"We go in ten."
There was no hoopla, no exclamation of bravado. Experience taught his men the work they did was no game, no clip from a war movie. Each man was here as a volunteer; each willing to lay down his life for a team member and for the mission.
Crispin rose but the others remained seated. Last year they nearly lost two of the team; the year before they lost Martin "Billy" Caraway. Over time, a new tradition rose. Rich led them off. He reached in the breast pocket of his battle dress uniform and removed a photo of his wife, Robyn. Jose followed with a photo of his wife, Lucy; seven-year-old Maria; eight-year-old Matteo; ten-year-old Jose, Jr.; and the newest Medina, two-year-old Tito. He kissed the photo and set it on the table. Pete Rasor drew a photo of his pretty wife from his uniform and, like the two men before him, dropped it on the table. J. J.'s hand trembled slightly as he studied the image of Tess. He set her photo on the pile. Moyer stepped to the table, retrieved a picture he studied for a long moment, letting his eyes linger on the smiling faces of Stacy; his daughter, Gina; and his son, Rob. His eyes burned. He set the picture down, as if a quick motion would shatter it.
Shaq put a hand on the pile of photos. J. J., Jose, Pete, and Moyer stacked hands on top of his. There was a pause and Shaq looked at Crispin. "Get over here, Hawkeye."
"I didn't bring a picture."
"Doesn't matter," Shaq said. "Get a hand in here."
Crispin complied. Rich looked at Moyer. Moyer straightened his back and said, "For them, and for those like them, we do this."
The team repeated the words. "For them, and for those like them, we do this."
A second passed in silence.
Moyer withdrew his hand. "Showtime."
"I TAKE IT YOU'VE done something like this before?" Sasaki motioned at the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft setting on the deck near the stern. Lines attached to a crane formerly used to hoist crab pots were secured at key points.
"Not off a fishing vessel." Moyer and his team moved to the fifteen-foot-long, inflatable rubber boat.
"I'm sure it's exactly the same as you've done before, except different in every way."
"You are a comfort, Commander."
"I like to be encouraging. Just make sure you don't scratch anything."
"Mount up, men." Moyer stepped into the rear of the boat.
"Is this what you guys call a rubber duck?" Rich joined Moyer in the back.
"Sometimes. Rubber duck. Zodiac. Floating coffin. It's all the same." Sasaki placed a hand on one of the lines while the rest of the team took their places. "We don't want to leave any evidence of your arrival, so my man will be bringing the CRRC back. Which means you'll be on your own."
The comment was not news. Moyer and the commander went over the details several times. "Understood." Moyer checked his men. "On your order, Commander."
Sasaki stepped back and twirled a finger in the air. The small crane lifted the boat easily. Several crewmen held hand lines attached to the small craft to keep it from swinging out of control. The moving ship, which Sasaki slowed to just a couple knots, made the inflatable boat swing like a pendulum. Two minutes later, the crane operator moved the boat over the rail. Where once the hard deck was below, now there was a black ocean. Waves slapped the side of the fishing vessel.
"Yea though I am lowered into the ocean of death, I shall fear no evil—"
"Colt," Shaq said.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"Roger that, Shaq."
"Okay, gentlemen, prepare to cast off lines on my say-so. We need to be quick. If we take too long we'll smash into the hull a few too many times for my liking. Clear?"
"Clear," Moyer said.
The boat hit the water at the top of a swell and then immediately dropped several feet into the trough. The crane operator wasted no time slacking the line.
"Now," the petty officer snapped. J. J. and Pete who were at the boat's bow freed the lift lines. Moyer and Rich did the same at the stern. Crispin and Jose sat in the middle, each holding the man in front of them.
"Bowlines free," J. J. said.
"Aft lines free," Rich shouted.
Before the night could swallow the last syllable, the petty officer powered the outboard motor and steered away from the Komogata Maru. From the ocean surface, the fishing boat seemed ten times larger than it did from the deck.
