Gemini Cell: A Shadow Ops Novel (Shadow Ops series Book 4)

by Myke Cole

  And then even that hint of civilization was swallowed by the darkness, and the landscape gave over to broken, arid barrens dotted with tiny growths of scrub plant life.

  They flew for an hour, with Schweitzer spotting only one person, a tiny figure wrapped in a single bit of dirty cloth, herding a small cluster of scrawny goats with a long stick. The air began to cool as they went on, the ground rising sharply, becoming richer with plant life. Soon the ground dropped off sharply into the ravines and peaks he knew from his time out here. His phantom stomach clenched instinctively, and his memories began to reel back images, fire coming from all directions, villagers who smiled at you and then shot at you once your back was turned. The nagging lack of finality, of being able to be sure that you were doing any good, of cutting off the hydra’s head only to have four more rear up in its place.

  Ninip observed the reaction with interest. These are hill people. Here the professional is not enough. Here, you need a king.

  Schweitzer said nothing as the helo finally began to shed altitude. A tight ring of concrete barricades and piled sandbags hemmed in a postage stamp of a camp against the side of a rock face that looked like it had been ripped off a larger mountain and set there deliberately. Guard towers dotted the peak. Schweitzer’s augmented vision made out a mortar position there, with spotters and shooters carefully camouflaged alongside.

  They were waved in by a ground crew with dimly lit wands, which were extinguished immediately after the helo was in position, leaving the pilots to eyeball the rest of the descent and landing.

  They were met on the ground by a group of Americans in Pakistani army uniforms, with thick beards and long hair. Schweitzer immediately recognized the steel-eyed confidence, the unflappable acceptance of the strange, the subtle notions, like civilian hiking boots and nonstandard drop-holsters. Minor augmentations to their Pakistani AK-47s. An ACOG scope, two magazines duct-taped together, a wooden butt stock replaced with a plastic folding one. Dogs came with them, Belgian Malinois with jet-black muzzles, eyes as hard and alert as their owners’.

  Schweitzer couldn’t be certain if they were SEALs, but they were cut from the same cloth, the community of hard operators he’d once called home. A pang of nostalgia dug at him, and Ninip snarled contempt while simultaneously hungrily taking in every detail about the men.

  “Sir,” one of the men said. He might have been an officer or a private, distinguished only by the fact that he was speaking. Rank was hidden and virtually meaningless in this world, as were all the tiny touchstones of uniform and protocol that the rest of the military swore by. These operators were professionals. They didn’t need those parameters to do their jobs.

  Artists, as Schweitzer had been.

  As you still are, Ninip said, as we are together.

  “So, this is him,” the man said.

  Eldredge was unclipping his carabiner, stepping out of the helo cabin. “This is him. Let’s get him briefed up.”

  The men’s eyes flowed over Schweitzer and Ninip’s strange armor, their tinted visor, the modified weapon slung across their shoulders. “Looks like he’s kitted up to go right now.”

  “That’s because he’s ready to go right now,” Eldredge replied. “If conditions are favorable to taking the target immediately, we’re ready to jump as soon as he’s processed the targeting package.”

  The man nodded at Eldredge’s words, but his eyes stayed locked on Schweitzer and Ninip’s visor, as if his sight could bore through it.

  One of the Belgians padded silently forward, sniffing at Schweitzer and Ninip’s toe. A moment later, its hair stood on end and it backed away, a deep growl sounding in its throat. The other dogs joined it, then set up a chorus of slavering barks, lunging at their leads.

  Ninip surged in answer, and their shared body trembled as Schweitzer fought him down.

  When the dogs could not be calmed, their handlers walked them, still barking, into the distance. The man now stared hard at Schweitzer, eyes slits. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  Eldredge opened his mouth to answer, but Schweitzer did the bellows dance with their dead lungs and throat. “No.”

  The man jerked his head back at the croak, made to say something else, but Eldredge cut him off. “Please. Command wants this target actioned as soon as possible. We can’t be delaying that because the chemical treatment in his armor frightens dogs. Let’s get moving.”

