Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  “Thermals are up. I’ve got one heat signature on the second floor. Room with the balcony.”

  “Got it,” the team leader said, breaking into a jog, heading toward the corner of the house where his team was stacking up. “Ladder up.”

  “Moving, boss,” a fresh voice said.

  The team leader met up with his men and turned to the van, allowing Rockford to see an agent running toward him with something over his shoulder. The agent stopped under the balcony and expertly deployed a collapsible ladder. He had almost gotten it fully extended when a motion light on the other side of the house came on.

  “Hold,” the team leader said. “Silver, what do we have?”

  “A dog, looks like a Lab.”

  Rockford watched as a light came on in the room attached to the balcony. The HRT agent with the ladder pulled it down and flattened himself up against the house.

  “Thermals show movement. Target is up.”

  Rockford had told the team leader that he wanted a quiet operation, which was why they had attempted to use the ladder and go through the window. But with Styles awake he knew he needed to give the team leader full control. He picked up the radio sitting beside him on the seat.

  “HRT is Blue,” he said, using the code word the team leader had given him for just this situation.

  “Roger, Blue. Silver, sitrep.”

  “Looks like the target is in the hall, heading for the stairs.”

  “Copy that. Breachers up.”

  Rockford watched two men creep to the door, one covering while the other stuck what he knew to be the breaching charge to the iron on the door. It took them less than five seconds to set the charge, spool out the blasting wire, and make their way back to the team.

  “Silver, we are going loud. You have the eyeball.”

  “Copy. Target is at the top of the stairs. Stand by for count. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . Burn it.”

  The camera shifted to the ground, followed immediately by a flash of light and a deep boom.

  “Positive breach, go.”

  “FBI! Robin Styles, let me see your hands!” a voice yelled, followed by a woman’s plaintive screams.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Get on the ground, now!”

  By the time Rockford walked into the house the smoke had dissipated and HRT had finished clearing the structure. He found Styles on the couch, her hands zip-tied behind her back, the soot on her face streaked with tears.

  Rockford’s feet crunched over the broken glass as he walked over, and she looked up at him as he approached.

  “You,” she spat. “I should have known. I don’t know what kind of bush-league power play you have going on here, but I can promise you—”

  “That’s enough, Robin,” Rockford interrupted, coming to a halt a foot away. He reached into his pocket and took out a sheet of paper. “This is a warrant signed by a federal judge.”

  “For what?” she sneered.

  “For the attempted murder of the President of the United States, and aiding and abetting a terrorist,” he said, tossing the warrant on her lap.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “If you had done all of this as just a plain old citizen that would be your right. But since you used your office in the CIA to conduct your affairs, well, that changes things.”

  Rockford stepped out of the way and motioned to two men in black suits. “These men work for the Justice Department. I am sure they will be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  Chapter 74

  The driver stopped the ATV three hundred meters south of the estate. He cut the engine and slowly the night sounds returned. There were no lights this far out in the country, and Steele motioned for the sniper to lead them in. Working with Delta made everything easy; they were the best soldiers in the world and Steele had no problem following the point into the woods. He moved quiet as a shadow and Steele let him get a ten-yard lead before following. The space was in case they were ambushed or took a grenade.

  The branches and deadfall made for slow moving, and twice they startled deer lying in a thicket. Both times they took a knee, waiting, watching, and listening. When it was clear the point man motioned them forward until they could see the lights of the estate.

  The point man clicked his radio, breaking squelch and pointing to a spot on the ground where they would stop. Steele knew the drill and passed the arm movement back to the spotter who was bringing up the rear. Instead of going to the spot, they patrolled past it, cloverleafing through the woods until they had made a complete circle. The reasons were evident only to those who had worked behind enemy lines.

  Steele had seen good and bad recon teams in his career. Good teams had one thing in common—they never forgot the basics. In Iraq, Steele had watched a reconnaissance team use the same position on three different operations, and if that wasn’t bad enough, they occupied the position the same way each time. On the third outing the law of averages caught up with them. The team had just set up their position when they came under heavy mortar and small-arms fire from a firing point fifty meters away. The entire team was wiped out.

  A simple cloverleaf would not only have revealed the ambush, but would have put the team in position to flank their would-be attackers. Steele had taken this lesson to heart, and halfway through the cloverleaf he called a halt to watch their back trail. Only when he was certain that they were alone did he signal the point man to move out.

  Finally they returned to their original position and the three men established a tight perimeter. Steele set up next to a tree and made sure one of the operators was watching his area before digging a poncho out of his kit. He draped the poncho over his head, using it to block the glow from the ruggedized tablet that connected him to the drones overhead.

  The Reaper feed confirmed that the area was hot. Light towers had appeared along the edge of the strip, illuminating the outlying buildings. Steele counted way more than ten armed men and noticed they had four patrols running the perimeter.

  It made him wonder if they had been tipped off.

  Could West know that we were coming?

