He paused at the edge of the baobabs to check for guards, but saw nothing. He was about to continue when something caught his eye, a glimmer of light on glass. Warning bells went off in his head. So faint was the glimmer that it took him thirty seconds to find it again. To his left, high atop the control cab of a crane, was a man. Dressed in black, his face covered by a black balaclava, he lay on his belly with an NV-scoped sniper rifle pressed to his shoulder.
Ambush or increased security? Fisher wondered. He doubted it was the latter; Kolobane’s business was the repair and refit of decrepit cargo freighters, not warships. Ambush, then. He guessed it was not meant specifically for him, but rather for anyone coming to investigate the Sogon/Trego. But how had they known he would be here? What were they trying to prevent him from finding, and who were “they”? Another assumption he had to make was that where there was one sniper, there were more.
He slowly backed deeper into the trees, then turned and sprinted across the picnic area to the second line of storage huts. Watchful for the roving guard, he picked his along the edge of the road until he had a better angle on the sniper’s perch through the trees.
It was time to find out how many players were on the field. He drew the SC-20 from his back-holster, then rotated the selector to the ASE, or All-Seeing-Eye. He pointed the barrel skyward and pulled the trigger. With a muffled fwump the ASE arced upward and disappeared into the night sky.
Fisher switched the OPSAT to the ASE’s camera and was immediately rewarded with a bird’s-eye view of the shipyard. The image swayed ever so slightly as the ASE’s aero-gel parachute rode the air currents.
He located the crane for a point of reference, then switched to infrared. The sniper, still prone atop the control cab, changed into a man-shaped blotch of red, yellow, and green. Fisher panned down the pier, looking for more figures at roof level or higher. He disregarded moving bodies, which were likely shipyard workers.
It took twenty seconds to spot the second sniper. The man had chosen his spot well, on the roof of Fisher’s ultimate destination — the shipyard’s administration building. Between them, each sniper had all the approaches covered. But again, what were they guarding? What didn’t they want uncovered about the Sogon and/or Trego?>
Fisher was about to shut down the ASE and transmit the self-destruct signal when the rooftop sniper shifted position. It took Fisher a moment to reorient himself; with a start, he realized the sniper’s new field of fire was centered on him. He killed the camera, raised the binoculars, and focused on Sniper One. All he saw in the magnified field was a head-on view of a bulky NV scope and a hood-covered head resting against the rifle stock.
Fisher dropped flat.
He heard a swish-pfft. A puff of dirt erupted beside him. He rolled right. Another bullet slammed into the dirt. He pushed himself into a crouch and double-stepped to his right behind the trunk of a baobab.
Five seconds passed, then ten. They knew his general location but didn’t have a clear shot. Both snipers had shifted their aim toward him in unison; that was beyond coincidence, which could mean one thing: He’d been tagged, either visually or electronically. He switched to NV and scanned his surroundings, looking for likely observation posts. There were none; he was shielded to the left and right by the baobab grove and behind by the storage huts.
So he’d been electronically tagged.
He was pinned down.
25
How and when he’d been tagged would have to wait for later. Or would it? he thought, a memory coming back to him. What had Grimsdottir called the encryption program she’d found on the data from the Duroc’s helm console? Another Marcus Greenhorn masterpiece.
Another Marcus Greenhorn masterpiece…
His eyes were drawn to the OPSAT strapped to his wrist. Could it be? He’d used the OPSAT to scan both the Duroc’s helm console and Greenhorn’s USB drive, and so far every encryption or virus they’d come across had been created by Greenhorn to protect whoever had hired him.
Had a Trojan horse hidden inside the OPSAT been piggybacking a tracking beacon on top of his own comm channels? It was possible, he decided. There was one way to find out. The method was decidedly low-tech, but it would do the job.
He took the OPSAT off and laid it at the foot of the tree, then backed away, using the baobab’s trunk as cover until he was at the edge of the grove. He turned and sprinted parallel to the grove until he was certain Sniper Two’s view was blocked by intervening buildings, then turned again and darted into the shadows between a pair of storage huts.
He waited for the teenage guard to pass by, then stepped onto an empty crate and slowly raised his head up until only his eyes showed over the hut’s roof. He raised his binoculars and checked Sniper One. The man hadn’t moved. He was still focused on the baobab tree shielding the OPSAT.
Fisher keyed his subdermal. “Grim, Lambert… You there?”
“We’re here,” replied Lambert.
“Greenhorn’s broken another one of your firewalls and worked his magic again. The OPSAT’s infected.”
“What?” she cried.
Fisher explained and said, “There’s no doubt; they knew where I was headed, and when.”
“I’m sorry, Sam, I’m dumbfounded. Greenhorn is—was—good. Too damned good.”
“No harm done. I’ll bring the OPSAT back, but we have to cook it. Give me ten minutes, then send the self-destruct signal.”
“You’ll be able to operate without it?”
Fisher chuckled. “Grim, I was doing this kind of stuff when phones still had cords. I’ll manage. Lambert, here’s the problem: If they knew I was coming, they probably knew why I was coming and what I was looking for.”
“And did some housekeeping.”
“Right. Best to check, though. You never know.”
“What’s your status?”
“Safe for now, but between them they’ve got the routes to the admin building covered.”
As this mission’s target was a civilian facility, Fisher’s Rules of Engagment had forbidden the use of lethal force. “Gloves are off,” Lambert said. “Weapons free on combatants.”
Fisher signed off. He had to hurry. The snipers wouldn’t watch the OPSAT’s position for long before they recognized the ruse.
He picked his way back along the edge of the grove until he reached its far end, where he again slipped into the shadows between the storage huts. With the binoculars he checked his firing lines. From this spot he had both sniper perches in sight. Both men were still fixed on OPSAT’s baobab.
Behind him he heard the crunch of sandals on gravel. AK-47 slung over his shoulder, the teenage guard strolled past the gap. Sam unsheathed the SC-20, switched the selector to Cottonball, then stepped out of the shadows.
“Psst!”
The boy turned. Fisher fired. The Cottonball struck the boy’s chest. He swayed on his feet for a few seconds, then tipped over. Fisher collected the body and the AK and tucked them both into the shadows, then returned to his position.
He curled himself into a seated firing position, SC-20 cradled in his arms, elbows resting on his knees. Individually, the shots didn’t worry him, but each sniper probably had the other in his peripheral vision. As soon as one went down, the other would instantly know about it.
Fisher chose the one on the admin building’s roof first; the one atop the crane had no easy cover, no quick escape. He zoomed the scope until the crosshair’s reticle was centered on the man’s forehead. He took a breath, held it a moment, then released it slowly. Gently he squeezed the trigger. The SC-20 bucked on his shoulder. In the scope, he saw the man’s head snap back, haloed in a dark mist of blood.