  The man looked as if he would say more, then reluctantly led the way to a long, low shack that sheltered in a deeper pool of darkness cast by the shadow of the peak.

  The shack and its interior were as familiar as a favorite chair. Cheap plywood under a corrugated steel roof, covered in sandbags. It was standard architecture for the kind of longer-term temporary construction done by the navy’s construction battalions, the Seabees who had built pretty much every structure Schweitzer had ever slept in besides his own home.

  The smell of the cheap pine mixed with the standard smells of spent fuel, cordite, and alcohol-heavy hand sanitizer to evoke the world he’d known all his professional life.

  Cheap metal folding chairs ran in regimented rows before a rolled-down projection screen. A laptop was hooked up to the projector, suspended from the ceiling, displaying the first of a set of PowerPoint slides. OP NIGHTSHADE was written across the top of the screen, the bottom scrolled with all the standard warnings, stating the classification level of the briefing and the dire consequences that would surely befall any who let those secrets slip.

  What . . . ? Ninip began.

  Secrets, Schweitzer cut him off. Always secrets.

  Ninip nodded. Apparently spycraft was as old a trade as warfighting.

  Jawid paused at the doorway, his eyes ranging over the dark horizon, his brow creased, and a tenseness visible in his shoulders that made him look like a man expecting a blow. Ninip followed Schweitzer’s gaze, slid into control of their shared nose, sniffed the air for Jawid’s scent. It was acrid and metallic, much like the smell of fear, but this was different, heart deep and longing. Eldredge took his elbow, whispered in his ear. Jawid nodded, his shoulders slowly settling to level, then slumping in what looked like fatigue. He joined Schweitzer and Ninip as the three of them made their way to chairs in the back, took their seats.

  The smell began to fade, but Schweitzer clung to it, tried to envision it as a trail, much as he had with Sarah’s perfume. He receded back into the darkness, envisioned the path stretching out, connecting him to Jawid. Where Sarah’s perfume evoked the pink and crimson of the crushed rose petals she used to make her perfume, Jawid’s worry was yellow and jagged, the sediment of chemical runoff, an emotional buildup of yellowcake uranium. Schweitzer pushed himself along it, reaching out for Jawid. What’s bugging you?

  Jawid stiffened in the chair next to him, turned to look at him, eyes wide.

  Ninip swarmed up behind him, scrambling up the link to the Sorcerer, reaching for him, ravenous. Jawid’s eyes narrowed, and Schweitzer felt the man’s concentration press inward, pushing back against them both before withdrawing totally as the connection was severed.

  The fuck? Schweitzer whirled on the jinn. Ninip said nothing, only reaching with disappointment for the trail Schweitzer had created. You fucking ruined it. I didn’t know it was two-way. He’s only contacted us before.

  Ninip shrugged, but Schweitzer caught a flash of something from the presence, a child’s sheepish, smiling guilt.

  And something else. A fleeting image from his connection with Jawid. A woman. A girl, really, no older than seventeen. Dark eyes glittering, her long hair peeking out from beneath a dark blue head scarf. She was smiling shyly. A sister? A lost love?

  He reached deeper, but a man had stepped in front of the screen at the front of the display. He wore muddy blue jeans and a button-down flannel shirt. A ball cap sporting a subdued American flag packed down a tangle of unruly hair, dangling down alon
g a patchy beard. A pistol occupied a hip holster, police-style. He’d likely tangle the handle under his body armor if he ever dried to draw it in a fight. His fleshy neck and chin stood out in stark contrast to the hard angles of the men in the Pakistani uniforms. This was no operator. Intel.

  “Welcome to COP Garcia, sir. I’m Ty.” His voice was deep, flat, the hard tones of a man trying hard to sound authoritative. While he lived, Schweitzer had been briefed by dozens of these types. They all talked with the same self-conscious macho affectation.

  Ninip picked up on Schweitzer’s disdain and sneered.

  Lock it up, Schweitzer said. This is our targeting package, and that’s the expert on the target.

