by Bob Mayer
“Roger that.”
“Status of reaction force from the encampment?” Gant asked.
“Two boats are shore-bound from the island. We are in contact with them and will coordinate to prevent fratricide. We’ll put them on your GPS as soon as they are on the ground and live on their own vehicle GPS.”
“Link me to them on this frequency,” Gant ordered.
“Roger that. You are call sign Alpha One. They will be Bravo Two. Over.”
There was a crackle of static, then the voice was back. “Bravo Two, you’ve got Alpha One on the net. Over.”
“Who the hell are you?” a new voice demanded, the lack of proper radio etiquette indicating the degree of confusion.
“This is Alpha One,” Gant said. “I radioed you from the air and am now on the ground on motorcycle in search of two targets. They are trained Special Operations soldiers, one a sniper. So approach with great caution. Over.”
“No shit. They just shot one of our detainees through the head inside his room. What the fuck is going on?” There was a short pause. “Over.”
“The two targets are our mission,” Gants said. “We would like one taken alive, the other can be eliminated. Over.”
There was a longer pause. “You mean killed? Over.”
“Roger that.”
“Fuck. Will comply. But why take one alive?”
“Do it,” Gant snapped.
Gant goosed the motorcycle and crested a slight bump in the road. The trail descended into a narrow lane in the forest, the lighter line of the dirt trail turning darker. He did not like the look of that. “Talon, azimuth and distance to targets?”
“One five two degrees. Two thousand, three hundred and six meters. They are still on the move on foot. Over.”
Gant accelerated down into the thick Maine forest. The trail wasn’t taking him directly toward them but it was closing the gap.
“This is Bravo Two. We are on land and mounting our vehicles. We have one Humvee and one Ford F-150 pickup. We are heading toward the targets. Sounds like they’re heading for the main logging road that heads for the hard-top state road. We are up-linking with Talon now on GPS. Over.”
Gant pushed his speed, knowing that the targets had to have a vehicle parked near the logging road. If this were a normal police procedure, it would be the time to call the State Troopers and the local Sheriffs. Have road-blocks set up. But if this were normal Gant wouldn’t be here and the Cellar wouldn’t be involved. And if he made that call, there would be many local people grieving in the morning over the loss of their loved ones. Also, he doubted that the locals could take one of the two alive — the incident in Virginia had proven that the targets were more than willing to give up their lives.
This was the Cellar’s job. His job. He’d have one shot at it.
“We’re mounted,” the CIA reaction force team leader announced. “We’re heading for the logging road. Over.”
“Can you interdict?” Gant asked.
“We’ll know that when we get there. Depends how quick they get to their vehicles. Why did they do this? Who are these guys?”
“They’re rogue,” Gant said. “They’ve killed innocent people. And they’ll kill you if you’re not careful. Over.”
Gant took a turn slightly too fast and he felt the dirt bike’s tires almost slide out from under him. He corrected and then accelerated. He wondered how pilots could fly helicopters with night vision goggles as he was having a hell of a time simply driving the motorcycle. The small screen inside the goggles tended to distort depth perception.
“Targets have reached the road,” the imager announced. “Just got the heat signature of an engine starting. They are now mounted. One five zero zero meters from your location. Wait one.”
Gant slowed down. The logging road he was on curved to the right and he could only see down it about two hundred meters.
“Targets are in a van. It’s moving west on the main logging road. Over.”
Gant checked his GPS. He was about four hundred meters from the main logging road. He could see that there was only one red dot now — the targets’ vehicle. “You’re sure both of them got in the vehicle?” he asked, still leery of the sniper.
“Roger that. Take a left when you reach the road.”
There were other symbols on the screen now. Two small blue dots — the reaction force from the compound. They were on the main logging road about two kilometers behind the red dot. Gant accelerated down the dirt road, between the tall pine trees lining either side, knowing he would reach the main trail just about the same time as the reaction force crossed by. He slowed slightly, wanting to avoid a collision with either the Humvee or pickup.
He alternated between quick glances down at the GPS and paying attention to the road. The intersection was coming up and he slowed further so he could take the turn onto the main logging trail. The slow became an abrupt halt as a Humvee roared by right in front of him, followed closely by a pick-up truck. Both vehicles were blacked out and Gant assumed the drivers were wearing night vision goggles.
Gant gave the motorcycle gas. As he turned left he noted that the only difference between this road and what he had been on was that it was slightly wider, but still composed of rutted dirt.
“I’m right behind you,” he called out into the radio.
Seeing that the road appeared as a relatively straight line on the GPS, Gant accelerated to keep up with the other vehicles. He had the motorcycle’s headlight off and the brake light disconnected so he raced through the darkness as a swift, black shadow. He saw no tell-tale red lights ahead and assumed the targets had done the same.
Gant took a chance and glanced down at the GPS to get an idea of spacing. The targets were about a kilometer ahead of him, the reaction force splitting the difference.
