"Okay, pal. It's your call."
"Would you go home and rest if it were your sister?"
The corner of Zinsser mouth lifted. "Of course I would."
"You're lying to me, aren't you?"
"Yup. Lying through my teeth. Just trying to do what's best for you."
"What's best for me is to find my sister and kill the guys who took her."
"Ease up on the killing talk, Rob. Killing a man isn't nearly as satisfying as you might think. I speak from experience."
"Hey, Zinsser."
He turned to see Chief Warrant Officer Terry Wallace. The man was a walking, talking example of "nondescript": average height, average build, and—to Zinsser—average intelligence. He wore an identical blue blazer to the one Zinsser wore. He had been on Wallace's bad side since he first showed up on Wallace's doorstep, fresh from apprentice agent training. Wallace dismissed Zinsser's Army record, much of which was redacted, leaving out missions that would never be discussed except by those who were there. Not knowing why Zinsser earned a free pass through the acceptance process remained a big, pointy burr under his heavy saddle.
"Uh-oh," Zinsser whispered.
"Trouble?" Rob looked worried.
"Not for you. Trouble with a capital T for me."
"Why? Who is—?"
Zinsser raised a hand. "Now might be a good time for you to head back to the ranch."
"I told you, I'm sticking with you."
Zinsser sighed. "Okay, just keep your mouth shut. Got it?"
"I can do that."
"I hope so."
"Zinsser, you and me need to talk."
"Sure thing, Chief, but aren't we already talking?"
The man's hazel eyes seemed to darken. Once again, Zinsser successfully ticked off his boss. "You know what I mean. Why are you here?"
"Working, Chief."
"Last I looked, I made case assignments."
Zinsser smiled sweetly but not sincerely. "That was true last I looked too."
"I didn't assign you to this case. It didn't come through channels. If the police hadn't called to complain about your presence, I wouldn't even know about it."
"I'm sure they meant well."
"I want an explanation and I want it now. No sugarcoating, no cute talk."
"Gina Moyer was apparently abducted last night."
"Who is Gina Moyer and why is it any of your business?"
"She's my sister."
Wallace glared at Rob. So did Zinsser. "Who's the kid?"
"Rob Moyer. Rob, this is my immediate superior, Chief Warrant Officer Terry Wallace, Army CID. He heads the office out of Fort Jackson."
"Pleased to meet you, sir."
Rob held out his hand, but Wallace looked at it like the boy just sneezed in it. He ignored the offer of a handshake. "I need to talk to Special Agent Zinsser."
The rebuff offended Rob. "Go ahead."
"I want to talk to him alone."
"Then get a room."
"You little snot, who do you think you are?" Wallace made a confrontational turn to Rob.
Zinsser put a hand on his boss's chest. "Easy, Chief. I can explain."
"Remove that hand, Zinsser, or I'll take it off and feed it to you."
Ice water flowed through Zinsser's veins. The hand remained. Zinsser looked deep into Wallace's eyes. A second later, Wallace took a step back.
"Rob Moyer is Stacy Moyer's son. His sister is the one who's missing. Since his father, Sergeant Major Eric Moyer, is on a Spec Ops mission, I felt the abduction fell under CID jurisdiction. Kidnapping is a felony."
Wallace frowned and faced Rob. "Your dad's overseas?"
"I don't know where he is. We never know. He just leaves when he's told to."
Wallace nodded. He was a pain in the department's collective rear end, but he always showed respect to the family of soldiers on foreign fields, although it seemed to give him indigestion.
"Why didn't you call me as soon as you heard, and by the way, how did you hear?"
"Chaplain Bartley called me at about two this morning."
"And why would he call you?"
"I served with Moyer."
Wallace raised an eyebrow. "You know the girl? You know the family?"
"I've knocked back a few beers at their house and eaten some pretty good barbeque."
Wallace worked his lips, as if doing so would send ideas to his brain. "That means you're not a disinterested investigator."
