Laughter from everyone at the table.
Father was talking with Selmo. Victor stared at the laughter in the video.
That man killed Marco, Victor thought. Lem Jukes, son of Ukko Jukes, heir to the fortune of thieves and murderers, killed Marco.
Concepción wanted them to focus on power and communication. Fine. Victor would do that. But he was also going to rebuild one of the PKs, a special one, strong enough to wipe that stupid grin right off Lem Jukes’s face.
CHAPTER 7
India
Captain Wit O’Toole sat up front in the cockpit with the pilot until the plane was an hour away from the drop zone. The eight passengers in the cabin were Wit’s newest recruits, soldiers plucked from Special Forces units in New Zealand, South Africa, Spain, Russia, and South Korea. In his most optimistic estimations, Wit had counted on finding six men to join MOPs. Coming home with eight was like Christmas come early.
None of the men had ever met one another before this flight, so Wit had intentionally left them alone immediately after the plane had taken off from a private airport in Mumbai. If he had sat with them, they would have deferred to him as their senior officer and waited for him to initiate conversation. But now, as Wit left the cockpit and made his way back to the cabin, he heard laughter and conversation as if the men were the oldest of friends.
Sociability and friendliness were the first traits Wit looked for in possible recruits. There were thousands of soldiers who could shoot with accuracy and fight with ferocity, but there were few who could quickly earn trust among foreigners and strangers. This was especially important in MOPs, whose soldiers often rushed into violent situations where civilians were being brutalized, often by their own militaries and governments. It meant MOPs had the difficult task of earning the trust of those who distrusted anyone in uniform. These men had what it took.
Wit entered the cabin, and the South Korean, a lieutenant named Yoo Chi-won, sprang to his feet, came to attention, and saluted. The others quickly followed his lead and stood up.
“As you were,” said Wit.
The men sat down.
“I appreciate the gesture, gentlemen,” said Wit, “but this is not the South Korean Army or the Russian Army or whatever. This is MOPs. We follow a different protocol. You need only salute me in formal settings, and those are rare anyway. You will show me a much greater respect in the field by immediately following orders. You need not even address me formally, if you wish. I answer to Wit, O’Toole, or Captain. And speaking of rank. As all of you have no doubt noticed from your introductions and insignia on your uniforms, I am not the only captain on this plane. We have several captains and lieutenants and NCOs among us. These ranks were all well earned. You are to be commended for them. But they are ranks from a different army. You are no longer a captain or a lieutenant. You are all equal. Should you choose to address each other formally, you will call each other ‘soldier.’ Soldier Chi-won. Soldier Bogdanovich. Soldier Mabuzza. I hold a rank because I have been doing this for a while and my superiors need someone to blame if something goes wrong.”
The men smiled.
“There are other small matters of protocol, but these we will pick up as we go along. At the moment, we have more pressing matters. Beneath your seats you will find masks with one hundred percent oxygen. I advise you to begin breathing that now.”
All eight men reached under their seats, found their masks, and put them on. Wit put his on as well, speaking through the transmitter at the base of the mask.
“Since all of you are trained in high-altitude jumps, I need not explain the importance of flushing all the nitrogen from your bloodstream prior to the jump.”
The men exchanged glances. Wit had not yet told them where they were going or what they would do when they got there. His instructions had simply been to come to a designated hangar at an airfield in Mumbai with nothing but the uniform they were wearing. A plane would be waiting.
“And yes, we are about to make a high-altitude jump,” said Wit. “Your new home for the next few months is a training facility in the Parvati Valley in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains in northern India. These two cabinets here contain the remainder of your gear. Leave your old uniforms here in a pile. You won’t need them. They represent your old life. You are MOPs men now. I suggest you change quickly.”
The men got up, opened the cabinets, and began distributing the gear. As Wit had suspected, they worked calmly, passing out the equipment and showing as much concern for one another as they did for themselves. They then removed their uniforms and dropped them where Wit had indicated. Wit could have asked them to come in civvies, but the ritualistic shedding of old affiliations helped remind the men where their new devotion lay.