  The Delta spotter activated the digital camera and started clicking away. Steele studied each picture, noting the night vision, gear, and posture of the men. They were heavily armed and well trained and when the last picture hit the tablet, Steele attached them to an email and shot them off to Demo. He turned the tablet off, stowed the poncho, and flipped his night vision over his eyes. He forced himself to relax and was waiting for his eyes to adjust when a dry snap shattered the silence.

  Someone’s coming.

  Steele froze, his vision blocked by a stout tree. He could move but knew any movement or sound could blow their cover. He had to trust that the operators were covering his ass. The spotter raised his hand an inch from the ground, and an upside-down pistol, pointing his index finger to Steele’s left. It was the signal for enemy front.

  A deafening silence fell over the position. Steele’s senses were maxed out and everything from his breathing to the hammering of the blood in his ears sounded like a brass band. He took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, and let it out. The concert in his ears slowly subsided to a dull roar, and then he heard the dog.

  Steele could tell by the light footfalls that it wasn’t a German shepherd. Most likely a Belgian Malinois. The K9 didn’t make a sound, not a groan or a whine, and Steele knew in that instant that he was up against some serious hitters.

  There was only one way to keep a dog that quiet, and that was by removing its vocal cords. A barking dog was good for static security, but in the bush a wayward growl could get you killed. Steele hadn’t heard of a company that cut their dogs’ vocal cords since . . . Africa, shit.

  The company was called Dynamic Effects back then, and Steele had run across them while tracking West’s son. He’d heard they had been forced to close down after a particularly nasty massacre in Central Africa.

  Steele inched his han
d to the radio and pressed the transmit key down two times. One short and one long—the signal for possible compromise.

  Back at the base a radio operator responded with three long breaks: Roger. Standing by.

  Steele knew that right now the operators were grabbing their gear and the pilots had the blades spinning up. He had ten minutes to check in, and if he didn’t the strike team would rain hell on the estate.

  A low wheezing sound slithered into the tiny perimeter. Steele knew that the dog was pulling hard on the lead. He had found something that he wanted and was so locked in that he was choking himself to get to it.

  He must smell us.

  Heavy footfalls marched closer. It sounded like a giant was crashing through the brush, pulverizing leaves and sticks beneath heavy feet. Over the sound the man’s radio squawked to life and a voice exclaimed, “Package inbound, all elements sound off.”

  “One-zero clear. One-one clear. One-two all clear . . .”

  The sentries were calling in from their positions around the edge of the airstrip, and Steele breathlessly waited for the handler to key up. The entire operation balanced on a razor’s edge. If they were compromised now, West would disappear. The strain of the moment caused sweat to start dripping down Steele’s face.

  “One-three, stand by,” the handler said, his accent marking him as either from Boston or New Hampshire.

  He is right on top of us.

  “What is it, boy, you gotta take a dump?”

  Steele cursed himself for not bringing a “hush puppy.” Stupid. The suppressor on his rifle was too loud and if he fired the shot would definitely give them away. He made a trigger motion to the spotter, hoping the operator was more squared away than he was. As usual, Delta saved the day.

  The spotter pulled a long-barreled pistol from his kit and one look told Steele that it was an integrally suppressed .22. The spotter pointed at the ground, signaling that he would take the dog. Steele gave him a slight nod and reached for the knife at his back. He slipped it from the sheath, keeping the blade up and trying to get a fix in his mind on the handler.

  “One-three, are you good?”

  The movement stopped and Steele took a deep breath, getting ready for the shot. Instead of the whisper of the .22 he smelled shit and knew the dog was relieving himself.

  “Roger that. Ol’ Spike had to drop the kids off at the pool.”

  “Good copy.”

  Steele relaxed his shoulders and his heartbeat was just returning to normal when the radio came to life once again.

  “SAM team hot and ready to rock.”

  Did he say SAMs, as in surface-to-air missiles?

  If the men on the ground had the ability to bring down the helos, Steele was going to have to find and neutralize them before the strike team could hit the objective. He felt the spotter’s eyes on him and was turning his head when the man’s suppressed .22 spit in the darkness.

  Chapter 75

  Steele came around the tree like a sprinter from the blocks. He could see the handler clearly in the night vision’s emerald glow. The man was frozen in place, left hand holding a limp lead, brow furrowed as he tried to figure why his dog had decided to take a sudden nap.

  Steele didn’t give him time to figure it out. He drove his hand into the man’s throat and swept his legs out from under him. The handler didn’t have time to say or do anything before Steele had the blade to his neck.

  “Where are the manpads?” he asked, using the slang for surface-to-air missiles.

  The man’s reply was choked and whatever he said was lost under the chirp of the Gulfstream touching down. The pilot smoothly applied the reverse thrust and the engines howled.

  “Where are they?”

  “The . . . roof.”

  Steele looked up, focusing on the roof, and the handler twisted beneath him, making a play for his pistol. “Don’t.” The man ignored him, and Steele didn’t have a choice. He drove the blade into the base of the man’s skull and felt him go limp beneath him.

