I followed the SAS men across the courtyard. Beneath a small shelter with a corrugated-iron roof sat a couple of Honda generators, one of them purring softly. Corporal Dortmund lifted the tent flap. The floor was raised and made from interlocking metal planks. Inside, parked against the far wall, was a compact fork-lift, welding gear beside it, and a bench with a small lathe and drill press. Trooper Brent Norris was sawing the barrel off a Remington 870 pump. He looked up and gave a nod, which I returned. Painted white and strapped down onto pallets were three Ski-Doos. An M249 squad automatic weapon was mounted on the back of each. Two of the machines were equipped with trailers.
“They're getting picked up shortly,” said Butler. “Ever driven one?”
I shook my head. The only thing I'd ridden in the snow was an inner tube.
“How about a motorbike?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Same deal, only easier. Select forward, twist the throttle grip, and go,” said Butler.
Next stop was a large room with a fireplace. A gas heater filled the room with orange warmth. The walls were covered by maps, floor plans, and photos — some taken on the ground, some from altitude. The subject matter was limited to the facility. Various lines of entry and egress were drawn on the plans, then duplicated on the photos. Radio frequencies and call signs were printed on sheets of paper and hung on the wall. Set up on a large table in the center of the room was a model of the facility. The roofs of various structures within it had been removed so that the squad knew where to find stairwells and elevators.
“I'm thinking you shouldn't take part in the assault phase, Cooper. We haven't worked together and there isn't time for you to learn our tactics and methods. We wouldn't want any accidents now, would we?”
That depends who has them, I thought. I reminded myself that very few special-ops missions went like clockwork, and there was no reason to assume this one would be an exception to that general rule — especially given the truncated planning and rushed schedule.
“We're going to leave you with a Ski-Doo and all nonessential gear half a mile from the facility, at this point here,” Butler said, landing an index finger on a cross already marked on an aerial recon photo, “and rendezvous with you once we have Warlord under control.”
“Warlord?” I asked.
“Yeah, Professor Boyle — Warlord is Washington's code name for the target. We'll go through the specifics of the op later. We've got another rehearsal planned tonight, with a follow-up in the morning.”
“ Uh-huh,” I said. Sean Boyle, Warlord? An impressive title for a murdering dweeb with stupid hair.
“C'mon, I'll show you where you can throw your kit,” said Butler. “You're sharing with one of the CIA guys.”
“That would be me.”
Another voice I recognized. I glanced at the open door where my least favorite spook was leaning on his crutches. We could crack open a case of Bud and call it a reunion.
FORTY-ONE
I didn't realize this was a physical therapy session,” I said.
“One day I'm going to fuck you right up, Cooper,” replied Bradley Chalmers.
“You two know each other?” asked Butler.
“Not in the biblical sense,” I said, “though it sounds like Chalmers is eager.”
“Part of the reason I'm here is to ensure Cooper doesn't poison this mission with his usual failure rate.”
“So, another member of your fan club?” Butler said.
I'd lost interest in sparring — Chalmers wasn't worth the breath. He and Butler could swap notes, stick pins in Vin Cooper dolls; do whatever made them happy.
“Where's my gear?” I asked.
“Let's keep moving.” Butler continued to lead the way.
I followed Butler through the rest of the building, stopping at the mess to throw down some chow. The tour came to an end in a room where Dortmund, Wignall, Mortensen, and Norris were checking and rechecking various items laid out on the floor. Butler showed me to a couple of duffel bags. A name tag on each read “Cooper.” I added my own bag to the collection. I watched as Butler opened a steel locker. He pulled out a rifle as well as webbing stuffed with magazines. “Not sure what your preferred shooters are, but, being a septic tank an' all, I thought you'd at least be familiar with these.”
“Septic tank?” I asked.
“A Yank. Rhyming slang,” explained Dortmund.
Butler removed the magazine, pulled back the Beretta's slide, and checked the chamber. It was empty. He reinserted the magazine and handed me the weapon, butt-first. Next he picked up the rifle and went through a similar routine. I repeated the investigation of both weapons. I preferred the heavier Colt .45 to the Italian-made 92F Beretta, which since 1985 had been the pistol of choice of U.S. Armed Forces. No issues with the M4A2 carbine, however: light and idiot-proof — some would say my kind of weapon. It was, however, equipped with a thermal telescopic sight I hadn't seen or used before.
Butler told his men to go eat and they all filed out, leaving us alone. As they left, he informed me, “The ammunition for the M4 is the new Bofors armor-piercing variety. It'll punch holes in twelve-millimeter armor plate at one hundred yards, and does a good job of turning masonry into rubble at the same distance. You've got eight magazines loaded here with a tracer round three shots from empty. The scope is an ELECAN SpecterIR. It's a thermal job — be more useful and reliable than night-vision technology where we're going. It's only two times magnification, but it picks out heat sources like you wouldn't believe, especially against ice and snow. It's a great piece of kit — I'm also using one. The armorer has centered it, by the way. I know that doesn't mean much — normally you'd want to do that yourself, but there's no time left to get it done. For what it's worth, with the barrel warmed, it'll drop an inch over two hundred and fifty yards, three inches over three hundred yards, and, unless you really know how to shoot, forget about it after that. We've got a smorgasbord of antipersonnel grenades, smoke, whatever you want, and there's a box of nine-millimeter ball for the M9. I'm assuming you've brought your own handcuffs?”
I had. I examined the carbine as he spoke. It was brand-new. I said, “Did you know Ruben Wright had MS — multiple sclerosis?” I switched on the scope and looked into the eyepiece. As we were inside in a room with no windows, there was nothing to see in the eyepiece except gray.
“Jesus, you're not still going on about Wright, are you?”
“The case isn't closed. So … did you?”
“No. I didn't.”
“And Wright's ex-girlfriend never mentioned it?”
“Not that I recall. Did she know he had MS?”
I ignored Butler's question. “So, Ruben Wright never seemed off-color at all? Not even a little?”
“I guess the reason you're asking me these questions is because you don't think he committed suicide. You think I had something to do with his death.”
I didn't answer. All I knew for sure was that I hadn't given Butler a good shake, and so I didn't know what might or might not fall out. Like most people, Butler wasn't comfortable in the silence, so he filled it. “Wright and I didn't get on — that's no secret. You could even go as far as to say we were barely civil to each other. But that doesn't mean I killed him.” He picked up an M4 from the table, removed the bolt, and gave it an inspection.
His denial meant dick. Murderers don't usually admit to killing their victims. I'd even known killers who'd sworn they didn't do it even after being found with their bloody hands still holding the weapon. “Did you know your girlfriend was his heir?”
“Girlfriend?” said Butler.
I let out a sigh. “I visited McDonough in the hospital. She'd had an abortion, which I'm sure you knew about. Lying about your relationship with her makes me wonder what else you're lying about.”