* * *
Inside the van, the Sniper slid between the seats as the Spotter drove and went into the back. He threw open a panel they had cut in the roof and looked up into the night sky. Even over the rumble of the van’s engine he could hear the C-130 overhead and he had a very good idea what it was doing. He slid on a pair of night vision goggles and peered down the road behind the van.
He spotted a familiar bulky form about five hundred meters back. No mistaking the silhouette of a Humvee. He looked past it and caught a glimpse of a second vehicle.
The Sniper reached down into his vest and pulled out a small transmitter. He flipped up the protective cover and pressed the red button with one hand while he ripped off the night vision goggles with the other.
A ball of flame leapt into the dark sky, followed seconds later by the rumble of the twin explosions taking out the reaction force’s vehicles and the men inside.
* * *
Gant slammed his right foot down on the rear brake as he squeezed the right front brake lever. He turned the handlebars at the same time, skidding to a halt as hot metal flew past him. He was blinded, the explosions over-loading his goggles. Once halted he ripped them off and stared at the burning vehicles holding the goggles in one hand while the computer inside tried to compensate for the overload.
The Humvee had run into the drainage ditch on the right side of the road and was in flames. The pick-up truck had been thrown on its side by the force of the blast and slid to a halt in the middle of the road.
Gant cursed to himself, realizing he should have considered the strong possibility that the reaction force vehicles would have been booby-trapped. It was what he would have done if he’d had the time to prepare for this mission. He ignored the confused inquiries from the Talon as he put the goggles back on.
Gant accelerated, whipping around the pick-up truck and past the Humvee. He kept his focus on the target’s vehicle which was now in sight, about seven hundred meters ahead. He could see someone’s head poking up out of the top of the van and debated whether to slam on the brakes and take a quick shot, but it was too far for the sub-machinegun. He needed to get closer.
* * *
“How many were in the reaction force?” Nero asked.
“Seven,” Masterson answered.
“And now it is Mister Gant who is out-numbered,” Nero said.
“Perhaps we should—“
“No locals,” Nero said.
* * *
The Sniper slid his night vision goggles back on and looked back at the burning vehicles, bright flares on the screen. All according to plan. Except for the Talon. That had been unexpected.
He glanced over his shoulder, checking their position. The Spotter was slowing the van, also aware of their position. They had rehearsed this several times, twice at night using goggles, one of over a dozen variations of escape and evasion plans they had come up with. So far, this one was working quite well.
The Sniper looked back to the burning vehicles and blinked. A blur raced past the burning Humvee. A motorcycle.
The Sniper grabbed a metal container hanging on a hook and opened the lid. Then he tossed it up into the air over the rear of the van, the can tumbling and releasing its contents.
* * *
Gant saw the man poking out of the van throw something into the air. He had scant seconds to make a decision. He immediately braked. The motorcycle skidded and he almost lost control, then came to a halt. He let the bike fall over, ignoring it, as he snapped up the sub-machinegun and aimed at the van, finger caressing the trigger.
And that’s when his night vision goggles flared, blanking out everything with an overwhelming pulse of bright light.
Gant ripped them off and stared toward the van, blinking, trying to regain his vision. There was no longer a need for night vision goggles as the sky above the van was streaked with arcing, red-hot flares. At least thirty or forty, Gant estimated as he watched them reach their apex, then arc over. That was when he realized something was different about these flares, as they had no parachutes to bring them lazily back to earth.
He looked below. The van was parked on the edge of the road near a bridge over a racing river. Gant began running forward, the stock of the gun still tight into his shoulder. The flares were hitting the dry timber and undergrowth, igniting fires. Something stuck to the bottom of his boot and Gant looked down: a caltrop, a three pronged device designed to rip into tires was stuck in the sole. He carefully pulled it out and looked about: the trail was littered with them. That was what the man had tossed out of the van just before firing the flares.
“We’ve lost thermals,” the Talon reported. “We no longer have the targets under observation. Last position was in the van. We’re circling, trying to see if we can pick them up outside of the fire.”
More out of frustration than anything else, Gant fired a quick burst from the MP-5, stitching a row of bullet holes in the back panel of the van. He knew both men were gone, but he made his way carefully to the van. The side door was open. Gant stuck his head in, looking for any sign there might be a piece of a cache report but there was nothing. The two targets had not planned to leave the van but they had been prepared to lose it.
His shoulders were hunched, half-expecting the van to explode. Gant quickly got out of the van and looked around. The woods were burning wherever a flare had come down, in some cases the pockets of flame were merging, threatening a major fire. The targets could have gone in any direction. The flares and subsequent fire meant they had been prepared to thwart thermal tracking from the air.
What else would I have done? Gant thought.
He spoke into the throat mike. “Talon, you need to call the local firefighters to get this thing under control. Where does this river go?”
“Wait one.”
Gant looked at the cool water rushing by underneath the bridge and he knew his targets had jumped into it, going with the flow. The water would mask their image so that thermals wouldn’t pick them up when they got outside the ring of fire.
“The river empties into a lake about two kilometers downstream. Pretty big lake, about ten kilometers long by six wide. One side of it runs along the main state road.”