"Listen, Chief, I know there's a bit of a strain between us, which puzzles me—me being so lovable and all—but this case matters to me."
"I should remove you."
"You can if you wish, but I'm not going anywhere."
Wallace crossed his arms as if Zinsser had just given him a way out. "Then I can drum you from CID."
"If you must."
"You'd ruin your career over this?"
"I'd give my life over this. I owe Moyer a lot. More than you know."
"What? Did he save your life or something?"
"Something like that."
Wallace clenched his jaw and worked his lips even more. He raised a threatening finger but stopped when his cell phone sounded. He fetched it from his pocket and answered without taking his eyes from Zinsser. "What?"
He blanched.
Zinsser smiled.
"Yes, General. I'm on the scene now." A pause. "Yes, ma'am, I'm with Agent Zinsser right now." A longer pause. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Who called you?"
Wallace blanched some more. Another shade lighter and people would confuse him with an albino. Zinsser exchanged glances with Rob. "Wait for it," Zinsser whispered.
"Yes, General. Of course. I'll do exactly that. No, ma'am, there will be no problem. I will put every resource I have on it. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, General."
Wallace clicked off the phone. Zinsser thought of twenty piercing quips but kept them to himself.
"Brigadier General Irene Gore? The Irene Gore? Head of USACIC?" It took work for Zinsser to keep the corners of his mouth even.
"You know it was. It appears POTUS has made a personal appeal. So did the chairman of the Joint Chiefs."
"The president and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Seems like overkill to me. Whatever could they want?"
"You know what they want, Zinsser. I don't know who you've been sleeping with to get such favorable attention, but they want you on this case—no matter what."
"You should have told them you were going to drum me out of CID."
"Stuff it, Agent Zinsser. Fill me in."
"Will do."
COLONEL MAC SAT IN the aft-most seat of the CV-20 Gulfstream IV with a legal pad in front of him. On the floor around his seat were a dozen wadded pieces of paper. Mac was as good with a computer as most people but some things required pen and paper.
For the thirteenth time, Mac began writing the message he did not want to see. It comprised only a few lines:
Gina missing from home. Suspect foul play. CID and police on job. Chap there. Zinsser too. Can't extract. Continue with mission. Will keep you posted.
"Sergeant!"
Alan Kinkaid strode down the aisle of the aircraft. "Yes, sir?"
Mac handed the paper to the aide. "Send it. Make it happen quick."
"On it, sir."
Mac looked out the window, seeing only the tops of clouds and thought about the man he admired, the man he would call friend if rank and responsibility didn't prohibit it.
It didn't happen often, but every once in a while, Mac wished he had become a plumber.
LEV STOPPED THE VAN on a narrow cow path near the top of one of the highest hills south and across the river from Nov Arman. They were operating in daylight now, so the first bit of duty required reconnaissance to make sure they were alone. In the distance, Moyer could see a tiny village nestled in the foothills and a full klick from the Arman River, a lazy moving body of water that, based on the terrain, once ran deep. Now it seemed anemic.
Moyer studied his surroundin
gs: no military vehicles, just small shacks that passed for houses, horses, goats, cows, and the tilled fields of subsistence farmers—people who cared nothing for the outside world, international intrigue, or politics. He imagined their big concerns revolved around weather, farm animals, and meager crops. These were a people for whom fifty was elderly.
"Boss."
Moyer didn't bother lowering his binoculars. "Whatcha got, Junior?"
"Connie has come to life again."
The military had a long history of naming inanimate objects. For some reason "Connie the Communicator" had been chosen for the new digital device.
"Read it."
"Can't, Boss, it's Eyes Only."
"What? The thing is already encrypted six ways from Sunday."
"Can't explain it, Boss, but I have a guess."
"Which is?"
"It's personal."
Moyer secured his binoculars, rolled to his side, and reached for the device. "Personal? For me?"
"It's all I got, Boss."
Moyer pushed himself into a sitting position, crossed his legs, and set the communicator on his lap. He went through the security protocols.
A message appeared.