Moyer lowered his NVGs. The night vision goggles turned the dark into green daylight. He first scanned the sea for other ships, although he knew there were none. The electronic equipment aboard the Komagata Maru assured them of that, but Moyer wanted to see for himself. Any ship with nighttime running lights would be visible to the unaided eye but would light up like a tiny sun through the electronically enhanced goggles.
Satisfied no other ship was in the area, Moyer turned his attention forward to the dim shore of Russia and remembered the stack of photos they left behind.
CHAPTER 11
MAJOR BRUCE SCALON STOOD in the STRATCOM video conference room, what his team started calling the "bull pen." It was the same room where he and Eric Moyer's team discussed mission parameters. This time, however, it was not the gruff, stern-looking Colonel MacGregor filling the screen. Instead, Scalon and his aide Captain Tim Bryan had their gazes fixed on a dark, nearly featureless image. To the right side of the screen was a dark shape with well-defined lines; to the far left the mass of dark lightened some and a few bright splotches of light appeared.
"Coastal towns." Scalon pointed at the lights, as if commenting on a painting in a museum.
Tim nodded. "They made a wise choice. I don't see much standing between them and the shore."
"It's the things we don't see that worry me." The major put his hands behind his back and tried to look nonchalant. Inside, however, a Category 5 hurricane raged. He admired Tim, who looked as comfortable as a man in his living room watching a documentary.
"We all worry about that, sir."
"Do you think they'll succeed?" Scalon kept his eyes glued to the monitor.
"No one knows, sir. We always went in full of confidence—at least on the outside. If we had doubts, we kept them to ourselves. It's the way of our breed. Moyer and his men might belong to a different branch of the military, but at times like this, we are all brothers. I don't have a full background on the team, but they struck me as being tops in the game."
"If only it were a game."
"There were other teams they could have called, yet the brass chose these guys. I gotta believe they had good reason."
"You are worried, aren't you?" Scalon cut a glance Tim's way.
"Worried?" He paused. "I suppose so."
"Wish you were with them?"
Tim gave an almost imperceptible nod. "It's been decided that, for me, those days are over, sir. That being said, I wish I could be there when they rescue our own."
"If they rescue our men."
"That's a big 'if.' There's always something that can go wrong."
Scalon watched the image. The KH-14 satellite was in its second low orbit pass of the day, just 175 miles overhead. During daylight, the thirty-thousand-pound satellite could resolve items less than a foot across. At night, using infrared and low-light intensification technology, the bus-sized eye-in-the-sky could still see objects less than two feet across.
Between the fishing vessel Komagata Maru and the empty stretch of beach on the eastern Russian coast was a small object leaving a white streak in its wake. The moment the small craft stopped its forward motion, Scalon picked up the phone.
"Get SECDEF on the horn." Thirty seconds later, Scalon heard the secretary of defense's voice.
"Mr. Secretary. Major Scalon here. Team is feet dry." Scalon listened for a moment. "Yes, sir. We wish them Godspeed as well. Good night, Mr. Secretary."
Scalon hung up.
PRESIDENT HUFFINGTON NORMALLY SLEPT soundly. Seldom did the pressing problems of leading a country with 350 million residents keep him from falling fast asleep. His declining position in the
opinion polls, something that happened to every president, hadn't deprived him of a single wink. Tonight, however, was different. His mind, which ran like a race car eighteen hours a day, had a stuck throttle. He stared at the ceiling, flopped around on the bed as gently as possible to keep from waking his wife, and tried to bore himself to sleep citing cases learned in law school.
Sleep refused to come.
Several times he tried to ignore the cause of his anxiety, but each time his internal argument lost ground. As president, he sent men into harm's way many times. The history books wouldn't record most of those. He also knew Spec Ops teams went into action without his knowledge. That came by plan. He simply couldn't oversee every detail and had to trust his military leaders to act with wisdom and discretion.