Gant nodded to himself. The targets could come ashore anywhere. They most likely had a vehicle cached close to the road and would merge with the traffic. Gant considered calling the state authorities to place a road-block and discarded the idea as quickly. The targets would be prepared for that also.
“Alpha One, this is Talon. I have a secure communication line open and someone requesting to speak to you. Call sign Cellar One.”
Nero’s call sign. Gant sighed and walked down the road to a place where he was clear of the fire. “Go ahead, Cellar One.”
“Mister Gant.”
Gant flinched as he recognized the voice. Masterson. “Yes?”
“It appears our targets have gotten away and we are no closer to Emily Cranston’s location. I don’t suppose you found the rest of the cache report?”
“I did a cursory search of the van and didn’t spot it. If they wanted us to find it, they would have left it in the open as they did the others. We won’t find anything of importance in the van because they left it and didn’t destroy it.”
“And the targets succeeded in completing the mission they started in Colombia a year ago.”
Gant didn’t answer because it wasn’t a question.
“And Neeley is wandering around looking at a cold site in Alabama while you’re in the middle of a fire. Literally. At least in Virginia, working as part of a team, you got one of the targets. Here all we have are eight bodies.”
Gant reached the dirt bike. He sighed, then nodded to himself. “I fucked up.”
“The world is changing, Mister Gant,” Masterson said. “That’s why I’m here. You’ve never faced a team of rogues before. When it was individuals, you could go your own way and deal with the Sanctions. You need to be part of the team, Mister Gant. Use your team. Or else I will put Neeley in charge.”
The satellite connection went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Neeley shut off her satellite phone and pondered the position Hannah Masterson had just put her in. She had remained quiet during the conference call, not comfortable with secretly listening in, but doing so at Hannah’s request. She had also not been thrilled with Gant’s order to come here to the cache site. And even Bailey had expressed surprise upon seeing her arrive as he was preparing to leave. A bullshit mission for a bullshit reason.
Neeley walked around the open space near the tree, occasionally checking the pictures, notes and drawing she’d been given on arrival, while Bailey followed her. She finally came to the oak tree and stared at it in the harsh light of the klieg spotlights set up all around.
“How old was she?” she asked Bailey who was a shapeless form a few feet away.
“Nineteen.”
Neeley considered that. “When I was nineteen I was with Jean-Philippe in Berlin.”
“I know,” Bailey replied.
“She was partying with her girlfriends when she was kidnapped,” Neeley said, remembering the file, one of dozens she’d quickly read.
Bailey remained silent.
To be nineteen and that carefree. Neeley was having a hard time comprehending it. Jean-Philippe had been a terrorist, involved in the black market in Berlin. Their friends — their acquaintances — had all been shadowy figures in a gray world. It should have come as no surprise to her when he betrayed her. Handed her a bomb to carry on board a commercial airliner. But it had been. And that had been when she met Tony Gant, the current Gant’s twin brother. He’d taken the bomb, taken her, and her life had never been the same again.
Then she realized something about the current situation: Emily Cranston hadn’t had her Gant. Her person to step in when the evil of the world invaded. She was out there all alone. Neeley shivered, trying to hide the reaction from Bailey, who stood there like a statue.
“They cached her again,” Neeley said.
“Of course.”
“But in a worse place.”
“Why do you think that?” Bailey asked as calmly as if they we
re discussing the weather.
“Because they’re bad people,” Neeley said. “And bad always goes to worse.”
Bailey nodded. “True.” He cleared his throat. “But how could it be worse?”
Neeley considered that. She pointed at the tree. “Here she was in the middle of the woods. Alone. Isolated. No hope.”
“Ah,” Bailey said. “They put her in a place with false hope.”
“Yes. And not isolated. Closer to people. So close she could hear them or at least know they were close. But yet in a place where she couldn’t contact them.”
“Quite intriguing,” Bailey said.
Neeley turned and faced him. “Not intriguing. It’s her life.”
Bailey blinked, a strong sign of emotion for him.
“She’s being tortured in a game she never was a player in except by birth. She never made a conscious act that brought her to this.”
“What difference does it make?” Bailey asked in a level voice. “It does not change the parameters of the mission.”
“It does,” Neeley snapped. “Our targets know she isn’t a player. They’re using her — and they killed the others — to cause pain to the players. But in the end, our targets are going to want to take out the players. The question is, how does caching Emily Cranston help them achieve that goal?”
“It keeps us running in circles while they have another plan?” Bailey suggested.
Neeley nodded. “Most likely. Misdirection. And it’s probably a plan that’s already in play.”
“We have security on the primary players,” Bailey said.
“In four different places,” Neeley noted. “In their homes, where the targets know they will be. Where the targets can already have planned their attack. Maybe we should bring them together in one, more secure place. Someplace these guys couldn’t have thought of.”
Bailey considered that. “Not a bad idea. I suggest you run it by Mister Gant.”
Neeley shook her head. “I think I’ll run it by Doctor Golden first, then the two of us will talk to Gant.”