He read it, then covered his face. A moment later he slumped to the cold, damp ground.
"Boss?"
Moyer heard Pete but couldn't respond.
"Boss, you okay?"
He still couldn't move; couldn't think; couldn't speak. Bile rose in his throat. Tears flooded his eyes. A tsunami of fear tore though him.
"Boss, what's wrong?"
Moyer managed to shake his head.
Pete keyed his throat mike. "Shaq, Junior, Boss needs you on the double. On the double, Shaq. Boss, talk to me."
Pete picked up Connie. A second later he heard a long chain of curses.
PETE'S VOICE RATTLED IN Rich's brain. Shaq, Junior, Boss needs you on the double. On the double, Shaq. Boss, talk to me.
Rich was a big man. Linebacker big, but that didn't mean he was slow. He was moving before Pete could finish the sentence. He and J. J. had been scouting the high ground: a peak fifty feet higher than where they stopped on the back of the hillside. The run was down hill and Rich ran recklessly. Pete's message would have gone to each member of the team. The sound of J. J.'s bootfalls followed Rich.
It took less than two minutes to cross the distance, but it felt like two days to Rich. He found Moyer lying on his back, Pete kneeling next to him. Instinctively, Rich raised a hand, bringing J. J. to a stop, and raised his M4, scanning the area. He had heard no shot, no cry of pain, no echo of gunfire, but he was trained time and time again not to assume anything. From the corner of his eye, he watched J. J. do the same.
Jose and Crispin were jogging up the path. Crispin was in the lead, but Jose caught him by his pack and yanked the inexperienced soldier back. Jose raised his weapon. Crispin got the idea.
Slowly they advanced.
Pete caught sight of them and waved them over, something he wouldn't do if hostiles were involved. Three steps later, Shaq was at full speed again. He reached Moyer and Pete, and dropped to his knees. "Report."
Pete handed Connie to Shaq, who read the message. He said nothing. Instead, he handed the device to J. J., then sat down by his friend.
He put a hand on Moyer's arm. It was the only communication he could muster.
Lev stepped from the back of the FedEx truck, saw the scene, and approached. Rich watched him read their expressions. To the man's credit, he kept his mouth closed.
CHAPTER 22
PENG WAS A GRATEFUL man. When he pressed the small metal accelerator on the buggy and drove down the rear ramp and into empty air, he was certain his life would end fifteen thousand feet below. How long would it take to fall that far? Did it matter?
The cold air stung his face and cut through his field uniform as if the fabric were silk. The impact of the freezing air took his breath away. He forced himself to breathe even though every breath stabbed his lungs.
Thankfully the small cart, which Peng assumed would nose over the moment the rear wheels left the ramp, dropped wheels down, something the parachute needed in order to open correctly.
Parachuting equipment was not new. He saw trucks and Humvees dropped from large cargo planes. What he was in was light enough to make a parachute drop less complicated than dropping several tons of engine and steel siding from a moving aircraft. Equipment drops usually didn't include people strapped into the seats.
A few seconds after "departing" the altered MD-90, above the whistle of rushing air, Peng heard the flapping of the parafoil above his head. He turned his gaze up to a dark, rectangular-shaped parachute. It filled with air and his descent slowed. Twisting in his seat, he watched the other members of his team descending under successful parachute deployment.
"Not dead yet," Peng said to the open air. With the turn of a switch on the small metal dashboard, Peng transferred the power of the engine from the rear wheels to the propeller behind him. His forward motion increased. He used the throttle to increase the propeller's speed and control handles to either side of him to adjust the pitch and attack of the parachute. It took a little practice, but Peng soon had the hang of it.
The fog in his goggles caused by the sudden change in temperature cleared. While it never obscured his vision, it did give the world a milky-white appearance for the first few moments.
Once he had control of the craft, he began a slow circle to allow himself a quick look at the plane he left seconds before. It continued a gradual downward angle. Black smoke began to pour from the left engine. Jiang prepared him for this. For the ruse to work, the Qīpiàn needed to look in as much distress as possible. It looked real enough to Peng.