Moyer's team was different. Those men saved his and his wife's lives and that of other G-20 leaders. The men were not nameless warriors. He knew each one and even made it possible for one to have his wedding in the Rose Garden. To lose a soldier he didn't know tore at his gut; to lose any of these men meant the loss of a friend. It was the reason he tried to avoid friendships with those he might have to send to their deaths.
The BlackBerry phone by his bed vibrated and the screen glowed. He retrieved it and read a brief message from his secretary of defense.
FEET DRY.
There would be no sleeping tonight.
CHAPTER 12
MOYER KEPT AN EYE on Crispin as they approached shore. Insertion into hostile territory would frighten any man with half a brain. Moyer knew how the other members of his team would react. He had been in dicey situations with them in a dozen different countries. Crispin, however, was the unknown. It was one thing to excel in training; it was a completely different matter to go up against a real enemy.
Over the years of his service, Moyer saw men who were brave and steady on the military base but stumbled on feet of clay the first time a bullet whistled by their ears. He never criticized those individuals. They were probably smarter than he.
So far Crispin did everything well and without hesitation. He even removed the almost ever-present earbuds without Moyer's prompting.
The petty officer slowed the CRRC a mile out and even more when they were a hundred yards from the shore. The outboard motor was noisy and sound carried over water very well. The insertion point was selected carefully. It was a short span of sand surrounded by rugged rocks and low cliffs. In theory, no one would be around, but theory had a way of going south. One old insomniac who enjoyed a little nighttime surf fishing could blow the whole operation.
The petty officer guiding the boat operated it like an Indy racer, familiar with every nuance of the craft and of the sea. Moments ago, he steered through low surf, timing his approach to ride the incoming waves. The boat beached as if the sailor practiced the maneuver at this spot a hundred times.
Moyer gave no orders. There was no need. The thick, rigid, rubber hull slid up the sand and his men sprinted from the craft. J. J. and Pete were first and ran two yards and dropped to their bellies, weapons pointed before them, sweeping the beach. J. J. carried an M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System; Pete an M4A1 carbine.
Jose and Crispin were on their heels, taking positions a few yards to either side of the first two men.
Moyer followed Rich from the boat. Both men stopped, turned, and pushed the Zodiac back into the water. The petty officer would have a challenge getting back through the surf without cranking the throttle enough to be heard a mile away, but Moyer was certain, based on what he already saw the man do, the sailor would make it happen. Had there been houses, industry, or towns nearby, they would have rowed the last hundred yards and another sailor would have been aboard to help row back out. That wasn't needed here.
Moyer's eyes, aided by the NVGs he wore, scanned the area. Nothing in the green, light-enhanced image.
He started for a small cliff on the south side of the beach, jogging through the thick sand. A glance to his side revealed his men doing exactly as they planned: weapons at the ready and moving from side to side and up to the high ground.
The sand gave way to broken shale and loose rock. Using the sling on his M4, Rich shouldered his weapon, put his back to the cliff face, and cupped his hands. Moyer estimated the top of the drop-off at nine feet, an easy scale.
Moyer pointed at J. J. who stepped forward, placed a foot in Rich's hand, and stood as if he were standing in a stirrup. Pete and Jose kept their weapons pointed at the top of the cliff. Crispin and Moyer kept an eye on the beach around them.
Slowly, J. J. peered over the cliff's edge. "Now."
Rich lifted and J. J. pulled himself over the edge. Moyer couldn't see what J. J. was doing, but he knew anyway. His weapons expert would be flat on his stomach, surveilling the area.
"Clear."
The announcement came over the earpiece Moyer and the others wore. He motioned to Crispin who followed J. J.'s example. Jose went next, then Pete. Moyer was next. Rich, whose strength still amazed Moyer even after so many missions, put a little extra into the lift. For a moment, he was sure his friend was going to throw him up the cliff.
Moyer and Jose leaned over the cliff. Rich took several steps back to get a running start. He planted a boot in the side of the cliff and reached for the upper edge. Moyer and Jose each grabbed an arm and helped the big man up and over the side.
Jose triggered his tactical throat microphone. "You ever heard of Jenny Craig, big guy?"