Wit put on a dampening suit, then a jumpsuit, which was thick and heated and laced with the latest biometric sensors. There was other gear as well. Wit had placed a few exotic items in the bags to see how the men would respond. A Korean altimeter, for instance, was completely foreign to everyone but Chi-won. They were the best altimeters in the world, but they were exclusive to the Korean Army. Wit was pleased to see Chi-won quickly show the others how to strap the device to their wrists and plug it into their suits. The APAD—automatic parachute activation device—was a Russian model, and Bogdanovich kindly instructed the others on how it worked and what to expect in their heads-up display just before it activated.
Wit placed his holopad on a table and asked the men to gather. A holo appeared of a large military complex with barracks and training facilities and other buildings, all surrounded by a well-fortified wall.
“This is one of the training camps of the Indian Para Commandos,” said Wit, “one of the most elite Special Forces units in the world. The PCs are tough men, well equipped and expertly trained. At the moment, three hundred and seven of them are stationed here undergoing training. Their commanding officer is Major Khudabadi Ketkar, a good man and skillful soldier. Our assignment is to train with his men for the next seven weeks. To initiate the training, Major Ketkar suggested we make a little wager. A game of Capture the Flag. Thirty MOPs versus three hundred and seven PCs. The loser will clean the latrines and mess hall for the extent of the training. I accepted that wager. Not for the prize—we will clean the latrines and mess hall anyway. I accepted because this is a chance for me to show the other MOPs already on the ground that I have brought them eight men worthy to be counted among them. The nine of us are going to take the flag.”
The men were smiling.
“Now, here’s what we know,” said Wit. “The flag is here in Ketkar’s office.” He touched the holo and left a blinking red dot on one of the buildings, then waved his hand through the holo and zoomed in on the building. Walls disappeared, and the building became a three-dimensional schematic, showing four floors of offices. Twenty soldiers were patrolling the roof. Ten more were patrolling the halls inside. Forty others surrounded the building outside beside a blockade of assault vehicles.
“This is a live feed,” said Wit. “Ketkar has nearly a third of his forces guarding the flag. Each of these men is wearing a dampening suit similar to yours. Their weapons, like yours, are loaded with spider rounds. Hit them, and they freeze up. They’re out. However, the status of each suit is broadcast to every other suit. In other words, they will know the instant one of their men goes down. So they’ll know when and where we’re attacking.” He waved his hand through the holo again and it zoomed out to the entire compound. “There are guard towers here, here, and here. Each with snipers. The front gate is here. There is only a single road leading up to the complex. As you can see, that road is well defended. This here to the south is the Parvati River. It is fast moving, especially now in spring. Winter snowmelt and glacial thaw coming off the mountains raise the water a few feet. Our camp is here three miles to the south. It’s a wide, open meadow with a few tents. Twenty-one MOPs, the rest of our forces, are defending our flag there. From the air it looks like the most poorly defended piece of land
in the area, but our boys have prepared a few surprises. They are counting on us to bring them the enemy flag. I have promised them we would do so.” He stood erect and looked at their faces. “Now, we have about twenty-nine minutes before we reach the drop zone. Tell me how we’re going to do this.”
The men understood. There was no plan. They had twenty-nine minutes to devise one. The ideas came quickly, and Wit liked what he heard.
* * *
The back of the airplane opened, and Wit was the first one out. It was night, but even in the darkness, Wit could see curvature of Earth below him in all directions. They were only at 32,000 feet, but it felt as if they were in space, rocketing down to solid ground.
To the southwest Wit could see the lights of Bhuntar and the trail of village lights that extended northeast up the Kullu Valley along the Beas River. To the east were the lights of Manikaran, the small holy town where Hindus believed Manu re-created life after the great flood. The PC compound was between the two, sitting on the north side of the Parvati River.