Below Peng was a patchwork of mountains, valleys, and uncountable tributaries. There were no cities, no towns, but he could see one village, nothing more than shacks and sheds, a short distance away. Patches of farmland covered every reasonably flat area. If it wasn't a mountain or a river, it was a furrowed field.
Per plan, Peng increased the rate of his descent. His orders were to get to the ground as fast as possible. Jiang thought through every aspect of the plan and its timing. During the briefing the colonel made clear his belief the ever-paranoid Russians would try to turn the craft around. Decades ago, China and the Soviet Union were good neighbors, but tensions and border clashes divorced the parties. Diplomats spoke in civil tones but trust was impossible. The year before, Russian spies were caught recruiting military contractors as agents. Peng was shocked; his own country engaged in the same activity. All large countries did. For China it was easier; it was one of the few major countries with a healthy economy. It had problems for a short time, but rebounded faster than anyone thought possible. Russia still struggled. Many of its people lost work and lived in poverty. Money made such people easy to recruit.
Exhilaration replaced Peng's apprehension and for a few moments he allowed himself to enjoy the adventure of flying over such beautiful albeit rugged terrain. He caught himself smiling.
The joy passed as he focused on the chosen landing site: a bit of ground identified as suitable by a Chinese spy satellite and a group of technicians specializing in photo interpretation.
Peng did another wide circle over the chosen landing area, gauging the wind and ground. He would have only one chance at this. The longer they stayed in the air, the greater chance someone would see them. As it was, the farmers he could see working the fields would take notice of them. Jiang assured the team the people in this area had little contact with larger populations. It was one reason they stayed mired in the nineteenth-century way of life.
Patches of snow remained on the higher mountains and in the shaded areas of some valleys. The field where Peng and his team would set down looked free of residual ice. It also looked free of large rocks that might upend him or one of his team. It was remarkably free of such things. Peng assumed it was a field left to fallow.
Peng adjusted his glide path and let
off the throttle. Moments later his wheels hit the damp surface and the parafoil collapsed behind him. He switched the drive train to his wheels, and drove to the edge of the field making room for his team.
He popped his restraints and scrambled from the buggy and turned to face the incoming buggy controlled by Hsu Li. Zhao Wen was in the seat next to him, holding the side rails as if trying to keep the contraption in the air. They touched down without incident. Two minutes later, Gao Zhi and Wei Dong came to a successful landing and stop.
Peng returned to his buggy and gathered the parafoil, carefully folding it and placing it in the storage bin just above the fiberglass-shrouded propulsion fan. Two of his men took defensive positions while he and the remaining two members secured their vehicles.
Ten minutes after touchdown, Peng and his unit were marching to an area a few kilometers north and into one of the wider valleys.
RICH READ THE MESSAGE on Connie again and handed it back to Pete. "Acknowledge the message as received and understood, Junior. Then I want you, Colt, and Hawkeye to surveillance positions. I don't want someone sneaking up on us."
"Roger that, Shaq."
They hesitated, then J. J. asked the question: "Is there anything we can do? Is the mission still a go?"
"Colt, it's a go until Boss says it isn't. Now give us some space." The three soldiers hustled off.
Rich looked at his fallen team leader, felled not by a bullet or IED, but by something more devastating than an improvised explosive device: fear for a loved one.
Sentences and phrases battled for attention in Rich's mind. What was needed? A word of comfort? A "chin up ol' boy"? Should he get in his friend's face and remind him how much was at stake?
He didn't know what to do, so Rich sat on the ground next to his friend and kept his silence.
THERE WAS A SMALL space between the arm Moyer used to cover his eyes and his face. Through one eye he could see a cerulean sky. A flock of ducks flying in V-formation ambled through the sky, headed for one of the many lakes and ponds dotting the area. A bird of prey, probably some kind of eagle, circled overhead. Maybe it was the first of a series of vultures. Moyer didn't know. Moyer didn't care.
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