"You want your kids to grow up without a father, Doc?"
"Hey, I'm just sayin', amigo. You're just a few pounds away from looking good."
"Boss, permission to squash Doc like a bug."
"Denied. For now." Moyer was on his feet and moving to an asphalt road a short distance away. The macadam had so many holes it reminded him of a bombed-out runway.
As planned, the team split into two teams of three. One squad on each side of the road. Rich led Jose and Crispin on the eastern side of the road; Moyer took point on the western edge. Also per plan, Rich's group stayed fifty yards to the rear giving one team the opportunity to come to the aid of the other should the need arise.
Moyer set off in double time, his eyes ever forward looking for headlights or movement that would indicate they were no longer alone.
He picked up the pace, keeping in mind it did no good to wear his men out before they were thirty minutes into a mission.
TWO KILOMETERS LATER, THEY departed from the road without seeing another human. Moyer could only imagine what someone driving down the road might think if they caught sight of six heavily armed, helmeted men jogging along the path.
The area around them was bare with areas of low shrubs. Hills still clinging to what remained of their snow blankets loomed to the west.
Moyer slowed his men as a weatherworn building came into view. It looked like a two-story barn without the accompanying farmland. Its wood siding was stained from years of resisting rain, snow, wind, and months of freezing temperatures. It was the kind of building a landscape painter would enjoy replicating on canvas. To Moyer, it represented the next step in the mission.
A small grove of Siberian larch stood a few yards from the road. Moyer and his team took cover behind the trees. It was still several hours before sunrise, a realization that made his mind run home. There was almost a fifteen-hour difference between here and his South Carolina home. What was his family doing with their afternoon? Moyer refocused his thoughts. He had business.
Moyer raised a small pair of M25 stabilized binoculars to his eyes and studied the building and the few small shacks around it. No indications of life; no activity. "Place looks abandoned."
"Look at this place," Rich said. "Would you hang around? Cold, desolate, no fast-food joints."
"It's a good thing we're trained to endure such hardships." Jose kept his voice low.
"Desolate is what we want right now." Moyer lowered the binoculars. "That's our building. We go in quiet but loaded. Shaq, you take Junior and cross the road. A
pproach the structure from the rear. I'll take Hawkeye and we'll come in from the north side. That should keep us from view of anyone who might be watching from the other buildings."
"You sure you don't want me to take the new guy?"
"Thanks, but I don't want him showing you up. Hawkeye, leave your toys." Moyer turned to J. J. "Colt, you and your M110 take a sniper position forward and keep an eye out for problems. Doc, you be his extra eyes."
"Roger that, Boss." J. J. worked his way to the front of the small stand of trees and removed the lens cover of the AN/PVS-174 night sight. The Army Navy/Portable Visual Search device turns night into day. Moyer watched as Jose took a position a few feet to J. J.'s right.
"Let's do this fast and sweet, Shaq."
"Will do, Boss. Will do." Rich turned to Pete. "Let's hit it, Junior."
"On your six, Shaq."
The two sprinted across the narrow road and a dozen yards farther on. Each man moved quickly but with caution. Moyer gave them two minutes before following his assistant team leader. He wished for more cover but nothing was available. It was one reason they worked at night.
The industrial building grew in Moyer's NVGs but still no motion. What little intel they had for the region gave no indication hostiles waited for them, but there was—somewhere—an Air Force Spec Ops team that might beg to differ.
Rich and Pete made it to the back of the building without incident; Moyer and Crispin arrived at the side of the building moments later.
"I got a door here." Rich's voice came over Moyer's earpiece.
"Understood. Colt?"
"All clear, Boss."
The wall by Moyer had a series of six double-hung windows, each covered in grime. He saw no lights. Still, he raised a pair of fingers to his eyes, then pointed at the windows. Crispin nodded, then glanced in the window nearest him and immediately pulled his head back. With a shake of his head he indicated he saw nothing. Moyer did the same with the window close to him: nothing but blackness.
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