Ryan tapped his pen against the sketch of the rock face that lay on the east side of the compound. "This ridge is a natural barrier to any sizeable force. Nobody smart would try to move a unit down this rock face, for starters. It can't be done without making noise, and the poor bastards that try it would be spotted crossing the flat because of those guards wearing NVG."
Burke nailed the underlying issue. "So how did you try to come in the last two times?"
"The first time we came from the north, where any decent military planner would logically have attempted it. We dropped the squad in the dunes about a mile out. Boom. The second time we came from the south, intending to cross the basin near the edge of the gaseous area. That seemed to work out better."
"And this time?"
Ryan began to pace. "I wish I knew. Like I said, the south worked the best. The boys made it into the compound."
"How did you handle the insertion by air?"
"People got paid off like they do when it's a small plane carrying drugs. Radar gets shut down for a few minutes then turned back on again. A particular flight pattern gets ignored, that sort of thing."
"That's how you got the guys over the border." Bowden grinned. "You pretended it was a drug run. Pretty damned clever."
"And it should work again this time."
"Here's what I want to shoot for." Burke ran two fingers through the chalk on the blackboard, illustrating his point. "Let's say Scotty and I get dropped by chopper maybe two miles to the east, jog across the flats to the top of this rock ridge. We climb by hand, then rappel and drop down the other side. We cross the open area."
Bowden pondered. "Not bad. And the two guards?"
"We take them out before we cross the open ground. It's a tough assignment from there, but not impossible. Maybe a hundred fifty yards from higher ground. All we need is one head-shot each." Burke thumbed through his notes. "Cary, you picked up radio transmissions that indicate the guards check in to the central command every fifteen minutes, right?"
"Right."
Bowden got it immediately. "We fire seconds after they check in, leave the sniper rifles there. We drop down the face, cross the open ground, get into the compound and do our thing. That will give us, what—maybe eight to ten minutes inside before they start to realize something is wrong."
"I hate to be a wet blanket," Father Benny sputtered from the corner, "but what about the noise? I mean, from the shots?"
"There won't be any to speak of, Benny. Silencers." Burke looked at Bowden. "We could also create a distraction. Some barely noticeable noise from the west that sounds like something might be coming down the road."
"That would help," Scotty agreed. "But we'd need at least one more man to pull that off. I say we keep it simple."
Ryan pondered the idea of a third member of the team and the security issues involved. He shook his head. "No, you're probably right. Less to go wrong." He touched the sketch of the square, two-story medical building that was located at the center of the compound. "Seven hours ago a van came down the road from the highway. It entered Buey's compound and parked next to this building. An older couple went into the residence. Moments later another gentleman and a man with a shaved head, who is presumed to be Mohandas Pal, got out and went inside the laboratory. Then someone on a stretcher was also taken inside the lab and the van left."
"Indira," Burke said.
"That seems likely. But we don't know who the other people are. We estimate there are already maybe thirty to thirty-five other people currently occupying the compound, most of them armed."
"Only thirty or so against the two of us," Bowden observed, wryly. "Aw, don't seem fair to them poor fuckers, does it?"
Cary Ryan laughed. "Strange world, isn't it? We have equipment that can peer down a man's throat and tell you what he ate for lunch, but just over the border one drug lord and a religious fanatic with connections can keep us paralyzed for months."
"Okay," Bowden continued, "let's say everything goes smooth as a papaya shit and Red and I get inside without drawing fire. I know we're out to bring the girlfriend back, and if she's unconscious that's problem enough. What else do you want us to do?"
Cary blinked. "I would have thought it was obvious."
"Let's just say I'd rather have it on the record."
"There won't be any record. You know that."
A strange moment of tension flickered between Ryan and Bowden. Then Ryan looked away and shrugged, as if to say what the hell. "Those fuckers erased a bunch of my guys. One of them deals drugs and the other may be planning on blackmailing the world . . . or something even worse."
"Yeah," Bowden cracked, "I get that they're the bad guys."
