“Our job is simple and dirty. If you see them, kill them. No exceptions.”
Papa watched for a reaction — a flinch, a look of distaste, or perhaps worse, a gleam of hungry psychotic anticipation — but he saw nothing. These men were professionals. They knew that they were just a policy tool — a sword — and like any weapon or tool, they bore none of the responsibility for how they were wielded from afar by politicians and bureaucrats. The job was the job. They did it and then they went home. If they were lucky, the memories of the violence done would quickly fade.
Even the most dedicated and capable soldiers were sometimes haunted by the ghosts of the men they had killed in open combat. Unlike regular soldiers, spec ops shooters sometimes had to carry out assassinations, killing unsuspecting, and often unarmed, targets from a distance. Usually — not always, but usually — there was a very good reason why those targets needed to be taken out, but part of the job description was that you didn’t second guess the chain of command. The toughest part of the shooter’s job was the balancing act: keeping humanity in check long enough to get the job done, without being driven crazy by the ghosts or turning into a sociopath.
Not everyone succeeded.
“If you see them and they’re already dead,” he continued, “check to see if the face matches one of your cards. Bring me a royal flush, and I’ll buy a keg for your team room.” When that did not immediately elicit the laughter he had hoped for, Papa decided to wrap it up. “Any questions?”
There were none. Papa inclined his head. “Driver, it’s your show.”
As the team leader began assigning individual tasks to the other men, the one called Billy Boy approached Papa and handed him a small, black, waterproof bag. Inside, Papa found a set of A/N PVS-7B night vision goggles, a short-range radio with headset, and a Skorpion vz 61 7.65 millimeter submachine pistol, outfitted with a suppressor. He gave the Czech manufactured weapon a cursory inspection. Its collapsible wire stock was folded over in the stored position, so it was only a little bigger than an ordinary semi-automatic pistol.
With a cyclic rate of 900 rounds per minute, the Skorpion was not the subtlest of weapons, but it had the advantage of being extremely generic. Like a lot of weapons from former Soviet-bloc nations, there were so many of them on the black market that they were virtually untraceable. When the storm passed and the damage was discovered, there would be nothing to directly point the finger back to the Agency. There would be suspicions, of course, but no meaningful physical evidence.
Papa fitted the night vision goggles over his head and turned them on. After a moment, the world was rendered in a hazy green. Raindrops scattered the ambient light, giving the impression of static, but it was a big improvement over what he had been able to see before. He snugged the radio headset into place, and then waited for the team to finish their preparations. When Driver called for a radio check, he dutifully keyed the mic and said, “This is Papa, roger, out.”
“Move out,” Driver did not transmit this message, but spoke in his normal voice. “Papa, stick with me.”
Papa nodded and fell into step alongside the team leader. His job was to observe, and if something unexpected happened, advise. He was content to do the former in silence. Billy Boy trailed behind them, while the rest of the team split off in pairs, carrying out their respective pieces of the mission.
It took about an hour and a half for them to hike through the forest and up to the storm battered bluff where the converted resort sat perched above the sea. Driver signaled for a halt at the edge of the woods, and then he keyed his radio. “This is Driver. Report.”
“Vincent, here.” Vincent was Van Gogh. It was a sort of nickname within a nickname. Papa assumed that the moniker derived from his ‘artistic’ talents — only instead of paint, his medium was lead. Van Gogh and Loco had gone ahead and were now somewhere in a tree looking over the concrete fence that surrounded the compound. “We’re in position. Waiting for go.”
Another voice sounded in Papa’s ears. “This is Rodent. Charges set. Waiting for go, over.”
Rodent and Mutant were concealed near the main gate. At the ‘go’ signal, they would detonate small, shaped charges to breach the gate, then sweep in and take out the guards stationed just beyond.
“Stand by.” Driver turned to Papa. “Any last words of wisdom?”
Papa hefted his Skorpion and signaled his readiness with a nod. He followed Driver and Billy Boy to within sight of the gate. Mutant and Rodent were starkly visible in the green monochrome display, but Papa knew that to the unaided eye, they would be indistinguishable.
“Prepare to execute,” Driver said, “Counting down… three… two… one… go!”
23
Rodent held up an M57 trigger device and started pumping it in his fist. On the second squeeze there was a muted thump at the gate — the sound was no louder than a door slamming — and then both men were moving. More noises followed, none as loud as the shaped charge that had blown out the gate’s lock. Then there were voices, Van Gogh first, then Mutant, reporting that the targets were down.
“Roger,” Driver answered. “We’re coming in. Vincent, maintain overwatch while we set the charges.”
Papa followed the others into the compound, but remained at the gate, scanning the grounds for any sign of activity, while the four-man element went about their deadly business. The compound was dark, the power out, but whether that was because of the storm, or because of rationing, Papa could not say. If anyone had heard the sound of the breaching charges, they had chosen not to investigate.
It took the team five minutes to set demolition charges around the outside of the old hotel building, but the job was only half done. To bring the structure down, they would need to go inside and place explosives on load-bearing walls. It would take only a few charges, but placing them would be the most dangerous part of the mission. Driver lined up his men at the front door and they all filed inside.
Papa held his breath. For a long time there was no sound but the howl of the wind and the steady beat of the rain. Then he heard a squawk of static and Mutant’s voice over the radio. “Contact. Tango down.”
Driver’s voice answered, “Sitrep, over.”
Papa inferred that the men had split up, moving to different points through the building to accomplish the objective faster.
“Ah, Driver, I think I need you to take a look at this.” There was a strange, high pitched noise in the background.
An alarm? That wasn’t likely. It cut out as soon as the transmission ended, so it clearly wasn’t loud enough to rouse the entire complex.
Papa’s brow furrowed behind the night vision goggles. He keyed his mic. “Mutant, this is Papa. What’s the situation? Did you locate one of the key targets?”
“Not exactly, Papa. Actually, maybe you should get in here and tell us what to do.”
“On my way.” As he hastened across the courtyard and entered the building, Papa could not help but speculate on the nature of the discovery that had so bewildered the shooters. He could only assume that it was something to do with the mysterious research being conducted at the facility. What that was, he had no idea. Special operators were trained to deal with a broad range of nuclear, biological and chemical agents. It would take something extraordinary to confound these hardened shooters.
Once inside, he could hear the wailing noise again. It seemed unbelievably loud, and he wondered how it was possible that the residents of the building had not been roused by the clamor. Hefting the Skorpion to meet any attack, he fixed the source of the sound — it came from the east wing, the research section — and he closed in on it.