Authors: Christopher Reich
“Too soon to tell.”
Crockett didn’t blink as the dot grew larger, and before long it was the size of a peanut. He noted that the shape was moving, but he was too far away to know if it was a human or an animal. The shape grew larger, and he was guessing it was one of their high-value individuals. God knew what manner of beast would be out in this weather.
And then the dot disappeared.
“What the—?” Crockett turned to his chief. “Did you see that?”
The chief shrugged. “Gone.”
“What’s our distance?”
“Two klicks.”
Crockett relayed the coordinates where he’d last seen the heat signature to the pilot. “Take me down low.”
Sixty seconds later the Chinook was hovering over the position.
“I got nothing,” said the chief, scanning his monitor.
“Hit the lights,” said Crockett.
“You sure?” The captain’s concern was merited. Illuminating the five-thousand watt searchlight would be akin to painting a bull’s-eye on the Chinook and inviting any enemy combatants in the area to take a shot. Hovering at a standstill thirty meters above the ground, the helicopters would have no time to evade even the most rudimentary shoulder-launched missile.
“We didn’t come this far to go home empty-handed.”
“Your call.” The pilot radioed his intention to the second chopper, allowing it time to climb three hundred meters. “Lights, camera, action,” he said.
A circle of light fell from the helicopter. The rotor wash combined
with the storm’s swirling winds to raise a blinding eddy. Even this low, Crockett had difficulty glimpsing the ground.
“Take her up a little.”
The helicopter rose swiftly. The eddies died down, leaving only the falling snow to contend with. Then he saw it: a corner of pale fabric flapping madly in the wind. Looking closer, he made out the form of a large rectangular tent.
“Any warm bodies in there?” he asked the chief.
“Negative. No one’s down there, unless they’re dead.”
“Drop an abseil line.”
The crew chief tapped the exterior temperature readout. “Minus twenty Celsius without wind chill. You sure?”
Crockett nodded.
“This is gonna hurt.” The crew chief opened the sliding door, and a torrent of subfreezing air invaded the cabin. He positioned the winch assembly out the door and attached a rope. “You’re good to go, sir.”
Crockett slung his M4 over his shoulder, wrapped his feet around the rope, took hold with gloved hands, and slid to the ground.
Ten steps took him to the tent. He pushed aside the flap with the barrel of his rifle. He scanned the area, taking in the floodlights, the pickaxes, the ditch, and the cruise missile. He placed a hand on the nearest lamp and noted that it was still warm. In an instant he registered what had taken place.
Laying down his weapon, he jumped into the pit and ran his hand along the missile. His eye quickly found the yellow-and-black symbol for radioactivity. He was a ground-pounder and proud of it; all the same, he knew what he was looking at. A motherfuckin’ nuke. Sliding under the missile, he gazed up at the empty belly. The payload was missing.
Crockett left the tent and observed where the snow had been disturbed. He spotted a boot print sunk deep into the snow and another a few meters along.
“Time to exfil,” said the pilot in his earpiece. “We’re running low on fuel.”
“No way. These guys are here. They’re close.”
“Two minutes, then we’re leaving. Your choice.”
Crockett followed the tracks a short way and stopped. The wind howled, buffeting him and making it difficult to stand upright. The topographical map indicated his position to be on the lower slope of the mountain, but visibility was so limited he was unable to see more than ten paces in any direction. He considered ordering his men to the ground to commence a search. He was certain that the bad guys could not be far away. If they were in possession of what he thought, they could not be allowed to escape the area.
Multiple factors weighed against a search: lack of fuel and oxygen, deteriorating weather, unfamiliarity with the terrain, and finally uncertainty about the enemy. He had no idea how many combatants might be near or how heavily they were armed. For all he knew, he might be leading his men on a wild goose chase or straight into an ambush.
Against that, he considered the prospect of interdicting a terrorist cell in possession of a WMD.
“That’s it, captain,” said the pilot. “Time’s up. Shit or get off the pot.”
The decision came more easily than Crockett expected. In the end, it was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk the lives of fourteen men or the downing of the two Chinooks.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “Just got to snap some pics for the record. The boys in D.C. are going to want to see this. Mark these coordinates and call for another team to get up here ASAP.”