Ryan continued as if he hadn't heard. "So we are going to take them out, Scotty."
"Take them out. How, one by one?"
"I don't give a damn, as long as it happens. And afterwards, I want you guys to plant enough C4 in that lab to incinerate everything within two miles of the area. We're about to show you how to get that part of it done."
"I'm no scientist," Bowden said, "but how do we make sure this virus doesn't get spread around in the process?"
Ryan pointed to the blackboard. "Our guys believe the only two places we need to worry about are in the basement of that laboratory and perhaps underground where we believe all the bodies are buried. The first two rounds of explosives will bring the two upper levels down, first the top and then the bottom. That will bury the concrete area, seal it off."
"Okay."
"The last explosion will be from a thermobaric device I want you to plant in the lab before you leave. The blast will be trapped in concrete, under tons of rubble. It will generate enough heat to fry every bug in there to cinders."
Burke frowned. "What about the burial mound? There might be some live virus there that could get disturbed at some point."
"It's forty feet down, Red. My scientists say that's good enough for the time being. Besides, do you have a better idea?"
"Maybe." Burke touched the area indicated as the body dump. "We plant one charge here on the way out, right on top of the dump. Raw stuff, ready to ignite. We set a timer." He traced the route back to the rock ridge. "If it doesn't go off, then from up here, on the way home, we fire one thermobaric rocket directly at that mass. The explosion should be hot enough to kill anything likely to leak, and if the dump has any open areas, the explosion should collapse and seal them, too."
"It could work." Bowden was running the plan through his mind. "We might even get out again, guys." He tapped his teeth with a finger. "Problem is we need another couple of men to carry all this gear and a few more days to pull it off."
"We don't have either."
"How about we come in really low, maybe fifty yards behind the ridge, and shove the extra rifles and explosives out? We could maybe drop them wrapped in a reserve chute. That way it would be there after we jog across the flats."
Cary Ryan clapped his hands together. The sound startled Father Benny. "Yeah, we drop it on the first pass to the LZ, but how about wrapped up in a life raft for a little extra protection."
"You got stuff that isn't traceable back to Uncle Sam?"
"Most assuredly."
"It'll have to do." Burke felt satisfied they could complete the mission and had a reasonable chance of survival.
Bowden leaned closer to Ryan. He was not smiling. "You got the life insurance policy I asked for? Two hundred fifty thousand?"
"You're all set."
"Oh, what the hell, then," Bowden said. "I wasn't doing anything else this weekend anyway. Let's go for it."
SIXTY-ONE
SUNDAY
At first there is only silence, except for the vaguely erotic sigh of the evening wind. Then there comes a man-made explosion as an engine roars to life, the darkened helicopter rattling, whining, and thumping as it lifts off and away, flying blind. The uncertain pilot flies dangerously close to the sandy, rock-freckled ground, hoping to avoid detection. Inside a gree
nish, shadowy cabin rests the human cargo: two tense, former "D" boys.
"I am most definitely too old for this shit." Bowden chewed gum furiously. He checked and re-checked his pack. "How the fuck you talk me into this?"
"It was that or let you pop a cap in my ass."
"Damn, Burke, I'm really scared," Bowden said, as if amazed. "This shit was sure easier when we were kids."
"Yeah. It was, wasn't it? We were too stupid to be afraid of dying back then. Now we know enough to pucker up."
"You feel it, too?"
"More and more the last few years, bro," Burke said. "Lately it's been keeping me up at night, the not knowing how or when, or what happens after."
"Not knowing sucks."
"Hell, yes."
Scotty Bowden leaned back against the vibrating seat, pack between his knees. "How you doing up there, Father?"
Father Benny did not turn around. "Don't bother me, my son. I'm praying my Italian ass off, excuse me, Lord."
Bowden laughed. He had a fine line of perspiration forming above his eyebrows and the skin beneath his left eye was twitching. "Burke, can I ask you something personal? You really love this girl, don't you?"
Burke, eyes closed. "Yeah, I think I always have."