Wit positioned his body into a steep dive, and the speedometer on his HUD ticked up to 210 miles per hour. The HUD also showed air temperature, heart rate, adrenaline levels, and the position of his eight recruits, all matching his speed behind him. They had agreed to land on the roof of Ketkar’s building—they could take out the twenty roof guards easily from the air. The challenge would be to do so without alerting everyone else.
The Spaniard, a computer expert named Lobo, came up beside Wit, getting into position. The plan was to override the Indian’s network so that downed Para Commandos appeared healthy and unhurt to everyone else. The MOPs wouldn’t be in range of the network until about five thousand feet, however, so Lobo would have only a few seconds to get into their network and do his business before Wit and the others started picking off guards on the roof.
“You ready, Lobo?” Wit asked, as they dropped through some cloud cover.
“My eyes are sore, sir. I’ve been blinking like a madman. But I’m ready.” As soon as everyone had agreed to Lobo’s idea back on the plane, Lobo had stepped aside and began blinking out a program with his HUD. “I also whipped up a little feedback for the PCs’ radios to mask any noise from our descent.”
“Well done.”
Wit’s HUD beeped, signaling it was time to slow down. He switched position, lying flat and building up wind resistance. Lobo shot ahead. The compound was coming up fast. Spotlights swept the area outside the fence. Wit could see vehicles now and the guard towers. The valley was steep and narrow, and the hillsides were thick with evergreens. The Parvati River was a thin line of white running southwest. They were miles from any village. The HUD beeped again, and Wit extended his breaker wings; the swaths of fabric in his suit slowed his descent even more.
Lobo’s chute opened far below him.
Wit descended another three seconds before opening his chute and getting his weapon into position. Now he was beside Lobo and three other chutes. They would be the first wave. The next five would land immediately thereafter. Wit’s HUD zoomed in on the roof, and the heat signature of twenty men appeared. Wit’s computer selected them all, identifying them as TAFTs, or targets for termination. Wit blinked at the five men he intended to take, selecting them, and watched on his HUD as his teammates selected the others.
“Now, Lobo,” said Wit.
Lobo’s response was almost immediate. “Clear. Go.”
The silencer on Wit’s weapon muffled the fire, and his five targets on the roof all took a spider round, their suits going stiff and turning red. Wit touched down and released his chute. No one was firing at him. The other roof sentries were down. He grabbed his chute and stuffed it under one of the red PCs. He could hear the man’s muffled complaints behind his visor, and Wit put a finger to his own visor over his lips, telling the man to stay quiet.
The other five MOPs landed on the roof and began tucking their chutes away. Lobo was kneeling beside one of the downed PCs with a wire connected to the man’s helmet. It was only a matter of time before the men on the ground and those in the towers did a check-in with the men on the roof. If the PCs found the roof silent, they’d know the roof was compromised. Lobo was downloading all of the chatter the sentry had heard and given that night. Voice manipulation software would do the rest.
“Status, Lobo?” Wit asked.
Lobo’s lips moved inside his helmet, and then after a brief delay, Wit heard Lobo’s words in his own helmet. Only, it wasn’t Lobo’s voice. It was deeper, with an Indian accent, no doubt identical to that of the downed PC. “All set, Captain. If they call up for a status, I’ll tell them all is hunky dory on the roof.”
“Let’s move,” said Wit, leading the others through the roof entrance. They went down a stairwell, across a short corridor, and onto the third floor, taking down four more sentries along the way. These they dispatched with spider pads, small magnetic discs that were the dampening-suit equivalent to a fatal knife wound. Slap a pad on a suit, and the person goes red. Much quieter than gunfire.
A sandbag barricade with four sentries blocked the entrance to Ketkar’s office. The New Zealander, an SAS officer whom Wit had nicknamed Pinetop, took the gear and weapon off the downed sentry at Wit’s feet and began walking down the center of the corridor toward the barricade. The lights were off, and only Pinetop’s silhouette was visible in the darkness. The sentries mistook him for someone else until he was right on top of them. Four shots later, the hall was clear.