  Ty paused, unsure of how to proceed. This part of the briefing would usually consist of the team making small talk, letting them know how they were settling in, gently griping with their relief, or the base CO. It was the time to ask the new arrivals if they needed anything.

  But Schweitzer and Ninip had been there for a few minutes. They hadn’t asked for rack time, or a bathroom, or something to drink. They’d walked their shared body into the room, sat down, carbine still slung and helmet firmly in place.

  Eldredge came to his rescue. “Thanks, Ty. I know this isn’t SOP, but we’ve been told to light a fire under this. Command wants us in the field right away. Our operator has all the necessaries locked up. He just needs briefed and deployed.”

  “Right,” Ty said. “So, I just got the cable on you guys a few hours ago.”

  “Secrecy is critical here,” Eldredge said.

  One of the Americans in a Pakistani uniform folded his arms across his chest. “Says no team, just him.”

  “Sorry, you are?” Eldredge asked.

  “Sergeant Major McIntyre, sir,” the man said. “I’m ops here.”

  “Got it,” Eldredge said. “No team. Just him. We just need eyes from the air and little birds on standby in case any of the bad guys bolt.”

  McIntyre exchanged a look with his teammates, worked his tongue inside his cheek. Schweitzer realized he had a wad of chewing tobacco in there. He hadn’t spit once since they’d landed. “Sir, we haven’t hit that target for a reason. We don’t have an exact count on the compound, but last count we were around . . .” He looked to Ty for help.

  “Fifty,” Ty answered. “Fifty people overall. More than half of that’s MAMs.”

  MA . . .

  Schweitzer cut the jinn off. Military Aged Males. People who can fight back.

  Schweitzer could feel Ninip’s grin in their shared darkness.

  “It’s not a capture mission, Sergeant Major,” Eldredge said. “Our man is going in to neutralize Nightshade and get out. Should simplify matters.”

  “You’re sending one guy into that?” McIntyre asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “There may be a lot of men in there, but he only has to kill one.”

  “Yeah, well,” McIntyre said, “whatever you’ve got going on here is none of my concern.”

  Eldredge smiled, began to rise, nodding.

  “But”—McIntyre wasn’t finished—“what is my concern, is your guy getting himself neck deep in shit and me having to send a fire team in to extract him. We’re exposed here. Our hosts, and I use the term loosely, are reluctant at best. Your guy gets pinned down in a burned-out car, and the QRF I send to get him out gets to join him, and all of a sudden we’ve got a situation that’s not exactly good for bilateral relations.”

  This man is a . . . sergeant major? Ninip asked, double-checking Schweitzer’s memories. He does not make decisions for this . . .

  He’s Special Ops, Schweitzer said. The rules are different for us . . . for them.

  I will never understand the way you fight. You have no order, no honor, nothing one can call a way.

  Schweitzer smiled. Welcome to the modern world.

  Eldredge was standing now, dusting off the seat of his pants, putting his hand on Schweitzer and Ninip’s shared elbow. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Eldredge said. “He won’t get pinned down, and you won’t need to extract him.”

  “Can’t extract him,” McIntyre said. “I’ve made my concerns known all the way up to division. I am not risking the lives of my people by putting them on the ground in that compound, nor am I willing to risk our relationship with Pakistan by bombing it. Your boy goes in, he’s on his own.”

  Schweitzer felt something stir deep in his soul. Those words might have come directly from Chief Ahmad.

  Eldredge’s smile widened. “That’s just how he likes it.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  HONEY, I’M HOME

  Chang had to fight against the instinct to run once he cleared the compound gate and made his way through the rest of the base to his car. The unease had settled in his stomach, curdled into something darker, until he swore he could imagine Ahmad slinking up behind him, eyes slits of rage, teeth bared, a wire garrote in her hands.

  He fell into an old breathing exercise he’d been taught at SQT. In. Count to four. Out. In. Count to four. Out. Most times, it helped almost instantly, but now it only made him short of breath, his vision narrowing and his knees feeling weak. It was the wound. Goddamn that stupid fucking lung.