"For some reason that's hard for me to imagine," Bowden said. "I don't get women, except for my kid of course. I'll bet it feels nice."
"I have loved two women in my life. Really loved, I mean." Burke's mind went far away. "I guess that makes me a very lucky guy."
Bowden giggled. "You'd better be, or we're coming home in body bags."
"Scotty, we may not be coming home at all this time."
"You really know how to cheer a guy up, don't you?"
"It's a talent I have."
Bowden's jaws working on the wad of gum. "Do you ever have dreams?"
"Mostly of the times something went wrong, you know?"
"Yeah, I have a bad one that I still get pretty often, actually. It's about the night Doc got blown up. I'm watching it happen from a few yards away, and I keep trying to get my rifle aimed to do something about it but I'm moving too slowly, like I'm stuck in clear mud. So I just have to stand there and watch him take a burst. That really sucks."
"Scotty, did they kill him? Did they do Doc?"
Bowden spits the gum out, head bobbing up and down. "It was them, man. And that's all the more reason to get some tonight, right?"
"Damned straight." After a time, Burke shifted in his seat. "I get this weird dream about that same night when I'm all stressed out. It's about the guy Yousef Dahoumed, the one we went after in Djibouti, or at least I think that's what it's about. It's him, but it's not him."
"You lost me."
"Well, when I stitched the bastard he was sitting there in a bunch of gore, you know? Blood and guts and human shit. And he was laughing and laughing. Really spooky. So this dream is a little like that, except it's not him, it's somebody else. And it's not there, it's somewhere else. Somewhere I've never been."
"Funky."
"Anyway, I'm there, and here is this guy, rolling around in the blood and giggling like mad. And I want to shoot him, I try to shoot him, but he keeps moving, almost like he knows what I'm going to do. I can't seem to kill him, no matter what."
"Then what happens?"
"Nothing. I wake up."
"At least you don't die. Those are the fucking worst, man. Sometimes I dream I'm back in the old days collecting ears on a string again, and get myself plugged. I can feel the bullet go in and rip things up, feel my heart slowing down, and then I can't get my breath. You know what I mean?"
"Gentlemen?" Father Benny gripped the controls like a man with dengue fever. "Would you mind changing the subject? I have to fly this thing."
Burke and Bowden laughed. They punched each other on the shoulder. Father Benny clearly did not appreciate gallows humor.
"Here comes the border. Jack, are you sure the Mexican army isn't going to shoot us down?"
"They look the other way now and then, Benny. It's all been arranged."
"I certainly hope so, because here we go."
Benny dropped as low as he dared and urged the bird forward. Bowden stared out the window at the rocky desert, then into Burke's eyes. It was on. They both sensed it. There would be no turning back, they were in-country. The dark, empty land beneath them looked the same, but now the vibe in the chopper felt as wild and crisp as heat lightning.
SIXTY-TWO
Juan Garcia Lopez has an impressive collection of modern art. The sparely furnished room is appointed with sleek contemporary furniture, which makes the large, ornate wooden dining table with antique candelabras seem truly anachronistic. Still, Mohandas Hasari Pal feels comfortable in this room. After all, dreams have come true here. He listens to the musical selections, some classic recordings of Ella Fitzgerald in her prime, and enjoys the champagne, a fine 1982.
"You need to relax."
The alcohol has dulled Pal's pain, and he is feeling sweetly victorious. He can afford to jest. But his companions, the tattooed man known as Gorman and the somewhat effete Mr. Nandi, do not smile. Gorman has barely touched his wine, although he did partake of the meal. Mr. Nandi, ever the good servant, stands unobtrusively in the corner, ready should his services be required.
"What are they doing?" Gorman whispers from the side of his mouth. "Why have they been gone so long?"
"Be at ease, my friend," Pal replies in a low voice. He pats Gorman's hand. "We are very nearly finished with our work. Nothing can stop us now." He finishes his drink and motions. Mr. Nandi glides forward and refills his glass. "If I know our friend Buey, he is dawdling over his collection of tapes and DVDs, trying to select the perfect film to complete the evening. He will return shortly."
