by Tom Clancy
‘There he is! Right there!’ cried one of the rebels.
Whether he’d been shaking unconsciously or his optical camouflage system had malfunctioned, Kozak wasn’t sure. That he would die in the next heartbeat was absolutely certain –
Unless he sprang up, took his chances, and fired.
THREE
Pepper had a feeling the two rebels who’d broken off from their buddies on the east side of the outpost were aware of Kozak’s position. He also noted that the drone was now on autopilot, conducting a series of slow passes along the perimeter out to the river, wheeling around like a lost buzzard without a meal, which all meant that Kozak’s attention had been diverted.
Pepper’s teammates didn’t call him ‘Old Reliable’ because he was a self-indulgent slacker; no, when he had a hunch, he paid attention to it because years of combat experience had taught him to ‘read the signs’ and ‘watch the skies’ in order to better sense danger. These were a hunter’s instincts, forged over decades in the field.
His Remington M24A2 sniper rifle was now trained on the mountain behind him, and his Cross-Com’s HUD picked out the two men, with Kozak huddled across the clearing, presumably under his camouflage.
Pepper adjusted his aim, the reticule now floating over one rebel’s head.
The moment was before him, the moment he liked most about the job. 30K had once asked him to explain it:
‘You know, that moment just before you take the shot. When it’s all lined up and perfect. When you know everybody did their part just right, and you own that battlefield. Then you pull the trigger, and it all goes to hell anyway.’
They’d never laughed so hard because they’d both been there, done that, understood the blood, sweat and tears the way only other brothers in arms could. And 30K appreciated Pepper’s fatalistic sense of humor the way others did not.
And here it was, once again, that perfect moment.
He took in a deep breath.
Yep, it looked like the skinny Russian kid from Brooklyn was a goner if old Pepper didn’t loan him some lead.
Why Kozak was crouching there and letting them get so close in the first place was beyond Pepper. Was he just taunting them or hoping not to give up his location? Damned brave or damned stupid. Hard to tell which. Maybe some new-school tactic that the kid had invented, a tactic that Pepper’s old-school head just couldn’t wrap around.
For just a second, the enormity of the task struck Pepper. Maybe he was just getting old (thirty-nine was certainly north of spring chicken territory), or maybe he was just appreciating his life a whole lot more …
As a kid, he’d never been sure what he wanted to do. He did know he did not want to own a gas station like his pop had, and he certainly did not want to be a construction foreman like his stepfather, Connor. By the time he was eighteen, Pepper figured he’d do a stint in the Army, since no one at home was volunteering to help pay for college and an education was the only way to escape.
The rest was history, his life in perfect order now: the feel of the trigger beneath his gloved hand, the bullet drop calculated, the body as silent and still as any predator.
Thor’s hammer struck the mountainside as the rifle went off and a .300 Winchester Magnum belted bottlenecked rifle cartridge removed the boonie hat from the FARC rebel, along with most of his head. At the same time, Kozak was up, cutting loose a salvo into the chest of the second rebel, who staggered drunkenly back until he crumpled in the underbrush.
‘Dang, Pepper, nice shot,’ said Kozak.
Pepper was about to open his mouth, when a barrage of small arms fire ripped into the trees around him, sending him to the deck hollering, ‘Little help!’
FOUR
There was no man that Sergeant First Class Jimmy ‘30K’ Ellison respected more than Pepper. He was ferociously loyal to his friend and teammate and had sworn a personal oath to always have his back.
So the second that Pepper sounded the alarm, 30K broke off from his position near the shacks and hauled ass toward the combatants behind the trucks, the ones laying down heavy fire on Pepper’s position.
Now you couldn’t blame his youth (he was just twenty-eight) on what he was about to do. And you couldn’t blame it on him being some crazy farm boy who hailed from Alma, Arkansas, although the latter was true. This wasn’t something rash or reckless, over the top or insane, no.
It was just him being him. Not a reckless kid whose father had abandoned him. Not a warmongering maniac with a Stoner 63 light machine gun clutched in his grip, although, once again, the latter was true.
‘Ain’t no such thing as style points, kid,’ he’d once told Kozak. ‘You do what you gotta do to get it done. The rest is just details.’
30K’s Cross-Com pinpointed the locations of the four rebels strung out near the trucks, cutting loose with their rifles then dropping to cover like carnival targets.
Man, these were off the shelf, generic brand cowards, the kind that 30K neither feared nor respected. Worthy adversaries needed to prove their mettle, and these clowns couldn’t even earn his pity. He raced up behind them and hollered, ‘Hey, pendejos!’
He gritted his teeth, leveled his rifle on them as they turned, then the rat-tat-tat of his Stoner delivered their last rites more powerfully than any trailer park preacher 30K had ever seen or heard.
‘Learn how to fight like men,’ he spat, then spoke into his Cross-Com. ‘You’re clear, Pepper.’
‘Thanks, bro.’
‘Guys, this is Ghost Lead. Rally on the biggest shack out back, near the river. Got four targets holding there, with a fifth inside, not moving. Could be the package.’
‘Ghost Lead, 30K here. I can see the shack from my position. I’m going in.’