  He comforted himself by watching the foot traffic by the PX as he passed it. Families shopping for groceries, fathers taking their children to pick out toys. All the trappings of a normal world, where nobody substituted pig ashes for those of your cherished friend. He knew it meant nothing, but it helped, and the darkness had receded to the edges of his mind by the time he reached his car.

  He allowed himself one moment of franticness, whipping open the door and looking over his shoulder.

  Nobody. A breeze made a crumpled plastic wrapper into a tumbleweed, bouncing along past his foot. A few seagulls cried hopefully above a green metal Dumpster.

  He sighed and flung himself into the driver’s seat, his hand dropping down to brush the side of the plastic Pelican case he kept beneath it. He fumbled for the catch and opened it, let his hand brush the smooth surface of the .45 1911-pattern pistol he kept in an operational state, one round in the chamber and ready to go.

  As soon as his fingers touched the metal, his heart slowed, his breathing coming more easily, some of the sense of dread subsiding. He exhaled and let his hand drift deeper, feeling the screws in the wood grain handle pressing against his palm, the reassuring touch of a mother, a lethal reminder that, come what may, he could handle it.

  He shook his head and pulled out his phone, dialed before he knew what he was doing, and lifted it to his ear. Soft, echoing chimes went on long enough for him to know that Sarah wasn’t answering. Her voice mail was the old Sarah, before Jim’s death, her voice confident and a little playful. “Hi! I know the automated greeting just wasted a few seconds of your life, so I figured I’d waste a few more. Thanks for having a sense of humor!”

  Chang smiled. Sarah never ceased to amaze him. She gave the world the middle finger and embraced it simultaneously. She lived life entirely on her own terms. Who the hell else could go nose to nose with the mighty James Schweitzer and bring him to heel? God, how he loved her.

  “Hey . . .” He stopped himself before saying “babe,” but only just. “Hey, Sarah. It’s Steve. I talked to Chief, and there’s . . . there’s some mix-up. She’s looking into it now, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. They’re all really shocked, and sorry.” He’d made that last bit up, but he figured it would help her to hear it.

  “Anyway, this is getting long, but I’m coming over. I want to finish our conversation, and not about Jim’s ashes this time. We need to talk about us. If you’re out, I’ll wait. See you in a few.”

  He hung up, put the phone in his pocket, and started the car. As he turned the key, his adrenaline-amped senses screamed at him, You forgot to check the car for bombs! It’s going to explode! But the engine hummed into lif
e even as he shook briefly from the dump of adrenaline.

  “Jesus,” he said out loud. That sort of thing wasn’t uncommon for any warfighter who’d served in combat, but the uneasiness of his encounter with Ahmad and Biggs had exacerbated it. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, shook his head, and got on the road.

  The tires set up a heartbeat rhythm as he moved over the concrete seams of I-64. The highway passed him over the bridges that dotted the five-cities area, an improbable collection of minor population centers sprouted haphazardly in a maze of swamps, inlets, and sunken peninsulas. As darkness came on in earnest, he rolled down the window and smelled the salt air, the slight tang of garbage and creosote that spoke of the complicated berms, floodgates, and drainage ditches that made human habitation here possible. They were nasty smells, but they were familiar, and that was a comfort.

  He didn’t bother to turn on the radio, and instead let the night sounds of peeping frogs and the racing wind lull him. He felt almost normal again as he turned off the highway onto the tree-lined local road that would lead him to Sarah’s, tapping on his brights to pierce through the thick darkness, made blacker by the tunnel of trees that seemed to shroud the lane, making it a narrow corridor of civilization through a primeval wood.

  He slowed a bit to take the sharp turns, and also on the off chance that some overeager Portsmouth cop might pull him over. They might have let him go if he were in uniform, but it was unlikely now. The thrumming of the air through the window and the familiar shadows of the neighborhood put the whole situation in context. He needed to be reasonable. Ockham’s razor. What was the simplest explanation: that Ahmad and Biggs were shocked and embarrassed by the screwup? That it was an awkward exchange to begin with given his decision to get out? That he’d gotten a little freaked-out for no reason? Or did it make more sense to believe there was a conspiracy at work here?