  Steele looked at the sniper, then back at the body. It was the first time he had killed a fellow American and he fought the urge to vomit. Damn you for this, Nate. He felt dirty, like he had betrayed a sacred trust, but what nagged at him the most was the sense that he was going to have to do much worse before the night was over.

  “Nothing you could have done,” the sniper said simply. “You did what you had to.”

  The three of them were warriors, men who protected their countrymen, not killed them. Theirs was a deadly business, one that broke the most sacred of all commandments: Thou Shalt Not Kill. They were the men who went out and took the lives of those who would harm America and her citizens’ way of life, but killing one of their own was something they never signed up for.

  “That plane doesn’t get off the ground,” Steele said, breaking himself from the moment.

  “Roger that. We’ve got your back.”

  “Atlas, this is Stalker 7. The package is on the ground. New intel suggests they might have manpads.”

  “Say again, Stalker.”

  Steele had to make a choice. He knew it would take the helos seven minutes to get from the rally point to the target, and if he called them now and didn’t find the surface-to-air missiles the helos wouldn’t stand a chance. On the other hand, he knew that West wasn’t just going to stick around.

  No matter what.

  “Atlas, I will mark the manpads with an IR strobe. Advise you launch now.”

  “Good copy.”

  Steele set his stopwatch to seven minutes and looked at the operators.

  “No matter what happens, that plane doesn’t leave,” he told the snipers.

  “Easy day, brother.”

  It was the typical Special Operations response.

  Steele stripped the radio from the dead handler and clipped it into his vest. Before stepping off he hit the start button on his watch.

  7:00, 6:59, 6:58 . . .

  He moved counterclockwise through the wood line, using the trees to mask his approach. The Gulfstream had already reached the end of the tarmac and the pilot goosed the engine, swinging the jet around and toward the hangar.

  “Let’s get a perimeter set up,” the voice on the radio said.

  Steele crouched low, scooting in and out of the shadows, frantically searching the roofs for any signs of the missiles. They would want the tallest building, to clear the trees. He keyed in on a two-story building two hundred yards away that appeared to be made out of corrugated steel. That’s where I’d be.

  Ten feet from the building there was a shimmer of movement at the corner. Steele dropped to the ground. Dammit, can I get a damn break? He rolled the H&K to his back and slowly drew the Glock 34 from its holster and clipped the suppressor on the end of the barrel with a twist.

  Lying there, Steele thought he heard the gentle scrape of metal on metal, but that could have been his ears telling him what he wanted them to hear. He hazarded a glance at his watch and his heart sank when he realized the strike team was three minutes out.

  The shape was moving toward him and Steele raised the pistol but was unable to see the sights without sitting up. The blood was pounding in his ears again. He ignored everything but the shot. He pressed his thumb firmly on the back of the slide. By locking it forward he was trapping the gas created by the fired bullet inside the breech. The gun wouldn’t be able to cycle, and while it would be silent, he would only have one shot.

  Aiming from the chest was not a guarantee. He was going to have to go for the head, and without the use of the sights. Maybe he will turn around. It was a pipe dream. All he could do was wait, and the seconds felt like they were stretching into hours. He fought the urge to check his watch. Who is this guy, Betty White? Slowest walker I have ever seen. Jesus man, shake the lead out.

  At five feet Steele knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He steadied his hand and gently squeezed the trigger. Pffft. The Glock coughed weakly and the figure stopped in his tracks. Shit, I missed.
>
  He was about to rack the slide when the figure wavered and dropped face-first into the dirt. Steele silently racked a fresh round into the chamber, holstered the Glock, and dragged the body to the edge of the building. After turning off his radio, he checked his watch.

  1:30, 1:29.

  Steele turned the volume all the way down on the radio he’d taken from the dead K9 handler and, straining his ears, pressed the transmit button. Above him a radio chirped, confirming that there were men on the roof.

  He tore the strobe from his pocket and covered it with his hand before flashing it three times. He was shoving the strobe back into his pocket when a voice said:

  “Did you see that?”

  Chapter 76

  West had switched clothes with the pilot and stood at the window waiting for the Gulfstream to come to a halt. He watched the contractors from Kinetic Solutions with a keen eye, hoping to divine their intent from their posture.

  The reason he had changed clothes was because he didn’t trust them. They were mercenaries, men who sold their skills to the highest bidder. Their loyalty was to the almighty dollar, and he knew the only thing that decided if they would protect or betray him was the number of zeros at the end of the check.

  The engines whined down, followed by the squeak of the cabin door. West turned to see the copilot appear, dressed in West’s clothes, arms at chest level, palms facing out. Jonas was behind him, a pistol jammed in the small of his back.

  “Do you know what to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “You better,” West growled, opening the cabin door and unfolding the stairs.

  On the tarmac the mercs ignored him, just like West knew they would. He was the hired help and the only looks shot his way were in reference to the scars on his face. He pretended to inspect the plane, letting his stand-in descend the stairs with Liam and Jonas.

  “This way, sir,” one of the contractors said, motioning to the old barn. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”