Major Khudabadi Ketkar was sitting behind his desk in a dampening suit with a smile on his face when Wit entered. He stood and extended a hand. “Captain O’Toole. I suppose I should not be surprised to see you. Welcome. And I see you brought seven of your finest men.”
“All of my men are my finest, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Mrs. Ketkar is well, I hope.”
“She is nagging me like a frightened hen, but my ears have grown accustomed. She wants to know when you’re coming to dinner again. She calls you ‘the handsome American.’ I pretend not to be jealous.” He looked past Wit, saw the four downed sentries at the barricade, and smiled again. “Those are four of my senior officers. I don’t think they’ll like you very much after tonight, Captain.”
“Few people do, sir. Occupational hazard.”
Ketkar smiled. “I hope they put up a good fight at least before you shamed them in front of their commanding officer.”
“Yes, sir. They are fine soldiers. It was difficult to overrun their position.”
“Funny,” said Ketkar, smiling. “I didn’t hear so much as a scuffle.” He picked up the neatly folded flag on his desk and handed it to Wit. “You must tell me how it was done, though,” he said.
“HALO jump, sir.”
Ketkar frowned. “Attacking from the air? That’s breaking the rules, isn’t it?”
“I was not aware that our game had any rules, sir.”
Ketkar laughed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. It’s a bitter irony, though. The PCs are paratroopers. You would think we would look to the sky.” He sighed. “Well, you are to be commended for coming this far, Captain. But surely you must realize that escape is impossible. My men have these facilities surrounded. They will never let you out of here.”
“With all due respect, sir, I think they will. They’ll open the front gate for us.”
Ketkar looked amused. “And why would they do that?”
“Because you will ask them to, sir.”
“Forgive me, Captain, but our friendship only goes so far. I will do nothing of the sort.”
“No, sir. I will do it for you. We have enough samples of your voice now.” Wit clicked over to the private frequency. “You ready, Lobo?”
“You’re good to go, sir,” said Lobo.
Wit began speaking, but it was Ketkar’s voice that came out of the speaker on Ketkar’s desk. He was broadcasting to every PC. “Gentlemen, this is Major Ketkar. I have just received a personal call from Captain Wit O’Toole of MOPs congratulating
us on our victory. Many of you know, but some of you may not be aware, that I sent a small strike force ahead of our main force and asked them to observe strict radio silence. While our main force engaged the MOPs at their camp, creating a distraction, our strike unit has sneaked through and taken the flag from Captain O’Toole without suffering a single casualty. They are now approaching the base. I will meet them outside the gate, along with my senior officers, to give them a hero’s welcome. Once they’re inside, I expect you to do the same. Our friends in MOPs fought valiantly, but we have shown these cocky bastards who the real soldiers are.”
There was a cry of approval and applause from outside.
Major Ketkar was no longer smiling. “Well, that was unexpected.”
“Forgive me, sir,” said Wit. “I hope this doesn’t damage our future dinner plans.” He politely slapped a spider pad dead center on Ketkar’s chest.
* * *
Lobo had two cars waiting down in the building’s garage. Wit and the other MOPs climbed inside. All of them were now wearing the red berets of the Indian Para Commandos. At a distance, in the dark, they might pass for senior officers, but if anyone got a close look, the ruse would be up.
“Make a show if it,” said Wit. “Lots of celebratory honking.”
Three of them carried small Indian flags on sticks that they had taken from Ketkar’s desk. They cracked the windows and stuck the flags outside, waving them ceremoniously. Lobo pulled out of the garage, and Bogdanovich, at the wheel of the second car, followed. As soon as both cars were away from the building, Lobo started blaring the car horn in short beeps. The PCs, who were still a distance away, cheered and raised their weapons over their heads.
“They’re opening the gate,” said Wit. “Don’t gun it, Lobo. Keep a normal speed. You’re driving a major.”
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