‘Roger that.’
One day 30K would learn some humility. Probably wouldn’t be today. Or tomorrow.
Pepper said he hated going to bars with him because there’d always be a fight, but when there was, 30K was the guy you wanted around. Hey, it wasn’t his fault. If someone called him a hick or a redneck, he’d turn up the Southern accent, flex his hands into fists, and set them straight the hard way. He wasn’t an evil guy, just evil-minded for the sake of saving lives. He hadn’t spent a lifetime blowing up mailboxes and frogs, only most of his childhood. He knew the names of every principal from every school he’d been kicked out of because he kept the list in his wallet. These were the men who’d doubted him, who’d thought he didn’t have what it took. They were just like his father. They didn’t want him around. Was he psychologically scarred? Was he mentally and emotionally handicapped? Hell, no. He was just pissed off. But when he’d joined the Army, he’d learned order and discipline and had earned the respect of the men in his company. His colleagues and superior officers would often ask why he carried that chip on his shoulder, why he was so angry at the world. And he’d say, ‘Hey, it ain’t me! It’s the world!’ Damned fate had dealt him a shitty hand as a kid. He’d never win the Mr Personality Award. But look where he was now.
Was he too cocky? Too confident? Well, if he were writing the Special Forces training manuals, he’d start every chapter with the reminder that you must believe in yourself and your team. You had to visualize the victory and make it real before it happened. And if that was being too cocky, then he was guilty as charged. If you were going in for brain surgery, which doctor would you pick: the one who said she was pretty sure she could help you. Or the one who said, ‘I’m going to fix you.’
Enough said.
30K chose a path that wound eastward along the mottled, oily waters of the river. He remained about ten meters from the tiny continents of lily pads clustering along the shoreline as he closed in on the shack that Ross had identified. The structure was about ten meters wide, forty long, built like an old barn or shed with wide gaps between the wall beams, certainly not a living structure but perhaps a heavy equipment storage house or repair shop or something. The tin roof was alive with crawling vines, and they reminded 30K of an earlier obse
rvation he’d made – that there had to be more than a thousand shades of green in this jungle. There were greens the color of baseball fields, greens the color of flak jackets and Christmas trees and berets. He saw a bird so green that its feathers seemed made of crystal backlit by LEDs. Sure, he’d been in South America on several other ops, but never in this part of Colombia. Too bad he didn’t have more time to hike up the river, find some local girls and have a beer.
A familiar whirring at his left shoulder sent his gaze skyward: the drone. Kozak had his back now and even reminded him of that. ‘Come on, big brother, move it!’ With that, the drone raced forward. 30K cursed and stormed after it. He’d been calling Kozak his ‘little brother’ for a while now because he knew the string bean didn’t like it. Hey, if it made the guy with the funny accent work a little harder to prove himself and step out of his big brother’s shadow, then rock on, that was fine with 30K. He’d appointed himself the team’s morale officer, pushing everyone to new heights because he enjoyed the hell out of annoying them, and the better they were, the better he was – meaning they all had a better chance of staying alive.
With the tables turned now and 30K sprinting madly to prove himself, he had red-zoned his heart by the time he reached the edge of the forest to spy on the four guards posted near the back of the shack. They had crouched down, rifles raised, their eyes intently panning along the clearing and probing farther out, into the deep maw of tangled branches.
‘Marked four,’ said Ross.
30K’s Cross-Com shimmered with the targets. He lifted his rifle. Took a breath. He had a bead on the first one and practised panning right to the second. No scope on his Stoner. Just experience and instincts. ‘Got two, just right of the door,’ he told Ross.
‘Gotcha. On three.’
30K would remark later that, yes, it had been his fault. He’d been a little too eager.
Ross never made it to three. By the time the word ‘two’ left his lips, 30K had already opened fire.
‘Damn it, I said three!’ cried Ross not a second after 30K had taken out his two guards.
30K saw them now, the other two FARC rebels, the ones Ross was supposed to drop. Both charged inside the shack, where that unmoving third target had remained.
‘Uh, sorry, boss, not much of a math guy.’
‘Great,’ said Ross. ‘Now it gets fun. Pepper? Kozak? You cover the exits. 30K? Get over here. You’re taking point.’
Oh, well, he was in trouble now. He rushed up to the shack’s wall, then shadow-hugged the wood, slipping his way to the corner, wary of more contacts. Every footstep was measured, his gaze flicking between the ground and the wall, making sure he didn’t do something stupid like trip and give up his location. He turned and met up with Ross near the main door, which was actually a pair of doors, cracked open a few inches.
Ross raised an index finger with one hand, cupped his hand to his ear with the other. He nodded over something, then reported over the team net. ‘AFEUR guys report the rest of the rebels have fled back into the jungle. Hold fire.’
After that, Ross nodded and rolled left beside the door, rifle at the ready. He gave 30K the hand signal: Go!
But 30K frowned as he drifted closer to the doors, stealing a look inside.
What he saw made him recoil. ‘Whoa …’
Ross had tugged free a flash bang grenade, and 30K turned back, put his hand over the boss’s, and shook his head.
‘What?’
‘Take a look.’
