle couldn’t make it out clearly in the din. So it came down, as it usually did, to two groups of people shooting it out, each hoping for the other group to make more mistakes.
Kyle was about to deliberately make a mistake. They needed to get through this line and find their real target. There wasn’t time to discuss it, and the mass confusion offered a chance. He wasn’t about to let al Asfan slip away yet again, so he took immediate action on his own authority. His headset spoke, someone reporting himself wounded. So the enemy weren’t totally incompetent. Or else they’d been very lucky. Other shouts came, both directly and through the radio. Most were Romanian. A few were fractured English, from Pavenic. Some sounded as if they might be Arabic, and one was probably Russian.
He unfastened his ghillie by ripping the buttons. He wasn’t going to be hiding, and it would slow him down with what he had planned. He wrapped it around the ROMAK and dropped it. It wasn’t as safe as pulling the firing pin, but he was in a hurry, and as tangled as it was, it would take time for anyone to get it, even if they found it.
That done, he stood to a crouch and ran forward, dodging from tree to tree. Taking cover and concealment was not something he needed to think about; he’d had fifteen years of practice. At each position he scanned ahead for threats, then rose to dart forward another few meters. He kept a close eye out for the perimeter guards, and saw one, cuddling the ground and trying to look invisible. That was probably the smartest thing he could do, but it wasn’t going to help here. Kyle swung the Ruger and tapped two shots past the helmet and deep into the collar. The man convulsed and probably yelled—Kyle wasn’t sure. But as the man arched up, another bullet through his throat made it academic. There were major blood vessels in both locations, and even if he didn’t die at once, the battle was over for him.
Kyle was panting up the mountain. Even though he’d practiced the method, uneven movement took more energy than a straight run, and it was uphill. Adrenaline coursed through him, making him warm. It would also make his shots a bit less accurate. He kept scanning ahead for other threats, but it seemed to be clear along this line. Then he saw one far to his left, focused on something farther downhill.
He knelt, raised the Ruger and got a sight picture just as his elbow met his knee for stability. A squeeze and it was over, the round catching his target right below his helmet line, almost through the ear. The man dropped and spasmed as he died, and that was it.
Except for the grenade he’d been holding, which detonated a few moments later, blowing him and large chunks of landscape around. Still, that meant no more grenades—at least not from that source. Another banged farther away.
It sounded as if the fire below was slacking off. That was either an indication of success or of lines stabilizing again. But that wasn’t his concern. If he’d moved properly and the reports were correct, the facility in question should be a bit farther up the hill.
He slowed slightly, both to reduce the rasping tear of cold air through his throat and to keep better track of his surroundings. Ahead, the terrain appeared to level out, with mist starting to fall. That was probably where he wanted to go.
Wade spoke in his ears, “Where are you, buddy?” It was the cell phone.
“I’m closing on where I think the cabin is. Get them to encircle closer if you can.”
“Will do. I’ll be along in a few.”
“Roger.”
He topped a slight rise and entered a meadow. Ahead, he could see a rude lodge built of clapboards and blocks. It was of good size, perhaps ten meters by six. But that didn’t mean that was all there was to it, and even that space was enough for plenty of people or explosives. He kept walking, slowing his pace slightly and making sure he kicked brush and weeds. It wouldn’t do to surprise a man who was a raving paranoid and liked blowing up children. If he was here, Kyle wanted to let al Asfan feel he had total control of the situation. Then Kyle, or possibly the others, would exploit that imagined superiority.
Closer still, and he could see signs of light within. There was one small window high up the wall on this side. It and a few slight gaps around the door glowed with a dull yellow, as of a flashlight or low-power bulb. That also was a good thing for Kyle and his people. Any target would be illuminated.
But that meant he had to go in and check. Al Asfan might already be heading out. And Kyle was damned if he would get away again. It might let the man feel competent and worthwhile. Or be taken as a sign from Allah. You could never tell how a nutcase would interpret things.
Worst case, al Asfan wasn’t there, a flunky shot him or blew him up, al Qaeda set off a bunch of other bombs and went public. Tough for the CIA, the Army, the President, Romania, the U.S., and whichever poor bastards were within bombing range.
And, tough for Kyle, who would be dead with nothing to show for it.
He really didn’t want to do this, but the opportunity had come around, and he was going to take it. And when he got back, he’d have a polite discussion with General Robash, who’d hopefully have a less than polite discussion with others, to the effect that snipers weren’t Delta, and weren’t spies. They watched and shot.
Kyle moved back to his knees and crawled through the wet grass. In seconds, he was sodden from dew. But the dense air, mist, and tall growth should reduce his visibility and sound. A few burrs, jabs from sticks and thorns, and the wet chill were minor things to trade for tactical advantage.
He kept a good scan going. Nothing threatening was apparent, and he reported that to Wade. “I’m about fifty meters out,” he said. “I won’t speak again until I know what’s there.” He didn’t want to be given away by the sibilance of a whisper.
“Roger that. Good luck,” Wade said.
“Roger and out.”
He wove through the grass, lower and more cautiously. But he didn’t want to take too long. There were no positions visible, a careful scan across the woods showed nothing in the way of people, though there was a fox or something similar trotting at some distance. The building had no windows.
Controlling the buzz in his head, his throbbing pulse and cold sweats, he stood and stepped straight toward the door, through knee-high weeds and boulders. He hesitated for just a moment at the door, studying the weathered, grainy planks.