Crockett hustled back into the tent and began firing off pictures with his digital camera. He concentrated on the missile itself, and was sure to get close-ups of the serial numbers on the tail and the belly. Finally he crawled back into the ditch and lay on his back staring into the guts of the missile.
Inside, pressed to the wall, was a square packet the size of a pack of cigarettes wrapped in green plastic. A slim aluminum baton was inserted into the packet, with wires running to an LCD timer. He’d worked with similar devices before and knew at once what he was
looking at, and that he was in danger. He hit his helmet light and twisted his head to read the display.
The numbers on the LCD timer attached to the half-kilo charge of C4 plastic explosives read 0:00:06.
Six seconds.
“Evac immediately,” he radioed the pilot, amazed at how calm his voice sounded. “I’m fucked.”
Captain Kyle Crockett did not try to get away. Eyes open, he watched the timer count down to zero. There was a flash, then darkness.
He felt nothing.
Frank Connor took the news
stoically and, except for a sudden and nearly unnoticed grimace, with no outward show of emotion. He was a veteran of too many campaigns to fear that all was lost. One battle did not a war win—
or lose
. Sitting in his office, Peter Erskine at his side, he listened dispassionately as the helicopter crew chief relayed the facts of the failed mission.
“Captain Crockett radioed that he believed enemy combatants were in the vicinity just before he was killed by an explosion on the ground.”
“Mine? IED? Grenade?” asked Connor. “Can you give me any more detail?”
“It wasn’t no mine or grenade,” said the crew chief in a slow Texan drawl. “We were hovering directly above him, telling him to get his ass back into the wagon. The flight conditions were horrendous, Mr. Connor. Half the guys had already thrown up, and Major McMurphy, our pilot, wanted to get the hell out of there. We’d used up more than half our fuel just trying to find the bad guys. Anyway, there I was yelling for Crockett to exfil and suddenly he radios back for us to get the hell out of there. He must have seen what killed him, ’cause three seconds later the place went up. Ask me, it was C4. Had that bright orange color to it. The friggin’ blast nearly took us out of the sky, I kid you not.”
“What do you mean, the place? Was he inside something?”
“Yessir. A tent. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why he went down there in the first place. There was some dang tent right there on the mountainside.”
Connor shot a glance at Erskine and said, “He found the damned thing.” Then, to the crew chief, “Did he tell you what was inside the tent?”
“No, sir. Didn’t say anything, just that he was sure the bad guys were close by.”
“Did you have any indication that the combatants were in the area beforehand?”
“We caught a blip on the infrared screen for about twenty seconds, but when we got closer it was gone. We turned on the spotlight and Captain Crockett saw the tent flapping in all that wind.”
“Were you able to confirm that the heat signature belonged to a human?” asked Erskine.
“No, sir. Like I said, it was just a blip. Coulda been anything, but you tell me what kind of animal might be out in that kind of blizzard. Only a goddamned Marine’s crazy enough. I’ll tell you that for free.”
Or my best operative, bent on retrieving a WMD, thought Connor. “Did you see anything on the ground afterward?”
“Nothing but fire. Crockett was gone, too. But there must have been something inside that tent. Our helo took a hard shot on our belly. When we landed I found a piece of steel three inches square dug into our skin. If it had hit the rotor, we would’ve been toast.”
“Shrapnel, maybe?” asked Erskine.
“No, sir. Wasn’t shrapnel. This was heavy milled steel, least an inch thick. That’s all I can tell you.”
Connor requested that the crew chief remove the steel and send it to Division by courier, then sat up in his chair. “How soon can you mount a mission to get back up that mountain?”
“That’s up to Sergeant Major Robinson, but the weather has to clear first. Ask me, I don’t see the need. Whoever was up there is long gone by now.”
Connor ended the communication. It was late in the afternoon in northern Virginia. He looked out the window and noticed for the first time that it was a lovely day. He stood, thinking of Crockett and wondering what the Marine had found.
“She’s got it,” he said.
“You can’t be sure,” said Erskine. “We have no idea what was in that tent.”
