Finally came the plan of the day. He contemplated what he wanted to do and balanced that against the probable objectives of the opposition. He considered alternative plans and things that might go awry. When all that was done, he made himself stop. You could quickly get to the point that imagination became an enemy. Each segment of the operation was locked into its own little box which he'd open one at a time. He'd trust to his experience and instinct. But part of him wondered if – when – those qualities would fail him.
Sooner or later, Clark admitted to himself. But not today.
He always told himself that.
PJ's mission briefing took two hours. He, Captain Willis, and Captain Montaigne worked out every detail – where they'd refuel, where the aircraft would orbit if something went wrong. Which routes to take if things went badly. Each crew member got full information. It was more than necessary; it was a moral obligation to the crew. They were risking their lives tonight. They had to know why. As always, Sergeant Zimmer had a few questions, and one important suggestion that was immediately incorporated in the plan. Then it was time to preflight the aircraft. Every system aboard each aircraft was fully checked out in a procedure that would last hours. Part of that was training for the new crewmen.
"What do you know about guns?" Zimmer asked Ryan.
"Never fired one of these babies." Ryan's hand stroked the handles of the minigun. A scaled-down version of the 20mm Vulcan cannon, it had a gang of six .30-caliber barrels that rotated clockwise under the power of an electrical motor, drawing shells from an enormous hopper to the left of the mount. It had two speed settings, 4,000 and 6,000 rounds per minute – 66 or 100 rounds per second. The bullets were almost half tracers. The reason for that was psychological. The fire from the weapon looked like a laser beam from a science-fiction movie, the very embodiment of death. It also made a fine way to aim the weapon, since Zimmer assured him that the muzzle blast would be the most blinding thing short of staring into a noon sun. He checked Ryan out on the whole system: where the switches were, how to stand, how to aim.
"What do you know about combat, sir?"
"Depends on what you mean," Ryan replied.
"Combat is when people with guns are trying to kill you," Zimmer explained patiently. "It's dangerous."
"I know. I've been there a few times. Let's not dwell on that, okay? I'm already scared." Ryan looked over his gun, out the door of the aircraft, wondering why he'd been such a damned fool to volunteer for this. But what choice did he have? Could he just send these men off to danger? If he did, how did that make him different from Cutter? Jack looked around the interior of the aircraft. It seemed so large and strong and safe, sitting here on the concrete floor of the hangar. But it was an aircraft designed for life in the troubled air of an unfriendly sky. It was a helicopter: Ryan especially hated helicopters.
"The funny thing is, probably no sweat on the mission," Zimmer said after a moment. "Sir, we do our job right, it's just a flight in and a flight back out."
"That's what I'm scared of, Sarge," Ryan said, laughing mostly at himself.
They landed at Santagueda. Larson knew the man who ran the local flying service and talked him out of his Volkswagen Microvan. The two CIA officers drove north, and an hour later passed through the village of Anserma. They dallied here for half an hour, driving around until they found what they wanted to find: a few trucks heading in and out of a private dirt road and one expensive-looking car. CAPER had called it right, Clark saw, and it was the place he thought it was from the flight in. Having confirmed that, they moved out, heading north again for another hour and taking a side road into the mountains just outside of Vegas del Rio. Clark had his nose buried in a map, and Larson found a hilltop switchback at which to stop. That's where the radio came out.
"KNIFE, this is VARIABLE, over." Nothing, despite five minutes of trying. Larson drove farther west, horsing the Microvan around cow paths as he struggled to find another high spot for Clark to try again. It was three in the afternoon, and their fifth attempt until they got a reply.
"KNIFE here. Over."
"Chavez, this is Clark. Where the hell are you?" Clark asked, in Spanish, of course.
"Let's talk awhile first."
"You're good, kid. We really could have used you in 3rd SOG."
"Why should I trust you? Somebody cut us off, man. Somebody decided to leave us here."
"It wasn't me."
"Glad to hear it," came the skeptical, bitter reply.
"Chavez, you're talking over a radio net that might be compromised. If you got a map, we're at the following set of coordinates," Clark told him. "There's two of us in a blue Volkswagen van. Check us out, take all the time you want."
"I already have!" the radio told him.
Clark's head spun around to see a man with an AK-47 twenty feet away.
"Let's be real cool, people," Sergeant Vega said. Three more men emerged from the treeline. One of them had a bloody bandage on his thigh. Chavez, too, had an AK slung over his shoulder, but he had held on to his silenced MP-5. He walked straight up to the van.
"Not bad, kid," Clark told him. "How'd you know?"
"UHF radio. You had to transmit from a high spot, right? The map says there's six of them. I heard you one other time, too, and I spotted you heading this way half an hour ago. Now what the fuck is going on?"
"First thing, let's get that casualty treated." Clark stepped out and handed Chavez his pistol, butt first. "I got a first-aid kit in the back."
The wounded man was Sergeant Juardo, a rifleman from the 10th Mountain at Fort Drum. Clark opened the back of the van and helped load him aboard, then uncovered the wound.
"You know what you're doing?" Vega asked.
"I used to be a SEAL," Clark replied, holding up his arm so that they could see the tattoo. "Third Special Operations Group. Spent a lot of time in 'Nam, doing stuff that never made the TV news."
"What were you?"
"Came out a chief bosun's mate, E-7 to you." Clark examined the wound. It was bad to look at, but not life-threatening as long as the man didn't bleed out, which he'd managed not to do yet. So far it seemed that the infantrymen had done most of the right things. Clark ripped open an envelope and redusted the wound with sulfa. "You have any blood-expanders?"
"Here." Sergeant León passed over an IV bag. "None of us knows how to start one."
"It's not hard. Watch how I do it." Clark grabbed Juardo's upper arm hard and told him to make a fist. Then he stabbed the IV needle into the big vein inside the elbow. "See? Okay, I cheat. My wife's a nurse, and sometimes I get to practice at her hospital," Clark admitted. "How's it feel, kid?" he asked the patient.
"Nice to be sitting down," Juardo admitted.
"I don't want to give you a pain shot. We might need you awake. Think you can hack it?"
"You say so, man. Hey, Ding, you got any candy?"
Chavez tossed over his Tylenol bottle. "Last ones, Pablo. Make 'em last, man."
"Thanks, Ding."
"We have some sandwiches in the front," Larson said.
"Food!" Vega darted that way at once. A minute later the four soldiers were wolfing it down, along with a six-pack of Cokes that Larson had picked up on the way.
"Where'd you pick up the weapons?"
"Bad guys. We were just about out of ammo for our -16s, and I figured we might as well try to fit in, like."
"You're thinking good, kid," Clark told him.
"Okay, what's the plan?" Chavez asked.
"It's your call," Clark replied. "One of two things. We can drive you back to the airport and fly you out, take about three hours to get there, another three hours in the airplane, and it's over, you're back on U.S. territory."