FIVE
‘Aw, hell,’ grunted Ross.
At least fifty plastic gasoline containers lined the shack’s rear wall. To the right were bushel baskets brimming with almond-shaped coca leaves, stacked as high as refrigerators. Six or seven wheelbarrows filled with what might have been salt or limestone were parked across from the stacks, and at least twenty or more oil drums formed two rows down the center of the shack, as though they were stacked on the deck of a cargo ship. Still more containers with labels that read SULFURIC ACID and SODIUM PERMANGANATE sat on wooden shelves buckling under their weight. Beneath them were piles of brand-new microwaves still in their boxes.
‘Well, they ain’t making burritos,’ said 30K.
Ross knew all about the infamous cocaine labs of Colombia and how these guys needed about 1,000 kilos of coca leaves to yield just a kilo of paste or 2.2 pounds. That’s why they needed so many bushels of leaves, and the process for making cocaine was painstaking, the materials highly flammable. Drawing gunfire, let alone tossing in a grenade, might send them all into low earth orbit.
‘Kozak, get the drone over here, crawler mode.’
Even as the UAV came over the rooftop, quadrotors humming, a rustling along a rise to their south had Ross scanning the tree line, where his Cross-Com showed the blue silhouettes of the AFEUR troops, establishing a perimeter. Nothing would leave the shack, nothing that remained alive anyway.
‘Ghost Lead, Pepper. We’re secure out here. Clear to do your thing.’
The drone landed not a meter from Ross and rolled toward the doors. 30K opened one door wide enough for the crawler to roll through.
‘Show it to me, Kozak.’
A window opened in Ross’s HUD, and the camera view and data bars from the drone crackled to life. Superimposed over the video was a wireframe representation of the shack, with dimensions displayed and the drone’s coordinates scrolling below as it advanced.
‘Good,’ said Ross. ‘Put me on the speaker.’
‘In three, two, one, and you’re live,’ announced Kozak.
Ross cleared his throat and spoke in Spanish. ‘Listen up, boys. Your comrades have gone home for dinner. We have this area secured. You can’t run. So you know the drill. Put down your weapons and come out slowly with your hands behind your heads. You do that, and you won’t get hurt. You play games, and I’ll kill you.’
The crawler rolled farther into the shack, past the stacks of oil drums to an open area beyond, where in the light of a single flashlight sitting on the floor appeared a figure sitting in a chair, hands bound behind the back, a cowl of some sort pulled over the head. The image was too grainy to make any further distinctions. At either side of the prisoner were the guards, one with a pistol to the man’s head.
‘Ghost Lead, Kozak. What do you think?’
‘Get in a little closer.’
Kozak complied, advancing another meter with the drone.
‘Hold on a second,’ said Ross, getting a better look at the prisoner.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ shouted one of the rebels, a clean-shaven man with thick eyebrows and several missing teeth. ‘You know what we’ll do!’
‘Kozak, get the drone out of there.’
‘Say again?’
‘You heard me. Back off.’ Ross faced 30K and shook his head. ‘That’s not our guy. Too small. This is a bullshit diversion to stall us. Our package is already on the move …’
‘Either way, they got a prisoner. Intel said our CIA guy wasn’t the only one in the car.’
As the drone rolled out of the shack and past them, Ross knew they were out of time.
‘Ghost Lead, Pepper. I dropped another sensor just outside the shack. Signal’s clean. I can take out the guy with the pistol – right through the wall.’
Ross smiled inwardly. This was why he’d become a Ghost – to work with aggressive, creative operators from all branches of the service who could teach him their tactics, techniques and procedures, the good old TTPs of any good operation. Like him, Pepper was an old salt who’d mopped up bloody operations in Sangin, hunted bomb makers in Waziristan, and danced around the conflicting orders between higher and intelligence offices like the CIA. His experience had taught him to always be thinking ahead and keep the mission tempo high by not succumbing to the deep bitterness and cynicism that could easily rule your life.
‘Pepper, this is Ghost Lead. You’re the man.’
‘Roger that.’
Ross looked at 30K but continued speaking to Pe
pper. ‘Now can you count to three?’
Pepper gave a snort. ‘No problem, boss.’
‘Okay, then. Here we go.’
SIX
Pepper steeled himself and was just a breath away from firing. The target’s head was perfectly centered beneath his crosshairs, and the M24A2 felt magnificent in his hands.
Unlike his trigger-happy colleague, 30K, Pepper floated on waves of calm and silence – until Ross counted down …
And then it was game on.
He pulled the trigger. The round left his rifle at 990 meters per second and with an awe-inspiring report that woke something primitive inside, as though the spirits of his ancestors – those warring tribes in Europe who had worn leather plates for armor and who had fought with spears and halberds – were lifting their battle cries within the echoing shot.
Before Pepper could take in his next breath, the rebel holding the pistol fell back and away.
‘Target down,’ he reported.
Ross sighted the second man as Pepper’s target thumped to the dirt floor. Two rounds leaped from Ross’s HK and drummed the rebel into the back wall as Ross rushed forward with 30K in tow. They charged across the shack, reached the prisoner, and Ross immediately pulled the cowl from the man’s face.