“I’m not in the mood for the devil’s advocate routine, Pete. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, and that boy’s death is weighing on my conscience. If there was a tent on that mountainside, then Emma put it there while she was retrieving the nuclear warhead from that missile. She blew the evidence to kingdom come, just as I expected she’d do. Sometimes I think we trained her too well.”
“Would you like me to call the secretary?”
Connor turned on Erskine. “And say what? One of our agents has been turned by terrorists and is in possession of a WMD? Because if I do, that is the day this agency ends. No, Pete, this is still our play. We made the decision to handle this thing. We’ll do it to the end or until someone takes it away from us. I don’t trust anyone else with this.”
Erskine frowned sourly. “Frank, I think it’s time we took this to someone higher up. Someone with more resources.”
“We already had this discussion,” said Connor. “Resources take time, and that’s the one commodity we do not possess.”
“But—”
Connor silenced Erskine with a liverish glance. “We can still get this done.”
Erskine slumped in his chair. “So what’s the next move?”
“Get me a plane to Zurich. I want to talk to Jonathan Ransom.”
Seated in the passenger seat
of Chief Inspector Marcus von Daniken’s Audi sedan, Jonathan was immediately aware of a heightened tension in the air. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and von Daniken was driving out of Gstaad, down the valley toward Saanen. The sky was blue and cloudless. A bold sun turned snow-covered meadows into fields of sparkling diamonds. Yet one look at all the stony faces and Jonathan could be forgiven for believing he was headed to a funeral.
Von Daniken was taciturn even by his usual curt standards. He spoke to Jonathan with looks, not words. Get in. Buckle up. Sit still and be quiet. A rainbow-striped hot-air balloon lifted off from the field next to them, joining two others drifting over the peaks. No one said a word. Jonathan glanced at the rear seat. Danni met his gaze, then looked away. Like him, she was dressed in jeans, a fleece jacket, and a parka. Her jewelry was a memory. The earrings, bracelets, and wedding rings had all been packed away and left at the hotel, along with the ghosts of Mr. and Mrs. John Robertson. It was just Danni and Jonathan again, teacher and pupil, and he wondered if he’d been incorrect about her and if the attraction was not mutual.
The first indication of a change in the atmosphere had come upon her return to the restaurant the evening before. Jonathan had noticed immediately that her face was slightly drawn, her acting skills nowhere on display. Without explanation, she’d insisted they leave immediately, saying only that he needed his rest. Things were no better at the hotel. If anything, her demeanor cooled from icy to glacial. Attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. He’d woken at three a.m. to find an empty space in the bed next to
him. Rising, he’d found her at the salon window, staring at the crescent moon.
The Audi left the highway and climbed a narrow country road into the forest. The asphalt gave way to hard-packed snow. Pine trees closed around them. Shadows replaced the sun. The interior of the car cooled immediately. Ahead, a steel barrier blocked the road. A sign next to it read, “No Trespassing. Property of Swiss Defense Department. Rifle Range and Storehouse.”
Von Daniken left the engine idling and unlocked the barrier, needing both hands to push it out of the way. When he returned, he looked more morose than ever. For the first time that day, Jonathan felt anxious.
“I’m supposed to be taking the place of a plastic surgeon,” he said. “What do I have to practice shooting for?”
“Who said anything about shooting?” Von Daniken put the car in gear and drove another kilometer before stopping in a gravel parking lot fronting a long concrete building that resembled a barracks. Another car was parked close to the entry.
“Out,” said von Daniken.
Jonathan opened the door. “You coming?” he asked Danni, who hadn’t moved a muscle.
“I know this part,” she said. Then, softening, “Go ahead, Jonathan. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Two men stood inside a large multipurpose room. Fluorescent lights shone overhead. Some chairs were stacked in one corner. Gym mats covered half the floor. Someone had forgotten to turn on the heat. The room was chill and damp.
“This is Mr. Amman and Mr. Schmid,” said von Daniken. “They’re going to teach you some useful skills.”
Amman was slight and blond, and his ruddy, wind-burned skin marked him as an outdoorsman. Schmid was taller and more muscular, his head shaved, the circles under his eyes accentuated by his pale skin and heavy stubble.