"Zoom in on the town please, Stephanie," Elizabeth said.
"Not much of a town," Lamont said.
"Talk about the Third World," Ronnie said. "That place makes the boonies look like New York City."
"Where's this clinic they're using?" Nick asked.
"I'm not sure," Stephanie said.
Harker pointed at the photograph. "There's activity around that shack on the north edge of town. That might be it. Steph, what's the big open area on the top of the photograph?"
"An Indian reservation, set aside by the government. It's protected."
"Not anymore," Nick said. "Not if they've let that stuff loose. It may be too late to stop them but we can close them down before they do any more damage."
"It makes sense Gutenberg would choose a place like this," Selena said. "It's isolated, hard to get to. Away from prying eyes. My guess would be that the government wouldn't be in a big hurry to do something about illness on that reservation, even if they knew about it. Look at that country, it's perfect ranchland. There must be a lot of people who would like to see the Indians disappear."
"Sounds familiar," Ronnie said.
"I don't think they'd use a house or the church for a clinic," Nick said. "My bet is on that building as the primary target. If we're wrong, it shouldn't take long to find the right one."
"How do you want to go in?" Lamont said.
"We have to shut this down fast. There's only one way to get in there without losing a lot of time."
"Airdrop," Ronnie said.
"I don't see an alternative, but extraction's going to be hard."
"I have a solution for that," Elizabeth said. "The Fourth Fleet is conducting exercises with the USS Carl Vinson off the coast of Guyana as we speak."
"The super carrier?" Lamont said. "That is one mother of a ship."
"That's the one. They have Ospreys on board. That aircraft has enough range to bring you out."
"That would work," Nick said. "How long will it take to set up?"
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. "I have to make a phone call or two but it shouldn't take more than a few hours. In the meantime, you can get everything together."
"What about protective gear?" Selena said. "It's plague. We're going to come across people who have it."
"You won't be treating anyone. As long as you stay away from them you should be all right. The main problem is that this variety is airborne."
"We could use M-50s," Lamont said. "They're rated for everything but the kitchen sink."
"What's an M-50?" Selena asked.
"A biological warfare mask," Nick said. "Lamont's right, it would protect us against anything airborne. It's a full face mask with a good field of view. Plus it's got twin filters that make it easier to breathe and you can put a voice mike on it. Hot, but it keeps you alive. The filters are good for 24 hours. We do this right, we won't be there that long."
"How do we get over the target?" Selena asked.
"Straight from Andrews. I'll send you in a C-130."
"I always wanted to see Brazil," Lamont said.
CHAPTER 33
Ilya Yezhov watched the black Mercedes bearing Konstantine Kamarov approach the private airport where Kamarov's Dassault Falcon waited. Yezhov had dressed like an aircraft maintenance worker, in baggy white overalls, jacket and cap. He stood under one of the wings, pretending to inspect something. A Bizon submachine gun was hidden under the jacket. The 9mm Bizon was light, reliable and lethal at close range. It was one of Ilya's favorite weapons,
A second member of his team stood on a step ladder at the rear of the plane, as if he were working on one of the engines. The pilot and crew were under guard in the wooden shack that passed for a terminal. Three men were inside the plane, out of sight. The cabin door was open and the stairs lowered to the tarmac. The rest of the strike team were concealed at strategic points on the perimeter of the runway. One of Yezhov's snipers was concealed behind a fuel truck. He carried a .308 Steyr-Mannlicher SSG-08. Ilya thought the Steyr was the best choice for medium distance targets. The sniper's job was to take down Kamarov's bodyguards. A second sniper was positioned with the heavier .50 caliber Steyr HS50. He would disable the Mercedes before moving to secondary targets.
All the others on the team carried the new AN-94s. Ilya didn't like them. They were over-engineered, fussy and unreliable in the field, not like the old Kalashnikovs. Great when they worked, junk when they didn't. They'd been forced upon him by the armorer back at the base. He decided to speak to General Vysotsky about it when he got back.
Yezhov dismissed his thoughts about the AN-94. He spoke into his headset.
"Target approaching."
Answering clicks told him everyone was ready. The Mercedes turned off the access road and onto the private airstrip toward the aircraft. It stopped twenty feet away from the foot of the stairway, not far from where Ilya stood. He couldn't see Kamarov through the smoked glass windows but he knew the man was inside. Doors opened on the car and three men got out. They were large men, dressed in dark suits and ties. Ilya knew one of them, a former Spetsnaz corporal who'd been trouble when he was under Ilya's command.
The man saw him. His eyes widened in recognition. Yezhov's cover was blown.
"Go," Yezhov said into his microphone.
The calm atmosphere of the afternoon vanished with the first shot from the Steyr .308. Ilya's former corporal was lifted off his feet and thrown backward as the massive bullet struck his chest. Another shot followed close on the first. The second bodyguard screamed and spun in a bizarre pirhouette before he fell to the pavement. The third man ducked behind the Mercedes but the car suddenly accelerated away from the plane, open doors swaying crazily in the air. It left him exposed. A third shot brought him down.
Yezhov ran after the car, his Bizon out and ready. He shouted into his microphone.
"Take the shot, damn it. Stop that son of a whore before he gets away."
The distinctive boom of the .50 caliber rifle cut through the air. The round tore into the engine compartment of the Mercedes. The car kept moving. A second shot blew through the window on the driver's side. The car slowed and turned left, out of control. Black smoke and oil streamed from underneath. Through the shattered window Yezhov saw the driver slumped to the side, covered with blood. The Mercedes circled back toward the plane and slammed into the nose wheel of the Dassault.
The front of the sleek jet dropped onto the hood, smashing the windshield and pinning the Mercedes underneath. A thin tongue of fire shot out from the engine compartment.
The rear door opened and a fat man wearing a mink coat stumbled out and fell on his knees. Yezhov was on him in an instant.
"Get up, you fat pig." He dragged the oligarch away from the burning car. The flames started to spread to the plane, buried with its nose in the windshield.
Kamarov looked at the muzzle of the Bizon. He licked his lips. "Who are you? Do you know who I am?"
Yezhov slapped him. It was like slapping a side of beef.
"Shut up."
Two Skorpion armored vehicles sped across the runway from their hiding spot behind the terminal building and screeched to a stop next to Yezhov and his captive.
"All units, in," Yezhov said into his microphone.
His men converged on the two trucks. As they moved away, Yezhov looked back and saw the plane beginning to burn. Thick smoke roiled out of the open door and flames lit the interior. The trucks had reached the access road when the gas tanks exploded. A tall column of orange fire erupted into the afternoon, scattering chunks of the expensive jet in every direction.