"Then why has Esteban gone with him?"
The door opens and Buey enters, a very sleepy Esteban trailing behind. Indeed, the Ox has brought a DVD and a second bottle of champagne. He grins, raises the liquor. "A movie for after we finish with the night's business."
"We have little more to say, my friend. Please, feel free to open it now should you wish."
Buey, a thick and bearded man worthy of his name, plops heavily into his chair. "Perhaps I will, if only to drink to your genius, Mohandas." As he busies himself with the bottle his lieutenant, a compact younger man who has struggled and failed to grow a decent moustache, sits groggily beside him, clutching a DVD of "The Exorcist." The bottle opens with a POP very reminiscent of a gunshot. Esteban jumps a bit, then giggles and sags into a stupor.
Buey pours champagne for everyone. "A toast." He raises his glass. "To the man who offered me revenge, and who is about to make me one billion dollars with a telephone call." He downs the drink, pours another. He is very drunk. "You know how I hate gringo bastards like this hombre Burke. They have hunted me for years, paid off my own people to pursue me, and forced me to live like a prisoner in my own house. Twice in the last month more of those fuckers have tried to come into my home to assassinate me."
"I can sympathize," Pal soothes. "The United States government can be so utterly ruthless."
"But now he will suffer, this man who shot at me and fucked your wife?"
"I assure you, he will soon know the taste of hell."
"This is a good thing." Buey grins widely. "And it will give me more pleasure than you can imagine blackmailing America for such a sum, Mohandas." He turns to Esteban, kisses the boy on the cheek and fondles his crotch. "And with a billion perhaps we will go down to New Zealand and buy land to raise cattle. We will tell everyone we made money in the stock market and we will be known as generous benefactors of the arts. We will be loved, eh?" Another kiss. To Mr. Nandi and Gorman, he offers: "And you, gentlemen, what will you do with your money?"
Buey has forgotten that Gorman seldom speaks. After a long moment, he tries to cover his misstep by cracking a joke. "Perhaps our silent friend here could visit a spa for a decent bath and a facial!"
But no one laughs. Mr.
Nandi makes a small, clucking sound of disapproval. Suddenly afraid, Buey gulps and rips his gaze away. Gorman does reply, this time. "I will do whatever my guru wishes."
"Mr. Nandi?"
"The same."
"And you, Mohandas?"
A genial Pal sips champagne. "As for me, I will insure my legacy. Fortunately, I am still here to see that it happens."
"With books and films and temples, my friend?"
"That is how it shall begin."
"So esoteric an addiction," Buey chuckles, "is quite foreign to me."
"Unlike you, Buey, I am not a devotee of the flesh. I wish only that my name live long after I am gone—and that it is celebrated along with those of the other great teachers." Pal catches himself. "Oh, my ego. I must apologize. The wine has loosened my tongue and made me immodest."
Buey laughs heartily. "Not at all my friend, we are none of us without fault." He wraps his arm around Esteban, who has fallen asleep. "Whatever makes you happy. This is all that matters in the end." Buey turns to his young lover. "I do not understand. Esteban never drinks so much as to pass out like this." Looks back at Pal. "In truth, I feel very tired myself. It has been a stressful day. Perhaps you would forgive me if we do not watch a film this evening, after all?"
"But of course." Pal speaks soothingly. "You are always a most gracious host, Juan. If you need your rest, we can certainly see to ourselves and see you at breakfast."
Buey's large head is sagging forward. He startles himself by snoring. His voice begins to slur. "Mr. Nandi, unless you can help us, I must ring for assistance. It is time to get Esteban to bed." He mumbles something else. His hand crawls like a drunken crab toward the ornate dinner bell.
Pal speaks crisply: "Do it now."
In a flash, Gorman is on his feet. He crosses the carpet soundlessly and clasps Buey by the wrist. "Don't bother to ring," he whispers. "We have already taken the liberty of eliminating most of your people."
The Pressure of Darkness Page 32
