“They’re rogue,” Gant said. “They’ve killed innocent people. And they’ll kill you if you’re not careful. Over.”
Gant took a turn slightly too fast and he felt the dirt bike’s tires almost slide out from under him. He corrected and then accelerated. He wondered how pilots could fly helicopters with night vision goggles as he was having a hell of a time simply driving the motorcycle. The small screen inside the goggles tended to distort depth perception.
“Targets have reached the road,” the imager announced. “Just got the heat signature of an engine starting. They are now mounted. One five zero zero meters from your location. Wait one.”
Gant slowed down. The logging road he was on curved to the right and he could only see down it about two hundred meters.
“Targets are in a van. It’s moving west on the main logging road. Over.”
Gant checked his GPS. He was about four hundred meters from the main logging road. He could see that there was only one red dot now — the targets’ vehicle. “You’re sure both of them got in the vehicle?” he asked, still leery of the sniper.
“Roger that. Take a left when you reach the road.”
There were other symbols on the screen now. Two small blue dots — the reaction force from the compound. They were on the main logging road about two kilometers behind the red dot. Gant accelerated down the dirt road, between the tall pine trees lining either side, knowing he would reach the main trail just about the same time as the reaction force crossed by. He slowed slightly, wanting to avoid a collision with either the Humvee or pickup.
He alternated between quick glances down at the GPS and paying attention to the road. The intersection was coming up and he slowed further so he could take the turn onto the main logging trail. The slow became an abrupt halt as a Humvee roared by right in front of him, followed closely by a pick-up truck. Both vehicles were blacked out and Gant assumed the drivers were wearing night vision goggles.
Gant gave the motorcycle gas. As he turned left he noted that the only difference between this road and what he had been on was that it was slightly wider, but still composed of rutted dirt.
“I’m right behind you,” he called out into the radio.
Seeing that the road appeared as a relatively straight line on the GPS, Gant accelerated to keep up with the other vehicles. He had the motorcycle’s headlight off and the brake light disconnected so he raced through the darkness as a swift, black shadow. He saw no tell-tale red lights ahead and assumed the targets had done the same.
Gant took a chance and glanced down at the GPS to get an idea of spacing. The targets were about a kilometer ahead of him, the reaction force splitting the difference.
Inside the van, the Sniper slid between the seats as the Spotter drove and went into the back. He threw open a panel they had cut in the roof and looked up into the night sky. Even over the rumble of the van’s engine he could hear the C-130 overhead and he had a very good idea what it was doing. He slid on a pair of night vision goggles and peered down the road behind the van.
He spotted a familiar bulky form about five hundred meters back. No mistaking the silhouette of a Humvee. He looked past it and caught a glimpse of a second vehicle.
The Sniper reached down into his vest and pulled out a small transmitter. He flipped up the protective cover and pressed the red button with one hand while he ripped off the night vision goggles with the other.
A ball of flame leapt into the dark sky, followed seconds later by the rumble of the twin explosions taking out the reaction force’s vehicles and the men inside.
Gant slammed his right foot down on the rear brake as he squeezed the right front brake lever. He turned the handlebars at the same time, skidding to a halt as hot metal flew past him. He was blinded, the explosions over-loading his goggles. Once halted he ripped them off and stared at the burning vehicles holding the goggles in one hand while the computer inside tried to compensate for the overload.
The Humvee had run into the drainage ditch on the right side of the road and was in flames. The pick-up truck had been thrown on its side by the force of the blast and slid to a halt in the middle of the road.
Gant cursed to himself, realizing he should have considered the strong possibility that the reaction force vehicles would have been booby-trapped. It was what he would have done if he’d had the time to prepare for this mission. He ignored the confused inquiries from the Talon as he put the goggles back on.
Gant accelerated, whipping around the pick-up truck and past the Humvee. He kept his focus on the target’s vehicle which was now in sight, about seven hundred meters ahead. He could see someone’s head poking up out of the top of the van and debated whether to slam on the brakes and take a quick shot, but it was too far for the sub-machinegun. He needed to get closer.
“How many were in the reaction force?” Nero asked.
“Seven,” Masterson answered.
“And now it is Mister Gant who is out-numbered,” Nero said.
“Perhaps we should—“
“No locals,” Nero said.
The Sniper slid his night vision goggles back on and looked back at the burning vehicles, bright flares on the screen. All according to plan. Except for the Talon. That had been unexpected.
He glanced over his shoulder, checking their position. The Spotter was slowing the van, also aware of their position. They had rehearsed this several times, twice at night using goggles, one of over a dozen variations of escape and evasion plans they had come up with. So far, this one was working quite well.
The Sniper looked back to the burning vehicles and blinked. A blur raced past the burning Humvee. A motorcycle.
The Sniper grabbed a metal container hanging on a hook and opened the lid. Then he tossed it up into the air over the rear of the van, the can tumbling and releasing its contents.
Gant saw the man poking out of the van throw something into the air. He had scant seconds to make a decision. He immediately braked. The motorcycle skidded and he almost lost control, then came to a halt. He let the bike fall over, ignoring it, as he snapped up the sub-machinegun and aimed at the van, finger caressing the trigger.
And that’s when his night vision goggles flared, blanking out everything with an overwhelming pulse of bright light.
Gant ripped them off and stared toward the van, blinking, trying to regain his vision. There was no longer a need for night vision goggles as the sky above the van was streaked with arcing, red-hot flares. At least thirty or forty, Gant estimated as he watched them reach their apex, then arc over. That was when he realized something was different about these flares, as they had no parachutes to bring them lazily back to earth.
He looked below. The van was parked on the edge of the road near a bridge over a racing river. Gant began running forward, the stock of the gun still tight into his shoulder. The flares were hitting the dry timber and undergrowth, igniting fires. Something stuck to the bottom of his boot and Gant looked down: a caltrop, a three pronged device designed to rip into tires was stuck in the sole. He carefully pulled it out and looked about: the trail was littered with them. That was what the man had tossed out of the van just before firing the flares.
“We’ve lost thermals,” the Talon reported. “We no longer have the targets under observation. Last position was in the van. We’re circling, trying to see if we can pick them up outside of the fire.”
More out of frustration than anything else, Gant fired a quick burst from the MP-5, stitching a row of bullet holes in the back panel of the van. He knew both men were gone, but he made his way carefully to the van. The side door was open. Gant stuck his head in, looking for any sign there might be a piece of a cache report but there was nothing. The two targets had not planned to leave the van but they had been prepared to lose it.